 
Hunting Party
by Elizabeth Moon
 
Copyright 1993 

Familias Regnant Books by Elizabeth Moon 
  Hunting Party 
  Sporting Chance 
  Winning Colors 
  Once a Hero 
  Rules of Engagement 
  Change of Command 
  Against the Odds 


  PARTY FAVORS 

  They were somewhere inside, dry and safe. He imagined nooks and crannies 
  cushioned with colorful pillows and rugs, rock-walled chambers where naked 
  nymphs bathed in clear subterranean pools or streams.... He crept through the 
  darkness, smugly certain of what he would find. The light strengthened; he 
  felt his way around a corner of the rock, and saw them at last. 
  His first thought was disappointment; the dark-haired girl had her arm around 
  the lucky first-comer. The Prince wondered why he'd preferred her to the more 
  curvaceous blonde. His second thought stumbled over the first in a wave of 
  righteous rage. Ronnie! 
  "You unspeakable cad!" he said. "What are you..." 
  His voice trailed away as he noticed that the two black circles facing him 
  were the bores of hunting rifles like his own. Each girl, blonde and dark, 
  held hers steadily. "You're hunters, too?" he asked, with a half-nervous 
  laugh. 
  Ronnie's head came around, and he saw the dark stain of a black eye and 
  bruised face. "My sainted aunt," Ronnie said, in a voice that didn't sound 
  much like his own. "It's the Prince." 
  Chapter One 
  Heris Serrano went from her room in the small but respectable dockside hotel 
  on Rockhouse Station to the berth of her new command convinced that she looked 
  like an idiot. No one laughed aloud, but that only meant the bystanders had 
  chosen to snicker later rather than risk immediate confrontation with an 
  ex-Regular Space Services officer on the beach. 
  Heris kept her eyes away from any of those who might be contemplating humor, 
  the dockside traffic of the commercial district. Her ears burned; she could 
  feel the glances raking her back. She would not have changed her military 
  posture even if she could have walked any other way; she had been R.S.S. from 
  birth or before, daughter of officers, admirals' granddaughter and niece, a 
  service family for all the generations anyone bothered to count. Even that 
  miserable first year at the Academy had seemed familiar, almost homey: she had 
  heard the stories from parents, uncles, aunts, all her life. 
  And here she was, tricked out in enough gold braid and color to satisfy a 
  planet-bound admiral from one of the minor principalities, all because of the 
  whims of a rich old woman with more money than sense. They had to be laughing 
  behind her back, those merchanter officers and crewmen who didn't meet her 
  eyes, who went about their business as if purple and scarlet were normal 
  uniform colors, as if two sleeves covered with gold rings didn't look 
  ridiculous, as if the rim of gold and green striped cord around collar, 
  lapels, and cuffs didn't tell everyone that an R.S.S. officer had descended to 
  the level of carting wealthy eccentrics on pleasure jaunts in something far 
  more like a mansion than a spacefaring ship. 
  Commercial dockside ended abruptly at a scarred gray wall with a lockgate in 
  it. Heris inserted her card; the barred gate slid aside, then closed behind 
  her, leaving her caged between the bars behind and a steel door with a thick 
  window. Another keyslot; this time her card produced a human door-opener, who 
  swung the door aside and held out his hand for her papers. She handed over the 
  neat packet civilian life required. Master's license, certifications in five 
  specialties, Imperial ID, military record (abbreviated; only the unclassified 
  bones), letters of recommendation, and -- what mattered most here -- Lady 
  Cecelia de Marktos's seal of employment. The human -- Station Security or 
  Garond Family, Heris did not know which -- ran a handscanner over this last, 
  and replaced the entire pile in its file cover before handing it back to her. 
  "Welcome to North, Captain Serrano," the man said, with no inflection of 
  sarcasm. "May I be of assistance?" 
  Her throat closed a moment, remembering the words she would have heard if she 
  had gone through a similar lockgate on the other side of the commercial docks, 
  where sleek gray R.S.S. cruisers nuzzled the Station side by side. Where her 
  gray uniform with its glowing insignia would have received crisp salutes, and 
  the welcome due a comrade in arms. "Welcome to the Fleet," she would have 
  heard, a greeting used anywhere, anytime, they came together away from 
  civilians. But she could not go back there, back where her entire past would 
  wrap around her. She had resigned her commission. She would never hear those 
  words again. 
  "No, thank you," she said quietly. "I know where the ship is." She would not 
  say its name yet, though it was her new command.... She had grown up with 
  ships named for battles, for monsters, for older ships with long histories. 
  She could not yet say she commanded Sweet Delight. 
  North, on all Stations, defined the environs of aristocracy. Wealth and 
  privilege could be found anywhere, in the R.S.S. as well as the commercial 
  docks, but always near something else. Here was nothing but wealth, and its 
  servants. This deck had carpeted walkways, not extruded plastic sheeting; the 
  shops had no signs, only house emblems. Each docking bay had its own lockgate, 
  enclosing two large rooms: one marked "Service Entrance," lined with racks and 
  shelving for provisions delivered, and the other furnished luxuriously as a 
  reception salon for going-away parties. Heris's card in the slot produced 
  another human door-opener, this time a servant in livery, who ushered her into 
  the salon. Heris made her way between overstuffed sofas and chairs covered in 
  lavender plush and piled with pillows in garish colors, between low black 
  tables and pedestals supporting what were probably priceless works of art, 
  though to her eye they looked like globs of melted space debris after a 
  battle. 
  The actual docking tube lay unguarded. Heris frowned Surely even civilians had 
  someone watching the ship's main hatch, even with the security of a lockgate 
  on the dock itself. She paused before stepping over the line that made the 
  legal division between dock and ship. The lavender plush lining of the access 
  tube hid all the vital umbilicals that connected the ship to Station life 
  support. Unsafe, Heris thought, as she had thought on her earlier interview 
  visit. Those lines should be visible. Surely even civilians had regulations to 
  follow. 
  Underfoot, the lavender plush carpet felt five centimeters thick. A warm 
  breath of air puffed out of the ship itself, a warm breath flavored not with 
  the spice she remembered from the interview, but with the sour stench of the 
  morning after a very large night before. Her nose wrinkled; she could feel her 
  back stiffening. It might be someone else's ship in principle, but she did not 
  allow a dirty mess on any ship she commanded -- and would not now. She came 
  out of the access tube into a family row; the tube's privacy shield had kept 
  her from hearing it until she stepped across the barrier. Heris took in the 
  situation at a glance. One tall, angular, gray-haired woman with a loud-voice: 
  her employer. Three sulky, overdressed young men that Heris would not have had 
  on her ship, and their obvious girlfriends... all rumpled, and one still 
  passed out on a lavender couch that matched the plush carpet and walls. 
  Streaks of vomit stained its smooth velour. As she came through the barrier, 
  the chestnut-haired youth with the ruffled shirt answered a final blast from 
  the older woman with a whined "But, Aunt Cecelia -- it's not fair." 
  What was "not fair" was that rich spoiled brats like him hadn't had the 
  nonsense taken out of them in boot camp, Heris thought. She smiled her normal 
  good-morning-bridge smile at her employer and said, "Good morning, milady." 
  The youths -- all but the unconscious snorer on the couch -- stared; Heris 
  could feel her ears going hot and ignored them, still smiling at Cecelia 
  Artemisia Veronica Penelope, heiress of more titles than anyone needed, let 
  alone more money. 
  "Ah," said that lady, restored to instant unruffled calm by the appearance of 
  someone to whom it meant something. "Captain Serrano. How nice to have you 
  aboard. Our departure will be delayed, but only briefly" -- here she looked at 
  the chestnut-haired youth -- "until my nephew is settled. I presume your 
  things are already aboard?" 
  "Sent ahead, milady," Heris said. 
  "Good. Then Bates will show you to your quarters." Bates materialized from 
  some angle of corridor and nodded at Heris. Heris wondered if she would be 
  introduced to the nephew now or later; she was sure she could take that pout 
  from his lips if given the chance. But she wouldn't get the chance. She 
  followed Bates -- tall, elegant, so much the butler of the screen and stage it 
  was hard to believe him real -- down the carpeted passage to her suite. She 
  would rather have gone to the bridge. Not this bridge, but the bridge of the 
  Rapier or even a lowly maintenance tug. 
  Bates stood aside at her door. "If the captain wishes to rekey the locks 
  now... ?" 
  She looked at that impassive face. Did he mean to imply that they had thieves 
  on board? That someone might violate the privacy of her quarters? The 
  captain's quarters? She had thought she knew how far down the scale she'd 
  fallen, to become a rich lady's yacht captain, but she had not conceived of 
  needing to lock her quarters. 
  "Thank you," she said, as if it had been her idea. Bates touched a magnetic 
  wand to the lockfaces; she put her hand on each one. After a moment, the 
  doorcall's pleasant anonymous voice said, "Name, please?" and she gave her 
  name; the doorcall chimed once and said, "Welcome home, Captain Serrano." 
  Bates handed her a fat ring of wands. 
  "These are the rekeying wands for ship's crew and all the operating 
  compartments. They're all coded; you'll find the full architectural schematics 
  loaded on your desk display. The crew will await your arrival on the bridge, 
  at your convenience." 
  She didn't even know if she could ask Bates to tell the crew when to expect 
  her, or if that was something household staff never did. She had already 
  discovered that the house staff and the ship crew had very little to do with 
  each other. 
  "I could just pass the word to Mr. Gavin, the engineer," Bates said, almost 
  apologetically. "Since Captain Olin left" -- Captain Olin, Heris knew, had 
  been fired -- "Lady Cecelia has often asked me to speak to Mr. Gavin." 
  "Thank you," Heris said. "One hour." She glanced at the room's chronometer, a 
  civilian model which she would replace with the one in her luggage. 
  "Philip will escort you," Bates said 
  She opened her mouth to say it was not necessary -- even in this perfumed and 
  padded travesty of a ship she could find the bridge by herself -- but instead 
  said, "Thank you" once more. She would not challenge their assumptions yet. 
  Her master's certificate went into the mounting plaque on the wall; her other 
  papers went into the desk. Her luggage -- she had asked that it not be 
  unpacked -- cluttered one corner of her office. Beyond that was a smaller 
  room, then the bathroom -- her mouth quirked as she forced herself to call it 
  that. And beyond that, her bedroom. A cubage larger than an admiral would have 
  on most ships, and far larger than anyone of her rank ever had, even on a 
  Station. A suite, part of the price being paid to lure a real spacer, a real 
  captain, into this kind of work. 
  In the hour she had unpacked her few necessary clothes, her books, her 
  reference data cubes, and made sure that the desk display would handle them. 
  The chronometer on the wall now showed Service Standard time as well as ship's 
  time and Station time, and had the familiar overlapping segments of color to 
  delineate four-, six-, and eight-hour watches. She had reviewed the crew bios 
  in the desk display. And she had shrugged away her regrets. It was all over 
  now, all those years of service, all her family's traditions; from now on, she 
  was Heris Serrano, captain of a yacht, and she would make the best of it. 
  And they wouldn't know what hit them. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Some of them suspected within moments of her arrival on the bridge. Whatever 
  decorator had chosen all the lavender and teal furnishings of the rest of the 
  ship, the bridge remained functional, if almost toylike in its bright, shiny, 
  compactness. The crew had to squeeze in uncomfortably; Heris noticed who 
  squeezed in next to whom, and who wished this were over. They had heard, no 
  doubt. They could see what they could see; she might be wearing purple and 
  scarlet, but she had the look, and knew she had it; all those generations of 
  command came out her eyes. 
  She met theirs. Blue, gray, brown, black, green, hazel: clear, hazy, worried, 
  frightened, challenging. Mr. Gavin, the engineer -- thin, almost wispy, and 
  graying -- had announced, "Captain on the bridge" in a voice that squeaked. 
  Navigation First, all too perky, was female, and young, and standing close to 
  Communications First, who had spots and the slightly adenoidal look that Heris 
  had found in the best comm techs on any ship. The moles -- environmental 
  techs, so-called everywhere from their need to crawl through pipes -- glowered 
  at the back. They must have suspected she'd seen the ship's records already. 
  Moles never believed that strange smells in the air were their fault; they 
  were convinced that other people, careless people, put the wrong things down 
  the wrong pipe and caused the trouble. Gavin's junior engineering techs, 
  distancing themselves from the moles, tried to look squeaky-clean and bright. 
  Heris had read their records; one of them had failed the third-class 
  certificate four times. The other juniors -- Navigation's sour-faced paunchy 
  male and Communications' wispy female -- were clearly picked up at bargain 
  rates for off-primeshift work. 
  Heris began, as always on a new ship, with generalities. Let them relax; let 
  them realize she wasn't stupid, crazy, or vicious. Then... "Now about 
  emergency drills," she said, when she'd seen the relaxation. "I see you've had 
  no drills since docking here. Why is that, Mr. Gavin?" 
  "Well, Captain... after Captain Olin left, I didn't like to seem -- you know 
  -- like I was taking liberties above my station." 
  "I see. And before that, I notice that there had been no drills since the last 
  planetfall. That was Captain Olin's decision, I suppose." From Gavin's 
  expression, that was not the reason, out he went along gratefully. 
  "Yes, Captain, that would be it. He was the captain, after all." Someone 
  stirred, in the back, but they were so crammed together she couldn't be sure 
  who it was. She would find out. She smiled at them, suddenly happy. It might 
  be only a yacht, but it was a ship, and it was her ship. 
  "We will have drills," she said, and waited a moment for that to sink in. 
  "Emergency drills save lives. I expect all you Firsts to ready your 
  divisions." 
  "We surely can't have time for a drill before launch!" That was the sour-faced 
  Navigation Second. She stared at him until he blushed and said, "Captain... 
  sorry, ma'am." 
  "It depends," she said, without commenting on his breach of manners. "I know 
  you're all readying for launch, but I would like a word here with the pilot 
  and Nav First." 
  They edged out of the cramped space; she knew the muttering would start as 
  soon as they cleared the hatch. Ignoring that, she fixed the Navigation First 
  with a firm glance. "Sirkin, isn't it?" 
  "Yes, Captain." Brisk, bright-eyed... Heris hoped she was as good as she 
  looked. "Brigdis Sirkin, Lalos Colony." 
  "Yes, I saw your file. Impressive qualification exam." Sirkin had topped the 
  list with a perfect score, rare even in R.S.S. trained personnel. The younger 
  woman blushed and grinned. "But what I want to know is whether you plotted the 
  final approach from Dunlin to here." The way she said it could lead either 
  way; she wanted to see Sirkin's reaction. 
  A deeper blush. "No, Captain, I didn't... not entirely, that is." 
  "Umm. I wondered why someone who'd swept the exam would choose such an 
  inefficient solution. Tell me about it." 
  "Well... ma'am... Captain Olin was a good captain, and I'm not saying anything 
  against him, but he liked to... to do things a certain way." 
  Heris glanced at the pilot. Plisson, his tag said; he had been another rich 
  lady's pilot before he came here. "Did you have anything to do with it?" she 
  asked. 
  The pilot shot Sirkin an angry glance. "She thinks she can shave time to the 
  bone," he said. "It's like she never heard of flux-storms. I guess you could 
  call it efficient, if you're on a warship, but I wasn't hired to kill milady." 

  "Ah. So you thought Sirkin's original course dangerous, and Captain Olin 
  backed you?" 
  "Well... yes. Captain. And I expect you'll stick with her, being as you're 
  spacefleet trained." 
  Heris grinned at him; his jaw sagged in surprise. "I don't like getting 
  smeared across space any better than anyone else," she said. "But I've 
  reviewed Sirkin's work only as combined with yours and Captain Olin's. Sirkin, 
  what was your original course here?" 
  "It's in the NavComp, Captain; shall I direct it to your desktop?" 
  "If you please. I'll look it over, see if I think you're dangerous or not. Did 
  you ever have any spacefleet time, Plisson?" 
  "No, Captain." The way he said it, he considered it worse than downside duty. 
  She wasn't sure she wanted a half-hearted first pilot. 
  "Then I suggest you withdraw your judgment of R.S.S. operations until you see 
  some. War is dangerous enough without adding recklessness to it; I'll expect 
  professional performance from both you and Navigator Sirkin." She turned to 
  go, then turned back, surprising on their faces the expression she had hoped 
  to find. "And by the way, you may expect drills; space is less forgiving than 
  I am of sloppy technique." 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Lady Cecelia noticed the shadow in the tube only a moment before her new 
  captain came aboard. She could have wished for less promptness. She would have 
  preferred to finish reaming out her nephew and the residue of his going-away 
  party in the decent privacy afforded by her household staff. Bates knew better 
  than to stick his nose in at a time like this. 
  But the woman was ex-military, and not very ex- by her carriage and 
  expression. Of course she would not be late; even her hair and toenails 
  probably grew on schedule. Cecelia wanted to throttle the condescension off 
  the dark face that rose serene above the purple and scarlet uniform. No doubt 
  she had no nephews, or if she did they were being lovingly brought up in boot 
  camp somewhere. She probably thought it would be easy to remake Ronnie and his 
  set. Whereas Cecelia had known, from the moment of Ronnie's birth, that he was 
  destined to be a spoiled brat. Charming, bright enough if he bothered, 
  handsome to the point of dangerousness with that thick wavy chestnut hair, 
  those hazel eyes, that remaining dimple -- but spoiled rotten by his family 
  and everyone else. 
  "But it's not fair," he whined now. He had expected her to let them all travel 
  with him, all twenty or so of his favorites among his fellow officers and 
  their sweethearts of both sexes. She ignored that, smiled at her new captain, 
  thinking, Don't you dare laugh at me, you little blot, and called Bates to 
  take the captain to her quarters. And away she went, impossibly bright-eyed 
  for this hour of the morning (no adolescent partying had disturbed her sleep), 
  her trim figure making the girls in the room look like haggard barflies. Which 
  they weren't, really. It was terrible what girls did these days, but these 
  were decent girls, of reasonably nice families. Nothing like hers, or Ronnie's 
  (except Bubbles, the snoring one, and the present cause of dissension), but 
  nice enough. 
  With a last glance at the captain's retreating form, she turned back to 
  Ronnie. "What is not fair, young man, is that you are intruding on my life, 
  taking up space on my yacht, making my staff work harder, and all because you 
  lacked the common sense to keep your mouth shut about things which no 
  gentleman discusses." 
  Sulky. He had been sulky at one; at two, his parents had doted on his adorable 
  tantrums, his big lower lip. He was sulky now, and she did not dote on the lip 
  or the tongue behind it. "She said I was better. It's not fair that I'm 
  getting sent away, when she's the one who said it. She wanted to be with me 
  --" 
  "She said it to you, in the confidence of the bedroom." Surely someone had 
  already told him this. Why should she have to explain? "And you don't even 
  know if she meant it, or if she says it to everyone." 
  "Of course she meant it!" Young male pride, stung, flushed his cheeks and 
  drove sulkiness into temper. "I am better." 
  "I won't argue," Cecelia said. "I will only remind you that you may be better 
  in bed with the prince's favorite singer, but you are now on my yacht, by 
  order of your father and the king, and the singer is stuck with the prince." 
  Her pun got through to her a moment before Ronnie caught it, and she shook her 
  finger at him. "Literally and figuratively: you're here, and he's there, and 
  you've gained nothing by blabbing except whatever momentary amusement you 
  shared with your barracks-mates." He chuckled, and the odious George -- who 
  had well earned the nickname everyone in society knew -- snickered. Cecelia 
  knew the odious George's father fairly well, and dismissed the snicker as an 
  unconscious copy of his father's courtroom manner. She supposed it went over 
  well in the junior mess of the Royal Space Service, where the young sprouts of 
  aristocracy and wealth flaunted their boughten commissions in the intervals of 
  leave and training. "You're the one who talked," she said, ignoring the side 
  glances of her nephew and his crony. "The... er... lady didn't. Therefore you 
  are in trouble, and you are sent away, and it's my misfortune that I happened 
  to be near enough to serve your father's purpose." He opened his mouth to say 
  something else she was sure she would not want to hear, and she went on, 
  inexorably. "It's better than it could have been, young Ronald, as you will 
  see when you quit feeling sorry for yourself. And I am stretching my 
  generosity to let you bring these" -- she waved her hand at the others, -- 
  "when it crowds my ship and wastes my time. If it weren't that Bubbles and 
  Buttons were going to Bunny's anyway --" 
  "Well -- in fact they don't want to go --" 
  "Nonsense. I've already sent word I'm bringing them. A season in the field 
  will do you all immense good." She gave him another lengthy stare. "And I 
  don't want any of you sneaking offship to cause trouble on the Station before 
  we launch. It's bad enough having to wait for your luggage; I shall have your 
  father pay the reset fees for changing the launch schedule. I hope he takes it 
  out of your allowance." 
  "But that's not -- " She held up her hand before "fair" could emerge and 
  decided to drop her own bombshell now. 
  "And by the way, my new captain is ex-Regular Space Service, so don't try any 
  of your tricks with her. She could probably tie you all in knots without 
  trying." Cecelia turned on her heel and walked out, satisfied that she had 
  given them something besides her hard-heartedness to think about. 
  It was too bad, really. She lived on her yacht precisely so as to avoid family 
  complications, just as she had avoided marriage and political service. They 
  could have found some other way to keep Ronnie out of the capital for a year 
  or so. They didn't have to use her, as if she were a handy piece of furniture. 
  But that was Berenice all over again: big sisters existed to be of service to 
  the beauty of the family. 
  Stores. She would have to cheek with Bates to be sure they had ordered enough 
  additional food -- after last night, she suspected they might need more. Young 
  people did eat so, when they ate. She reached her own suite with relief. That 
  miserable decorator Berenice had sent her to insisted on doing the whole ship 
  in lavender and teal, with touches of acid green and cream, but she had not 
  let him in here. Perhaps the young people did prefer lavender plush, but she 
  hated it. Here in her own rooms, she could have it her way. Brighter colors, 
  polished wood, carved chairs piled with pillows. 
  She paused at her desk. Inlaid wood made a pattern of vines and flowers; until 
  she pressed the central blossom, it could have passed for an antique of Old 
  Earth. The desktop cleared, showing the floorplan of that deck, with ghostly 
  shadows of the others. A cluster of dots showed Ronnie and friends, back in 
  the lounge. A dot in her bedroom; that would be Myrtis, her maid. A dot for 
  the captain, in her quarters; a moving dot that must be Bates, coming back. 
  She touched her finger to that one, and his voice came out of the desk 
  speaker. 
  "Yes, madam?" 
  "Have Cook check the quantities Ronnie and his friends consumed last night; 
  they seem to eat quite a lot...." 
  "Cook, has estimated an additional fifteen percent over your orders yesterday, 
  madam, and has the purchase order ready for your stamp." 
  "Thank you, Bates." She might have known. They were usually two steps ahead of 
  her -- but that was their duty. She flicked up the lower service deck on the 
  display, found Cook's dot, and touched it. Cook transferred the purchase order 
  to her desktop, and she looked at it. Even with six additional people aboard, 
  it looked like enough to feed them all three times over. It would serve them 
  right, she thought, if she made them eat survival rations until they got to 
  Bunny's. Certainly it would cost less and take up less room. Cook had pointed 
  out that they'd need to air up two more refrigeration units and set out 
  another full section of 'ponics. 
  That would start another argument between crewside and staffside. The 
  environmental techs were ship's crew, under the captain's command; Cecelia 
  knew better than to interfere with her captain's crew. But that part of 
  'ponics devoted to the kitchen came under the heading of "gardening," which 
  meant staff -- her staff. Felix, head gardener, and two boys (one female), 
  kept her private solarium in fresh flowers and Cook supplied with fresh 
  vegetables. Felix and the environmental techs always got into some hassle 
  which required her decision -- one of the things she had not liked about her 
  former captain was his tendency to let things slide until she had to quell an 
  incipient riot in staff. 
  She found Felix's icon, touched it, and told him about the 'ponics section. He 
  wanted to use half of it for a new set of exotics he'd bought seedstock for; 
  the pictures of the so-called vegetables didn't impress her. Felix insisted, 
  though, that if he could have seed available when they arrived at Bunny's, he 
  could trade with Bunny's ferocious head gardener for her favorite (and rarest) 
  mushrooms. Cecelia shrugged; Ronnie and his pals could eat the things she 
  didn't like. 
  "And what you tell the moles, eh?" he said finally, having won his main point. 
  "You got to let them know it's okay, whatever I grow." 
  "I will tell Captain Serrano, our new captain, that I've approved your use of 
  an additional 'ponics section for fresh produce." 
  "They bother me, I'll send 'em the halobeets," Felix said. He would, too. He 
  had done it before, when displeased with someone. A genius of his type -- but 
  like most such geniuses, a trifle tempery. She put up with him for the 
  luscious fruits and fresh vegetables, the abundant flowers, which so amazed 
  those who came to dinner.... No other yacht she knew of was completely 
  self-sufficient in fresh produce. 
  She looked again for the captain's icon, and found it moving toward the 
  bridge. Best not interrupt her now; she would have had the crew assembled. 
  Cecelia's finger hovered over the control.... She could easily listen in on 
  the captain's first briefing... but she decided against it. Instead, she 
  routed a message to the captain's desk about the 'ponics, and called up a 
  credit status. 
  The figures meant little to her; the reality was that she could afford to buy 
  anything for sale on Rockhouse two or three times over. The desktop offered a 
  bright-colored graphic which showed how much more she was spending to 
  transport herself and six young people compared to herself alone. It didn't 
  matter, and Berenice had transferred stock to cover it anyway. She called up 
  Ronnie's status, and pursed her lips. Berenice had put him on the silver 
  family line, and he had already used it. Hardin's Clothiers, Vetris 
  Accessories, Spaulding... Cecelia whistled. He had started with two cubes of 
  storage, and at this rate would need another two. 
  Her desk chimed. "Aunt Cecelia?" came the plaintive voice. "Please -- I need 
  to talk to you." 
  Hardly, she thought. He needed to listen to her. "Ah, Ronnie. Very good -- I 
  meant to ask you, did you bring your hunting tackle?" 
  "My... uh... what?" 
  "Your riding clothes, your saddles --" 
  "I -- no! Of course not. Aunt Cecelia, just because you're crazy enough to 
  ride big stupid animals across rocks and mud --" 
  "I presumed," said Cecelia, overriding his voice with a surge of glee, "that 
  that was your rather large order at Hardin's and Vetris's and Spaulding's. But 
  since it wasn't, perhaps you'd return some of that foppery, whatever it was, 
  and get yourself some decent riding kit. We are going to Bunny's, as you know, 
  for the season, and since I'm saddled with you, you might as well saddle a 
  horse and learn something useful." She felt good about the pun; puns usually 
  came to her four hours too late, if at all. 
  The fashion in invective, she was happy to discover, had swung once more from 
  the rough crudities copied from the lower classes to an entertaining 
  polysyllabic baroque style. When Ronnie ran out of breath (which happened more 
  quickly, she noted, with the longer words and phrases), she interrupted again, 
  before he could start another rampage. 
  "I do not care that you do not like horses, or riding, or that none of your 
  set consider hunting a reasonable or enjoyable pastime. I do not care if you 
  are miserable for the entire year of your exile. You may sulk in your cabin if 
  you like -- you will certainly not sulk in mine, or interfere with my pleasure 
  one bit more than I can help. And if you do not order yourself the proper 
  clothes, saddles, and so on, I shall do it for you and charge it to your 
  account." Although it would really make sense to wait until they were at 
  Bunny's -- all the really good saddlers came there for the season. But her 
  blood was up. So, it seemed, was his. She could order what she liked, he said 
  angrily, but he was not about to pretend to copy the amusements of a 
  horse-faced old spinster with more money than sense, and he would be damned if 
  she ever found him on a horse chasing some innocent helpless animal across the 
  dripping fields. 
  "If you think the fox is either innocent or helpless, young Ronald, you are 
  more foolish than I think." She was not sure which of them broke the 
  connection. She did not care. She called her personal assistant at Spaulding's 
  and arranged everything as she wished -- of course they knew all his 
  measurements already, and of course they were happy to help a wealthy aunt 
  surprise an almost-as-wealthy nephew. In a final burst of pique, she put the 
  bill on her own account, and not Berenice's.... She wanted no questions from 
  the doting mother who had let the brat become so useless. 
  Chapter Two 
  Heris led the way into her cabin, wondering if civilians had any concept of 
  shipboard courtesy. Would they know enough to stay on their side of the 
  office? Sirkin did; she stood across the desk as Heris called up the files on 
  the desk display, looking young and earnest. 
  She looked at the course Sirkin had originally planned. Direct, reasonable 
  flux levels, no abrupt course changes, adequate clearance of the mapped 
  obstacles. It was close to the course she would have selected, although R. S. 
  S. ships could and did shave the clearance margins in the interest of speed. 
  "And Captain Olin disapproved this course? Why?" 
  "He said it was too risky. Here -- " Sirkin laid her finger on the display, 
  and it enlarged to show finer detail. "He claimed that coming this close to 
  T-77 with a flux of 0.06 was suicidal. I asked him why, and he said he was 
  captain and I'd learn better in time." 
  "Hmm." Heris leaned over the display. "Did you look up T-77 in the reference 
  library?" 
  "Yes, ma'am." Heris looked up at the younger woman -- then remembered that it 
  might be legitimate civilian usage. The R.S.S. used "sir" for either sex -- it 
  meant respect, not recognition of one's chromosome type. Sirkin seemed 
  respectful and attentive. "Baird and Logan said that T-77 is a gravitational 
  anomaly, nothing more. Giro speculates that it's a burnt-out star. But all the 
  references agree that it's not as dangerous as Gumma's Tangle, and it's 
  perfectly safe to transit that at a flux of 0.2. I was being conservative." 
  That had the bite of old resentment Heris shook her head. 
  "Captain Olin must have had some reason. Your relative velocity would have 
  been quite low, there -- did you suggest boosting your flux and achieving a 
  higher V?" 
  "No, ma'am. He said it was dangerous at 0. 06; boosting the flux would make it 
  worse --" 
  "If he meant a flux/mass interaction. That's not the only danger out there." 
  She chewed her lip, thinking. She hadn't been in that area for a long time; 
  she wished she had access to R.S.S. charts and intelligence data. 
  "But why didn't he say so?" Sirkin had flushed, which made her look even 
  younger. "I could have redone it for a higher flux --" 
  "He didn't want to go anywhere near T-77," Heris said. "Let's see what else he 
  didn't want to go near." She looked at the rest of Sirkin's course, comparing 
  it to Olin's, and calling up references when needed. Slowly, she felt her way 
  into Olin's logic. "He didn't want to go near any of the low-danger obstacles, 
  did he? Made you go clear around Cumber's Finger, instead of taking that short 
  Wedding Ring hop -- and that's a safe hop everyone takes. Made you wander over 
  here -- and why?" She looked up, to meet the same confusion in Sirkin's 
  expression. "Did Lady Cecelia have a preferred arrival time? Did she ask him 
  to be here on a certain day?" 
  Sirkin nodded. "She had wanted to be here eight days before we arrived, for 
  some kind of family party. Olin told her he couldn't make it; it's one reason 
  she wanted a new captain. She said he was too slow." 
  "You heard her?" Heris let her brows rise. 
  Sirkin turned red. "Well... I overheard it. I mean, Tonni over on the staff 
  side, he told Engineering, and Mr. Gavin told me." 
  "Staff side..." Heris said. 
  "You know. There's the household staff, with Bates on top, and there's the 
  ship's crew, with the captain -- with you -- on top. We're not supposed to mix 
  much, but at certain levels we have to. Our moles are always getting into rows 
  with milady's gardeners." 
  Heris felt she'd fallen into a farce of some kind. Gardeners aboard ship? But 
  she couldn't let this young woman sense her confusion. "When we say 'staff,' 
  we mean non-line officers," she said, as if it had been a confusion of terms. 
  "Oh." Sirkin clearly had no idea what that meant, and Heris let it pass. Far 
  more important was getting this ship ready to travel. She could ask Sirkin, 
  but she should learn more about the rest of the crew, and inspections would do 
  just that. She looked back at Olin's chosen route and shook her head. 
  "I wonder... it's as if he knew something about these areas not listed in the 
  references." She wondered what. There were always rumors about "robbers' 
  coasts" and "pirate dens" to excuse ships that showed up late or missing 
  cargo. But those were just rumors... weren't they? Olin had chosen to skirt 
  more dangerous -- according to the references -- points more closely; he had 
  shaved past T-89 inside the line she'd have taken with a cruiser. Of course a 
  cruiser massed more. Slow on the first leg of the trip, hanging about for a 
  long time... then racing through the middle section, direct and sure... then 
  dodging about again at the end. Smuggling came to mind, but she controlled her 
  expression. Later she could figure out what, and with whom, Captain Olin had 
  been smuggling. 
  "And you're the newest crew member? What made you decide on this job rather 
  than another?" 
  Sirkin blushed. "Well... it was a... friend of mine." From the blush and tone 
  of voice, a lover. Heris looked again: blue eyes, brown hair, slender, 
  unremarkable face. Just very young, and very emotional. 
  "Aboard this ship?' She kept her fingers crossed. 
  "No, ma'am. She's back at school -- a third-year in ship systems maintenance. 
  If I'd signed with a corporate ship, they'd have expected me to stay with them 
  forever." Not really forever, Heris knew, but to the young even the basic 
  five- and ten-year contracts sounded permanent. "When she graduates -- she's 
  not exactly at the top of her class -- we wanted to be together, same ship or 
  at least same company...." 
  "So this is a temporary, until she graduates?" 
  "Yes, ma'am. But I'm not treating it any less seriously." That in the earnest 
  tone of the very young. Heris allowed herself to smile. 
  "I should hope not. When are you planning to leave Lady Cecelia?" 
  "It depends, really. She'll graduate while we're at that fox-hunting place -- 
  at Sirialis, I mean." Sirkin's fingers twitched. "Lady Cecelia expects to get 
  back to the Cassian System about six local months after that, and she won't 
  take offplanet work until she hears from me." 
  You hope, thought Heris. She'd seen more than one juvenile romance collapse 
  when a partner was offplanet for a year or more. "You'll have to keep your 
  mind on your duties," she said. 'It's natural to worry about her, but --" 
  "Oh, I don't worry about her," Sirkin said. "She can take care of herself. And 
  I won't be distracted." 
  Heris nodded, hoping they hadn't sworn vows of exclusion or anything silly 
  like that. Those were the ones who invariably got an earnest message cube at 
  the next port, with the defaulting lover explaining what happened at 
  excruciating length. In her experience, it always happened to the best of the 
  younglings in her crew. "Good. Now, I plan to have the crew cross-train in 
  other disciplines -- would you prefer another bridge assignment, or something 
  more hands-on?" 
  Sirkin grinned, and Heris was almost afraid she'd say How fun -- but she 
  didn't. "Anything you wish, Captain. I had two semesters of drive theory and 
  one of maintenance, but I also had a double minor in Communications and 
  computer theory." Very bright girl, if she'd topped out in her nav classes and 
  done that as well. Heris approved. 
  "We'll try you in communications and the more practical side of shipboard 
  computing systems, then. That should keep you busy enough." 
  "Yes, ma'am." 
  "That's all, then." With a last respectful nod, Sirkin left. No salute. Heris 
  refused to give in to the wave of nostalgia she felt; she shrugged it away 
  physically and drew a deep steady breath. No more salutes, no more old friends 
  she could call on to find out, for example, what was known about the members 
  of her new crew. She might have that later, as she made friends in the 
  Captains Guild, but not now. 
  And at the moment, that was her most pressing need: knowledge. According to 
  the ship's record, all the crew but one had been supplied by the same 
  employment agency. A good one: she had chosen to sign with them herself 
  because of their reputation; they supplied crew to major commercial lines and 
  trading corporations. Lady Cecelia was part of an important family; surely 
  they were not sending her their dregs.... Yet she had the feeling that at 
  least half these people were below average. She hadn't expected that, not with 
  the wages Lady Cecelia had offered her, and was paying the crew. She should 
  have gotten more for her money. Sirkin was the only really top qualifier, just 
  going by their records -- which she didn't. Records only told so much. 
  She punched up the local office of Usmerdanz, and worked her way up the levels 
  until she found someone she could really talk to. "Captain Serrano... yes." 
  The owner of that silky voice had found her reference in the file, she could 
  tell. "We... ah... placed you with Lady Cecelia --" 
  "Yes," she said, interrupting. "I notice that Usmerdanz also placed other crew 
  members, and I was wondering if you could give me some details." 
  "All pertinent details should be in the ship files," the voice said, with an 
  edge as if a knife lay under the silk. From their point of view, she was the 
  unknown quantity; she had been on their list less than a month, and there 
  would always be questions about someone of her rank who resigned a commission 
  without explanation. "Surely Captain Olin left the files open-keyed...." 
  "I've accessed the ship files," Heris said. "But I find nothing equivalent to 
  our -- to the Space Service's fitness reports. Are periodic evaluations 
  handled by the captain aboard or... ?" 
  "Oh." The knife edge receded behind the silk again. "Well... there's no 
  established schedule, not really. In the commercial ships, of course, there's 
  always some sort of corporate policy, but not on private yachts. Usually the 
  captain keeps some sort of reports. You found nothing?" 
  "Nothing," Heris said. "Just the data that might have been in the original 
  applications. I thought perhaps you -- " 
  "Oh, no." The voice interrupted her this time. "We don't keep track of that 
  sort of thing at all." Far from it, the tone said. After all, one could hardly 
  recommend someone known to have problems on a previous vessel; best not to 
  know. Heris had known Service people with the same attitude. "If there's 
  nothing in the ship files," the voice went on, "then I'm afraid we can't help 
  you. We could supply incomplete data on education, background -- but nothing 
  more than that. Sorry..." 
  Before the silken-voiced supervisor could disconnect, Heris asked a quick 
  question. "How do you choose which to recommend to which employers?" A long 
  silence followed. 
  "How do we what?" No silk remained; the voice sounded angry. 
  "I noticed that only Sirkin -- the newest crew member -- ranked particularly 
  high in her class, and she's told me she was looking for a short-term job on a 
  yacht for personal reasons. The others generally rank in the middle quartiles. 
  Yet Lady Cecelia's paying top wages; I wondered why you weren't recommending 
  these positions to your most qualified applicants." 
  "Are you accusing us," the voice said, all steel edge now, "of sending Lady 
  Cecelia unqualified crew members?" 
  "Not at all," said Heris, although she suspected exactly that. "But you aren't 
  sending her your cream, are you?" 
  "We sent you," the voice replied. 
  "Exactly," Heris said. "I know I'm not on the top of your list of captains... 
  and I shouldn't be." As she had hoped, that admission soothed some of the 
  anger in the voice on the com. 
  "Well. That's true. I suppose." Heris waited through some audible huffing and 
  muttering, and then the voice went on. "It's like this, Captain Serrano. 
  There's good people -- qualified people -- who aren't right for every opening. 
  You know what I mean; surely you had people even in the R. S. S. who were 
  good, solid, dependable performers in ordinary circumstances, but you wouldn't 
  want to have them in charge of a cruiser in battle." 
  "That's true," Heris said, as if she'd never thought of it herself. 
  "We supply crews to all sorts of people. We tend to hold out our best -- our 
  cream, as you said -- for the positions where it matters most. It's true that 
  Lady Cecelia is a valued client, and her family is important, but... it's not 
  like that yacht is the flagship of Geron Corporation, is it?" 
  "Not at all." 
  "She's got a fine ship, relatively new, has it refitted at the right 
  intervals, spares no expense in maintenance, travels safe routes at reasonable 
  speeds.... She doesn't need someone who can cope with a twenty-thousand 
  passenger colonial transport, or maneuvering in a convoy of freighters. Other 
  people do. And her requirements dovetail nicely; we suggest for private yachts 
  crew who are stable emotionally, perhaps a little sedate -- " Lazy, thought 
  Heris, could be substituted for that euphemism. No initiative. "Obedient, 
  willing to adapt to a variable schedule." 
  "I see," Heris said, intentionally cheerful. She did see; she did not like 
  what it said about the agency's attitude towards her, or towards her employer. 
  She was sure Lady Cecelia had never been told that her safety was less 
  important than that of a load of frozen embryos or bulk chemicals. She had 
  trusted the agency, and the agency had sent her junk. It had not occurred to 
  Heris before that very rich people could have junk foisted off on them so 
  easily. "Thank you anyway," she said, as if none of that had passed through 
  her mind. "I realize things are different in civilian life; I'll just have to 
  adjust." 
  "I'm sure you'll do very well," the voice said, once more wrapped in its 
  silken overtones. It wanted to be pleased with her, wanted Lady Cecelia to be 
  pleased with her -- wanted everyone to be pleased with everything, for that 
  matter. 
  Heris herself was not at all pleased by anything at the moment, but she knew 
  she would adjust, though not the way the agency intended. She would pull this 
  crew up to some decent standard; she would exceed the agency's low 
  expectations and make of Lady Cecelia's yacht a ship any captain could take 
  pride in. Even working with the slack crew she'd been given. She knew Lady 
  Cecelia wanted as speedy a departure as possible, but the delay her nephew 
  caused gave Heris just enough time to interview each member of her crew. Those 
  short, five-minute meetings confirmed her original feeling that most of the 
  crew were past whatever prime they'd had. At least the ship was good: a sound 
  hull, components purchased from all the right places. Regular maintenance at 
  the best refitting docks. Like the crew, her instincts muttered. Heris blinked 
  at the screen on her desk, fighting off worry. Surely Lady Cecelia hadn't been 
  cheated on everything. 
  Departure: their slot in the schedule came late in third shift. Lady Cecelia 
  had already sent word that she preferred to sleep through undockings. Heris 
  could understand that; she did too, on ships she didn't captain. By this time, 
  the ship's own systems were all up and running; by law, a ship must test its 
  own systems for six hours prior to a launch. 
  Heris arrived on the bridge two hours before undock, having checked all the 
  aired holds herself, and as much of the machinery on which their lives 
  depended as she could. Everywhere she'd looked she'd found gleaming new 
  casings, shiny metal, fresh inspection stickers, their time-bound inks still 
  bright and colorful. It ought to mean everything was all right... and the 
  unease she felt must be because this was a civilian ship, tricked out in plush 
  and bright colors, rather than an honest warship. 
  Her sulky pilot had the helm, his narrow brow furrowed. She put on her own 
  headset and listened in. He was giving voice confirmation to the data already 
  sent by computer: the Sweet Delight's registration, destination, planned 
  route, beacon profiles, insurance coverage. Heris caught his eye, and pointed 
  to herself -- she'd take over that tedious chore. The lists of required items 
  came up on her command screen. Why an officer of an outbound vessel had to 
  confirm by voice the closing of each account opened during a Station visit, 
  each time repeating the authorization number of the bank involved, she could 
  not fathom -- but so it was, and had been, time out of mind. Even on her own 
  cruiser someone had been required to formally state that each account was paid 
  in full. It could take hours, with a big ship; here it was a minor chore. 
  "Thank you, Sweet Delight," said the Stationmaster's clerk, when she'd 
  finished. "Final mail or deliveries?" Bates had told her that Lady Cecelia had 
  a bag outgoing; the crew's mail had been stacked with it. She sent Sirkin to 
  take it out to the registered Station mail clerk. The furniture and 
  decorations of the outer lobby had already been returned and stowed in one of 
  the holds. When Sirkin returned, the yacht would be sealed from the Station 
  and the final undock sequence would begin. 
  It seemed to take no time at all, compared to the bigger, more populous ships 
  she was used to. Her own crew closed and locked the outer and inner hatches; 
  the Station's crew did the same on their side of the access tube. The Sweet 
  Delight, on her own air now, smelled no different. An hour of final systems 
  checks remained. The crew seemed to be careful, if slow, in working down the 
  last checklists. They didn't skip anything she noticed, although she didn't 
  know all the sequences for this vessel. 
  "Tugs in position, Captain Serrano," said the pilot He had been positioning 
  the yacht's "bustle" to protect it from the tug's grapples. Yachts were too 
  small to fit the standard grapple arrangements; they carried special 
  outriggers that gave the tugs a good grip and kept the main hull undamaged. 
  Heris looked at the onboard chronometer: two minutes to their slot. She 
  switched one channel of her com to the tug's frequency. 
  "Captain Serrano, Sweet Delight." There. She'd said it, officially, to another 
  vessel... and the stars did not fall. 
  "Station Tug 34," came the matter-of-fact reply. "Permission to grapple." 
  "Permission to grapple." Despite the bustle, she was sure she felt the yacht 
  flinch as the tug caught hold. A perfect match of relative motion was rare, 
  even now. Her status lights switched through red, orange, and yellow to green. 

  "All fast," the tug captain said. "On your signal." 
  On the other channel of her com, the on-watch Stationmaster waited for her 
  signal. "Captain Serrano of Sweet Delight, permission to undock, on your 
  signal...." 
  "All clear on Station," the voice came back. "Confirm all clear aboard?" 
  The boards spread emerald before her. "All clear aboard." Fifteen seconds. 
  She, the Stationmaster, and the tug captain all counted together, but the 
  coordinated computers actually broke the yacht's connection with the Station. 
  The tug dragged the yacht -- still inert, her drives passive -- safely away 
  from the Station and its crowded traffic lanes. Heris used this time to check 
  the accuracy of the yacht's external sensors against Station and tug reports 
  of other traffic. Everything seemed to work as it should. She felt very odd, 
  being towed without even the insystem drive powered up, but civilian vessels 
  routinely launched "cold" and the tug companies preferred it that way. 
  According to them, some idiot was likely to put his finger on the wrong button 
  if he had power. 
  When they reached their assigned burn sector several hours later, the tug 
  captain called again. "Confirm safe sector Blue Tango 34; permission to 
  release." 
  "Permission to release grapples," Heris said, with a nod to the pilot and 
  Gavin. The tug retracted its grapples and boosted slowly away. "Mr. Gavin: 
  insystem drive." The pilot, she noticed, was retracting the bustle, and 
  checking with visuals that the lockdown mechanisms secured properly. 
  "Insystem drive." The yacht's sublight drive lit its own set of boards. 
  "Normal powerup..." Heris could see that; she let out the breath she'd been 
  holding. They'd done a powerup as part of the systems check, but that didn't 
  mean it would powerup again as smoothly. 
  "Engage," she said. The artificial gravity seemed to shiver as the yacht's 
  drive began a determined shove, much stronger than the tug's. Then it 
  adjusted, and the yacht might have been sitting locked onplanet somewhere. 
  "Mr. Plisson, she's yours." The pilot would have the helm until they made the 
  first jump, and during jump sequences thereafter. Heris called back to the 
  tug: "Sweet Delight, confirmed powerup, confirmed engagement, confirmed 
  oncourse." 
  "Yo, Sweetie -- " The tug captain's formality broke down. "Come and see us 
  again sometime. Tug 34 out." Heris seethed, then, at the pilots amiable 
  response, realized that "Sweetie" was probably this yacht's nickname, not an 
  insult. After all, even Service tug captains called the Yorktowne "Yorkie." 
  So, she thought, here I go. Off to someplace I've never been so my employer 
  can chase foxes over the ground on horseback, and I can spend a month at 
  Hospitality Bay making friends with other captains in the Guild. Somehow the 
  thought did not appeal. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Heris had heard about cruise captains: unlike the captains of scheduled 
  passenger ships, they were expected to hobnob with guests, flattering and 
  charming them. She would not cooperate if that's what Lady Cecelia had in 
  mind. She would make it clear that she was a captain, not an entertainer. She 
  would eat decent spacefilling meals in her own quarters, since the ship 
  offered no separate wardroom for ship's officers. 
  Cecelia had heard about spacefleet captains from her sisters: cold, 
  mechanical, brutal, insensitive (which meant they had not worshipped at the 
  shrine of her sister Berenice's beauty, she thought). She enjoyed her meals 
  too much to invite a boor to share them. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  That first evening of the voyage proper, Heris ate in her cabin, working her 
  way through a stack of maintenance and fitness logs. The crew cook provided a 
  surprisingly tasty meal; she had been prepared for bland reconstituted food, 
  but the crisp greens of her salad had never seen a freeze-dry unit, she was 
  sure. She missed having a proper wardroom for the officers' mess, but the 
  officers on Sweet Delight, such as they were, were not likely to become 
  rewarding dinner companions. 
  At least Lady Cecelia had not stinted on fresh food or on the quality of 
  maintenance. Heris nodded at the screenful of data. Not one back-alley 
  refitter in the lot; if the lady was bent on hiring incompetents, as Heris had 
  begun to suspect, she did so from some other motive than mere economy. The 
  bills would have paid for refitting a larger and more dangerous ship than the 
  yacht, but Heris supposed part of it went into cosmetics, like the decor. 
  Which reminded her; she must explain to Lady Cecelia the need for tearing out 
  that plush covering the umbilicals. 
  She ignored the gooey dessert for another stalk of mint-flavored celery, slid 
  her tray into the return bin, and called up data from the next refitting. So 
  far -- she refused to let herself contemplate all the future days -- nothing 
  had gone very wrong. This life might be bearable after all. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  "I suppose you want us to dress," Ronnie said. He lay sprawled in the massage 
  lounger, his admittedly handsome body still dripping sweat from his workout on 
  the gym equipment. Cecelia eyed him sourly; she wanted a massage herself, but 
  not on the clammy cushions he would leave behind. When she'd chosen the 
  luxurious zaur-leather upholstery she'd assumed she'd never have to share it. 
  The saleswoman had mentioned the potential problem, and she had shrugged it 
  off. Now she felt aggrieved, as if it were anyone's fault but hers. 
  "Yes," she said. "I do. And be prompt; good food doesn't improve by sitting." 
  "Thank you, Lady Cecelia," said Raffaele. She appeared to be George's 
  companion, slight and dark -- though not as dark as Captain Serrano. "These 
  young men would never dress if you didn't make them, and we can't if they 
  don't." 
  "Why not?" She was in no mood to honor custom; she watched the girls share a 
  glance, then Raffaele tipped her head to one side. 
  "I feel silly, that's all. My red dress, and the boys in skimps?" 
  Cecelia chuckled in spite of herself. "If you're going to feel silly just 
  because some lummox doesn't live up to your expectations, you'll have a 
  miserable life. Wear what you want and ignore them." 
  Another shared glance. One of the girls might have been more tactful, but 
  Ronnie burst out first. That's what you do -- and that's why you never married 
  and live by yourself in a miserable little ship!" 
  Cecelia stared him down. "That's why I have the money and position I do -- 
  independent of any alliance -- to do what I want -- and that's why I was 
  available to help you when you got yourself into this mess. Or perhaps you 
  don't know that the first suggestion given your father was that you be packed 
  off on an ore-hauler to Versteen?" 
  "They wouldn't have!" Ronnie looked almost horrified enough. 
  Cecelia shrugged. "They didn't, but largely because I was available, and could 
  be talked into it. If your mother -- well, never mind. But my point is, that 
  if I had been a conventional member of this family, and married to some 
  appropriate spouse, I would hardly have been free to take you on. You persist 
  in regarding this as some kind of lark, but I assure you that most men -- 
  grown men, such as your father and his friends -- consider your breach of the 
  lady's confidence a disgrace, even apart from its political implications." 
  Ronnie reddened. "Now," she went on. "Go make yourself fit for civilized 
  company at dinner, all of you. That includes you young women. I do not 
  consider the sort of clothes you wear to parties with your own set adequate." 
  She actually had very little idea what kind of clothes they wore to parties 
  with their own set, but had a clear memory of herself at nineteen to 
  twenty-three. 
  When they had left, Cecelia felt the cushions of the massage lounger and 
  shuddered. Entirely too clammy; she aimed a blow-dryer at it, and decided on a 
  short swim. The pool's privacy screen, a liquid crystal switchable only from 
  within, closed her into a frosted dome, onto which she projected a visual of 
  overhanging forest She set the pool's sound system, and eased over the edge to 
  the opening bars of Delisande's Moon Tide. A choice others would consider 
  trite, but she needed those long rolling phrases, those delicate shadings of 
  strings to ease her tension. The water enfolded her; she let her body and mind 
  merge with water and music, swimming languidly to the music's rhythm, just 
  enough to counter the gentle current. 
  Just as she felt herself relaxing, the pool's timer beeped, and Myrtis's voice 
  reminded her that it was time to dress. 
  "Bad words, bad words, bad words." She had gotten away with that in childhood, 
  even before she learned any. Her stomach burned.... If it hadn't been for 
  Ronnie and his gang, she could have had dinner held until she was ready -- and 
  she'd have been ready, because she wouldn't have been interrupted. And her 
  massage lounger wouldn't have been sweaty. She hauled herself out of the pool 
  with a great splash, hit the privacy control without thinking -- and only then 
  realized that with guests aboard she would have to be more careful. Luckily 
  they were all off dressing -- none of them had straggled back to ask a stupid 
  question. Not that they didn't swim bare, but she had no desire to have them 
  compare her body to their young ones. 
  She walked into the warmed towelling robe that Myrtis held, and stood still 
  while Myrtis rubbed her hair almost dry. Then she stepped into the warm fleece 
  slippers, took another warmed towel, and headed for her own suite still 
  rubbing at her damp hair. It dried faster these days, being thinner; she hated 
  the blow-dryers and would rather go to dinner a bit damp than use one. 
  In her cabin, Myrtis had laid out her favorite dinner dress, a rich 
  golden-brown shi-silk accented with ivory lace. Cecelia let herself be dried, 
  oiled, powdered, and helped into the clothes without thinking about it. 
  Myrtis, unlike Aublice, her first maid, had never seen her young body; she 
  treated Cecelia with professional correctness and the mild affection of 
  someone who has worked for the same employer fifteen years and hopes to retire 
  in the same position. Cecelia sat, allowed Myrtis to fluff her short hair, 
  with its odd spatchings of red and gray, and fastened on the elaborate 
  necklace of amber and enamelled copper that made the lace look even more 
  delicate. Those girls might be fifty years younger, but they would know a 
  Marice Limited design when they saw it, and it would have its effect. They 
  would not know it had been designed for her, by the original Marice, or why -- 
  but that didn't matter. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  The plump roast fowl sent up a fragrance that made Cecelia's stomach subside 
  from its tension. She glanced around the table and nodded to Bates. Service 
  proceeded, a blend of human and robotic. A human handed her breast slices of 
  roast, and the gravy boat, but crumbs vanished without the need of a 
  crumb-brush. 
  "Do you eat like this all the time, Lady Cecelia?" asked Bubbles. Sober, cured 
  of her hangover, she was reasonably pretty, Cecelia thought, except that her 
  gown looked as if it would burst with her next mouthful. She was not so plump; 
  the gown was that tight. She wore a warm bright green; it showed off her white 
  skin and blonde curls although it clashed with the dark Raffaele's red dress. 
  The other girl, Sarah, wore a blue that would have been plain had it not been 
  silk brocade, a design of fishes: d'Albinian work. 
  "Yes," said Cecelia. "Why not? Cook is a genius, and I can afford it, so..." 
  "Tell us about your new captain. Why'd you choose a spacefleet officer?" 
  "Why was she available?" added the odious George. Less handsome than Ronnie, 
  which Cecelia might have approved, but he had the sort of gloss she 
  distrusted, as if he'd been coated with varnish. 
  "I wasn't satisfied with my former captain's performance," Cecelia said, as if 
  they had a right to ask. She knew she mellowed with good food; it was one 
  reason she made sure to have it. She wasn't going to admit that if Captain 
  Olin had held to her schedule, she'd have been safely distant and unavailable 
  when Ronnie was exiled. Why waste good ammunition? "I wanted more efficiency," 
  she said between bites, making them wait for it. "Better leadership. Before, 
  they were always coming to me complaining about this and that, or getting 
  crossways with staff. I thought an officer from the Regular Space Service" -- 
  she made the emphasis very distinct -- "would know how to maintain discipline 
  and follow my orders." 
  "The Regs are crazy for discipline," George said, in the tone of someone who 
  found that ridiculous. "Remember when Currier transferred, Ronnie? He didn't 
  last six weeks. It was all nonsense -- it's not as if all that spit and polish 
  and saluting accomplishes anything." 
  "I don't know..." Buttons, Bunny's middle son, looked surprisingly like his 
  father as he ran a thumb down the side of his nose. Gesture, decided Cecelia, 
  and not features; he had his mother's narrow beaky nose and her 
  caramel-colored hair. "You can't get along with no discipline...." And his 
  mother's penchant for taking the other side of any argument, Cecelia told 
  herself. In the girl, it had been fun to watch, but as Bunny's wife she had 
  caused any number of social ruptures by choosing exactly the wrong moment to 
  point out that not everyone agreed. The incident of the fish knives still 
  rankled in Cecelia's memory. She wondered which parent Bubbles took after. 
  "We're not talking about no discipline." George interrupted as if he had the 
  right, and Buttons shrugged as if he were used to it. "We're talking about the 
  ridiculous iron-fisted excuse for discipline in the Regs. I don't mind fitness 
  tests and qualifying exams -- even with modern techniques, the best family can 
  throw an occasional brainless wonder." Cecelia thought that he himself could 
  furnish proof of that. "But," George went on, in blissful ignorance of his 
  hostess' opinion, she being too polite to express it, "I really do not see any 
  reason for archaic forms of military courtesy that have no relevance to modem 
  warfare." 
  This time Buttons shrugged without looking up from his food. He had the 
  blissful expression most of Cecelia's guests wore when they first encountered 
  the products of Cook's genius. George looked around for another source of 
  conversation, and found the others all engaged in their meal; with the 
  faintest echo of Buttons's shrug, he too began to eat. 
  The rest of the meal passed in relative silence. The roast fowl had been 
  followed by a salad of fresh diced vegetables in an iced sauce strongly 
  flavored with parsley: Cecelia's favorite eccentricity, and one which never 
  failed to startle guests. It awoke, she contended, the sleepy palates which 
  the roast had soothed and satisfied. Crisp rounds of a distant descendant of 
  potato followed, each centered with a rosette of pureed prawns. The trick, 
  which no one but her own cook seemed to manage, was to have the slices of 
  potato boiled slightly before roasting, so that the outer surfaces were almost 
  crunchy but the inside mealy. The young people, she noted, took additional 
  servings of potato as they had of the roast fowl. Finally, Bates brought in 
  tiny flaky pastries stuffed with finely diced fruit in chocolate and cinnamon 
  sauce. One each, although Cecelia knew that a few would be waiting for her 
  later, safely hidden from the young people. 
  Satiety slowed them down, she noticed, nibbling her own pastry with deliberate 
  care. They looked as if they wanted to throw themselves back in deep chairs 
  and lounge. Not in my dining room, she thought, and smiled. The elegant but 
  uncomfortable chairs that Berenice's designer had foisted on her had their 
  purpose after all. 
  Cecelia neither knew nor cared about the current social fashions of the young. 
  In her young days, the great families had revived (or continued) the custom of 
  a separate withdrawal of each sex with itself for a time after dinner, the 
  women moving to one room and the men to another. She had resented it, and in 
  her own yacht ignored it; either she invited guests (all of them) to continue 
  their discussion in the lounge, or she excused herself and let them do what 
  they would. 
  Tonight, with a good meal behind her, she felt mellow enough to grant them 
  more of her time. Perhaps well fed, with hangovers behind them, they would be 
  amusing; at least she might hear some interesting gossip, since none of them 
  seemed to have the slightest reticence. "Let's move to the lounge," she said, 
  rising. The young people stood, as they ought, but Ronnie frowned. 
  "If it's all the same to you, Aunt Cece, I'd rather watch a show. We brought 
  our own cubes." The dark girl, Raffaele, opened her mouth as if to protest, 
  but then shut it. 
  "Very well." Cecelia could hear the ice in her own voice. Snub her, would 
  they? On her own yacht? She would not stoop to equal their discourtesy, but 
  she would not forget it, either. Buttons again tried to intervene. 
  "Wait, Ronnie... we really should --" 
  "Never mind," Cecelia said, with a flip of her hand. The quick temper that 
  she'd always blamed on her red hair slipped control. "I'm sure you're quite 
  right; you would only be bored talking with an old lady." She turned on her 
  heel and stalked out, leaving them to find their own way. At least she didn't 
  have to spend more time in that disgusting lavender and teal lounge the 
  designer had left her. She toyed with the idea of having the yacht redone, and 
  charging it to her sister, but the quick humor that always followed her quick 
  temper reminded her how ridiculous that would be. Like the time she and 
  Berenice had quarrelled, only to discover that her brothers had taped the row 
  for the amusement of an entire gang of little boys. A snort escaped her, and 
  she shook her head. This time she was justified in her anger; she wasn't ready 
  to laugh. 
  Myrtis, recognizing storm signals, had her favorite music playing and stood 
  ready to remove her jewels. Cecelia smiled at her in the mirror as the deft 
  fingers unhooked the necklace. "The young people prefer to watch entertainment 
  cubes," she said. "I'll be reading late, I expect." What she really wanted to 
  do was hook up the system and take a long, strenuous ride, but that would mean 
  another swim to cool off, and she suspected the young people would keep late 
  hours. When Myrtis handed her the brocade robe, she slipped it on and went 
  back to her study. Here, with the door closed, and the evening lights on in 
  the solarium, she could lie back in her favorite chair and watch the 
  nightlife. Two fan-lizards twined around a fern-frond, their erectile fans 
  quivering and shimmering with delicate colors. At the sculpted water fountain, 
  two fine-boned miniature horses dipped their heads to drink. They were not, of 
  course, real horses; other small species had gone into their bioengineering 
  specs. But in the dusky light, they looked real, or magical, depending on her 
  mood. 
  Something flickered along the shadowy floor of the tiny forest, and a sere-owl 
  swooped. Then it stood, talons clubbed on its prey, and stared at her with 
  silver eyes. Not really at her, of course; it saw the window's farside 
  illusion, a net of silvery strands that even an owl would not dare. The little 
  horses had thrown up their heads, muzzles dripping, when the action began; 
  they had shied, but returned to the water as the owl began to feed. Kass and 
  Vikka, Cecelia thought. Her favorite of the little mares, and her yearling. In 
  daytime lighting, the mare was honey-gold dappled with brown on top, with a 
  white belly and striped mane of dark and cream. It was as close as Cecelia had 
  ever found in the miniatures to her performance horse.... Most breeders of the 
  tiny animals liked the exotic colors the non-equine species introduced. 
  When the mare led the young one back into the undergrowth, Cecelia sighed and 
  blanked the window. Now she had the view that in all her memory made her 
  happiest: her study at Orchard Hall, with the window overlooking the 
  stableyard. Across the yard, the open top doors of a dozen stalls, and the 
  horses looking out eagerly for morning feed. If she wanted, she could set the 
  view into motion, in a long loop that covered the entire day's activities. She 
  could include sounds, and even the smell (although Myrtis would sniff, 
  afterwards, and spray everything with mint). But she could not walk out the 
  door over there, the one with the comfortable old-fashioned handle, and step 
  into her former life. She shrugged, angry at herself for indulging even this 
  much self-pity, and called up a new view, a seascape out a lighthouse window. 
  She added the audible and olfactory inputs, and made herself breathe deeply of 
  the salt-tang in the air. She had told Myrtis she would read late: she would 
  read. And not a cube, but a real book, which enforced concentration far 
  better. She allowed herself the indulgence of choosing an old favorite, The 
  Family of Dialan Seluun, a wickedly witty attack on the pomposity of noble 
  families four generations past. 
  "Her sweet young breast roused against the foe, Marilisa noted that it had not 
  hands nor tentacles with which to wield the appropriate weaponry...." As 
  always, it made her laugh. Knowing it was coming, it still made her laugh. By 
  the end of the first chapter, she had finally quit grumbling inside about 
  Ronnie and his friends. She could always hide out in her cabin reading; they 
  would think she was sulking miserably and never know that her sides ached from 
  laughing. 
  Chapter Three 
  Heris had had no idea a yacht could be this complicated. It was so small, 
  after all, with so few people aboard... but rich civilians did nothing 
  efficiently. As she worked her way through the manuals, the schematics, the 
  overlays, she wished she'd had weeks aboard before the first voyage. Hours 
  were not enough. She wrinkled her nose at the desk screen, muttering. The 
  owner's quarters separate from the household staffs quarters, and both 
  separate from crew quarters. Four complete and separate hydroponics systems: 
  crew support, household support, food, and flowers. Flowers? She pushed that 
  aside, to consider later. Ship's crew, her people, were responsible for all 
  life support, but not for the household food and flowers. Ship's crew 
  maintained all the physical plant, the wiring, the com connections; in one of 
  the few duties that did overlap, the household kitchen supplied the crew. Not 
  madam's own cook, of course, but her assistants. 
  Eventually she went in search of further enlightenment, and chose the most 
  senior employee aboard, Bates. She had stayed out of his path, which seemed to 
  be what he expected, but no captain could command without knowledge. 
  "Who does this in a planetside house?" asked Heris. Bates folded his lip 
  under. She waited him out. He might be a butler, but she was a captain. 
  "It... varies," he said finally. "More than it used to; more than it should, 
  some say. Originally, household staff did it all, unless a wall fell in or 
  something. Then as houses became more technically oriented -- plumbing inside, 
  gas laid on, electricity -- " Heris had never considered that having indoor 
  plumbing meant someone was technically oriented. "Then," Bates went on, 
  "owners had to resort to outside expertise. Calling in the plumber or the 
  electrician when something went wrong. Some found staff members who could do 
  it, but most of those trades thought themselves too good to be in service...." 

  "So... usually... it's outsiders?" 
  "Mostly, except in the really big households. Where we're going, of course, 
  the staff does it all, but they've a whole planet of homes to care for." 
  "The whole planet is one household?" 
  "Yes -- I thought you understood. Lord Thornbuckle's estate is the planet" 
  She had known it, in an intellectual way, but she had not ever dealt with its 
  implications. Of course the super-rich owned whole planets... but not as 
  pleasure-grounds. She had thought of them as owning the land, perhaps -- but 
  never as owning everything on the planet -- the infrastructure, the houses, 
  the staff to manage it. But it wasn't that impossible, she reminded herself. 
  The R.S.S. owned several planets as well: one for resources, and one for a 
  training base. This would be like a large military installation. At once her 
  first frantic concerns -- where do they buy groceries? Where do they educate 
  the kids? -- vanished. 
  "So Lord... er... Thornbuckle has all the support staff on hand already," she 
  said. "Technicians, moles, all the rest?" 
  "Yes, Captain. In the off-season, the planet's population is less than two 
  hundred thousand; in the main season, he'll have at least two thousand guests 
  -- which means, of course, another ten to twenty thousand of their ships' 
  crews, and ships' staff all rummocking about the Stations or off at 
  Hospitality Bay." 
  Hospitality Bay sounded like the sort of place Fleet marines went to gamble, 
  wench, and pillage. From Bates's explanation, it was designed as a low-cost 
  recreational base for ships' crews and off-duty house staff... in other words, 
  a place to gamble, wench, and pillage. Most of the wealthy guests who arrived 
  in their own yachts left them docked "blind" at one of the Stations (which one 
  depended on the guests' rank). It had proved cheaper and more pleasant, Bates 
  said, for the crews and staff to vacation planetside than to enlarge the 
  Stations enough to hold and entertain idle servants. A largish island, 
  complete with a variety of accommodations, automated service, recreational 
  facilities, and the chance to meet crew and staff from the other yachts. 
  Clubs, bars, entertainment booths, and halls -- everything the vacationing 
  staff might want. 
  "No riots?" asked Heris, remembering the Fleet marines. "No..." What would 
  they call shore patrol? "No -- security officers?" 
  "The militia," said Bates, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Of course there 
  are always those who take advantage, and someone must keep order. It's 
  understood that the usual... er... structure of command does not apply. I am 
  not held responsible, let's say, if an under-gardener from this ship gets into 
  trouble. Milady would consider that, afterwards, and might say something to 
  me, but not the militia. We each have our own places, you see." 
  Enlisted bars, NCO bars, and officer bars, Heris thought. She called up a list 
  of the branches of the captains guild, and found one listed for Hospitality 
  Bay.... so she, too, would be expected to sit out the hunting season 
  entertaining herself with other captains from yachts. Why was that so much 
  worse than spending leave with other Fleet officers? She knew the answer, but 
  pushed it away. She'd joined the Captains Guild; that was all she could do for 
  now. Someday she would belong again... or she wouldn't. She'd live with it 
  either way. 
  "I suppose," she said, looking at Bates carefully, "that if anything... 
  arises... on the household side that I need to know about, you will inform 
  me?" 
  "Yes, Captain Serrano." He smiled at her, evidently pleased. She could not 
  imagine why. 
  "This is very different from the Regular Space Service," she said, to see what 
  his reaction would be. 
  "Yes, it is, Captain." His smile broadened. "It's even different from most 
  civilian households. Lady Cecelia likes to do things her own way." 
  That, Heris had figured out from the lavender plush. Perhaps servants like 
  Bates took pleasure in their employers' eccentricities, but she didn't. Yet. 
  "I must warn you," she said, "that I'm planning to run emergency drills just 
  as I would aboard a warship. It's a matter of safety, you understand. Do 
  the... er... staff have training sessions aboard?" 
  "Not normally, no, although we do have assigned places and duties for various 
  emergencies. Captain Olin never found it necessary." A faint air of distaste, 
  whether for Captain Olin or her proposal, she couldn't tell. 
  "Captain Olin, I'm afraid, had eccentricities unsuited to the master of a 
  spacefaring vessel," Heris said, and then realized how odd that sounded. 
  Eccentricities implied activities engaged in with objects obtained from 
  catalogs with names like Stirrings and Imaginations. The only person she'd 
  ever known thrown out of the Service for "eccentricities" had insisted on 
  sharing his delight in electrical and plumbing lines with those not so 
  inclined. She had sat on the court martial, and remembered suddenly that he'd 
  also liked having his mouth packed full of feathers. Captain Olin's 
  eccentricities, she was sure, had been ethical and not sensual. 
  Bates no longer smiled. "And these drills will be... unscheduled?" 
  "Yes. I'm sorry; I realize it's inconvenient, but one never knows when a real 
  emergency will occur, and drills must be a surprise. That way we can find out 
  what didn't work, and prepare for it." She paused "However, if you would like 
  to arrange training first, I'll delay the drills. At the least, every member 
  of staff should have an emergency station where he or she will be safe and out 
  of the way of crew members with assignments. Ideally, staff would help with 
  things like verifying that emergency hatches have locked, that ventilation 
  systems are working according to specs, and so on." 
  "What about Lady Cecelia and her guests?" 
  "They too must have emergency stations where they will be safe. They need to 
  practice evacuation drills just like anyone else. If something should happen 
  -- unlikely as that is -- we must know where they are to rescue them." 
  "I see." Bates looked surprisingly grim, as if he had never thought about the 
  dangers inherent in space travel before. "Are there standard ways to do this?" 

  Heris stared at him, then recovered herself. "You -- haven't had any 
  instruction, ever?" 
  He looked unhappy, but determined. "No, Captain Serrano. To my knowledge, none 
  of Lady Cecelia's captains have ever had drills that involved the staff, 
  owner, or guests." 
  Heris managed not to sigh aloud, but inwardly she fumed at the incompetence of 
  those captains. Did they have no professional pride at all? "I'd better speak 
  to her, then, hadn't I?" she said gently. "If she doesn't realize the 
  importance of these drills, she might make it very inconvenient for you. And 
  after that, if you have any time... perhaps we could work together to decide 
  on the best staff response." 
  He relaxed, and smiled, and seemed perfectly agreeable. Heris took the list of 
  staff positions, and their listed specialties, and went back to her side of 
  the ship, carefully not muttering. 
  The yacht's database included, as law required, the complete text of the 
  standard manuals of emergency procedures for crew and passengers. At this 
  point, Heris considered the staff and guests equally passengers. She decided 
  to print out a hard copy -- it would be impressively thick, with the Transport 
  Code seal on the cover, and perhaps that would convince Lady Cecelia that it 
  wasn't her own peculiarity. 
  The last access date for that file was -- she stared, though she felt she 
  should not have been surprised -- the date the yacht left the builder's. All 
  those years... her stomach clenched, as she thought of the past possibilities. 
  No, she could not expect Lady Cecelia, or her woefully ignorant staff, to go 
  through disaster drills until they'd had some instruction. She wondered what 
  the correct procedure was -- if there was a correct procedure -- for informing 
  a wealthy yacht owner that her ship was, and had been, unsafe for years. 
  The hard copy thunked into the bin, and she picked it out. The Transport Code 
  seal looked less impressive than she'd expected, but the thing was thick 
  enough. She looked into it, wincing at the bureaucratic prose. It was as bad 
  as Fleet directives. Everything unimportant specified in intricate detail, 
  with requirements to document that it was done, and the important things 
  buried in multisyllabic generality. How far above the deck warning signs must 
  be, and how high the letters, and what color, but -- she stopped suddenly. 
  Warning signs? What warning signs? 
  She flipped to the back sections, headed REQUIRED ITEMS OF COMPLIANCE, and 
  PENALTIES FOR NON-COMPLIANCE. Despite the current inspection stickers, the 
  Sweet Delight was out of compliance on at least fifty items -- on the first 
  page alone. And the penalties, if subsequent inspection discovered those 
  discrepancies... made an astonishing figure. For one thing, a hard copy of 
  that manual -- and the ship's own customized emergency procedures manual -- 
  were supposed to be available to passengers. She knew no such hard copy 
  existed. 
  "I knew," she muttered, "that that stupid purple plush shouldn't be there." 
  "Captain?" Heris looked around guiltily. Gavin stood near the door, looking 
  apologetic. "I did ask," he said, "but you didn't seem to hear." 
  "I'm sorry, Mr. Gavin," she said, focusing again. "What is it?" 
  "It's about those crew evaluations you wanted," he said. "We never had 
  anything like that when Captain Olin was here.... I'm not exactly sure what 
  you want...." 
  Your head on a platter, Heris felt like saying, but in fact he wasn't the 
  worst of them. "Mr. Gavin, I need to know how you feel each crew member is 
  doing: do they know their jobs, are they doing their jobs?" 
  He looked as if he would be sulky if he had the courage. "They've always 
  pleased Lady Cecelia before," he said. "If she don't have any complaint..." 
  "Mr. Gavin, Lady Cecelia is hardly qualified to judge the skills of a 
  navigator or engineer, is she? That's my job, but since I'm new, I'm asking 
  you to help. That is your job." 
  "But... well, you know, Captain, they all have to know I'm doing this." 
  "They do?" 
  "An' I don't like saying things that, you know... an' someone new like Sirkin, 
  it's different. But these others... we been together a long time, and I don't 
  want to hurt anyone's feelings, not that there's anything they've done wrong, 
  but you said to rank them...." 
  Heris allowed herself to glare at him. "Mr. Gavin, you are an officer of this 
  ship; you were second in command to Captain Olin, as you are to me. It is your 
  duty to consider the ship's welfare first and friendship second. No one need 
  have hurt feelings to be ranked second.... There is no disgrace in it, as long 
  as the overall performance is satisfactory. Now, if you don't feel equal to 
  the requirements of your position --" 
  "It's not that," he said. 
  "Very well. Then I'll expect to find your evaluations on my desk within 
  forty-eight hours. It is unfortunate that Captain Olin did not carry out 
  regular evaluations, so that you and the rest would realize how necessary they 
  are, but since he did not, you will simply have to cope." 
  "Yes, Captain." But he did not move away, and simply stood there looking glum. 

  "Do you have another problem?" Heris asked after a long pause. 
  "Well... it's about those emergency drills you mentioned. I need to know when 
  you're planning one so that I can have things ready." 
  Heris barely restrained herself from pounding her head on her desk. "Mr. 
  Gavin, the whole point of an emergency drill is that it is not scheduled. 
  Emergencies aren't scheduled. Do you expect the universe to let you know when 
  it plans to put a rock through the hull?" 
  "Well... no. But that's not the same thing --" 
  "It is the same thing, if drills are to mean anything. If you knew when 
  something was about to go wrong, of course you'd be prepared. So would I. So 
  would everyone. Didn't you see the report on the Flower of Sanity while we 
  were in dock?" Gavin nodded. "Well -- remember how the reports said that the 
  crew's training in emergency procedures was what let them save all those 
  passengers? Even though it happened when most of the crew was off-shift? I'm 
  sure those passengers -- and even the crew -- didn't like unscheduled 
  emergency drills, but that's how they learned to cope with unscheduled 
  emergencies." 
  "I can see that, but -- but that was a big ship, a commercial ship. This is 
  only a little yacht. It can't be that --" 
  Heris interrupted again. "An electrical fire just broke out in the number 
  seventeen box: what is still functioning in this compartment -- the captain's 
  office?" 
  He stared, eyes wide. "Well -- I'd have to ask Finnie -- but I think --" 
  "There's no time to think, Mr. Gavin. There's only time to react. Box 
  seventeen supplies the blowers for alternate compartments on this passage, 
  overhead lights for the compartments whose blowers are controlled by box 
  eighteen, and the electrical outlets in the head? -- the, bathrooms -- in all 
  compartments on this passage. And since four boxes are clustered with box 
  seventeen, an electrical fire in that is likely to knock out sixteen, 
  eighteen, and nineteen as well. That means all the blowers in the crew 
  quarters, all the overhead lights, wall sockets, passage lights, and com 
  terminals, since all the compartment desktops take their power from box 
  twenty. It's dark in here, Mr. Gavin, and there's a fire somewhere aboard -- 
  do you know if the door will unlock?" 
  "No... no, I didn't... I don't..." 
  "And that's why we have emergency drills, Mr. Gavin. To find out, before we 
  find that we're locked in dark, airless boxes while a fire rages somewhere." 
  Before he could say more -- and anything he said now would enrage her -- she 
  thrust the hard copy of the manual at him. "Here; start learning this. I'll 
  make additional hard copies, and I'll expect you and your section chiefs to 
  have marked necessary modifications within forty-eight hours." He was too 
  stunned to react; he took the manual and backed out. Heris watched the door 
  slide closed behind him, and then shook her head. It was much, much worse than 
  she'd thought, to be the captain of a rich lady's yacht. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Lady Cecelia had never thought of herself as an old lady. Age had nothing to 
  do with it, nor the number of rejuvenation treatments. As long as she could 
  ride to hounds, as long as she could go where she wanted, and do what she 
  wanted, and cope with whatever life put on her plate, she was not old. True, 
  she didn't compete in some fields where once she had been at the top, but that 
  she thought of as outgrowing old interests -- as developing new ones -- as a 
  natural shift from one thing to another. Old people were those who had quit 
  changing, quit growing. Some people quit growing at twenty, most by forty or 
  fifty, and became old within a decade. They would live another thirty to fifty 
  years -- longer with rejuv -- but they lived those years as old people. Others 
  -- her own grandmother Serafina for one -- seemed to stay lively and 
  interesting until the last year or so before their deaths. 
  Staying away from the family kept her from feeling old, too. Nothing like 
  children growing up and turning into difficult adults to make you feel your 
  age. Particularly if they thought you were an old lady, and treated you as 
  one. She did not look at herself as she dressed in her soft velour exercise 
  suit; she did not want to be reminded of her age. If they were in the gym, 
  she'd throw them out. It was her turn. 
  But the gym was empty, silent, scented with her favorite aromatics. They had 
  not been here; the cushions of the lounger had dried. Cecelia locked the doors 
  and set up her simulator. She would ride this morning, no matter what anyone 
  said. 
  An hour later, refreshed after a pleasant but demanding ride over a training 
  field, she stowed the simulator and pocketed the cube. This was not a group 
  she wanted riding over her shoulder, so to speak. She didn't want to hear 
  whatever they might say. She looked at the gym's status board, and saw that 
  they were all still in the guest suites. Fine. She stripped, showered, and let 
  herself into the pool enclosure, blanking the canopy and turning the 
  waterstream up a little. The pool's surface heaved, then steadied, as the 
  current increased. She swam against it vigorously, then climbed out, toweled 
  dry, and wrapped herself in her heated robe. Another check of the board; they 
  were moving now. She grabbed her exercise suit and headed for her own suite; 
  she should be safe. 
  They did not meet at breakfast. Cecelia ate in her own suite, as she often did 
  anyway, and she paid no attention to the young people. She had her own daily 
  routine -- checking with Cook, listening to Bates's report, going over 
  whatever her captain chose to tell her about the ship status. With Olin, that 
  had often been a single bare statement that the ship was proceeding according 
  to plan. She wondered about Serrano. The first day's report had been two pages 
  long, most of it incomprehensible detail about why she'd chosen to move 
  something from one storage hold to another... as if Cecelia cared. As long as 
  staff knew, and could find, whatever she wanted, she herself didn't want to 
  worry about something as technical "center of mass" and "potential resonance 
  interference." 
  This morning, it was one page, headed with "Emergency Drills." Cecelia 
  blinked. Why should that concern her? The crew would have emergency drills, 
  she assumed, but yachts, unlike liners, did not have to inconvenience their 
  passengers. She read on, already resisting the idea. This Captain Serrano must 
  think she was still a military commander. Her house staff to be given 
  emergency assignments? She and her guests expected to learn and follow 
  emergency procedures? How absurd! She remembered the fire drills, long ago 
  when she had attended the Sorgery School, and how they had all known the 
  drills were useless. If a fire ever did start, it would not wait around for 
  people to get out of bed, find their assigned partner, and "walk down the 
  stairs quietly, without talking, and without pushing or running." 
  Captain Serrano's reasoning, when she got that far, made somewhat more sense. 
  She had not really thought about the things that could go wrong, barring late 
  meals or illness in a crew member. The vulnerability of a small yacht 
  wandering through interstellar space hadn't occurred to her; everyone she knew 
  traveled in space, and the rare disappearances and accidents were no more 
  frightening than accidents groundside. Sometimes trains and aircraft and 
  limousines crashed; sometimes yachts disappeared. For a moment she almost felt 
  it, the fragility of the ship, the immensity of the universe, but she pushed 
  that away. It was like thinking about the fragility of her skull and the size 
  of a horse and the fence it was approaching.... If you thought about it, you'd 
  sit in a padded cocoon forever, and that was ridiculous. 
  Still... perhaps some emergency drills might be a good idea. Not this many, 
  and certainly not without adequate warning (what if she were in the swimming 
  pool?) but some. She called Bates. 
  "Yes, madam. Captain Serrano has already spoken to me about this matter -- she 
  considers it important to your welfare. She would like to help me give your 
  staff instruction, although that would take time --" 
  "Before these emergency drills?" 
  "Yes, madam." 
  "I suppose... it's something that should have been done before, though none of 
  the others complained." 
  "Captain Serrano seems very competent, madam." Which meant that Bates 
  approved. Damn. She had better agree, so it could be her idea, because when 
  Bates approved of something, it happened, owner or no owner. She had wished 
  more than once that he was her captain. He had a talent for command. 
  "Very well, then. You and the captain see to it, but if she gives you too much 
  trouble, Bates, feel free to let me know." 
  "I don't think she will, madam. She's not like the others." Whatever that 
  meant. Cecelia didn't ask. She asked how the young people were doing, with no 
  real interest, and Bates reported that they had appeared to enjoy breakfast, 
  and were now viewing old entertainment cubes in the lounge. Cecelia felt an 
  unreasonable irritation that they were happy. They were her guests; they ought 
  to be concerned about her. She went into her garden to play with the miniature 
  equids.... They would always come for sugar. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Ronnie watched Raffaele covertly, and wondered if she had heard about the 
  opera singer. He hadn't really noticed before, thinking of her as George's 
  girl, but she had a lovely line of jaw and throat when she lifted her head. 
  Slender without weakness, she seemed hardly aware of her grace.... She was 
  chuckling over something Buttons had said. Bubbles, beside him, waved a hand 
  in front of his face. 
  "Wake up, sweet -- you're staring right through Raffa, and it could make me 
  jealous." Bubbles exuded sensuality of a very studied sort, from silver nails 
  to tumbled blonde curls, from the deep-plunging neckline of her clinging 
  jersey to the cutouts on the long black tights. Next to the opera singer, he 
  had always thought of Bubbles as the sexiest girl he knew, but at the moment 
  he was finding her tiresome. She had been singing along with the lyrics from 
  the cube, and the opera singer had spoiled him. Now he could hear the 
  breathiness and the slight errors of pitch. 
  "Sorry," he said. "I was wondering what we're going to do all that time at 
  your father's. Surely not fox hunting." 
  "It's not that bad," Buttons said, looking up. "I rather like it, sometimes. 
  If we jiggle the weather-sats, so it's not as cold and wet --" 
  "Father will find out," Bubbles said. "He likes authenticity." 
  "I don't see how you can have authenticity when the foxes aren't even foxes," 
  Sarah put in. "Didn't I read somewhere that they're actually 
  reverse-gengineered from cat genes?" Ronnie doubted her interest in 
  bioengineering; she and Buttons had signed the second-level prenuptials, and 
  this was her first official visit to his family. She would be trying to make 
  points. 
  "A chimaera," Buttons said, settling into the lecturing tone that made him 
  less than popular in the regiment. Stuffy, in fact, because he couldn't just 
  answer a question: he had to explain all the juice out of it. "Nobody bothered 
  to save Old-Earth red fox genes, so what Dad's people did was go from 
  descriptions, and use what seemed to work. Luckily Hagworth had already done 
  jackals from dogs, and two of the fox species that got publicity.... The real 
  problem was getting the color and the bushy tail with a white tip. Our 
  neo-foxes are part kit fox, part jackal, a bit of cat, and raccoon, for the 
  tail." 
  "I didn't know anyone had saved raccoon genes; I thought they were too 
  common." 
  "Only to give an outcross for the red panda," Buttons said. Ronnie would not 
  have expected him to know, but after all his father was an enthusiast on many 
  forms of hunting and preservation. Buttons went on to discuss the genetic 
  possibilities at length. Ronnie let his mind drift... to the opera singer, in 
  whose bed he had learned about things that before had been only rumors... to 
  the prince, whose jealousy he had been glad to arouse... to that night in the 
  mess when he had boasted... somehow it didn't seem quite as clever now as it 
  had then. Perhaps Aunt Cecelia was right, and he had been a cad. No. The 
  prince should have been a better sport. 
  He reached up and stroked Bubbles's arm, wondering if anything would come of 
  it. He could not think of anything to say, though, and after a few seconds, 
  she withdrew the arm and stretched herself on the couch across from him. The 
  same couch where she had been so unfortunately sick.... He wondered if she 
  remembered. She looked healthy enough now, though her expression of mild 
  sulkiness fit his mood as well as hers. 
  "I suppose we should get into shape," George said. "Your aunt has that handy 
  little riding-thing. An hour a day, and none of us would have to worry about 
  saddle sores." 
  "Her simulator?" Ronnie asked. "Do what you like, George, but I have no 
  intention of bouncing around on a mechanical horse. It's bad enough to 
  contemplate bouncing around on a real one. Do you know she had the gall to 
  order me riding attire?" 
  "Well, you'll need it." Buttons had settled into a pose the male equivalent of 
  Bubbles's sprawl; together they took up both of the couches. Ronnie wondered 
  why he'd thought exile would be more fun with these people than alone. They 
  were looking at him as if he were responsible for entertaining them, when none 
  of it was his fault Buttons went on. "First of all, my father's head 
  instructor will check you out, before you're assigned your mounts --" 
  "And he's a terror," Bubbles said. "So far as I know, there's not a military 
  unit in the known universe that still uses horses, but he acts like a cartoon 
  drill instructor. You'll spend at least two hours trotting before he decides 
  what to give you." 
  "I'd like to see him test Aunt Cecelia," Ronnie said. 
  "Not her," Buttons said, grinning. "She's an old guest, and he's more likely 
  to ask her to test the horses. 'Pick what you like, milady, not that there's 
  anything here worth your time,' is what he'll tell her." 
  "Is she really that good?" 
  Buttons stared at him, eyes wide. "You haven't ever seen her ride?" 
  "No. The family doesn't think much of her hobby." His father had said that, 
  often enough, and he'd heard his mother talking to his other aunts about "poor 
  dear Cecelia, what a shame she wasted her life on horses." 
  "It was hardly a hobby, Ron.... The woman won the Ail-Union individual 
  cross-country championship five times, and ranked in the top five for fifteen 
  years." Buttons turned to Bubbles. "Remember when we were just learning to 
  ride, and old Abel was yelling at us, and she stopped him?" 
  "She got me over my first jump," Bubbles said, sitting upright now. She looked 
  less like a fluffhead than usual. Could she possibly enjoy hunting? Ronnie had 
  a brief unpleasant view of himself married to a fox-hunting wife. No. It would 
  not do. "I'd forgotten... that was that old gray pony, the one that seemed to 
  like dumping us. She didn't yell at me, just talked me through it" 
  "Yes, and then she got on one of the good horses and showed us what we were 
  supposed to be doing. Abel fairly purred." 
  Ronnie felt a knot in his head tightening. It wasn't fair that they knew more 
  about his aunt than he did. That they admired his aunt for things he hadn't 
  known about, and that his family hadn't respected. Things were not going the 
  way he'd planned. He'd expected his friends to rally around him, support him, 
  do what he wanted... and here they were swapping stories of his old maiden 
  aunt. 
  "Does everyone hunt together?" he asked Buttons. If he couldn't avoid the 
  topic of horses, at least he could get the conversation away from his aunt. 
  "How many horses does your father have, anyway?" 
  "To answer your first question, no. There are three hunts out of the main 
  house, where we'll be. Each has its own territory. We'll each be assigned to 
  one of them, depending on riding ability. As for horses... many thousands, I 
  suppose, altogether. The main house stables will hold five hundred, though we 
  won't use that many. Hunters, hacks, young horses in training." Ronnie tried 
  to imagine five hundred horses in the same place, and failed. The Academy had 
  had ten, for the training of its young officers, and he had no idea what a 
  "hack" was. He was not about to ask. 
  "We don't hunt every day," Bubbles put in. "Some people do, but most ride out 
  on alternate days. Particularly in the lower hunts, where they're not as good 
  and get really stiff." 
  "I'll get really stiff," Raffa and Sarah said together, like a chorus. 
  "Isn't there anything else but hunting?" Ronnie asked, hoping he didn't sound 
  as desperate as he felt. 
  "There are other kinds of hunting," Buttons said. "Not all of it's on 
  horseback. You can shoot grouse and pheasant, that sort of thing. It's the 
  wrong season for fishing in the nearby streams. Indoors -- well, the things my 
  father assumes were normal indoor sports of the time: billiards, cards, 
  amateur theatricals." 
  "Oh... dear." Worse then he'd imagined. Worse than his mother had imagined, he 
  was sure. Traveling with a wealthy aunt on her private yacht had seemed like a 
  good idea when his mother mentioned it. Perhaps he'd have been better off 
  going to some dull assignment in an out-of-the-way base. At least it wouldn't 
  have had fox hunting, and his work might have kept him busy part of the time. 
  "There are other places on the planet," Bubbles said. "But we can't possibly 
  get away more than once. We should save that for when you're really desperate. 
  Poor Ronnie." 
  He wanted to snarl at her. Poor Ronnie, indeed. He needed real sympathy, not 
  the mocking look Bubbles had given him. He needed them to understand that it 
  wasn't his fault -- none of it. "I'm not desperate," he said firmly. "For all 
  you know, I may take to hunting as easily as any other sport. I may be leaping 
  over fences and dashing along at a run --" 
  "Gallop," put in Bubbles. 
  "Whatever. I mean, I'm naturally athletic, perfectly fit: how hard can it be?" 
  He tried to say it with complete confidence; Bubbles, Buttons, and Raffaele 
  burst into laughter. Raffaele? What did she know about riding? He tried to 
  hide his irritation, and forced himself to laugh with them. 
  "Better try your aunt's simulator," Buttons said, still chuckling. "You may 
  find a few muscles that aren't quite perfectly fit." Then he sobered. "You 
  should do well, Ronnie, really. You're right: you are a natural athlete; it's 
  quite possible that after a few lessons you'll be up to riding in the field. 
  But it's not like anything else." 
  Ronnie forced himself to smile, and wondered if he could hide in his stateroom 
  all day and night, watching entertainment cubes, until they got to Buttons's 
  home planet. Probably not. He was going to have to think of something they 
  could do... something fun, something to reestablish his leadership of the 
  group. Something mischievous, perhaps. Play a harmless practical joke on the 
  old lady, or the crew. 
  "You may be right," he said, without meaning it. "I'll see what you look like 
  on the simulator first, and then... we'll see." 
  "We ought to see about some swimming, I think," Raffaele said. "C'mon, girls. 
  Let's go play in the water." Before he quite knew how it happened, the girls 
  had vanished, and his two bosom friends were watching him, bright-eyed. 
  "Come on," said George. "Tell us more about that opera singer. Is it true they 
  have specially developed muscles?" 
  Chapter Four 
  "I didn't ask you if it was 'going fine'," Heris said. "I asked you what the 
  sulfur extraction rate was. Do you know, or not?" With each day, her unease 
  about the yacht's basic fabric and systems had grown. Getting answers from the 
  crew had turned out to be harder than she expected. 
  The moles looked at one another before Timmons answered. "Well... pretty much, 
  Cap'n. It's below nom at the moment, but it usually runs that way 'cause that 
  dauber wants a sulf-rich sludge for his veggie plots." 
  It took Heris a moment to translate civtech slang and decide this meant Lady 
  Cecelia's gardener wanted more sulfur in the first-pass sludge. In the 
  meantime, they still had not answered as she thought they should. She let the 
  steel edge her voice. "Below nom is not what I'm looking for. What, precisely, 
  is the number you have for sulfur clearance?" Again, the sidelong look from 
  one mole to another. This time it was Kliegan who answered. 
  "It's... ah... zero point three. Of first-sig nom, that is --" 
  "Which is... ?" prompted Heris; she could feel temper edging higher. 
  "Well, the book says one point eight, but this system's never worked any 
  better'n one point six, just under first-sig. Mostly we run about two sigs 
  below, say about point seven or so. System's underutilized, so it's not that 
  important. It's rated for a population of fifty, and we don't have that many 
  aboard." 
  Heris closed her eyes briefly, running over the relevant equations in her 
  head. Sulfur clearance was only one of the major cycles, but critical to the 
  ship's welfare because errors could not only make people sick, but degrade 
  many ship components as well. Delicate com equipment didn't like active sulfur 
  radicals in the ship's atmosphere. She added ship's crew, house staff, and 
  owner's family. "In case you haven't noticed," she said briskly, "we now have 
  fifty-one humans and a long voyage ahead of us. I presume you flushed the 
  tanks and re-inoculated them while we were in port -- ?" But the hangdog looks 
  told her they hadn't. "And the last logged maintenance by offship personnel 
  was this -- Diklos and Sons, Baklin Station?" 
  "That's right, ma'am," Timmons said. "They couldn't have done such a good job, 
  fancypants as they are, 'cause the system never did pick up the points, but 
  Captain Olin said never mind --" 
  "Oh, he did?" Heris struggled to keep her thoughts off her face. First his 
  demand for an odd, inconvenient course that did not meet the owner's needs, 
  and now a tolerance for malfunctioning environmental equipment -- something no 
  sane captain would have. Failing to order the tanks flushed and recharged at 
  Rockhouse might have been spite -- revenge for being fired -- but until then 
  he had risked his own life as well. What could have made the risk worth it? 
  "We'd better see how bad it is," she said briskly. "Suit up and we'll go take 
  a look --" 
  "You, Captain?' asked Iklind. He almost never spoke, she'd discovered, letting 
  chatty Timmons say anything necessary. But now he looked worried. 
  Heris let her brows rise. It had worked on other ships; it should work here. 
  "Did you think I wouldn't want to check for myself?" 
  "Well, it's not that, Captain... only... these things can smell pretty bad." 
  Pretty bad was an entirely inadequate description of a malfunctioning sulfur 
  loop, and she was sure more than the sulfur scrubbers were in trouble. Once 
  the pH had gone sour, many of the enzymes in other loops worked erratically, 
  as the chemistry fluctuated. 
  "That's why we'll be suited," she said. When they didn't move she said. "Five 
  minutes, in the number four access bay." 
  "Complete suits?" asked Timmons. "They're awfully hot --" 
  "You prefer to risk the consequences?" Heris asked. "With a system you know is 
  malfunctioning?" 
  "Ah... it's just stinks," Timmons said. When she glared at him, he said, "All 
  right, Captain. Suits." But as he left, she heard him mutter, "Damn lot of 
  nonsense. Can't be enough reaction in that loop to give us mor'n a headache at 
  worst." 
  Quickly, Heris gave Gavin his orders for the next hour: which compartments to 
  seal, which backup crew to have ready, suited, in case of trouble. Then into 
  her own suit -- the cost of which had come from the advance on her contract, 
  and which she never begrudged. Whatever else on this gilded cesspool of a 
  yacht did or did not work as designed, her own personal self-contained suit 
  would... or her family would enjoy the large sum which Xeniks guaranteed if 
  any of its suits failed. She wasn't worried -- only twice in the past fifty 
  years had Xeniks had to pay out. 
  When she was still a corridor away from the access bay, the alarm went off. 
  For an instant she thought something had gone wrong on the bridge, but then 
  she realized what it must be. One of those fools hadn't waited for her. 
  "Captain!" Gavin bleated in her ear. She thumbed down the volume of the suit 
  comunit. 
  "What is it?" she asked. "I'm at E-7, right now." Ahead of her, a gray 
  contamination barrier flapped down from the overhead and snicked tight, its 
  central access closed. 
  "Computer says dangerous chemical -- sulfur something -- and the motion sensor 
  said someone was there, but isn't moving. But they're in suits --" 
  "Get those backups down here," Heris said, mentally cursing civilians in 
  general and the ship's former captain in particular. "Make sure they have 
  their helmets locked on. I'm going in." Despite her faith in Xeniks's 
  legendary suits, she shivered a moment. The gas in there was deadlier than 
  many military weapons, but so familiar throughout human history that people 
  just did not respect it. She wriggled through the access iris, which 
  lengthened into a tube and sealed itself behind her. The suit's own chemical 
  sensors flicked to life, giving the readout she expected: hydrogen sulfide, 
  here in less than life-threatening concentration. 
  Heris hurried, even though she knew it would almost certainly be too late. 
  Around the comer, she came upon Timmons, who had suited up but not locked on 
  his helmet. Presumably he'd planned to do so when he got to the access bay 
  itself. He lay sprawled on the floor, one arm outstretched towards Iklind, 
  slumped against the open access, wearing no protective gear at all. 
  She went to Timmons first, locking his helmet in place and turning his oxygen 
  supply to full with the external override. Her suit had all the necessary 
  drugs for standard industrial inhalation accidents -- but she'd never used it, 
  nor was she a medic. She'd have to rely on the backup team. Iklind wasn't 
  breathing at all, and no wonder -- the hydrogen sulfide concentration in here 
  had peaked at over 1,000 ppm, according to the monitor above the open access 
  hatch. Inside, someone -- presumably Iklind -- had cracked the seal on a 
  sludge tank. It was brimful, far above the safety line. A black line of filth 
  drooled over its lip. 
  Heris picked up the wrench on the floor, closed the cover, and tightened the 
  seal, then closed the hatch. Now the monitor indicated the concentration was 
  below 200 ppm, still dangerous but not instantly lethal. They were lucky, she 
  thought, that the agitator hadn't been on in the sludge tank (and why not?) or 
  the concentration could have been a log or so higher. 
  A shadow moved at the corner of her vision. The backup team -- that would be 
  the number two engineering officer and the off-shift senior mole -- came 
  around the corner and stopped. Even through their helmets their eyes showed 
  wide and staring. 
  "Come on," Heris said. "Get Timmons to the medbox -- he might have a chance." 
  It seemed to her they moved too slowly, but they did wrestle Timmons back up 
  the corridor towards the contamination barrier. Heris called the bridge. 
  "Iklind's dead," she said. "Hydrogen sulfide -- apparently he opened the 
  sludge tank without any protective gear -- " Gavin started to say something, 
  and she overrode him. 'We have three problems here -- Timmons first: is that 
  medical AI capable of handling inhalation injuries? Second: we've got to clear 
  up the rest of the contamination, and the system is too overloaded to resorb 
  it unless you can come up with a cargo section full of reactant. And third, of 
  course, is Iklind. We need medical and legal evaluation; I will take that up 
  with Lady Cecelia. Oh -- and another thing -- we're not going to continue in 
  this unsafe condition. I want Sirkin to plot a course to the nearest major 
  repair facility, preferably on the way to our destination." 
  "The medbox... I don't know, Captain," Gavin said. "It's not -- you know -- 
  meant for major problems." 
  Heris managed not to snap at him. "At least you can tell it the problem. All I 
  know is it's a cellular poison, and there's some kind of antidote. Now: send 
  someone down with a recorder, so that I can document Iklind's position and the 
  monitor readings. Then we can bring his body out." Even as she said this, she 
  realized she was straining the crew's resources. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  "Milady," said Heris, "we have several problems." 
  Just what I need, thought Cecelia. Problems with the ship. Now she'll start 
  whining about how different this is from the military. She nodded, trying for 
  a cool distancing expression. That and a straight back usually dissuaded 
  complainers. 
  "We've had a death among the crew, environmental technician Iklind." 
  "What! A heart attack? A stroke?" Despite her determination not to react, she 
  felt her heart lurch in her chest, and her voice came out shrill and harsh. 
  "No, Lady Cecelia." Heris had tried to think of a nonthreatening way to tell 
  her employer -- considering how old the woman was -- but had not come up with 
  anything better than the bald truth. "He died of hydrogen sulfide poisoning, 
  the result of opening a sludge tank without protective gear. In addition, 
  another crewman is suffering severe inhalation injury from the same source." 
  "But all we have is a medbox!" Cecelia felt as if she had just fallen off at a 
  gallop. A crewman dead, and another sick... was this what came of hiring an 
  ex-military captain? She tried to remember the specifics of the medical unit. 
  "It's a standard industrial pollutant," Heris said. "The unit has the right 
  medications and the right software to treat him -- I checked that, of course, 
  before coming to you." 
  "Oh -- I -- " Cecelia realized she'd slumped, and straightened again. 
  "I'm very sorry to have given you this shock. Perhaps I should call someone?" 
  Cecelia recognized someone giving her time to pull herself together, and was 
  caught between resentment and gratitude. "I've never lost a crew member 
  before," she said. "Not since I've owned the Sweet Delight." She struggled 
  with the mix of emotions, and tried to think clearly. "Poison gas from the 
  sludge tank, you said? Has someone put something in it?" 
  Heris recognized the attempt for what it was, and masked her amusement that 
  anyone -- even a rich old lady -- could travel in space and not know the most 
  common and deadly of the environmental by-products. "No, milady. Sludge 
  generates several toxic gases, which are normally converted into harmless 
  chemicals used in your 'ponics sections, when the environmental system is 
  functioning smoothly. This isn't sabotage, just a mishap.... Iklind apparently 
  decided to open the tank without proper protective gear, and Timmons tried to 
  rescue him, but hadn't sealed his own helmet." 
  "Then who saved Timmons?" asked Cecelia. 
  "I did," Heris said. Cecelia's eyes widened, but she didn't say anything. "I 
  had told them I would inspect the system, and they were to meet me -- properly 
  suited -- at the access bay. Instead -- " She shrugged. "I don't know why 
  Iklind didn't wear his suit, or why Timmons didn't wear his helmet... but I 
  will find out." 
  "Very well, Captain." That was clearly dismissive. "I... will expect to hear 
  more from you tomorrow." 
  "That's not quite all," said Heris carefully. 
  This time the gaze was direct and challenging. "What? Is something else 
  wrong?" 
  "I realize," Heris said, "that you just had this vessel redecorated, and it 
  must have been expensive..." 
  "My sister did that," Cecelia said. "What of it?" 
  "Well... your main environmental system is overloaded; that's why I was going 
  to inspect the system: it was not functioning to specifications. Your former 
  captain did not have the system purged and recharged at the correct intervals 
  --" 
  "He must have! I remember the bills for it." Cecelia called up her accounting 
  software and nodded when the figures came up. "There it is: Diklos and Sons, 
  Refitting General, Baklin Station." 
  "Sorry, milady," said Heris. "You got the bill, but the work wasn't done. I 
  could see that from the sludge tank Iklind had opened, and since then I've had 
  the other moles -- environmental techs -- check the filter and culture 
  chambers. It's a mess. The sulfur cycle's in trouble, and that impacts your 
  nitrogen uptake in hydroponics. It isn't presently dangerous, but it will 
  require some caution until we reach a refitting station. My recommendation 
  would be to do that as soon as possible. By choosing a different set of jump 
  points, we can be at your chosen destination only one day after your request" 
  Cecelia glared. "You didn't find this out before we left." 
  "No, milady, I didn't." Cecelia waited for the excuse that she herself had 
  rushed their departure, but it didn't come. Her captain had no expression at 
  all, and after a moment went on. "Initially I accepted the log showing that 
  the purge and recharge had been done, and the fresh inspection stickers; you 
  are quite right that I should not have done that. Logs have been faked before, 
  even in the Regular Space Service." A tight smile, which did not reach the 
  captain's eyes. Cecelia wondered if she ever really smiled. "But I noticed an 
  anomaly in the datastream two days ago, and began tracking it down. Your moles 
  -- sorry, ma'am, your environmental technicians -- claimed it was your 
  gardeners' fault. But the plain fact is, the work wasn't done. I believe it 
  will be possible to document that, and get a refund from Diklos and Sons; your 
  reputation should help." 
  "Ah... yes." Cecelia felt off balance; she had been ready for evasions and 
  excuses, and her captains forthright acceptance of blame surprised her. 
  "I realize, milady, that one reason you changed captains is that your former 
  one could not keep to your schedule. But in this instance, I feel that your 
  safety requires an emergency repair of the system." 
  "I thought," Cecelia said pettishly, "that I had specified an environmental 
  system far larger than I'd ever need, just in case something went wrong." 
  "Yes, milady, you did. But with your present guests and their personal 
  servants, that limit has been exceeded -- and with the degradation of 
  performance of the system, and the lack of refitting capabilities at Lord 
  Thornbuckle's, it would be most unwise to proceed without repair." 
  "And that will take -- ?" 
  "Six days to the nearest refitting facility I'd trust; two days docked; and 
  with a reasonable course and drive performance, we should be, as I said, just 
  one day late at your destination." 
  "I suppose that's better than the eight days late I had before -- which landed 
  me with young Ronnie, because I wasn't there to argue hard enough and loud 
  enough." Cecelia shrugged and said, "Oh, very well. Do what you think best; 
  you're the captain." But her captain didn't leave, merely stood there. "What 
  else?" she asked. 
  "I strongly recommend some restrictions in the next six days. At present we 
  have no shipwide emergency, but I would prefer to prevent one." 
  "But it's only six days -- " Cecelia began, then stopped. "You're really 
  worried." To her surprise, her captain smiled slightly. 
  "Yes, and I cannot justify it by the data alone. But although I've been on 
  this ship only a short time, there's a feel of something wrong --" 
  "Intuition in a Fleet officer?" 
  "Just so. Intuition I have learned not to ignore. I am instituting quite 
  severe restrictions in crew activities, and strongly recommend them for your 
  staff and guests as well." 
  "Such as?" 
  Her captain ticked them off on her fingers. "A change in diet to minimize 
  sulfur and nitrogen loading of the system -- for six days, the loss of muscle 
  mass or conditioning from a low-protein diet should not cause any distress, 
  and if you have someone with special needs, that can of course be 
  accommodated. Restrictions in water use, to include the exercise pool since 
  that water is cycled through the same systems, and organic compounds 
  inevitably end up in it. The... er... gardens will need to be handled as part 
  of the regular environmental system as well...." 
  "The gardeners will love that -- !" She thought of her pet equids with a pang. 
  They would have to go -- perhaps she could flash-freeze them, but it was 
  always chancy. And the beautiful flowers, the fresh fruits and vegetables -- 
  they would have to restock or eat preserved food all the way to Bunny's. 
  "Sorry, milady, but the environmental tech's excuse for letting the system go 
  outside nominal is that your gardeners had requested a particularly high 
  sulfur effluent for some special crop." 
  "I see. So we're to arrive at some shipyard hungry, thirsty, dirty, and bored 
  --" 
  "But healthy and alive. Yes." 
  Cecelia's heart sank. She could imagine what Ronnie and his friends were going 
  to say about this. It had been bad enough already. For a moment, she was 
  tempted to let go in one of the towering rages of her youth -- but she was 
  beyond that now. She had no energy for that kind of explosion. "Very well," 
  she said again. "If you will enter the specifications, I will inform staff and 
  the others." 
  "Thank you, milady." Her captain's face looked as if it might be intending an 
  apology, but she did not then apologize. She gave a curious stiff nod, and 
  went out quickly. Cecelia blew a long, disgusted breath and called Cook. She 
  might as well get on with it. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Takomin Roads occupied a location that made it ideal for refitting deep-space 
  vessels and little else; not even the most ship-fevered spacer would choose 
  for recreation the bleak cold planet the Station circled. Farther insystem 
  Merice offered sweet shallow oceans, and Golmerrung spectacular peaks and 
  glaciers... but Takomin Roads offered reasonable proximity to four mapped jump 
  nodes, one of them apparently bound to the planet. Heris had stopped there 
  with a battle group once, and been impressed by the size of the fixtures and 
  the quality of the crews. 
  The Sweet Delight had communications equipment only just inferior to that of 
  the cruiser Heris had left. She could pop a message just as they left FTL 
  flight, and it would arrive well before them, given the necessary deceleration 
  of the yacht. Mr. Gavin, still gray around the gills from her lecture and 
  Iklind's death, and the very close shave with Timmons, presented her with his 
  estimate of the work to be done, down to the specifications for every 
  component fastener. She took that estimate to the moles themselves, and when 
  they would have initialled it without discussion she insisted on going over 
  every item with them. 
  "I'm sure Mr. Gavin is right," the junior kept saying, with nervous glances at 
  the other. She had hardly met Ries before the emergency. 
  "I'm not." Heris was past worrying about Gavin's reputation with the moles; 
  she was far more concerned with getting the yacht safely to refitting, and 
  back out as quickly as possible. 
  "I guess you want us to look up this stuff in the manual...." said the senior 
  mole, Kliegan. 
  "I want you to do your jobs," Heris said. "If you are not sure, of course you 
  must look up the specs." 
  "Well, I do, but..." 
  "Then is this correct, or not? Don't hedge about, mister." She wondered, not 
  for the first time, how Lady Cecelia had survived so many years with 
  incompetents manning her yacht. Did rich people not even know the difference? 
  She supposed not. A shiny surface would satisfy them, even if it covered 
  decay. 
  "Yes," he said, after a moment. She nodded; she would hold him to it. At the 
  end of this voyage, she would suggest to Lady Cecelia -- no, she would insist 
  -- that she replace the least competent of the crew. In fact, with Iklind 
  dead, perhaps they could find someone competent at Takomin Roads. 
  The refitting specifications all went into the message capsule, along with 
  Lady Cecelia's credit authorization. By the time the Sweet Delight had come 
  within a light-hour of the Takomin Roads, the refitters had had time to ready 
  their equipment, unpack the necessary parts, and shift their workload to 
  accommodate a rush job. 
  Or so they should have, Heris thought. The first message she received began by 
  explaining how impossible it would be to do the work at all, and the next (a 
  day later) argued that it could be done, but not within the time limit she had 
  specified. Heris took none of these to Lady Cecelia; refitting was her 
  responsibility and she knew already that a yacht owner, like an admiral, 
  doesn't want to hear about problems that can be solved at a lower level. 
  Besides, arguing with refitting had been a normal part of her duties as a 
  cruiser captain. Those who didn't argue went to the bottom of the stack and 
  got leftover parts. 
  She fired back her own messages as fast as the uncooperative ones came in, 
  pointing out Lady Cecelia's holdings in the companies whose ships formed a 
  large part of Velarsin & Co, Ltd's work. Alienating a major shareholder could 
  have a negative impact on future contracts.... she ignored, as beneath her 
  notice, the long list of other work that would run overtime if Lady Cecelia's 
  were done. The refitters capitulated, finally, in the last message received a 
  half-hour before docking, when a Station tug already had a firm grip on the 
  Sweet Delight's bustle. Heris watched the docking critically; she had no real 
  confidence in their pilot, and luckily no need for it -- the Station's AI had 
  no glitches as it eased them to Berth 78. 
  "I hope you're satisfied!" growled the bulky man in a dark gray shipsuit 
  uniform when she called Velarsin & Co. "Shifted a dozen jobs for you, we have. 
  Gonna lose a bonus on one of 'em." 
  "I shall be satisfied when our work is complete, correct, and prompt," said 
  Heris. 
  He snorted, half anger and half respect, just like every Fleet Yard 
  superintendent she'd ever known. "I have your specs," he said. "They're as 
  foul as you claim your bilges are." 
  "I'm not surprised." Heris smiled at him. "We had nonconformance at the last 
  maintenance, before I took this ship; it's my guess it hasn't met the original 
  specs in years. When will your crew board?" 
  "They're waiting at your access," he said. "And me with 'em. I want to meet 
  the captain of a private yacht that can bend the rules upstairs." 
  "Fine," said Heris. "I'll be there in five minutes. I have to inform the 
  owner." 
  The owner, when Heris called her, sounded stiff and resentful. "I still do not 
  understand, Captain Serrano, why we could not have stayed aboard. Surely, with 
  the umbilicals to Station Environmental, we don't need to worry about 
  contamination aboard...." 
  She had explained before; she explained again, patiently but firmly. "Milady, 
  even the best refitting crews cannot access the system without an occasional 
  leak. It will stink -- and worse than that, you might be exposed to hydrogen 
  sulfide or other toxic contaminants. It is safest to seal the crew, staff, and 
  owner's space -- the vents themselves -- which means no circulation at all. 
  All the working crew will be in protective gear, as I will be while I 
  supervise. It takes only one good lungful of sewer gas, milady, to kill you." 
  She did not need to say more; Lady Cecelia gave a delicate shudder. And she 
  had already arranged for the appropriate law enforcement division to take over 
  Iklind's body, along with the meager evidence. "The crew is waiting, milady, 
  and the sooner they start --" 
  "Very well." It was crisp and unfriendly, but not an argument. "And where are 
  we staying?" The real problem, Heris thought, was that Lady Cecelia had never 
  been here before and wasn't sure of accommodations. As well, those brats were 
  probably whining and dragging their feet 
  "You, milady, have a suite at the Selenor, where the shipping line executives 
  stay. There's limited space, and I had to book the young people into a 
  different hostelry on another level. I realize that's inconvenient --" 
  This time a trace of warmth in her employer's voice. "I can survive that. Meet 
  me for dinner, then; I'll want a report. Twenty hundred, local time." Six 
  hours; they'd just have started, really. Heris had counted on supervising them 
  closely all through the first shift. But she could come report, and return 
  quickly. She would not have to stay for a meal, she was sure. 
  "Of course, milady. I'll be at the maintenance access as you leave; please 
  have Bates call when the staff has cleared the ship." 
  "Very well." 
  Heris gave her crew a stern look. "Mr. Gavin, you and Environmental will suit 
  and observe the first shift. The rest of you are booked into transient crew 
  quarters less than fifteen minutes from here; I expect you all to stay 
  available. We'll have at least two crew aboard the ship at all times, and 
  you'll rotate." A stir, no more; they knew better than to protest by now. 
  "Have you confirmed Station air supply to every compartment?" she asked Gavin. 

  "To all but the owner's quarters, ma'am," he said. "I was going to do that as 
  soon as milady left the ship; computer says it's fine, but..." 
  "Do that, then, while I go meet the refitters. Lady Cecelia is debarking now." 

  She followed the crew off the ship, and met the crew chief of the refitters in 
  the maintenance access. He and his workers already wore pressure suits to 
  protect themselves from contamination and carried helmets tucked under their 
  arms. By the sudden flicker of his eyelids, she saw that he recognized her 
  origins. 
  "I'm Captain Serrano," she said. "And you're..." 
  "Kev Brynear," he said, a slow smile lighting his heavy face. "'Scuse my 
  asking, but you're ex-Regs, aren't you?" 
  "That's right," said Heris. She wondered if he'd ask more, but he merely 
  nodded. 
  "Guess that's why you managed to put fear into management. They don't hear 
  command voice real often. Well, Captain, let's see what you've got." He wasted 
  no time asking for details she'd already sent, but ordered his crew into 
  helmets, and nodded sharply to Heris. She suited up, locked her own helmet on, 
  and led him into the ship. 
  "Let's start from the bottom up," he said over the suit radio. She could hear 
  his voice, but not the clear words, through the helmets; it formed an 
  irritating echo. "Worst first, and then we can give you an estimate." 
  Heris had always hated suit drill, and even after the suit had saved her life 
  she still disliked it; she hated being closed in with her own breath sounds 
  and the hissing of the air supply. She had two hours of air in her own 
  rebreathing tanks, and the exterior connector allowed her to plug into Station 
  air in any compartment with a vent, but she felt smothered. 
  In the lowest environmental level, her own moles were already suited; they 
  managed to look sheepish even in suits, as well they ought. 
  "Mr. Brynear," she said to her moles. "He's in charge of this overhaul." 
  "And here are my shift supervisors," Brynear said. "Herak Santana, first 
  shift; Allie Santana, second shift, and Miko Aldovar on third. Any time I'm 
  not here, one of them will be; I expect to be here most of the time, but I may 
  have to goose inventory control if you people are in as bad shape as you 
  said." 
  The shift supervisors, in bicolored orange and silver suits, stood out from 
  the orange-suited crew, but nonetheless had name and position stenciled on 
  front and back of both suit and helmet. By local time, it was now second 
  shift; the first shift supervisor waved to Brynear, who nodded, and then left. 
  The second shift supervisor's voice came over the radio. 
  "Captain, would you have your crew secure compartments." 
  "Certainly." This command she could give herself, direct to the computer; the 
  compartment hatches slid shut. Status lights changed, and they all moved to 
  connect their suits to the compartment's exterior air supply vent. From now on 
  they would have to take care not to tangle each others' umbilicals. "Confirm 
  external air..." she said, and waited for each response before nodding to 
  Brynear. 
  Brynear pointed to one of the ship's moles. "Let's take a look at the scrubber 
  that's looking worst on the computer." 
  Inside the first protective shell, streaks of black slime marked the joints of 
  the inner cover, and corrosion had frozen the bolts. Heris noticed that the 
  gas sensors had gone red, instantly. One of the refitting techs grunted. 
  "Who'd you say was supposed to have done the refit? And how far back?" 
  "Never mind, Tare," Brynear said. He moved over to look; when he tapped the 
  scrubber with a wrench, more black goo oozed out. The readouts on the scrubber 
  shell were all offscale. That's the owner's problem; ours is fixing this mess. 
  And I can tell right off we're going to need more equipment. You were right, 
  Captain, this is an emergency refit if ever I saw one." His orders to his crew 
  were, Heris heard with relief, as decisive as she'd have heard in a Fleet 
  dock, and his explanation to her assumed that she would understand the 
  technicalities. 
  "We're going to have to vacuum your entire system -- and this Yard charges for 
  hazardous storage. On the other hand, if it's this thick it may generate 
  enough methane to pay part of your storage fee. And we've got a repair job in, 
  a big Overhull tanker, that's going to need a whopping inoculation of its 
  hydroponics.... I might be able to do a deal with them." 
  "Safety first, then speed," Heris said. "Money counts, but only third." 
  "Fine. We suck everything out, sort it, clean and repair, and put back your 
  basic inoculum.... How about the living quarters -- did you have much 
  contamination up there?" 
  "No, probably because of the oversized filters; I kept thinking I smelled it 
  the last day or so, but the sensors didn't react." 
  "Then we'll try a wet flush there -- saves time -- but the bottom end is going 
  to be a bitch." 
  "Estimate?" 
  "Full crews -- and it'll depend on whether we replace units or rebuild them 
  --" 
  "Replace 'em," Heris said. "Anything you can." 
  "Forty-six hours," he said. "And that's spending your owner's money flat out. 
  Can't be done in less than forty-two, if everything goes right, and it won't. 
  Might be a little longer...." 
  "Do your best," Heris said. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  She had not expected real speed from a civilian refitting firm, but when 
  Brynear's crews moved into high gear, she realized that they made their profit 
  from speed. By mid-shift, four great hoses were draining the muck from Sweet 
  Delight into the Yard storage tanks. Half the damaged scrubbers were out; 
  Brynear, she noticed, was meticulous about giving credit for those which could 
  be rebuilt. She and Brynear had documented the condition of scrubbers, 
  chambers, and pipes; Lady Cecelia should have no trouble making a claim on 
  Diklos & Sons. Or for that matter a case against Captain Olin. 
  In the second half of the shift, new components stacked up in the access bay: 
  scrubbers, environmental chambers, parts, controls. Brynear and Heris 
  inspected them together, helmets off. 
  "We don't have enough to give you a matched set," he said. "You'll get 
  thirteen Shnairsin and Lee 4872's, same as original equipment, and seven 
  Plekhsov 8821's. Personally I prefer the Plekhsovs -- we use 'em a lot as 
  replacements and I think they're tougher -- but I'd give you a matched set if 
  I could. The performance specs are identical... here." Heris looked at the 
  printout and passed it to her moles. 
  "That's good enough," she said. "What about environmental chambers? And the 
  runs?" 
  "You'll have to have new chambers -- every single culture either overgrew or 
  was contaminated by one that did. Again, we have Shnairsin and Lee, but I 
  recommend Tikman. They've come out with a lining that really is better -- 
  we've had about five years' experience with it." 
  "Go with the Tikman," Heris said. The Regs had seven years' experience with 
  the new polymer lining; she hadn't realized it was available on the civilian 
  market. "The runs?" 
  He frowned. "That depends on whether you want to put up with a little pitting. 
  We can cut out the worst, and patch -- we have good pipefitters, and I 
  guarantee you won't have turbulence problems at the joints. Or we can pull 
  them all and restring the runs. Pitting... it's not dangerous, once we cut out 
  the really bad patches, but you'd want to replace it within a year or two. 
  It'd get you where you're going, safe enough. Restringing all the runs will 
  really squeeze the time I gave you." 
  "So would finding all the bad places, and being sure of them," Heris said. He 
  nodded. "I want a safe ship, Mr. Brynear; I'll take my owner's heat if you run 
  a little over. But..." 
  "It better be worth it -- I understand that. I tell you, Captain, I'm really 
  shocked at Diklos. They used to be good. I'd have trusted 'em with my own 
  ship, if I couldn't get here." 
  "Mistakes happen," Heris said, somewhat grimly. "But not on my ship, not 
  again. Now, if you have the hard copy estimates, I'll go see Lady Cecelia." 
  Chapter Five 
  Even in the garish purple uniform, Heris felt more comfortable on the 
  dockside, with honest ribbed deck-plates and not plush carpet beneath her 
  feet. Everyone here worked on ships, and in that way everyone here was one of 
  her kind, someone she understood. After a walk long enough to make her legs 
  ache, she came out of Velarsin & Co., Ltd's docks and into the commercial 
  sectors. She was glad she'd thought to have her luggage taken ahead, with her 
  employer's. Here, sleek transport tubes marked one side of the walkway; 
  fronting the other were shops, hotels, and eating places. None of the great 
  logos bannered here, but often locals were as good. Heris stopped to consult a 
  map display, and decided to take a tram the rest of the way to Lady Cecelia's 
  hotel. As usual, the good hotels were as far as possible from the rumble and 
  clatter of hard work. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  She walked through a narrow door, with only the engraved plate with Selenor in 
  slightly archaic script to indicate the identity, into a lobby that reached 
  the stars. After one flinching look, she realized it only seemed to. The 
  geometry of this Station allowed those with inside exposure to use the entire 
  interior well as a private display. Those tiny lights were on the far side... 
  except for the interior transports, sliding along maglines. 
  Meanwhile, the concierge was already smiling at her. "You must be Captain 
  Serrano.... Lady Cecelia gave us your description." 
  "Yes --" 
  "And your room is ready, Captain. In the mauve tower, 2314, adjoining hers. 
  Lady Cecelia said she didn't know when you might be in, but she supposed you'd 
  like something to eat at once." 
  "How very thoughtful." She was hungry, now that she thought of it, but she 
  needed to see her employer first. 
  "She said to tell you she would be resting, but -- oh, wait. The light's 
  changed. She's up again. I'll let her know you're on your way, shall I?" 
  "Yes, thank you." 
  The mauve tower droptubes were scented with a warm flowery fragrance that made 
  Herds think of summer on one of the planets with native grasslands. She 
  emerged into a small lobby splashed with soft color, and felt like a large 
  purple blot. Lady Cecelia's suite unfolded its entrance for her, and a gust of 
  pine fragrance overlay the summer grasslands. Heris felt its carefully 
  engineered stimulants flicking her cortex, and resented it. 
  "Ah... Captain Serrano. And how is the Sweet Delight?" Lady Cecelia was not 
  giving a millimeter. She wore a formal dinner gown, cream-colored and drapey, 
  with her graying hair swept up to a peak by a jade clip. Behind her Heris 
  could see a table set for two. Heris wondered who her guest would be. The 
  entire sitting room of the suite seemed to be lined with mauve plush, on which 
  cream-colored furniture floated like clouds in an evening sky. 
  "Missing a lot of essential equipment," Heris said. "I've authorized 
  replacement rather than repair, since that is quicker and Diklos should 
  reimburse you. They're keeping a complete record of the damage for legal use." 

  "Ah. And will we be out of here in forty-eight hours?" 
  "Very likely, but I cannot guarantee that. Sixty is the outside limit." Heris 
  looked around. "If you'll excuse me, milady, I'd like to clean up and eat 
  something before I go back to the ship." 
  Lady Cecelia's brows raised. "Go back? Surely you're going to rest.... I 
  intended you to eat dinner with me. Don't you remember?" Heris had forgotten, 
  but she couldn't say that. Besides, the ship mattered more. 
  "Considering what happened last time she was in for work --" 
  "Nonsense. You need sleep the same as anyone else. At least, have dinner 
  here.... go freshen up, get out of that uniform, and relax awhile." Heris 
  wondered if she had correctly interpreted the tone of that uniform. 
  "Umm... milady... you would prefer that I not wear your uniform here?" 
  Lady Cecelia's lips pinched; she sighed. "I would prefer that my sister 
  Berenice had not tried to compensate me for Ronnie by insisting that I use her 
  decorator. I would prefer I had had the wit to refuse, but I was already 
  rattled by the change in schedule, by Ronnie, by his friends --" 
  Mental gears whirled. "You don't... ah... like all that lavender plush?" 
  "Of course not!" Lady Cecelia glared at her. "Do I look like the kind of silly 
  old woman who would?" That was unanswerable; Heris kept her face blank. Lady 
  Cecelia shook her head and emitted a snort that might have been anger or 
  laughter, either one. "All right. You don't know me; you couldn't tell. But I 
  don't like it, and I'm having it out as soon as I decently can. Your uniform 
  -- that's another thing Berenice insisted on. Captain Olin had always worn 
  black, and Berenice thought it was dull and old-fashioned." 
  "Surely," Heris said carefully, "there's something between black and loud 
  purple with scarlet and teal trim?" 
  Lady Cecelia snorted again, this time with obvious humor. "You don't know the 
  worst: Berenice wanted me to approve cream with purple and teal trim. She told 
  me the gaudier it was, the more a new captain would be impressed. The purple 
  was the darkest thing offered." 
  "Ah. Then you wouldn't mind if I... modified this a bit?" 
  "Be my guest." Lady Cecelia scowled again. "Although I don't suppose you can 
  arrange a complete redecoration while we're here?" 
  Heris grinned, surprising herself as much as her employer. "To be honest, 
  milady, I've wanted to get that lavender plush off the access tube bulkheads 
  -- for safety reasons, I assure you -- since I first came aboard." 
  "Safety reasons?" Now Lady Cecelia grinned, more relaxed than Heris had yet 
  seen her. "What a marvelous idea! Is it true?" 
  "Oh, yes. There's a lot hidden on your ship that shouldn't be -- it's pretty, 
  but it's hard to see trouble in the early stages. We certainly don't have time 
  here for a complete redecoration, but a little undecorating won't slow things 
  down." 
  "Well. Good. Now, about dinner..." 
  "Let me change into something comfortable. Ten minutes?" 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Heris returned to her employer's suite in her own off-duty clothes -- the 
  first time she'd worn them since leaving the Service. Since Lady Cecelia was 
  wearing a formal dinner gown, she put on her own, and had the satisfaction of 
  seeing her employer truly surprised. 
  "My dear! I had no idea you looked like that!" Then Lady Cecelia blushed. "I'm 
  sorry. That was unforgivable." 
  "Not really, although it was your uniform that made me look the other way." 
  Heris knew very well what the close-fitting jet-beaded bodice did for her; the 
  flared black skirt swirled around her ankles as she came to the table. She 
  would never have the advantage of Cecelia's height, but she had learned to use 
  color and line to compensate. "Oh -- one last bit of business before dinner... 
  what about the inquest on Iklind?" 
  "Not a problem." Lady Cecelia slipped into her seat and picked up her napkin. 
  "With the documentation you supplied, and the medical evidence from Timmons, 
  this will be treated as an obvious accident." 
  Heris sat down; she knew she shouldn't continue the subject at table, but 
  questions cluttered her mind. "I wish --" 
  "Not now," Lady Cecelia interrupted her. "We can discuss this later, if you 
  wish, though I would prefer to wait until tomorrow, local time. By then 
  forensics should have confirmed the cause of death, and I'll know more." 
  Heris blinked. She had not realized that Lady Cecelia would be dealing with 
  the legal problems of Iklind's death while she worked on the ship; she had 
  thought she would have to do it all herself. 
  Dinner arrived, with a cluster of attendants. Heris found herself staring at a 
  tiny wedge of something decorated with a sprig of green. 
  "Lassaferan snailfish fin," Lady Cecelia commented. "The garnish is frilled 
  zillik. We grew that aboard, before -- at one time." 
  Heris tasted the snailfish fin, which had been dipped in a mustardy sauce; it 
  had an odd but winsome flavor, perfectly complemented by the zillik. She had 
  eaten at places that served this sort of food, usually while on a political 
  assignment, but the Service favored less quixotic cuisine. One rarely had time 
  to spend hours at the table. She hoped she would not have to spend hours at 
  dinner now -- with the relaxation induced by comfortable clothes, she had 
  begun to realize how tired she was. 
  Next came a hot soup, its brilliant reds and golds contrasting with the pallid 
  snailfish fin. Fish and vegetables, flavors well-blended, with enough spice to 
  make her eyes water... "Sikander chowder," Lady Cecelia said, smiling. "Good 
  when you're tired. I used to have this a lot when I was competing." Heris 
  wondered what she'd competed at, but didn't ask; she could have eaten two 
  bowls of the chowder, and twice as many of the crisp rolls served alongside 
  it. 
  "This is delicious," she said, as she finished the chowder. 
  "I thought you'd like that," Lady Cecelia said. "I'm going to try their roast 
  chicken and rice, but if you want more chowder just say so." 
  Courtesy and appetite argued, and courtesy won; Heris let the waiter remove 
  her soup plate and accepted the roast chicken -- slices of breast meat, 
  marinated and grilled after roasting, formed the wings of a swan; its body was 
  a mound of spiced rice. The graceful head and neck had been artfully formed of 
  curled spicegrass. She took a cautious bite of the rice -- ginger? mustard? 
  coriander? -- and devoured it with almost indecent haste. She had been 
  hungrier than she knew.... The slices of chicken disappeared, then the 
  spicegrass. 
  The next course seemed out of sequence to Heris, but she realized that Lady 
  Cecelia could set her own standards. Still, the platter of fruit, 
  'ponics-grown melons and berries, didn't suit her at the moment. She nibbled a 
  jade-green slice of melon, to be polite. Lady Cecelia, too, seemed as ready to 
  talk as eat. She began with a question about the literature studied at the 
  Academy -- one of her great-nephews had said no one there read Siilvaas -- was 
  that true? Heris recognized this opening, and added to her reply (yes, they 
  read Siilvaas, but only the famous trilogy) a comment about a more 
  contemporary writer. For a few minutes they discussed Kerlskvan's recent work, 
  feeling out each other's knowledge. Lady Cecelia had not read the first novel; 
  Heris had not read the third most recent The cheeses came in; the fruit 
  remained. Heris sliced a wafer of orange Jebbilah cheese, and floated a 
  comment about visual arts. Lady Cecelia waved that away. "As for me," she 
  said, "I like pictures of horses. The more accurate it is, the better. Aside 
  from that I know nothing about the visual arts, and don't want to. I was made 
  to study it when I was a girl, but since then -- no." She smiled to take the 
  sting out of that. "Now, let me ask you: what do you know about horses?" 
  "Nothing," Heris said, "except that we had to have riding lessons in the 
  Academy. Officers must be able to sit a horse properly for ceremonial 
  occasions: that's what they said." In her voice was much the same contempt her 
  employer had expressed for visual arts. Anyone who could prefer a horse 
  picture, good or bad, to one of Gorgini's explosive paintings... 
  "You don't like them?" Lady Cecelia asked. 
  "What -- horses? Frankly, milady, to a spacer they're simply large, dirty, 
  smelly animals with an appalling effect on the environmental system. I 
  remember one time having to inspect a commercial hauler which was taking 
  horses somewhere -- why, I can't imagine -- and it was a mess. I don't blame 
  the animals, of course. They evolved on a planet, and on something the size of 
  a planet there's enough space for them. But in the hold of a starship? No." 
  "Did you like riding them?" asked Lady Cecelia. She had a mild, vague 
  expression which didn't suit her. 
  Heris shrugged. "It wasn't as bad as some of the other things we had to learn. 
  I did fairly well, in fact. But it's so useless -- when would anyone need to 
  ride a horse anywhere?" 
  "Only on uncivilized planets where it rains without permission," Lady Cecelia 
  said. Heris was sure she detected an edge to her voice, but the expression 
  stayed mild. Belatedly, she remembered that the reason her employer so wanted 
  to be on time was for the start of the "fox-hunting season" which had 
  something to do with horses. 
  "Of course," she said, "many people do enjoy them. Recreationally." 
  "Yes." This time the edge was unmistakeable. "Many people do. I, for one. Did 
  your lessons at the Academy ever include riding them in the open -- across 
  country?" 
  "No -- we had all our lessons in an enclosed ring." 
  "So you have no experience of real riding?" 
  Heris wondered why riding in a ring was not real. The horse had been large and 
  had smelled like a horse. The sore muscles she got from riding had been real 
  enough. But from her employer's face, this was not going to be a popular 
  question. "I haven't ridden anywhere but in those lessons, no," she said 
  cautiously. 
  "Ah. Then I suggest a wager." This with a bright-eyed glance that made Heris 
  suddenly nervous. 
  "A wager?" 
  "Yes. If the refitters are finished, and we clear this station forty-eight 
  hours after we arrived -- no, fifty hours, for you will need a little time, 
  I'm sure, to ready for departure -- then you win, and I will submit to be 
  lectured by you on visual arts for ten hours. If, however, we are delayed, you 
  lose, and will owe me ten hours, which I shall use in teaching you to ride -- 
  really ride -- on my simulator." 
  "An interesting wager," Heris said, nibbling her cheese. "But that assumes 
  that I want to bore you with ten hours of visual arts, which I don't -- I'm an 
  admirer of some artists' work, but no expert. What I wish you knew more about 
  was your own ship. Suppose, if I win, you spend ten hours with me learning how 
  to tell if your refitters did a good job?" 
  "You are that confident that we will be out in fifty hours?" 
  "I am confident that, either way, we will both learn something worthwhile," 
  said Heris. Lady Cecelia flushed. 
  "You're mocking me -- you don't think riding is worthwhile!" 
  "No, milady. I am not mocking you, which would be both rude and foolish. You 
  think it is important; I have not, up until now, but perhaps I'm wrong. If I 
  lose, you have the chance to convince me. And I'm very sure that you would 
  have been spared expense and inconvenience both had you known more about the 
  workings of your yacht. Did you always take the horse a..." She struggled for 
  the word, then remembered it. "A groom brought you, and get on and ride away? 
  We were taught to inspect the... the tack... for ourselves, to look at the 
  animal's feet --" 
  "Hooves," put in Lady Cecelia, cooler now. 
  "Hooves, and see if it had any problems." 
  "I see your point," Lady Cecelia said. "No, certainly I did not take my 
  grooms' word for everything." The quick color had gone from her cheeks, and 
  she seemed to have recovered her earlier good humor. "Very well, then: if you 
  win, I will study my yacht's particulars, and if I win, you will study 
  horsemanship. Is it agreed?" 
  "Certainly." Heris reached across and shook her employer's hand. How hard 
  could it be, after all? The simulator wasn't a real horse; it couldn't step on 
  her, or bite her, or run away with her. 
  Whatever else she might have said was interrupted by a chime; Lady Cecelia 
  touched the table's control pad and the concierge's voice announced that her 
  nephew and his friends were on their way up. 
  "No -- I don't want to see them!" Lady Cecelia said. Heris noticed the quick 
  flow and ebb of color to her face. 
  "I'm sorry, milady; they're already in the tube." 
  "Blast it!" Lady Cecelia half rose from her chair, and the attendants scurried 
  to help her. She waved them away, reseated herself, and glanced at Heris. "I 
  apologize, Captain, for the past moment and the coming hour. I'll get rid of 
  them as soon as I can." 
  "Aunt Cecelia, it's unforgivable!" That was Ronnie, first in the door when it 
  opened. "That disgusting captain of yours put us in a cheap place as far from 
  here as you can imagine; they don't even have a -- " He stopped abruptly as 
  Heris turned to face him. She was delighted to see how far his jaw dropped 
  before he got it back under control. 
  "It's the captain," said George unnecessarily. The two young women looked 
  ashamed of themselves and their companions; the blonde one opened her mouth 
  and shut it; the dark one spoke up in a soft voice. 
  "That's a lovely dress, Captain Serrano." Heris noted that Ronnie gave her a 
  disgusted look, so she smiled at the young woman... Raffaele, she thought her 
  name was. 
  "Thank you," she said sweetly. "I'm glad you appreciate it." 
  "You might want to know," Lady Cecelia said, in stiff voice, "that I approved 
  your assignment to that hotel. If you want to blame someone, blame me. Captain 
  Serrano has been far too busy saving our lives to spare any energy to make 
  your lives miserable." 
  Ronnie was a strange color two shades darker than bright pink. 
  "What is unforgivable," Lady Cecelia went on, "is your rude intrusion into my 
  dinner and private conversation, and your insulting my captain. You will 
  apologize to Captain Serrano, now -- or you can find your own way home and 
  take whatever punishment you get, which I am sure you richly deserve." 
  "Here, now -- " began George, but Lady Cecelia quelled him with a glance. 
  Ronnie looked from one to the other, and gave a minute shrug. 
  "I'm sorry, Aunt Cecelia... and Captain Serrano. It was not -- I didn't mean 
  to be rude -- I just --" 
  "Wanted your own way. I know. And that is an entirely inadequate apology. You 
  called Captain Serrano 'disgusting'; you will retract that." Heris had not 
  realized that any civilian could sound so much like a flag officer. Suddenly 
  it was easy to imagine Lady Cecelia in full dress uniform with braid up to her 
  shoulders. 
  Ronnie's flush darkened and his lip curled; the glance he shot Heris was 
  unchastened and furious. "I'm sorry, Captain Serrano," he said between his 
  teeth, "that I referred to you as 'disgusting.' It was ungentlemanly." Heris 
  nodded, dismissing it. She would say nothing that might make things worse 
  between aunt and nephew. 
  "You may go now," Lady Cecelia said. She picked up her glass and sipped; Heris 
  doubted if she knew whether she had water or wine in it. The girls turned to 
  go at once; George backed up a step, but Ronnie looked as if he were inclined 
  to argue. "Now," Lady Cecelia said. "And don't roam too far from your hotel 
  unless you carry a comunit. I will give you only one hour's notice to reboard, 
  and it would not hurt my feelings to leave you here." 
  Ronnie gave a stiff bow, turned on his heel and almost pushed the others out 
  of the suite. When the entrance refolded itself, Lady Cecelia shook her head. 
  "I'm truly sorry," she said. "Ronnie suffers from... from being the oldest boy 
  in his family, the first grandchild in our branch, and his parents' pride. He 
  was spoiled before he was born, I daresay, if there's a way to indulge an 
  embryo in the tank. The mess he's in now -- " She spread her hands. "Sorry. 
  It's not fair to bore you with this." 
  Heris smiled, and sipped. Water, for her, while the refitting was going on; 
  she could afford not the slightest haze between her and reality. "Lady 
  Cecelia, nothing that concerns you bores me. Surprises me, perhaps, but don't 
  fear that I'm bored. If you wish to discuss it --" 
  "I suppose you think you could straighten him out." Lady Cecelia looked grumpy 
  now, in the aftermath of the argument. 
  Heris shrugged. "It's not my job, straightening out your nephew -- unless you 
  request it. And then -- I don't know. When I've had someone of his social 
  class to deal with, it's because he or she volunteered; I had leverage based 
  on their own motivation." 
  "You must despise us," Lady Cecelia said. 
  "Why? Because you have a bratty nephew? I've seen admirals' children with the 
  same problem." 
  "Really. I thought military children were born saluting the obstetrician and 
  clicked their heels as soon as they stood up." Although the tone was wry, 
  there was an undertone of real curiosity. Heris laughed 
  "Their parents wish! No, milady, we're born squally brats the same as everyone 
  else, and have to be civilized the same way. Your nephew seems to me the 
  logical result of privilege -- but no worse than others." 
  "Thank God for that." Lady Cecelia looked down. "I'd been imagining you all 
  this time turning up your nose at me for having such a nephew." Heris hoped 
  her face didn't reveal that she had thought that, and shook her head. 
  "Milady, as you said, I've been too busy to give much thought to your nephew. 
  Your crew, now..." Was this the time to bring up those problems? No. She 
  smiled and went on. "If you want to talk about your nephew, feel free. I'm 
  listening." 
  "He got in trouble," Lady Cecelia said, with no more preamble. Heris listened 
  to the story of the prince's singer and the rest with outward calm and inward 
  satisfaction. About what she expected from that sort of young man. She hadn't 
  realized he was in the Royal Aero-Space Service -- and wondered why he'd been 
  foisted off on his aunt, when his colonel should have been able to handle the 
  situation. She asked. 
  "Because my sweet sister wouldn't allow it," Lady Cecelia said grimly. "He 
  certainly could have been posted to... say... Xingsan, where his regiment has 
  a work depot, for a year. Or someplace where he'd actually do useful work. But 
  Berenice interceded, and got him a year's sabbatical -- a sabbatical, in the 
  military -- on the promise that he would not show his face in the capital." 
  "Mmm," said Heris, considering just how Cecelia's sister could have that much 
  influence with the Crown. Her train of thought came out before she censored 
  it. "Does... uh... Ronnie look much like his father?" 
  Lady Cecelia snorted. "Yes, but that doesn't answer your real question. 
  Ronnie's an R. E. -- "At Heris's blank look she explained. "A Registered 
  Embryo, surely you have them?" 
  "I've heard of them." It cost more than a year's salary to have an R. E., and 
  what you were paying for was not technology but insurance. In this instance it 
  also meant that Ronnie had not resulted from a casual liaison. 
  "Anyway," Lady Cecelia went on, "my sister Berenice decided that I should take 
  Ronnie on. She never has approved of the way I live, and I was there, handy." 
  "Because Captain Olin ran late," Heris said. 
  "Yes. Normally I'm at the capital only for the family business meeting -- in 
  and out as fast as possible. This year I missed the meeting -- which meant my 
  proxy voted my shares, and not as I would have wished -- and arrived just in 
  time for Ronnie's disgrace. These are not unconnected; it was apparently in 
  celebrating his first opportunity to vote his own shares at the meeting that 
  he overindulged, and came to brag about the singer." 
  "So -- your sister had your yacht redecorated --" 
  "And she is paying for Ronnie's expenses. Up to a point. I'm supposed to be 
  grateful." Lady Cecelia made a face; Heris wondered what had caused the bad 
  feeling in her family in the first place. She waited in attentive silence, in 
  case Lady Cecelia wanted to say more, but the older woman turned to ask the 
  attendants to bring the sweet. Heris was glad to see the last of the fruit and 
  cheese, but not really interested in the sweet. She wanted a few hours' sleep. 

  "If you'll excuse me," she began. "I really need to check with the refitting 
  crew aboard, and my watch officer." 
  "Oh -- certainly. Go ahead." Lady Cecelia's expression was carefully neutral. 
  Did she think Heris was disgusted with her? Heris felt a surge of sympathy for 
  the older woman. She grinned. 
  "I have a wager to win, remember?" 
  That got the open smile she hoped for, and Lady Cecelia raised her glass in 
  salute. "We shall see," she said. "I have the feeling you'll make an excellent 
  horsewoman." 
  Heris laughed. "As the luck falls, and my ability to push the refitters 
  succeeds. See you later." 
  Lady Cecelia watched her captain leave the room, and wondered what the woman 
  really thought. Clearly she had more qualifications than shipboard skills 
  alone: she was well read, she wore good clothes, she knew what to do with the 
  array of eating utensils common to fine dining, and she had surprising tact. 
  On the face of it she would have made a far more compatible sister than 
  Berenice. She let herself imagine the two of them riding side by side across 
  the training fields... relaxing together over dinner. No. This woman never 
  relaxed, not really, while she... Lady Cecelia allowed herself a relaxed sigh. 
  Her captain might snatch a few hours' sleep, but would doubtless dream of 
  wiring diagrams and structural steel. She herself would follow this excellent 
  dinner with a relaxing stroll in the hotel's excellent garden, and then sleep 
  as long as she liked in her luxurious bed with all its inventive amenities. 
  The stroll and the engineered scents in the garden eased the last of the 
  tension her nephew's rudeness had put in her shoulders, and she slipped into 
  the warmed, perfumed bed contentedly. She could hear Myrtis checking all the 
  room's controls, murmured that she'd like it a bit cooler, and was asleep 
  before the cooler draft had time to reach her cheek. 
  Morning brought complications, as she'd expected. This was not the first time 
  one of her employees had died, just the first on her yacht and by far the most 
  violent. She had already contacted the legal firm recommended by her family's 
  own solicitors; the bright-eyed young man in formal black had been waiting 
  downstairs by the concierge's desk when she emerged from her bedroom and 
  called for breakfast. She looked at the local time, and whistled. Mid-morning 
  of mainshift, and he had time to wait on her? She checked her captain's 
  whereabouts while he was on the way up, and found, as she expected, that 
  Serrano was back at work on the yacht 
  He was talking almost before he got into the room. "Now, Lady Cecelia, I'm 
  sure you're simply devastated by this, but let me assure you that our firm is 
  experienced --" 
  She stopped him with a gesture. "Wait. I'm going to eat breakfast, and you're 
  welcome to join me. But no business until afterwards, though in fact I'm not 
  devastated, and if you weren't experienced, you wouldn't have been 
  recommended." That stopped him, though he fidgeted all through breakfast, 
  refusing to eat. Finally his nervous twitches got to her, and she gave up on 
  the diced crustaceans in a puree of mixed tubers.... It was mediocre anyway, 
  too heavily flavored with dill and some local spice that burnt her tongue 
  without offering a taste worth the pain. She finished with a large pastry, and 
  a silver bowl of some red jam -- quite flavorful -- and nodded to him. "Go on, 
  now; what's the damage?" 
  "Your crewman... that was killed..." He seemed stunned that she wasn't falling 
  apart. What did he think, that older women never saw death? 
  "Environmental technician Nils Iklind," Lady Cecelia recited. "He disobeyed 
  the captain's orders to wear his protective suit, opened a badly overfull 
  sludge tank, and died of hydrogen sulfide poisoning. You have seen the data 
  cubes?" 
  "Yes, ma'am... Lady Cecelia. Our senior partners reviewed them, and feel that 
  you have a very strong case for accidental death." 
  "So what is the problem?" 
  "Well..." The young man fidgeted some more, and Lady Cecelia began to compose 
  the memo she would send to the family solicitors explaining why this firm was 
  not suitable. "It's the union, ma'am. They think it's the captain's fault for 
  sending him into a dangerous area -- for inadequate supervision in allowing 
  him to enter the area without his suit on. Particularly since your other 
  crewman also did not have his suit properly on, and says that all the captain 
  did was tell them to meet there, suited up." 
  Cecelia sniffed. "And how was the captain to know that he would open the hatch 
  before she got there? Why didn't he wait?" 
  "That's not the point. They're inclined to argue that the captain should have 
  been there to enforce the order to suit up. Or at least another officer. On 
  larger vessels, of course, there would be a supervisor. Technically, Iklind 
  held a supervisory rating, but he hadn't been acting in that capacity. And the 
  maintenance logs and emergency drills --" 
  "That was Captain Olin's misconduct; Captain Serrano told me she had begun 
  training crew and reestablishing the correct procedures." 
  "But she hadn't completed that process yet, and that's what the union is 
  arguing. I'll need to interview the captain --" 
  "She's aboard the ship, overseeing the refitting. You'd have to suit up." A 
  chime sounded; when she looked, the comunit flashed discreetly. "Excuse me a 
  moment." 
  "It might be the office for me," he said, but Cecelia waved him to silence as 
  she pressed the button to her ear. 
  "Sorry to bother you," Captain Serrano said, "but we have a new problem that 
  may help solve an old one." 
  "What's that?" Cecelia asked. The young man across from her looked as if he 
  were trying to grow his ears longer; it gave him a very odd expression. 
  "Mr. Brynear has found... items... in one of the scrubbers. It might explain 
  why Iklind risked going in unsuited, and it might explain why Captain Olin 
  connived at a fake maintenance procedure." Her captain said no more; Cecelia 
  hoped it was because she assumed her employer's innocence and intelligence 
  both. 
  "Ummm. You would prefer to discuss this someplace else?" 
  "I would, but it is clearly a matter for law enforcement. Mr. Brynear has 
  documented the discovery." Which meant law enforcement had already been 
  summoned. What, she wondered, could Captain Olin have been up to? Smuggling? 
  But what? She realized she had no idea how large a "scrubber" was, or what 
  would fit into it. But she couldn't ask over an unsecured com line. 
  "It seems I have a good chance to win our wager," Cecelia said. "Where shall I 
  meet you? I have legal advice with me." 
  "We could all come there, or you could come to the refitters.... your counsel 
  should know...." 
  "We'll come." She felt she had to have some refuge from conflict; she would 
  meet trouble elsewhere. In a few brief phrases she explained the little she 
  understood to the young man, who gulped and asked permission to call back to 
  his office. "While I change," she said, and headed for the bedroom and Myrtis. 
  What did one wear when one's crewman had died of an accident that might be 
  related to smuggling, and the goods -- whatever they were -- had been found 
  aboard one's yacht? What could convey innocence, outrage, and the 
  determination to be a good citizen? She had never been skilled at this sort of 
  thing.... Berenice would have known instantly which scarf or pin, which pair 
  of shoes, would give the right impression. Cecelia opted for formal and dark, 
  with a hat, which hid the unruly lock of hair that wanted to stand straight up 
  from her head. 
  When she emerged, the young man explained that a senior partner would meet her 
  at the refitter's... he would escort her there, and hand over the case papers. 
  Cecelia smiled at him, and raged inwardly. They should have sent a senior 
  partner in the first place... no doubt they were billing the family at the 
  senior partner's rate. 
  Chapter Six 
  "Ah... Lady Cecelia?" The gray-haired man flicked a glance at the younger one 
  that made him hand over his briefcomp and then leave. 
  "Yes, and you're -- ?" 
  "Ser Granzia, and you're quite right that we should not have sent a junior 
  partner." He offered his arm; she took it. "We should have known that you 
  would not call in legal help for a minor problem, and the... individual who 
  made that decision has been so informed." 
  "Ah. I had wondered." Cecelia let herself be guided into the front office of 
  the refitters. A respectful secretary murmured that Mr. Desin and Chief 
  Brynear were waiting for them in the conference room. Ser Granzia, it seemed, 
  knew the way; his guidance was subtle but unmistakable. Cecelia noticed that 
  the flat gray tweed carpet of the front office gave way to a flat utilitarian 
  surface dully reflecting the overhead lights. On either side, small offices 
  stood open, cluttered with terminals, parts, schematics. She didn't recognize 
  any of it. Around a corner, carpet reappeared, this time a rich green, much 
  softer. Double doors at the end of the corridor led into a spacious conference 
  room with a wide window to the same sort of view her hotel suite provided. 
  Four people waited there, a tall man in conventional business attire, a 
  shorter one in a rumpled coverall, a nondescript person no doubt representing 
  law and order, and Captain Serrano. On the wide polished table that Cecelia 
  recognized as brasilwood lay a small packet, something lumpy encased in a bag 
  or sack. 
  "The owner, I presume?" said the tall man. "I'm Eniso Desin, madam. And this 
  is Chief Brynear, the individual in charge of your refitting, and Mr. Files, 
  the local investigator for CenCom." 
  "Lady Cecelia de Marktos a Bellinveau," said Ser Granzia. Cecelia had not 
  heard herself introduced formally for some time; now she remembered why she 
  disliked it so. It sounded silly. "Of the Aranlake Sept, fides de 
  Barraclough." It could also go on another five lines or so, if she didn't stop 
  him. The complete formality gave the genetic makeup, political affiliations, 
  and social standing of the male and female lines for six generations... but 
  was usually reserved for those assumed to be ignorant of it, and in need of 
  awe. 
  "And yes, I'm the owner," she said, when Granzia paused for breath. 
  "The ship's registry," Files said, "lists you as Lady Cecelia Marktos. I 
  presume that's equivalent?" 
  "Yes," Cecelia said. "The registry doesn't have room on the owner's line for 
  all of it. I asked, and they said it would be adequate." 
  "And you are the same Lady Cecelia to whom the yacht designated 
  SY-00021-38-HOX was originally registered?" 
  "Yes, of course I am." Who else, her tone said. 
  His gaze flicked from her to Captain Serrano and back. "Then I regret to 
  inform you that your vessel has apparently been involved in illegal activities 
  of a criminal nature." Cecelia wondered what illegal activities of a 
  non-criminal nature would be, but didn't ask. "How long has this... Captain 
  Serrano... been your commanding officer?" 
  "Since I left the Court. I dismissed my former captain for incompetence and 
  refusal to follow my orders, and Captain Serrano had just resigned from the 
  Regular Space Service. She had signed with the employment agency I use and 
  they recommended her highly." 
  "And that agency is?" 
  "I don't see what this has to do with anything," Cecelia said, beginning to 
  feel grumpy. Whatever was going on, she was sure Captain Serrano hadn't been 
  involved. The woman might be a stiff-necked military prig, but she wasn't any 
  kind of a criminal. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain just what 
  sort of illegal activity you are talking about." 
  "Do you know what that is?" Files pointed to the packet on the table. 
  "No." She felt her brows rising, as much irritation as ignorance. She didn't 
  like people playing games with her. "I suppose you are going to explain?" 
  "In good time, madam. You're sure you've never seen it before?" 
  "I told you -- " she began in an exasperated voice; Ser Granzia intervened. 
  "Excuse me, but if you are contemplating criminal charges against Lady 
  Cecelia, or her captain, you surely remember that you must inform them." 
  "I know that," Files said. "But if the lady had nothing to do with it, her 
  answer might help --" 
  "I think she will answer no further questions until you have explained, to my 
  satisfaction, what you think it is." Ser Granzia's voice, mellow and lush 
  though it was, contained no hint of yielding. 
  "We believe it to be smuggled goods. It has not yet been subjected to forensic 
  examination, but just glancing at it my guess is proprietary data." From 
  Files's expression, he hoped she wouldn't understand. 
  "You mean -- trade secrets? Something an -- an industrial spy might have made 
  off with?" 
  "Possibly. Because proprietary data is secret --" 
  "Are secret," Cecelia murmured. She might not know much about industry, but 
  she knew data was a plural noun. Files grimaced. 
  "Whatever you say, madam. Are secret -- anyway, theft is not reported. It may 
  not be known. It's not like jewels in a vault." 
  "Could it be military?" That from Heris Serrano. Cecelia looked at her captain 
  who looked back with dark, inscrutable eyes. 
  "Possibly," Files said. "Forensics will tell us." Clearly he had no intention 
  of sharing his turf with anyone. "Then, if it is --" 
  "Fleet should know." Not even a ridiculous purple uniform could make Heris 
  Serrano look unimportant. Cecelia tried to imagine her former captain in the 
  same garb, and realized that he'd have looked like a purple blimp straining at 
  its tether. This woman, in his black, would have looked dangerous. "Fleet 
  forensics could assist." 
  "I'll be the judge of that," Files said. Ser Granzia stirred at Cecelia's 
  side; Files shot him a glance. "Did you have legal advice, Ser Granzia?" 
  "That if it is possibly a military secret, the captain is correct: some 
  representative should be present when it is examined in any detail. Otherwise 
  we may all find ourselves compromised. You remember, no doubt, the decision of 
  Army versus Stillinbagh?" 
  "Very well." Files looked angry. "I will inform the local military attached" 
  "Perhaps," Ser Granzia said, "we could wait while you did so?" 
  Cecelia wondered if she was imagining the threat in his tone. Files flushed, 
  asked for a comlink, and spoke into it. He set it back down with care, as if 
  he really wanted to throw it through the wall, and said the attache would be 
  along shortly. Cecelia was in no mood to wait for more information. "Captain 
  Serrano," she began, bypassing Files, "can you tell me how this was found?" 
  Her captain smiled, as if glad to be asked the question. "Yes -- you remember 
  that I authorized Velarsin and Co. to exchange all damaged units from the 
  environmental system, rather then repairing them in place?" 
  "Of course," Cecelia said. 
  "That was for reasons of both time and safety. You may recall that I also had 
  Mr. Brynear document the condition of those components, to back up your damage 
  claim on Diklos and Sons." When Cecelia nodded, she went on. "Some components 
  could be repaired, and we were to get a refund on those. In the process of 
  examining the components removed, Mr. Brynear's technicians found items 
  secreted in several. Most suggestively, in the scrubber which we were going to 
  examine when Iklind was killed because he didn't have his suit on." 
  Cecelia felt only confusion. "What does that have to do with it?" Before 
  Serrano could answer, Cecelia realized. "Oh -- he knew something was there? 
  Something you'd find?" 
  "We can't know, Lady Cecelia." Heris glanced at Files, who clearly wished she 
  wouldn't explain more, but she went on. "There's a chain of occurrences that 
  makes me suspicious of Iklind and possibly others formerly or presently in the 
  crew. The system flush and recharge that Diklos and Sons didn't do. The 
  curiously inefficient course your former captain set on the way to Court, 
  which made you late. Iklind's apparent haste to get to that scrubber before I 
  did -- at the cost of his own life." 
  "You think he was smuggling something. Iklind and... and Captain Olin?" First 
  came anger: how dared he? And then fear... how had she not known what was 
  happening on her ship? How were the smuggled items transferred, if they were? 
  Would Olin have opened the ship to boarders? 
  "It's possible, madam," said Files, with a sharp glance at Heris. "Ship's 
  crews have been known to do so, without an owner's knowledge. Of course, 
  sometimes the owner is also involved." 
  "Surely you jest." That was all she could say. The impertinence of the man! 
  "Are you suggesting the Lady Cecelia was involved in any putative illegal 
  act?" asked Ser Granzia. "Remember --" 
  "I remember the Sihil-Tomaso ruling, Ser Granzia," said Files. "I made no 
  accusation; I merely answered what seemed to be Lady Cecelia's question." His 
  smile was more of a smirk, she decided. He went on. "Now: procedurally, we 
  must impound the evidence, which includes the location in which it was found; 
  I'm afraid your ship is that location -- " Cecelia could hardly believe her 
  ears. Was everything against her? 
  "Not so, Mr. Files." Her captain's crisp voice interrupted Files. "The 
  scrubbers were not in the ship when the items were found. They had already 
  been removed. All environmental system components are dockside; what's in the 
  Sweet Delight is new and empty." 
  "But that's where they were," Files said. "On that ship with the contraband in 
  them. There may be more, hidden somewhere else. It doesn't matter where the 
  scrubbers were when the evidence was actually found --" 
  "On the contrary." Ser Granzia's honey-smooth voice had an edge to it now. 
  "According to the rules of evidence in a list of rulings going back to Essex 
  versus Jovian Mining Ltd, impoundment of the container does not include 
  impoundment of the vessel in which that container was transported, if the 
  discovery occurred while the container was not aboard." 
  "But we know the contraband was aboard," Files said, more loudly. 
  "But it doesn't matter, Mr. Files." Ser Granzia did not raise his voice, but 
  Cecelia saw the other man wilt. "The rulings are all clear, and all in favor 
  of my client. I will be glad to get a local ruling, of course, but I'm sure it 
  will uphold my client's position. Now -- shall we contact Fleet? I believe it 
  is better for us to do this together." 
  Files looked angry, but nodded; Ser Granzia turned to Eniso Desin, the senior 
  partner of Velarsin and Co. "May we use your equipment?" 
  "Of course, Ser Granzia. But I am afraid that we cannot give Lady Cecelia full 
  credit for the reparable elements of the system until they are released from 
  official custody.... I am sorry, but --" 
  "I quite understand," Ser Granzia said. "Indeed, it would be unfair, and my 
  client will be satisfied if you keep account of what was impounded; if it 
  should be released, and still worth repair, perhaps you will bid on it?" 
  "Oh, certainly," Desin said. "Mr. Brynear assures me that at least sixty 
  percent of the components would be worth working on." 
  "Excellent." Cecelia wondered if she, too, should say something, but Ser 
  Granzia rolled on. "Now -- it seems to me, Mr. Files, that the discovery of 
  items secreted in the scrubber suggests a motive for Iklind to attempt removal 
  at risk of his life. In fact it strongly suggests his complicity in some 
  illegal activity, and Captain Serrano's innocence. I would suggest that a 
  search warrant, limited to Iklind's personal items and storage spaces, might 
  prove fruitful." 
  "But -- !" Cecelia got that much out before his hand clamped on her wrist. 
  "It need not," he went on, "inconvenience Lady Cecelia or interfere with her 
  schedule, provided that you act in a timely manner." 
  "Right." Files seemed sapped of energy. Cecelia wondered if Ser Granzia's 
  voice had a hypnotic overlay. "I'll -- get that done as soon as we've 
  contacted the military." 
  Before she knew how it happened, Cecelia found herself sitting across a table 
  from Heris Serrano in Desin's private office, with a tray of hot pastries and 
  a variety of drinks before her. Ser Granzia was still in conference with Mr. 
  Files and Desin; Desin's assistant had brought the refreshments and now left 
  them alone. Cecelia watched her captain pour herself a cup of something hot 
  from a fluted pot. The woman had a quality Cecelia had not yet defined, but 
  found attractive. She never fidgeted, never seemed divided against herself. 
  Yet she did not seem insensitive... someone who had read and enjoyed Siilvaas 
  could not be insensitive. 
  "You may win our wager, milady," she said now. She offered the steaming cup to 
  Cecelia, who shook her head. She wanted something cold, and chose a bottle of 
  fruit juice from an ice bucket. 
  "Circumstances have changed," Cecelia said. "Perhaps I should withdraw?" 
  "No -- a wager's a wager." Serrano's short black hair actually moved when she 
  shook her head; Cecelia had begun to wonder if it was a wig. "I shall look 
  forward to my lessons on your mechanical horse." She had an engaging grin, 
  Cecelia decided, which made her look years younger. 
  "Ummm. I still think the interruption of officialdom makes it unfair: suppose 
  I exchange honors and let you teach me more about my ship? I'm now convinced 
  my own ignorance is both inconvenient and culpable." 
  The dark eyes measured her; Cecelia felt suddenly as if she had become a 
  novice rider, facing a stern judge in her first event Why had a woman with 
  such a gift of command given up her commission? Cecelia could not believe it 
  was anything dishonorable... not with those eyes. A mistake? A quarrel? She 
  had not seemed quarrelsome so far, even when confronted with Ronnie's 
  rudeness. 
  "If it is your pleasure," Serrano said. "Then I will be very glad to show you 
  over your ship. But I cannot consider it as your obligation under our wager 
  unless I actually win... and despite the best your legal firm can do, I expect 
  we will be late leaving." 
  Cecelia snorted. "I'm beginning to think this year's season is jinxed. Here I 
  was invited for the opening day -- planned to be early for once, planned to 
  attend the first ball, even. Then Olin got me to Court late, and I had young 
  Ronnie foisted on me, and now this. If I'm not careful I'll break a leg or 
  something and miss hunting altogether." 
  "How long does it last? If it's more than a few days, we should be there for 
  some of it." 
  The ignorance surprised her again, but she reminded herself that even among 
  her class, not everyone knew much about fox hunting. "The season is just 
  that," she said gently. "A whole season -- in this case, a planetary quartile. 
  Ideally, fox hunting is done when it is cool enough so that the horses don't 
  overheat in the long chase, damp enough for hounds to pick up the scent." 
  "Then --" 
  "Oh, we'll arrive before it's over, if something else doesn't happen. But it's 
  the opening -- the first day -- that excitement -- " Cecelia stared out the 
  window at the view without seeing it. "You can't understand; you haven't been 
  there. I love it anyway, wet days and dry; I'm one of the last to leave. It's 
  just different, that's all." 
  "Did you ever do any sailing?" Serrano asked. 
  "Sailing? You mean on water?" When Serrano nodded, Cecelia went on. "Yes, a 
  little. Bunny has lodges on island groups; I remember sailing little boats, 
  hardly more than floatboards, one afternoon. Why?" 
  "Because what you describe for hunting reminds me of racing season at my 
  grandparents' place on Lowein. There again there's a season, a weather 
  pattern, that fits the sport, and on the first day all the boats, from the 
  little sailboards up to square-riggers, parade along the coast. Everyone wants 
  to be there." 
  Cecelia recognized the note of longing. "Did you race sailboats?" 
  Serrano smiled. "A cousin and I did, before we went in the Academy -- it was a 
  Rix-class, which wouldn't mean anything to you, any more than horse terms do 
  to me. And I crewed on a larger yacht one summer." 
  "And will you do that when you retire? Go back there and sail?" 
  Serrano's face seemed to close into an impenetrable shell. "No, milady. Lowein 
  is where Fleet officers retire.... I wouldn't fit in there, and I've no desire 
  to embarrass my family." 
  "I hardly think you'd embarrass anyone," Cecelia said. "Is it such a disgrace 
  to captain my yacht?" She was surprised herself at how angry she felt at that 
  thought. 
  "No -- not at all." The voice carried no conviction, though. "Nothing to do 
  with that -- this -- at all." Serrano managed a forced smile. "Never mind -- 
  my retirement plans are far away, and we have a present problem: how to get 
  you to your hunt on time. I'll check with Sirkin, and see if we can't cut some 
  corners." 
  "With your concern for my safety?" That was meant as a joke, but came out 
  sharper than she had intended. 
  "Yes -- with due concern for your safety." Serrano was serious again. "There's 
  another matter, milady. It's about your crew." 
  "What -- do you think they're all smugglers?" Again, a lightness she couldn't 
  sustain. Cecelia shook her head. "I'm sorry: I am trying to be funny and it's 
  not working." 
  "No wonder," Serrano said. "You have had your schedule disrupted; you have 
  lost a crewman through a dangerous accident; you have nearly been accused of 
  smuggling; and you had to spend several days of uncomfortable travel under 
  emergency restrictions. Frankly, I think you're holding up surprisingly well." 

  "You do?" 
  "Yes. Nonetheless, I must bother you about the crew." Serrano paused to sip 
  from her cup and take a bite of pastry. Cecelia noticed again the dark smudges 
  under her eyes -- had she slept enough? Or was it worry? She picked up a 
  pastry herself, and tried it. Leathery, compared to those her own cook turned 
  out. "You hired your crew from one employment agency," Serrano said. "Who 
  recommended that agency to you?" 
  "I hired you from the same agency," Cecelia said. "What difference does that 
  make?" 
  "It's a bit of embarrassment, but... they don't send you their best. They 
  admitted that to me, when I asked them to forward some information on the 
  crew." 
  "But -- but I'm a Bellinveau!" Cecelia's voice rose. "Surely they wouldn't --" 

  "What they said," Serrano broke in, "was that you did not need the level of 
  expertise that a large ship did. Their top people go to big shipping and 
  passenger fines, where they have a chance to move up --" 
  "I pay very high salaries," Cecelia said. "That ought to mean something, if my 
  name doesn't." She didn't like being interrupted, and she didn't like the 
  implication that her ship was unimportant compared to a commercial liner. 
  "It means you get greedy incompetents." Serrano stared her down; Cecelia felt 
  again the power of that dark gaze. Then her face relaxed and she grinned. 
  "Except me, of course. I wasn't so much greedy as desperate to get a civilian 
  job. But they did not recommend me for a commercial ship because of my 
  background -- the big corporations like to train their own people their own 
  way, and find a military background a hindrance. You've got a very good 
  navigator in Sirkin -- she topped her exams, and I'm very satisfied with her 
  work." Cecelia had the feeling that "very satisfied" from Captain Serrano 
  would have been a dozen flowery adjectives from someone else. "But the others, 
  milady, looked on your yacht as a cushy berth where they would be well paid 
  for doing little, and your previous captains seem to have concurred." 
  "But everything seemed to run smoothly," Cecelia said, trying to remember if 
  she'd ever noticed anything. Not really. As long as she arrived where she 
  wanted to, when she wanted to, she had assumed the ship was fine. It certainly 
  cost enough. "And I had the regular maintenance and inspections -- I don't 
  know what more I could have done." Even as she said it, she realized how she'd 
  feel if someone said that about a stable in which they boarded their horses. 
  She had had contempt for owners who didn't know, who didn't seem to care, 
  about the details of stable management. Apparently she had made the same error 
  with her own ship. 
  Serrano did not seem surprised, but didn't dwell on the point. "You paid for 
  them, you mean. You had to trust your crew, because you didn't know yourself 
  what to look for. And I think that for some years you had honest, if less than 
  superb, crew members who did their duties fairly well. A good captain would 
  have been enough, to provide the initiative and discipline for crew who were 
  competent but uninspired. But in Massimir Olin, you did not nave a good 
  captain. I don't know with any certainty, but I suspect that he was looking 
  for exactly such a ship, a small but fast vessel belonging to someone with no 
  knowledge of ships or space, a vessel whose owner might be expected to visit 
  places closed to commercial trade. You let him choose replacement crew, of 
  course, and when old Titinka had that heart attack, he hired Iklind -- from 
  the same agency as the rest." 
  "But it's quite reputable," Cecelia said. Her mind whirled. She had never 
  thought of herself -- independent to the point of eccentricity and with no 
  romantic susceptibilities -- as anyone's natural prey. The image of herself as 
  a fat sheep which a wolf might stalk seemed both ridiculous and disgusting. 
  "It's the top agency in its field." Implicit in that was the assumption that 
  no Bellinveau would use less. 
  "It is reputable," said Serrano. "But no agency is immune from penetration. 
  Where there is blood, the blood-suckers gather: where there is wealth..." 
  "I know the saying," Cecelia said. "But I never expected it to apply to me -- 
  I'm old, unattached and intend to remain that way, my money will revert to the 
  family when I die --" 
  "You are free transportation for your crew," Serrano said. "You pay well 
  enough that they know you must have more -- you have everything done by top 
  firms. But I think for Olin it was the places you could go without comment -- 
  the places he wanted to go, which you could take him to." 
  Cecelia thought about that, and set it aside. What Olin's motives had been did 
  not concern her now. "You had a point to make about the crew?" she asked. 
  Serrano's twinkle rewarded her for coming back to that point. 
  "Yes, I did. I had intended to suggest some replacements of the least 
  effective after your season of hunting; considering what's happened, I think 
  you have both cause and justification for making some changes now. Assuming 
  you don't want to start with me." 
  "Don't be silly!" Cecelia said. "I don't blame you for any of this." 
  Serrano shrugged. "You might well have. Good captains don't let such accidents 
  happen. Anyway, you need a replacement for Iklind. I'm seriously concerned 
  about the entire environmental department, and would suggest you also drop the 
  new juniors, retaining only the survivor of the accident. Mr. Gavin I believe 
  to be honest, though totally devoid of initiative, and I think he can be 
  salvaged by some good training. Your pilot... actually, besides his manner, I 
  have no complaint of his performance. But he strongly defended Olin's choice 
  of course, in the face of a possible course that would have had you on your 
  schedule. I suspect his complicity. We could do without a pilot; I am licensed 
  for that duty, a separate qualification, and the expense of this refitting 
  would explain your dropping him entirely." 
  "But can we find good crew out here?" Cecelia asked 
  "Yes -- in fact I've asked Mr. Brynear about that already. As this is a major 
  repair facility, there are always crews coming through. Someone is sick, and 
  stays behind; someone is unhappy and jumps ship -- not that we want that sort. 
  Velarsin and Co., and other firms, hire these temporaries, and their work 
  records here give us something to go on. Also there are people who start in 
  refitting who want to work aboard a ship; if they've taken their exams, and we 
  interview their supervisors, we can find some good ones. But it's up to you, 
  milady." 
  Exactly what she didn't want, on her ship. She wanted it to function perfectly 
  without her having to make any decisions at all. Just transportation... but of 
  course, there were people who looked at horses as just transportation, and she 
  knew what she thought of them. "I've always left it up to my captains," 
  Cecelia said slowly. "Are you asking me to interview with you, or --" 
  "If you wish; it might be helpful to you to understand what I would look for 
  in applicants. But what I meant is that I would not dismiss your employees 
  without gross negligence on their part. You had some input, I assume, in the 
  size of crew when you started out?" 
  "Well... to be honest... I took the advice of the employment agency even then. 
  Told them what I had bought, and asked them to arrange a crew." She could see 
  by her captain's expression that this was not the right thing to have done. 
  She shook her head. "I was a fool, wasn't I? Just like people I've known 
  who've gone broke with racing stables. It just never occurred to me that the 
  same things could happen here, in a simple little yacht." Serrano's expression 
  did not change, but her eyes softened. 
  "You had other things to think about, I'm sure. Why don't you come along to 
  some of the interviews, at least, and begin to pick up some of the terms? It 
  will impress applicants, and it won't bother me." 
  "Fine. I will." She would learn every screw and bolt on her ship, the way she 
  had once learned the anatomy of horses and every piece of leather and metal on 
  her tack. How could she have left herself unguarded like this? 
  "And don't be hard on yourself," Serrano said. Cecelia blinked. Was the woman 
  a mind reader as well? "Remember, I still don't know anything about horses." 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  "Welcome aboard, milady," Heris said. Eight hours late, they would be, 
  undocking, but she felt happy anyway. Better a good job than a fast sloppy 
  one. She had inspected the replacements with Mr. Brynear six hours before, and 
  knew the new system was up to spec. Her new environmental team knew what they 
  were doing, and Timmons was rapidly learning; he wanted to keep his job. The 
  disgruntled pilot had complained bitterly about being dumped in the middle of 
  nowhere; Lady Cecelia had finally paid his passage to one of the inner worlds 
  of the system, even though her legal advisor said it wasn't necessary. Lady 
  Cecelia had told her gleefully about the stormy battle going on between Diklos 
  & Sons, the insurance company, and her lawyers; she thought she would get her 
  money back, at the least, and she had convinced the union that Iklind's death 
  was probably due to the bad work done by Diklos... so now Diklos had the union 
  on their backs as well. Lady Cecelia's staff had boarded an hour ago. Heris 
  had given Bates the staff emergency directives, and he'd taken them without 
  comment.... They would soon begin emergency drills, proper drills, and this 
  would be a proper ship. 
  "Thank you, Captain Serrano." Lady Cecelia and her maid came aboard serenely, 
  as if nothing had happened; Heris saw her eyes flicker at the change in 
  uniform. Heris had squeezed in a visit to a good tailor, and while it was 
  still purple, it lacked the scarlet, teal, and cream trim and about half its 
  gold braid. The docking access tube still had a thick carpet, but the walls 
  were properly bare for inspection, conduits and tubing color-coded in 
  accordance with Transportation Department directives. 
  Behind Lady Cecelia, her nephew and his friends straggled in. Heris watched 
  them with contempt behind her motionless features. Rich, spoiled brats, she 
  thought. A waste of talent, if they have any; a waste of the genetic material 
  and wealth it took to rear them this far. She gave a crisp "Welcome aboard," 
  and then walked past them out the tube to the dockside. Bates was waiting in 
  the passage to see to anything more they needed. She would have avoided the 
  greeting altogether except that she wanted to say a last few words to Brynear. 

  "I hear you had a wager with your owner," he said, grinning at her. "She 
  making you pay up?" 
  "She'd have let me off, considering the circumstances," Heris said, grinning 
  back. She liked his sort of toughness, his competence. He reminded her of the 
  best she'd known, a memory she didn't want right now. She pushed it out of her 
  mind. "But the forfeit's to learn more about what fascinates her -- horses, of 
  all things! -- and if I'm to be a good captain for her, I need to understand 
  her." 
  "If it weren't rude and nosy, I'd ask you a question," Brynear said. 
  "It is, and I won't answer it," Heris said, with an edge. Then she softened. 
  "I know what you'd ask, and I'm not ready to talk about it. Just wanted to 
  thank you for a good job done well in a hurry. I'm glad we were able to argue 
  our way past your schedule -- and sorry to disrupt it." 
  "You can disrupt my schedule any time," Brynear said. "As I would have made 
  clear, if you weren't leaving so soon." 
  "You can repair my ship anytime," Heris said, smiling. He was attractive, but 
  not that attractive. Yet. The other memories were still too clear. "As I did 
  make clear -- but I wish we didn't have to leave now. Thanks." 
  "You're welcome, Captain." He threw her a civilian's version of a salute and 
  turned away. Heris went back to the ship and thoroughly enjoyed showing her 
  crew that she was as good as the former pilot at undock and tug maneuvers. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  "You shouldn't have insulted the captain to her face," Raffa said severely. 
  They were two days out of refitting, two days of cool courtesy between Cecelia 
  and the young people. Ronnie pouted, but she did not relent. "Don't put out 
  your lip at me," she said. "It was wrong, and you know it" 
  "I didn't know she was there. I didn't know Aunt Cecelia had approved it. It's 
  too bad, really. I never asked to come along on this ridiculous cruise; it was 
  all my mothers idea." 
  "You'd rather be supervising a loading team at Scavell or Xingsan?" asked 
  Buttons. "Come on, now, Ronnie... this isn't bad. I admit, I wasn't planning 
  to be home for the season this year -- no more than Bubbles -- but it's not as 
  if visiting my father were a hardship." 
  "That's not what I meant," Ronnie said. He looked around for sympathy, and 
  found expressions that told him he was boring, and boring was one thing they 
  would not accept. 
  "Why don't we swim?" asked Bubbles. "Now that we can use the pool again, a 
  nice swim would be fun." She stretched her long, elegant arms, and wriggled in 
  a way that suggested something other than swimming. 
  The others agreed; Ronnie knew he should swallow his sulks and go with them, 
  but the sulks were too embedded. "Go ahead," he said, when they turned to look 
  back at him. "I'm going to try Beggarman one more time." That was the computer 
  game they'd been playing until it palled... and Ronnie never had gotten above 
  the eighth level. 
  He had no real intention of playing Beggarman.... He wanted to regain the 
  ground he felt he'd lost with the captain. A private apology should do it; he 
  had charmed his way past fiercer dragons than this. No woman of her age could 
  be immune to boyish charm. He showered, put on a fresh jumpsuit, and looked at 
  himself in the mirror. He slicked his hair: innocence? No. It looked as if he 
  were trying for innocence. He tousled it: mischievous waif? Yes. That should 
  do it. He waited until the others had logged into the pool enclosure. Then he 
  strolled down the curving passage, slipped through the hatch between crew and 
  staff areas, and found his way to the bridge. It wasn't that hard; he had 
  memorized the ship plan on his deskcomp. 
  The bridge did not meet his expectations. He had envisioned something like the 
  bridge of the training cruiser.... Aside from that, and the small craft he'd 
  piloted, he'd never been aboard a ship. He stared at the small room crowded 
  with screens and control boards, the watch seats crammed in side by side, the 
  command bench hardly an arm's length from any of them. Something was going 
  on.... He sensed the tension, heard it in the low voices that reported values 
  he did not understand. He had expected to find silence, even boredom; he had 
  expected to be a welcome break in a monotonous shift. But no one seemed to 
  notice him. Captain Serrano uttered a series of numbers as if they were 
  important.... But how could they be, out here in the middle of nowhere? It 
  must be one of her stupid drills or something. 
  With all the confidence of youth and privilege, Ronnie strolled into the 
  crowded space. 
  "Excuse me, but when you've got a moment, Captain, I'd like to speak to you." 
  He spoke with the forthright but courteous tone of someone with a perfect 
  right to be where he was, doing what he was. He expected a prompt response. 
  He did not expect the smart crack of an open hand across his face; it sent him 
  reeling into the back of someone's chair. He grabbed for a support, and found 
  a handy rail along the bulkhead. His cheek hurt; his mouth burned. Anger raged 
  along his bones, but he was still too shocked to move. Serrano's voice 
  continued, low and even, with one number after another. Someone repeated them, 
  and he saw hands flicker across control boards. Just as he got his breath 
  back, he felt the gut-deep wrench he knew from his one training voyage: the 
  yacht was flicking in and out of a series of jump points. 
  Anger drained away; fear flooded him now. Jump transitions... they'd been near 
  jump transitions, and if he'd interfered they might all have been killed. The 
  quick remorse he was never too proud to feel swept over him. He gulped back 
  the apology he wanted to make -- he should wait, he should be sure it was 
  safe. 
  Then Captain Serrano turned to him, anger on her dark face. "Don't you ever 
  come on my bridge again, mister," she said. Ronnie's eyes slid around the 
  room; no one looked at him. "Go on -- get out." 
  "But I -- I came to say something." 
  "I don't want to hear it. Get off the bridge." 
  "But I want to apologize --" 
  She took a step toward him and he realized that he was afraid of her -- afraid 
  of a woman a head shorter -- in a way he had not feared anyone since 
  childhood. She took another step, and his hand fell away from the rail; he 
  backed up. "You can apologize to my crew for nearly getting us all killed," 
  she said. "And then you can go away and not come back." 
  "I'm -- I'm sorry," said Ronnie, with a gulp. It was not working the way he'd 
  planned. "I -- I really am." She came yet another step closer, and he backed 
  up; she reached out and he flinched... but she touched a button on the 
  bulkhead, and a hatch slid closed four inches from his nose. BRIDGE ACCESS: 
  PRESS FOR PERMISSION appeared on a lightboard above it. Ronnie stood there 
  long enough to realize that his cheek still hurt, and she wasn't going to let 
  him back in. Then he got really angry. 
  "It wasn't my fault," he told George later. No one else had seemed to notice, 
  but George had asked about the mark on his face. "I mean, it was, in a way, 
  but I didn't mean to interrupt during a jump transition. She didn't have to 
  take it that way. Damned military arrogance. She hit me -- the owner's family 
  -- all she had to do was explain. Just you wait -- I'll get even with her." 
  "Are you sure that's a good idea?" But George's eyes had lit up. He loved 
  intrigue, especially vengeance. George had engineered some of their best 
  escapades in school, including the ripely dead rat appearing on the service 
  platter at a banquet for school governors. 
  "Of course," Ronnie said. "She has other duties; we have nothing to do between 
  here and Bunny's place but get bored and crabby with each other." He felt much 
  better, now that he'd decided. "First thing is, we'll get into the computer 
  and find out more about her." 
  "You could always give a little kick to one of her drills," George said. 
  "Exactly." Ronnie grinned. Much better. A good attack beats defense every 
  time; he'd read that someplace. 
  Chapter Seven 
  Heris could have believed the Sweet Delight knew it smelled sweeter -- or 
  perhaps it responded to the change in the attitude of its crew. Without the 
  sour-faced pilot, and the inept moles, with the addition of two eager, 
  hardworking newcomers, crew alliances shifted and solidified around a new 
  axis. A healthier one, to Heris's mind. They were not yet what she would call 
  sharp, but they were trying, now. No one complained about the emergency 
  drills. No one slouched around with the listless expression that had so 
  worried her before. Perhaps it was only fear of losing their jobs, but she 
  hoped it was something better. 
  It had been unfortunate that she'd hit the owner's nephew. She knew that; she 
  knew it was her fault from start to finish. She had let them leave the hatch 
  to the bridge open.... On such a small ship, with a small crew, where the 
  owner never ventured into the working compartments, it had seemed safe. She 
  had not noticed when he came, and when he startled her she had silenced him in 
  a way that might have been hazardous -- would have been, with some people. She 
  was ashamed of herself, even though they'd made it through a fairly tricky set 
  of transition points safely. 
  She called Cecelia as soon as they were through, and explained. 'It was my 
  fault for not securing the bridge --" 
  "Never mind. He's been insufferable this whole trip; his mother spoiled him 
  rotten." 
  "But I should have --" 
  Cecelia interrupted her again. "It's not a problem, I assure you. If you want 
  to feel chastened, schedule your first riding lesson today." 
  Heris had to laugh at that. "All right. Two hours from now?" 
  "I'll be there. Regular gymsuit will do for now." Heris finished the necessary 
  documentation of jump point transition, completed a few more minor chores, and 
  left the bridge to Mr. Gavin. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  "This," said Cecelia cheerfully, "is your practice mount." Heris had expected 
  something like a metal or plastic horse shape on some kind of spring 
  arrangement, but the complicated machine in front of her looked nothing at all 
  like a real horse. Except for the saddle -- a traditional leather saddle -- on 
  a cylindrical section that might have been plastic, it could have been an 
  industrial robot of some sort, with its jointed appendages, power cable 
  connectors, sockets, and dangling wires with ominous little clips. Heris had 
  seen something vaguely like it in one of the wilder bars on Durango.... Only 
  that had been, she thought, a mechanical bucking bull. 
  The jointed extension in the front, Cecelia explained, acted as the horse's 
  neck and head, allowing the rider to use real reins. At the moment, the real 
  reins were looped neatly from a hook on one side. "There are sensors in the 
  head," Cecelia said, "which record how much rein pressure you're using, and 
  feed back to the software. Yank the reins, and this thing will respond very 
  much like a real horse. You'll also get an audible tone, to let you know when 
  your rein pressure is uneven." The VR helmet rose from a cantilevered 
  extension behind the saddle. "It's set now at beginner level," Cecelia said. 
  "I'll control pace and direction; you'll just feel the gaits at first." She 
  stood near a waist-high control panel, which Heris noted had several sockets 
  for plug-in modules as well as the usual array of touchplates. 
  Heris stared at the thing. She had not enjoyed the obligatory riding lessons 
  at the Academy that much, and this looked like the perfect apparatus for 
  making someone look stupid and clumsy. But a bet was a bet, and she owed 
  Cecelia ten hours. The sooner she mounted, the sooner it would be over. 
  "You don't have to use the VR helmet at first," Cecelia said. "Why not just 
  get on and off a few times, and let me start it walking?" 
  "Fine." Heris tried to remember just how mounting went. Left foot in the 
  stirrup, but her hands... ? On the real horse they'd been taught to grip the 
  reins and put a hand on the neck in front of the saddle; here that would have 
  meant on a pair of gray cylinders like slim pipes. She put both hands on the 
  front of the saddle and hauled herself upward. The machine lurched sideways, 
  with a faint hiss of hydraulics, and she slipped back to the deck. 
  "Sorry," Cecelia said, trying to hide a grin. "I wasn't ready to correct for 
  that kind of mount. You need to be closer, and push off more strongly with 
  your right leg. Straight up, then swing your leg over. If you hang off the 
  side of a real horse like that, it's likely to unbalance, reach out a leg, and 
  step on you." 
  Heris tried again, this time successfully. She felt around with her right foot 
  until she got the stirrup on. Cecelia came over and moved her feet slightly. 
  "Weight on the balls of your feet, for now. We're going to start with a simple 
  all-around seat. And no reins for now, until you've got the seat right. Just 
  clasp your wrists in front of you. Let me connect the other sensors...." This 
  meant clipping a dozen dangling wires to Heris's clothing; she felt she was 
  being restrained by gnats. Cecelia retreated to the control column and touched 
  something. The machine lurched; Heris wondered if she was about to be thrown 
  off, but it settled down to a rhythmic roll and pitch. Her body remembered 
  that it felt quite a bit like riding a real horse. 
  "It's -- strange," she said. She might have to take riding lessons, but she 
  didn't have to refrain from comment. 
  "It's expensive," Cecelia said. "Most riding sims are limited to three gaits, 
  one speed at each gait, and all you can do is go in a circle or straight. This 
  one can keep me in shape." Heris did not say what she thought this time: 
  keeping one old woman in shape hardly suggested that the simulator had great 
  powers. She didn't have to refrain from comment, but she didn't have to be 
  rude, either. 
  "Let me try the helmet now," she said instead. If her face was covered by that 
  mass of instrumentation, no sudden expression could give her away. 
  "Go ahead," Cecelia said. "I think you'll be surprised." 
  The helmet had all the usual attachments and adjustments; Heris got it on as 
  the sim kept up its movement As her eyes adapted to the new visual field, she 
  saw in front of her a horse's neck swinging slightly up and down, with two 
  ears... and reins lying on that neck, and a long line from the horse's head to 
  someone standing in the center of a white-railed ring. "It doesn't look like 
  you," she said. "Who's the brown-haired man with his arm in a sling?" 
  "Sorry." Cecelia's voice in the helmet sounded masculine for a moment, then 
  changed. "Someone I used to train with -- is that better?" Now it was Cecelia, 
  but a younger Cecelia -- her hair flaming red-gold, her tall body dressed in 
  sweater and riding breeches. She looked vibrant and happy and far more 
  attractive than Heris had imagined her. 
  "Yes -- it really does look like a horse." Of course, the simulator for a 
  cruiser really did look like a cruiser, and the simulator for a Station tug 
  really did look like a Station tug. That's what simulators were supposed to 
  do, but maybe Cecelia didn't know that. 
  "Like any horse," Cecelia said, and into the helmet appeared a dizzying array 
  of horse necks and ears: black, brown, white, gray, short, long, thick, thin, 
  with and without manes. Heris blinked. 
  "I can see that." But after all, how hard could it be to change colors and 
  lengths of neck? It wasn't like going from, say, the bridge of a flagship like 
  Descant to the bridge of a tug, or a shuttle. All horses were basically alike, 
  large smelly four-legged mammals that would carry you around if you had no 
  better transportation. The visual settled back to the original neck and ears 
  -- light brownish yellow. 
  "Now -- you're going to reverse." Heris expected to halt and back up, but 
  reverse in this case meant making an egg-shaped turn and beginning to circle 
  in the opposite direction, once more facing forward. Different terminology: 
  she filed it away. Next time she would be properly braced for the turn, rather 
  than the halt. 
  By the end of that first hour, she had walked virtual circles in both 
  directions, halted, reversed, and even done enough trotting to make her thighs 
  ache. She remembered this from her Academy days. There, too, they had walked 
  and trotted back and forth until their legs hurt. It seemed pointless, but 
  harmless, and it might even be good exercise. When she lifted off the helmet, 
  Cecelia smiled up at her. 
  "And did you find it as bad as you expected?" 
  "No... but is that all there is?" 
  Cecelia's grin might have warned her, she thought later. "Not at all -- I go 
  faster." 
  "You... race?" 
  "Not racing. Eventing. Do you know what that is?" 
  Heris racked her memory, and came up with nothing. Event -- had to be a 
  sporting event of some kind, she presumed. But what? 
  "Would you like to see?" Cecelia asked. 
  "Yes. Of course." Anything her employer cared about that much ought to be 
  important to her. 
  She had not expected anything like the cube Cecelia showed her, and came up 
  from it breathless. "You -- did that? That was you on that yellow horse?" 
  "Chestnut. Yes. That was my last championship ride." 
  "But those... those -- obstacles? -- were so big. And the horse was running so 
  fast." 
  Cecelia grinned at her, clearly delighted at her surprise. "I thought you 
  didn't understand. That's what's different about this simulator. You can do 
  all that on it... well, all but falling in the actual water, or getting 
  stepped on by the actual horse." 
  "You mean I could learn to do that -- to jump over things like that?" 
  "Probably not, but you could come close." Cecelia extracted the first cube and 
  fed in another. "This is what fox hunting is like -- in fact, this is a cube I 
  made three years ago." 
  "You made -- ?" 
  "Well, I used to be under contract with Yohsi Sports. They'd mount the sim-cam 
  in my helmet, and I wore the wires as well...." 
  Heris felt that she'd fallen into another layer of mystery. What, she 
  wondered, was "wearing the wires" and what did it have to do with a sports 
  network? But she was tired of asking questions that must sound stupid, so she 
  simply nodded. This time the cube was not of Cecelia riding, but from the 
  rider's viewpoint... She saw the green grass blur between the horse's ears, 
  saw a stone wall approaching far too fast... and then it was left behind, and 
  another appeared. Little brown and black and white things were running ahead, 
  yelping, and other horses and riders were all around. 
  "Those are the foxes you're chasing?" she asked finally, as field and wall 
  followed wall and field, apparently without end. There were variations, as 
  some fields were grassy and others muddy, and some walls were taller or had 
  ditches on one side, but it seemed fairly monotonous. Not nearly as 
  interesting as the varied challenges of the cross-country. Cecelia choked, 
  then laughed until she was breathless. 
  "Those are hounds! The fox is ahead of the dogs; the dogs find the scent and 
  trail the fox, and the horses follow the hounds." Then she quit laughing. "I'm 
  sorry. It's not fair, if you've never been exposed to it, but I thought 
  everyone knew about foxes and hounds." 
  "No," Heris said, between gritted teeth. Some of us, she wanted to say, had 
  better things to do with our time. Some of us were off fighting wars so that 
  people like you could bounce around making entertainment cubes for each other. 
  But that was not entirely fair and she knew it. It probably did take skill to 
  ride like that, although what the use of that skill was, once you'd gained it, 
  she still could not figure out. 
  "Here." Cecelia handed her yet another cube. "This is the text of an old book 
  on the subject, and since it's one of the few left, you might want to look at 
  it. Bunny's designed his entire hunt around it, even though we know that it 
  predates the twentieth century, Old Earth, and things must have changed 
  afterwards." 
  Heris looked at the cube file labelled "Surtees" with suspicion. Apparently 
  she would be expected to watch it on her own time. Historical nonsense about 
  horses struck her as even more useless than current nonsense about horses. 
  "And to be fair, I think it's time I schedule my first lesson in shipboard 
  knowledge, or whatever you want to call it. Do you have time for a student 
  later today?" 
  Cecelia was, after all, her employer, and she was making an effort to share an 
  enthusiasm. Heris thought of all the things she'd rather do, but nodded. "Of 
  course. When would you like to start?" 
  "Well... after lunch?" 
  "Fine." Food always came first. But then, it should. 
  "You could eat with me," Cecelia said, "and give me a head start. I don't even 
  know what you want me to learn." 
  Meals with the owner. Heris started to grumble internally, then remembered 
  that she'd already had meals with the owner... and it hadn't been that bad. 
  "Thank you," she said. "I am at your service." 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Heris had no equivalent of the riding simulator to help Cecelia, but she used 
  the next best: the computer's three-dimensional visuals. 
  "This is a very nice hull," she said. Always start with the positive. "You've 
  got a fair balance of capacity and speed --" 
  "But my captains always said it was a slow old barge, compared to other 
  ships," Cecelia said. "A luxury yacht can't be expected to compete --" 
  "You and I both know your former captains had other reasons," Heris said. "It 
  may be a luxury yacht, but we use a very similar hull for -- " She stopped 
  herself in time from saying for what, exactly, and managed to finish. "For 
  missions that require a fair turn of speed. And you've got the right power 
  ratio for it; whoever designed this adaptation chose well. Now -- let me 
  highlight each system in color, and you can begin to learn how it works." 
  Cecelia, Heris found, was an apt pupil. She had a surprising ability to grasp 
  3-D structures, and spotted several features Heris had meant to mention before 
  she could bring them up. 
  "Yes -- you do have waste space there; that's a design compromise, but it's 
  not a bad one. Look at the alternatives. If you ran the coolant this way -- 
  see -- you get this undesirable cluster of conduits here --" 
  "Oh... and that's supposed to be at a constant temperature --" 
  "Yes. Now, let's add the electricals." 
  They both lost track of time, and Cecelia's deskunit finally beeped with a 
  reminder about dinner. She looked surprised. "I didn't -- this isn't really 
  dull at all. I could learn this." 
  "So you could. I'm glad I didn't bore you." Heris stood, and stretched. She 
  would need a hot bath, to get the kinks out this time. "I'll be going -- I've 
  got some crew business to take care of." 
  "Well... thank you. Tomorrow, then?" 
  "I'll look forward to it," Heris said, hoping that could be taken for both 
  sessions, though she was not in fact looking forward to more riding. But fair 
  was fair, and Cecelia was as diligent a pupil as she could wish. 
  After a few days, Heris found herself enjoying the riding instruction more 
  than she'd expected. The soreness wore off; she had good natural balance, and 
  a lot of experience with simulators. It was less monotonous than the usual 
  exercise apparatus in the crew gym, or swimming against the current in the 
  pool. And she could not have asked for a more attentive owner. Cecelia had her 
  own way of thinking about the various systems, relating them more often to 
  equestrian matters than Heris thought necessary, but if she could understand 
  better that way, why not? At least she was learning, paying attention... and 
  in the future that might save her life. 
  Still, Heris had not forgotten the need for emergency drills. She herself gave 
  a training session to the house staff, and a separate one to Cecelia. Cecelia 
  suggested letting Bates hand out the assignments to the young people, and 
  Heris agreed. She had managed to avoid young Ronnie successfully so far. 
  That first unannounced shipwide drill would have made a good comedy cube, 
  Heris thought later. She had entered the specs into the main computer the 
  night before, using an event function that kept the time from her as well. It 
  should have been simple: a single small fire, in one of the fire-prone areas. 
  But very little went as planned. The alarm went off at 0400, ship's time. 
  Heris, fairly sure what it was, nonetheless responded as she would to any 
  emergency. Those crew members she thought of as the best arrived at their 
  emergency stations within the time limit; the others straggled in late, in one 
  case three minutes late. ("I was in the head," mumbled the guilty party. 
  "Havin' a bit of a problem, I was.") 
  Cecelia logged in within the limit, as did Bates and the cook (who, spotting 
  the faked "fire," promptly put an upturned garbage container on it: the right 
  decision. ) Four of the young people sauntered in to their assigned stations 
  late (but flustered) and two did not appear at all. 
  "They have to be somewhere," Cecelia said, when Heris told her. 
  "Oh, they are. They're in the number five storage bay, ignoring the whole 
  thing." 
  "But they can't -- who is it?" 
  "Ronnie and George," Heris said, having no more patience with them. "Since you 
  gave them their assignments, via Bates --" 
  "I'll be glad to ream them out, but are you sure they heard the alarm in 
  there?" 
  "All compartments have a bell. No, they're hiding out, for purposes of their 
  own. One thing I could do is put a scare into them. They think this is just a 
  stupid drill... but they don't know what the supposed emergency is. If I dump 
  power in there... take off the AG, or lose a little pressure..." 
  "Do it," Cecelia said. Red patches marred her cheeks again. Heris thought to 
  herself that one of the advantages of darker skin was that blushes didn't 
  show. Much. "Do you have sensors in there?" 
  "Oh, yes." Heris called up the compartment specs. "You have a pretty fair 
  internal security system, probably to let your staff monitor offship 
  loading... see?" There were Ronnie and George, looking stubborn, hunched over 
  a hard copy of something. She did not wait to hear what they were saying, but 
  her fingers flicked over the screen controls. The young men suddenly stopped 
  talking, and stared at each other. 
  "She wouldn't!" George said in a tinny voice. 
  "Why's he sound like that?" 
  "Air pressure," Heris said. "Their ears just popped, I'll bet." Her fingers 
  moved again, and both of them looked pale and ill at ease. "You'd better go," 
  Heris said to Cecelia. "You want to be properly angry and upset, and you don't 
  want to know what happened to them... not until they tell you. I won't hurt 
  them." 
  "I know that," Cecelia said, but she left reluctantly. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  "If you get into the computer, then you can pull drills on her," George said. 
  "She won't know -- " He lounged against a burlap sack marked "Fertile seeds: 
  contains mercury: do not use for food." 
  "Neither will we," Ronnie said. "I don't want to be up all night every night." 

  "You don't have to be. That's the beauty of it. You just set them up, but cut 
  our bells out of it." 
  "She'll know who did it," Ronnie said. "I still think I should start with the 
  internal monitors. She's spending a lot of time with Aunt Cecelia now; she's 
  bound to say something I can use." They had a hard copy of the communications 
  board specs, left in an unsecured file from one of Cecelia's training 
  sessions. Getting into the secured files would be harder. Ronnie had the 
  feeling that Captain damn-her-backbone Serrano would not leave her files 
  unsecured. 
  "Yes, but what can she do? You're the owner's nephew -- she can hardly throw 
  you out in the void." 
  "Maybe." Ronnie stared at the specs, trying to remember all that stuff he had 
  had in class. This little squiggle was supposed to mean something about the 
  way that channel and this other channel interacted... wasn't it? He put his 
  thumb firmly on the line that came from Cecelia's sitting room, and a finger 
  on the one that came from the gym. He really needed a tap in both. If only 
  Skunkcat had been along.... Scatty was the best for this sort of thing. 
  "Here's the captain's direct line to the bridge," George said, trying to be 
  helpful. George had good ideas, but always managed to get the wrong slant on 
  them. Ronnie did not want to interfere with the captain's communication to the 
  bridge; he wanted them to know how ineffectual she was going to be once he 
  figured out how to sabotage her. 
  Suddenly his ears popped, then popped again. He saw from George's face that 
  the same unsettling shudder was going through his stomach, too. George said 
  something; he paid no attention. Lower air pressure... shifts in the 
  artificial gravity... could it have been a real emergency? He was suddenly 
  sweaty, and as suddenly cold, the sweat drying on him. No. It had taken too 
  long. That bitch of a captain was doing something to him, doing it on purpose. 

  "Out!" he said, across the middle of something George was trying to say. 
  "Before the pressure locks engage." 
  But they had. He could not wrestle the hatch open against the safety locks; he 
  would not call for help. His stomach protested, as another shift of AG 
  squashed him, then released... and the air pressure dropped again, to another 
  painful pop of his ears. 
  George looked green. "I... I'm going to --" 
  "Not in variable G -- hold it, George." There was nothing to use for a 
  spew-bag. Every storage container in there -- bags, boxes, tubes -- had a 
  lock-down seal on it A surge of AG crushed him to the deck, then let up 
  slowly. Air pressure returned; his ears popped just as many times on the way 
  back to ship normal. His stomach tried to crawl out his mouth; George looked 
  as bad as he felt, but had managed not to spew. He swallowed the vile taste in 
  his mouth and rolled over onto his back. He had a sudden pounding headache. 
  Something banged on the closed hatch. "Anyone inside?" 
  George croaked, and the hatch opened. A crewman, someone Ronnie did not 
  recognize, in full emergency gear. "My -- you weren't in here for the drill, 
  were you?" Without awaiting the obvious answer, the man went on, "It's not 
  anyone's assigned station -- you're lucky I found you. We're doing a pressure 
  check on all compartments --" 
  "Just get us out of here," Ronnie said, staggering to his feet. "That 
  miserable captain --" 
  "Wasn't her fault," the crewman said, as if surprised at his words. "It's a 
  computer-generated emergency; they all are, you know. Didn't you get your 
  handouts?" 
  "Yes," George said. "We got our handouts. Thank you. Just let me pass, 
  please." He shoved past and shambled down the passage to the nearest toilet, 
  where Ronnie could hear him being very thoroughly sick. 
  Ronnie himself hoped to sneak back to his own stateroom, but in the lounge he 
  found a very angry Aunt Cecelia. She said all the things he expected, and 
  didn't want to hear, and he managed not to listen. She had said them all 
  before, and so had others, and it was not really his fault anyway. It was that 
  captain. That arrogant, stiff-necked, conniving bitch of a captain, and he was 
  going to get even with her. If Aunt Cecelia didn't want to see his face for 
  two days, that was fine. He could eat in his room; he would be glad to eat in 
  his room. All the more time to figure out how to do what he was going to do. 
  Still, an attempt at patching things up never hurt. He did his best at a 
  contrite apology, but she turned away, ignoring him. Ignoring him. No one 
  ignored him. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  By the time he reappeared in the dining room, several days later, to all 
  appearances chastened and determined to be a good boy, Ronnie had figured it 
  out. At least the beginning of it. It had been easy, using the specs he had, 
  to get a tap into his aunt's sitting room. And into the gym. He hadn't yet 
  dared try the captain's cabin, but he was hearing a lot as it was. That fool 
  captain actually liked his ridiculous aunt, he'd discovered. Enjoyed the 
  riding lessons, enjoyed explaining to Cecelia how her ship worked, enjoyed the 
  relaxed conversations in the evenings, when they explored each others' 
  backgrounds. 
  A lot of it bored him silly: talk about books he'd never read, and art he'd 
  never seen, and music he avoided. (Opera! He had liked the opera singer's 
  body, and the competition with the prince, but not the music she sang onstage. 
  It was hard to believe even someone like his aunt actually liked all that 
  screeching. No juicy gossip, no political arguments -- it was almost like 
  hearing an educational tape, the way they discussed the topics and deferred 
  courteously to each other. 
  Other bits, though, fascinated him. His aunt's analysis of the workings of the 
  family businesses.... His own father hadn't made it that clear. Captain 
  Serrano's version of her resignation from the Fleet, which his aunt teased out 
  of her with surprising delicacy.... He had never imagined that someone in the 
  Regular Space Services would dare to disobey an order; they were all such 
  stiff-necked prigs. It didn't make sense; she should have known she would lose 
  her ship, one way or the other. He could almost feel guilty listening -- he 
  would not have expected to hear that woman so upset, or for that reason -- but 
  he loved the sense of power it gave him. She could be shaken from her calm, 
  controlled persona; she was not invincible. He would start with something 
  simple, he decided. Something that might be an accident, that would be hard to 
  trace back to him. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Heris used the reins when she rode now, and the soft tones in her earphones 
  let her know how she managed the tension, even before the simulator responded 
  by swinging one way or the other. If the tones matched, the rein tension was 
  equal; a higher tone meant more tension. She had discovered, as Cecelia 
  gradually enabled the simulator's sensors, just how sluggish that first 
  "mount" had been. Cecelia had shown her a cube of herself at that first 
  lesson, and she was ready to laugh at the novice who couldn't even keep her 
  position for a single circuit. On this program, that novice would have been 
  bucked off already. Heris listened to Cecelia's voice, coaching her in the 
  next maneuver, and tried to respond. The brown neck and ears in front of her 
  changed position; she felt the movement in her seat and the lessening tension 
  of the reins in her hand. The simulator lunged; this time Heris was ready, and 
  controlled that with a leg and hand... and... they were cantering. She liked 
  cantering. Circling. Straight. Circling again. Today she would "jump" for the 
  first time; she was eager, sure she was ready. 
  A small white fence appeared ahead of her. "Keep your legs on him," Cecelia's 
  voice reminded her. She squeezed, and the fence moved toward her faster. Then 
  the horse's back rose beneath her, and fell again, and she grabbed -- and got 
  a handful of metal tubing. The illusion went blank; the simulator beneath her 
  was once more an inert hunk of metal and plastic. 
  "Not bad," Cecelia said. "You grabbed for the right thing, at least. I had one 
  student who reached for the helmet. And you didn't fall all the way off." 
  Heris blinked and took a deep breath. "Umm. A real horse wouldn't stop and let 
  me get my breath, would it?" 
  "No. You can grab for mane like that and stay on, usually, but you were pretty 
  high out of the saddle. I think you need more time in the two-point. Let's 
  go." 
  The rest of that session, and the next, Heris spent practicing the position 
  she should have taken over the jump. Then she put on the helmet to find the 
  ring full of jumps. "Nothing big," Cecelia said cheerfully. "But if you see 
  more than one, you can't get fixated on it. Now -- pick up a trot." 
  She came out of that lesson a convert to riding. "It's like a boat," she tried 
  to tell Cecelia. "Bouncing over the waves, only in a boat you're in it, and 
  this way you're surrounding it. Not really like sailing, more like white-water 
  kayaking." Cecelia looked blank. "You never did any?" 
  "No, just the little bit of sailing I told you about." 
  "But it's the same thing." Heris ran her hands through her hair, not caring if 
  it stood up in peaks. "You're swooping along between obstacles, only they're 
  rocks making standing waves, not fences." 
  "If you say so. I always thought of it as music, myself. A choral or 
  orchestral work, where if everything goes well it sounds lovely, and if you 
  get out of time you crash." 
  "Anyway," Heris said, "I like it. I don't want to quit when my ten hours are 
  up -- that is, if you'll let me --" 
  Cecelia chuckled wickedly. "Your ten hours were up last session. Do you think 
  I'd let a potential convert quit before she got hooked? I thought you'd come 
  around! Just wait until you can jump a real course -- small, but a real one." 
  "And you -- don't tell me you don't like knowing more about your ship," Heris 
  said. 
  "That's true." Cecelia rubbed her nose. "I know you think I'm crazy to liken 
  it to stable management, but that's how it makes sense to me." 
  "Whatever works," Heris said. She would have said more, but Ronnie and the 
  other young people came into the gym. 
  "Is the pool available, Aunt Cecelia?" He asked politely enough, but his 
  expression showed what he thought of two older women exercising. He did not 
  look at Heris at all 
  "Yes -- for about an hour," Cecelia said. "But you ought to get in some riding 
  time, Ronnie." 
  "I'll get enough riding at Bunny's," Ronnie said. It was not quite sulky. 
  "We'll leave you the practice time.... Are you enjoying yourself, Captain?" 
  It was the first time he'd actually spoken to her since the incident on the 
  bridge. His expression was so carefully neutral it could have been either 
  courtesy or insult. "Yes, I am," she said, pleasantly. "Lady Cecelia is an 
  excellent teacher." 
  "I'm sure." He would have been very handsome, Heris thought, if he'd learned 
  to limit that curl of lip to moments of passion. His voice sharpened. "It's 
  too bad you'll have to let your newfound expertise wither in Hospitality 
  Bay... although I understand they have donkey rides along the beach." 
  Heris would not have answered so childish an insult, but Cecelia did. "On the 
  contrary, Ronnie, I'm taking Captain Serrano with me; she's going to be quite 
  adequate by the time we arrive." Her cheeks flamed; her hair seemed to stand 
  on end. Heris blinked; that was the first she'd heard of this plan. 
  "You're taking -- her -- but she -- she's just a -- " Ronnie looked from one 
  to the other, then to his friends. 
  "If you'll excuse me, Lady Cecelia," said Heris, giving her employer a covert 
  twinkle, "I have urgent business on the bridge -- remember?" 
  "Oh. Yes, of course." Cecelia dismissed her with a wave, and turned back to 
  her nephew; Heris used the gym's other entrance. It was not all a fake, though 
  she had no desire to watch aunt and nephew sparring -- she had in fact 
  scheduled another emergency drill for the crew only, and needed to change. She 
  and the crew would all be wearing full sensor attachments, so that she could 
  analyze the drill in detail later on. She had allowed herself fifteen minutes, 
  originally, but Ronnie's interruption had cost her a couple. 
  In her cabin, she ripped off her sweaty riding clothes, spent a minute in the 
  'fresher, and dressed in her uniform with practiced speed. Anyone who couldn't 
  bathe and dress for inspection in eleven minutes would never have survived 
  Academy training. She picked up the sensor patches and placed them on head, 
  shoulders, hands, chest and back of waist, and feet. The recording command 
  unit slipped into her pocket. Three minutes. She picked up the last of her 
  personal emergency gear with one eye on the chronometer's readout. 
  Breather-mask, detox, command wand for hatchlocks, command wands for systems 
  controls... the little plastic or foil packets that she had learned to use so 
  long ago, that never left her except in the 'fresher, where she kept them 
  stuck to a wall in their waterproof pouch. 
  Now. She left her quarters and moved without haste toward the bridge, turning 
  on the recording command unit. Sometime in the next two minutes, something 
  would go wrong -- without triggering any alarm on the family side, unless the 
  lockout patch failed. Her skin felt tight. Riding an electronic virtual horse 
  was good exercise, but this was the real thrill: waiting for trouble you knew 
  was coming. 
  Whatever it was, the crew had just noticed something wrong on the displays 
  when she came onto the bridge at precisely the hour she had set. 
  "Don't know what that is -- " the ranking mole said. "But we'd better find 
  out; cut it off the circulation --" 
  "Captain on the bridge," said Holloway, with evident relief. "Captain, there's 
  something in environmental --" 
  Inadequate, even so soon; she switched the command screen to environmental and 
  almost grinned. Pure happenstance, but she'd seen something like this before. 
  She didn't say that; she said, "Isolate that compartment." The mole's hands 
  flickered across his console. 
  "Captain -- the fan blower's stuck on." 
  Not quite the same problem. She hoped it was mostly virtual; the actual 
  compound stank abominably, and would penetrate any porous material. The mole 
  had the sense to cut out the electrical line supplying the blower. Heris said, 
  "Good job," and then the blower cut back in. Something prickled the back of 
  her neck as she watched Gavin override the mole's commands and cut power to 
  the entire section. Having the fan blower stuck on was within the parameters 
  she'd given the computer. Having it come back on after its normal electrical 
  connection was cut pushed the parameters as she remembered them. Had she been 
  imprecise? Could she have forgotten to close a command line somewhere in the 
  problem set? The fan stopped. She listened to Gavin give reasonable orders for 
  clearing the contaminant, based on its presumed identity. Then -- and she was 
  not surprised -- the fan came back on. Gavin turned to her with an expression 
  between disgust and worry. 
  "I've got it," she said. From her console, her command set blocked the 
  computer's own, briefly, as she isolated and locked out all executing logic 
  loaded in the past seventy-two hours. That would undo some things that would 
  have to be redone, but it should safely contain the problem. And that second 
  startup took it well beyond the parameters she'd set; someone had interfered. 
  Interfered with her ship, on her drill.... Rage filled her, along with the 
  exultation that conflict always brought. This was an enemy she could fight. 
  She knew exactly whom to blame for this one, and he had been ordered off her 
  bridge only sixty-three hours before. 
  The fan had stopped for good, this time, and she went on with the drill, 
  noting that the crew had responded well even to this more complicated problem. 

  The question was whether to tell Cecelia. She liked Cecelia, she'd decided, 
  and it wasn't her fault that she had a bratty nephew or even that she'd been 
  stuck with him for this trip. If she could contain Ronnie without bothering 
  Cecelia... but on the other hand, she was the owner, and the owner had a right 
  to know what was going on. If it had been an admiral's nephew, she'd have 
  known what to do (not that any admiral's nephew would have gotten so far with 
  mischief still unchecked). 
  But the first thing to do was find out how he did it, and when. 
  "Sirkin, you're cross-training in computer systems. I want you to crawl 
  through every trickle in the past... oh... sixty hours or so, and identify 
  every input." Sirkin blinked, but did not look daunted. The young, Heris 
  thought to herself, believed in miracles. 
  "Anything in particular, Captain?" 
  "I entered a problem set for the drill yesterday. What just happened was not 
  within parameters.... Someone skunked them. I want to know when, from what 
  terminal, and the details of the hook. Can do?" 
  "Yes -- I think so." Sirkin scowled, in concentration not anger. "Was it that 
  -- that young idiot who got himself caught in the storage compartment?" 
  Heris glanced around; the entire crew was listening. "It might have been," she 
  said. "But when you find out, suppose you tell me, not the whole world." 
  "Yes, ma'am." 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Ronnie threw himself back in the heavily padded teal chair in his stateroom 
  and stretched luxuriously. George, in the purple chair, looked ready to burst 
  with curiosity. 
  "So?" 
  "So..." Ronnie tried to preserve the facade of cool sophistication, but the 
  expression on George's face made him laugh. "All right. I did it, and did it 
  right. You should have seen them, trying to turn off a fan that wouldn't turn 
  off." 
  "A fan." George was not impressed, and since he'd been decanted looking cool 
  and contained, he could do that look better than Ronnie. The only thing, 
  Ronnie maintained, which he did better. 
  "Let me explain," Ronnie said, taking a superior tone. That came easily. "The 
  little captain had scheduled another emergency drill, this one for the crew 
  alone. I'd already put my hook into the system -- remember? -- and had a line 
  out for just this sort of thing. I reeled it in and rewrote it -- actually, 
  all I had to do was put a loop in it -- and sent it on its way." 
  "So the fan kept turning back on," George said. "And they couldn't stop 
  it...." A slow grin spread across his face. "How unlike you -- it's so 
  gentle...." 
  "Well," Ronnie said, examining his fingernails, "except for the stink bomb." 
  "Stink bomb?" 
  "Didn't I mention? The little captain had put three scenarios in the computer; 
  it would generate one of them, using her parameters. I sort of... mixed two. 
  One was a contamination drill... and it wasn't that hard to change a canister 
  which would have released colored smoke for one releasing stinks." Ronnie 
  smirked, satisfied with the look on George's face as well as his own 
  brilliance. "The little captain was most upset." 
  "When she figures it out..." George went from gleeful to worried in that 
  phrase. 
  "She'll never figure it out. She'll think it's her own problem set -- even if 
  she calls it up, she'll see that loop. Everyone makes mistakes that way 
  sometimes." 
  "But that canister?" 
  "George, I am not stupid. I spent an entire day repainting the drill canisters 
  so they have the wrong color codes. All of them. She'll assume it's something 
  left over from the previous captain -- like that great mysterious whatever 
  that held us up at Takomin Roads. That's the first thing I did, right after we 
  decided to scrag her. She can look for prints or whatever as much as she 
  likes: she picked that canister up herself, and put it where it went off." 
  Ronnie stretched again. Sometimes he could hardly believe himself just how 
  brilliant he was. "Besides -- she thinks I'm a callow foolish youth -- that's 
  what Aunt Cecelia keeps telling her -- and she won't believe a spoiled young 
  idiot -- my dear aunt's favorite terms -- could fish in her stream and catch 
  anything." As George continued to look doubtful, Ronnie leaned forward and 
  tried earnestness. If George got nervy, his next intervention would be much 
  harder. "We're safe, I promise you. She can't twig. She can't possibly twig, 
  and if she even thinks of it, Aunt Cecelia's blather will unconvince her." 
  Chapter Eight 
  "We have a slight problem," Heris said to Cecelia. It had not been easy to 
  spirit her employer away along paths she knew were safe, but she managed. They 
  were now in the 'ponics section reserved for fancy gardening. Cecelia had 
  banished the gardeners. 
  "Again?" But Cecelia said it with a smile. 
  "Your nephew," Heris said. "I can deal with him, but he may come running to 
  you, if I do. Or I can try to ignore him out of existence, but he may cause 
  the crew some inconvenience." 
  "Somehow when you say 'inconvenience,' what I hear is much worse." Cecelia 
  looked down her nose as if she were wearing spectacles and had to peer over 
  them. She reminded Heris of one of the portraits of her ancestress. 
  "Well... I can probably keep it to inconvenience." Heris reached out to feel 
  the furry leaf of a plant she didn't recognize. It had odd lavender flowers, 
  and it gave off a sharp fragrance as she touched it. 
  "I hope you're not allergic to that," Cecelia said. "It makes some people itch 
  for days." 
  "Sorry." Heris looked at her fingers, which did not seem to be turning any odd 
  color or itching. 
  "It's got an edible tuber, quite a nice flavor." Cecelia looked at the row of 
  plants as if blessing them with her gaze. "I hope Bunny will trade for this 
  cultivar; that's why we're growing it now. We had to replant, of course, after 
  the... mmm... problem." 
  Heris had not considered what, besides convenience, might have been 
  sacrificed. "Did you lose all the garden crops?" she asked. "I thought they'd 
  be unharmed." She also wondered what this had to do with Ronnie, and hoped it 
  meant Cecelia was thinking on two levels at once. 
  "We lost some..." Cecelia's voice trailed away; she was staring at another row 
  of plants, these covered with little yellow fruits. "I don't know what they're 
  thinking of; half those are overripe. And they're not fertile; there's no 
  sense wasting them...." She picked one, sampled it, and picked another for 
  Heris. "You're asking about Ronnie. I've told you before -- I'm sick of that 
  boy. If he's done something that deserves response, do what you will, short of 
  permanent injury. I do have to answer to Berenice and his father later; it 
  would be awkward to admit that I sanctioned his death. But aside from that -- 
  " She made a chopping motion at her own neck. 
  Heris ate the yellow fruit, a relative of the tomato, she thought, and watched 
  Cecelia's face. "You're not really happy about that," she observed. 'What 
  else?" 
  "Oh... I think what makes me so furious is that he's not all bad. He may seem 
  it to you --" 
  "Not really," Heris said. "Remember, I told you before that I've seen a lot of 
  young officers, including very wild ones. For that matter, I was a wild one." 
  "You?" That deflected her a moment. 
  "What -- you really thought I was born at attention, with my infant fist on my 
  forehead?" It was so close to what Cecelia had thought, that the expression 
  crossed her face, and Heris laughed, not unkindly. "You should have seen me at 
  sixteen... and will you try to tell me you were completely tame?" 
  "At sixteen? I spent all my time with horses," Cecelia said. Then she blushed, 
  extensively, and Heris waited. "Of course, there was that one young man --" 
  "Aha!" 
  "But it didn't interfere with my riding -- nothing did -- and nothing came of 
  it either." Heris couldn't tell from the tone whether Cecelia was glad or sad 
  about that. "But Ronnie -- " Cecelia came back to the point, as she always 
  did, eventually. "He's got brains, and I don't really doubt his courage. He's 
  just spoiled, and it's such a waste --" 
  "It always is," Heris said. "What he needs is what neither of us can give him 
  -- a chance to find out that his own foolishness can get him in permanent 
  trouble, and only his own abilities can give him the life he really wants. At 
  his age, such tests tend to be dangerous -- even fatal." 
  "But you think you can do something?" 
  "I think I can convince him to play no more tricks on me. That won't help 
  overall, most likely; he'll blame me, or you, and not his own idiocy." 
  "It's that crowd he hangs around with," Cecelia said. "Yes, his mother spoiled 
  him, but so are they all spoiled." 
  Heris did not argue; her own opinion was that the influence went both ways. 
  Ronnie was as bad for the others as they were for him. But it wasn't her 
  nephew, and she didn't have any remnant guilt feelings. She suspected Cecelia 
  did. Cecelia had commented more than once on the family's attempts to make her 
  perform in ways they thought important; some of that must have stuck, even if 
  it didn't change her behavior. 
  Cecelia ate another of the yellow fruits. Heris hadn't liked the first one 
  well enough to pick another; she watched Cecelia poke about, prodding one 
  plant and sniffing another. Finally she turned back to Heris. "All right. Do 
  what you can; I won't expect miracles. And I won't sympathize if he comes 
  crying to me." 
  "I don't think he will," Heris said. "He has, as you said, some virtues." 
  "Do you want to tell me what you're planning to do, or do you think I'll let 
  something slip?" 
  "No -- you wouldn't, I'm sure. But my methods are, as before, not entirely 
  amiable." 
  "Go on, then. I won't ask. Just see that you're on time for your lesson -- 
  today you get higher jumps and more of them." 
  Heris looked at her. "That's one I hadn't thought of... don't use the 
  simulator until I've had a chance to check it, will you?" 
  "Ronnie wouldn't touch it -- he's being tiresome about horses." 
  "No -- not for himself or even you -- but to get at me. I'll be on time -- in 
  fact, I'll be early, and I'll make sure it hasn't been tampered with." 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Ronnie had never believed in premonition; he had known himself far too mature 
  and sophisticated for any such superstitions. Thus the results of his first 
  touch of the keyboard, after George left, came as a complete surprise. He had 
  thought of another glorious lark, something harmless to baffle the little 
  captain even further. She liked to go riding on Aunt Cecelia's simulator... 
  well... what if it turned out to be under his control, and not Cecelia's? He 
  had in mind a mad gallop across enormous fences that would surely have her 
  squealing for mercy -- and to Cecelia it could still appear that nothing was 
  wrong and the captain's nerve had broken. He held out for some little time, 
  letting himself imagine all the ramifications: his aunt's scorn of those who 
  couldn't ride well, the captain's fear and then embarrassment, the confusion 
  of both. They would never figure it out, he was sure. 
  Then he reached for the console. He would just take a preparatory stroll 
  around his battlements, so to speak, making sure that all his hooks were in 
  place.... His fingers flicked through the sequence that should have laid all 
  open before him, and the screen blanked. 
  As anyone who has just entered a fatal command, he first thought it was a 
  simple, repairable error. He reentered the sequence, muttering at himself for 
  carelessness. Something clicked firmly, across his stateroom. It sounded like 
  the door, but when he called, no one answered. Imagination. The screen was 
  still blank. He thumbed Recall, and the screen stayed blank. Odd. Even if he'd 
  hit the wrong sequence, the screen should have showed something. He hit every 
  key on the board, in order, and the screen stayed blank. He felt hot suddenly. 
  Surely not. Surely he hadn't done something as stupid as that -- there were 
  ways to wipe yourself out of a net, but his sequence had been far from any of 
  the ones he knew. 
  He stared at the screen, and worry began to nibble on the edge of his 
  concentration. He didn't have to enter the commands here, of course -- 
  shifting control to the console in George's or Buttons's suite would do -- but 
  he hated to admit he'd been such a fool, whatever it was he'd done. But the 
  screen stayed blank, not so much as a flicker, and he didn't want to lose his 
  good idea. The captain would have her riding lesson not that many hours later, 
  and he wanted to be sure he got the patches in first. 
  With a final grunt of annoyance, he shut off his screen and went to the door. 
  It didn't open. He yanked hard at the recessed pull, and broke a fingernail; 
  the door didn't move at all. He thumped it with his fist, muttering, with the 
  same effect as thumping a very large boulder: his fist hurt, and the door did 
  not move. 
  He had flicked the controls of the com to George's cabin when the realization 
  first came.... This could not be an accident. The com was dead; no amount of 
  shaking the unit or poking the controls made any sound whatever come out of 
  the speakers. He flung himself at the terminal console again, determined to 
  break through. The screen came on when he pressed the switch, but it responded 
  to nothing he did. No text, no images, no... nothing. 
  "Dammit!" He followed that with a string of everything he knew, and finished, 
  some minutes later, with, "It isn't fair!" 
  From the comer of his eye, he saw the screen flicker. Only then did it occur 
  to him that while he might be cut off from the outside, the outside might very 
  well be watching him. He came closer. 
  ALL'S FAIR IN LOVE AND WAR. The screen's script even seemed to have a nasty 
  expression. DON'T MESS WITH MY SHIP. The meaning was clear enough, though he 
  was in no mood to give in. But the messages stayed, two clear lines, and again 
  nothing he did changed them. Ronnie turned away, furious, and kicked the 
  bulkhead between his room and his private bath. With a whoosh, the toilet 
  flushed, and flushed again, and flushed again, three loud and unmistakable 
  raspberries. 
  "You can't do this to me!" he yelled at the ceiling. This is my aunt's yacht!" 

  The shower came on; the automatic doors that should have enclosed it had not 
  budged, and he had to wrestle them into place. A dense steam filled his 
  bathroom. He saw with horror that the drain hadn't opened; water rose rapidly, 
  then trickled out between the doors. He yanked towels from the racks, from the 
  cupboards, and threw them at the overflow.... If it got into the bedroom, it 
  would stain the carpet.... His mother, not just Aunt Cecelia, would be furious 
  if he stained new carpet. When every towel was soaked, the drain opened, as if 
  it had eyes to see, the shower stopped, and the water drained peacefully away. 

  The wet towels squished under his feet; his shoes were soaked, and his 
  trousers to the knees. Ronnie felt the onslaught of a large headache, and 
  glared at the mess. He wrung out the towels into the shower enclosure -- 
  better than walking on the wet mess -- and hung as many as he could from the 
  racks. The floor was slick; it could be dangerous. He grubbed into the back of 
  the cupboard and found the cleaning equipment he had never used. A sponge -- 
  dry, for a wonder -- a long-handled brush, a short-handled brush, and two 
  bottles of cleaning solution, one blue and one green. The sponge eventually 
  soaked up most of the damp on the floor, though it still felt clammy. 
  He had only thought he'd been angry before. Now he experienced the full range 
  of anger... anger he had not even suspected he could feel. He was so angry 
  that for once in his life he did not strike out at walls or doors or 
  furniture. Instead, he went back to the terminal and sat before it. As he had 
  expected, the screen had another message line now: 
  YOU ARE CONFINED TO QUARTERS. YOU WILL RECEIVE ADEQUATE RATIONS. 
  He wasn't hungry; he didn't care about any blankety-blank rations.... He 
  filled in all the blanks he usually did not allow himself to fill, forgetting 
  none of the expressions he'd ever heard. But he did so silently. He was not 
  going to give her the satisfaction. 
  How had she done it? How had she figured it out? She wasn't that smart; she 
  had to be nearly as old as Aunt Cecelia. He fumed, silently, staring at the 
  screen. Suddenly it cleared, and after a moment of blankness, reappeared in 
  almost normal configuration. Almost, because the usual communications icon had 
  been replaced by a black diamond. 
  Gingerly, as if the screen could bite him, he touched the service icon. A menu 
  appeared: food, linens, clothing, air temperature, water, medical assistance. 
  He thought it had had a few more items the last time he'd noticed it... but he 
  hadn't paid much attention. The servants were usually hovering; he hadn't 
  needed to call them. Now he touched linens. The screen blanked and displayed a 
  flashing blue message: NOT IN SERVICE. 
  "What d'you mean, not in service!" he growled. In the bathroom, the toilet 
  burped: warning. He pressed his lips together, amazed that he could be even 
  angrier than a moment before. He was stuck with wet towels... what a petty 
  revenge. That captain must come from a very ill-bred family. When he did 
  revenge, he did it with style. He poked the board again; it returned him to 
  the service menu. He thought of trying every single choice, but decided 
  against it. It would only make him angrier to know that the others didn't work 
  either. 
  He backed out of the service menu and looked at the main screen. Innocent, 
  bland, it looked back. No communications, and missing functions on other 
  icons, he didn't doubt. What else could he try? Information? He almost snarled 
  at the little blue question mark, but controlled himself and put a finger on 
  it. 
  The screen blanked and gave him a solid ten seconds of GOOD CHOICE before 
  turning up the information menu. He had never tried this one before, since 
  he'd never thought a ship as small as his aunt's could hold serious surprises. 
  Now, he found a choice of items he was sure had not been his aunt's idea. 
  1. WHAT DID I DO WRONG? 
  2. WHAT CAN I DO NOW? 
  3. WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO? 
  4. WHAT DO THE OTHERS KNOW ABOUT ALL THIS? 
  It looked like someone's bad idea of a strategy game. He was going to have 
  nothing to do with it.... It had to be a trap... but after sitting there for a 
  long time he realized he was tired, stiff, and hungry. Food had been promised, 
  though it hadn't arrived... and he did wonder just how much the little captain 
  knew. 
  He pressed the first choice. In a cheerful electronic voice, the monitor said, 
  "Good choice." Ronnie jumped. He'd hated the more vocal teaching computers 
  he'd happened across. This one had a particularly chirpy intonation. The 
  screen blanked, then filled with a list which he supposed represented his 
  errors. It was not framed in terms his Aunt Cecelia would use; what hurt 
  particularly was the assumption that he and the captain shared a frame of 
  reference... the military. In just the way that his instructors had dissected 
  unfortunate actions of the past, she dissected his action against her. 
  Without, it seemed, the least rancor. That hurt, too. She didn't think of him 
  as a rich spoiled brat -- but as an incompetent junior officer, one of many. 
  He did not like being one of many. 
  He was chagrined to learn that his hooks had been found and rebaited, so to 
  speak; she had the entire conversation with George (it was played back for 
  him) and from his own speech samples had produced com messages to the others 
  telling them he felt like some time alone. 
  "Of course," the computer voice said brightly, "they think you're in here 
  plotting more mischief against the captain and crew." 
  "But when am I -- " He stopped when he heard the water start to run in the 
  bathroom again. Evidently, he was not meant to do any talking. 
  "If you have questions," the voice said, "you may choose them from the menu 
  when they appear." As if that captain would know what questions he wanted to 
  ask. But after another paragraph of careful explanation of his faults, he 
  found a list of questions. He chose the one about the canisters, because he 
  really couldn't understand why repainting them had been so bad. They were just 
  disaster-drill fakes anyway. What did it matter if one of them turned out to 
  have red smoke, blue smoke, or a bad smell? 
  His comunit chimed. Ronnie leaped for it. This time the voice that came out 
  was the captain's. 
  "You asked about the canisters," she said. "Do you know the chemical compounds 
  in each?" 
  "You -- no." He had caught his first angry response in mid-leap. 
  "Then you are not aware that some of the compounds are toxic, and some are 
  flammable?" 
  "They are?" He could not have concealed his surprise if he'd tried. They were 
  for drills -- the label said so -- and things used in drills were harmless, 
  weren't they? 
  She had a human chuckle, which he didn't want to admit was pleasant. "Tell you 
  what -- I'll put the contents up on your screen in detail. Did you have any 
  system in mind when you repainted those canisters, or did you do it at 
  random?" 
  "Well..." Ronnie tried to remember. "Mostly I did them the color of the ones 
  in the next box. That way I always knew which ones I'd done. There were a few, 
  though, that were loose, and I just made 'em all orange with a brown stripe. 
  Most of those were blue and... and two green stripes, but one was white and 
  gray." 
  "Then you switched the box labels?" 
  "Yeah... how'd you know I'd repainted them?" He had been so careful; he could 
  not believe she'd noticed 
  "How do you think I knew which storage bay you were in with George?" she 
  asked. He had no idea. He'd assumed she'd messed with all the storage bays. 
  "Think about it," she said. The com went dead. He didn't even bother to try 
  calling out again. 
  The screen had changed; now it was full of chemical formulas and reaction 
  characteristics. Ronnie fought his way through it. He was actually supposed to 
  know most of this; he remembered having seen it in class. But he had never had 
  a good reason to put it together. He caught himself muttering aloud, and gave 
  the bathroom a nervous look, but the toilet didn't burp. "... oxidizes the 
  metallic powder and... gosh!" The stuff would really bum. Really burn. "I 
  could have built a damn bomb!" he said, almost gleeful for a moment. Silence 
  mocked him. He didn't need a warning roar from the plumbing or a smart remark 
  from the computer to point out that setting off a bomb on a spaceship in deep 
  space was not an intelligent thing to do, and setting one off without even 
  knowing it was, if possible, stupider. 
  He felt cold, almost as cold as he'd felt when he realized he'd intruded on 
  the bridge during jump transition. If the captain had picked another canister 
  -- the gray and white one he'd painted orange and red, rather than the blue 
  and gray he'd painted black and green -- it could have been a real emergency. 
  A real disaster. A real -- another look at the screen to confirm it -- end of 
  the whole trip. For everyone. 
  "I'm sorry," he said to the silent cabin. "I didn't mean to cause any real 
  trouble." 
  Instead of an answer, the screen changed yet again, to show a transcript of 
  what he'd said to George, every word. It looked worse, far worse, in glowing 
  script on the screen. It looked as if he had indeed wanted to cause trouble -- 
  to harass and humiliate the captain, to frighten and divide the crew. "I 
  didn't mean it that way," he said, but he knew he had meant it that way, back 
  when he thought it was safe to mean it that way. 
  The food, when it came, was bland and boring. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Heris climbed off the simulator after a vigorous ride across country on a 
  large black hunter; every time she took the helmet off, the simulator startled 
  her with its metal and plastic parts. Cecelia nodded at her. 
  "Very good indeed. You'll certainly qualify for one of the mid-level hunts. 
  Depending on who's here, you might even be with me for a run or two." 
  "Are you sure you want to drag me along?" Heris asked "I know it's not --" 
  "It's not common, but it's not unheard of, and anyway I do as I like. It's one 
  of the perks. Bunny won't mind, as long as you can ride decently and don't 
  cause trouble, which you won't. I'll enjoy having you to talk with -- there 
  are few enough single women, and I'm past the point where the men want to talk 
  to me." 
  Heris was not sure she liked the assumption that she herself was also past 
  that point... but it was true, she wasn't on the prowl. She wasn't over losing 
  her other ship yet -- though she could now think of it as "the other ship" and 
  not the only one -- and she would have to get her crew -- and certain members 
  of it -- out of her mind before she could respond to advances. If anyone made 
  them. 
  "What's the matter?" Cecelia asked "Don't you want to go? Would you rather 
  hang around Hospitality Bay with the other captains?" 
  "No!" She said it more forcefully than she meant to. "I'm sorry -- the thought 
  of those other captains has haunted me all along. I hate that. And yes, I 
  would love to see what an estate set up for fox hunting looks like. It's just 
  -- I didn't want you to think you had to do it, because you said it in front 
  of Ronnie." 
  "Nonsense. I said it because I wanted to; Ronnie's opinion is unimportant." 
  Cecelia looked hard at her captain. "And by the way, how is that young man?" 
  "Perfectly healthy." That was true, if incomplete. He wasn't even that bored, 
  because she had him doing the work he should have done in his basic classes. 
  Math, chemistry, biochemistry, ship systems, military history, tactics.... 
  When he kept his mind on it, all his plumbing worked and his food arrived 
  regularly, and the lights worked. When he threw a tantrum -- and he hadn't 
  thrown one in the last several days, was he learning? -- he found himself 
  dealing with other problems, and the work still to do afterwards. "He may be 
  rejoining you shortly, if you've no objection." 
  "What have you done, chained him in the 'ponics to dig potatoes?" Then she 
  held up her hands. "No, don't tell me -- I don't want to know. But I shall be 
  fascinated to see what happens." 
  "So shall I," said Heris. She had found him more interesting than she'd 
  expected, in the rare moments she tutored him over the com herself. He had a 
  supple, energetic intelligence that would have rewarded good initial training. 
  It was a shame that no one had ever made him work before. He could have been 
  good enough for the Regular Space Service. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Ronnie reappeared at breakfast one morning, smiling pleasantly. Cecelia, at 
  Heris's suggestion, had begun breakfasting with the young people some days 
  before. This way, Heris had said, the collusion would be marginally less 
  evident. She noticed that Ronnie was clean, dressed neatly, and showed no 
  visible bruises -- of which she approved -- and the sulky expression she 
  disliked no longer marred his face. 
  "Well?" George said. "Tell all." 
  "All of what?" Ronnie looked over the toast rack and chose whole wheat with 
  raisins. 
  "You said you were up to something." George looked at the others for support, 
  but they weren't playing up. "You said you were --" 
  Ronnie looked at him, a bland good-humored look. "I've said many things, 
  George, which aren't breakfast conversation. And I'm hungry." He smiled at 
  Cecelia. "Excuse me, Aunt Cecelia -- could I have some of that curry?" 
  Cecelia smiled back. Whatever had happened, she wasn't going to interfere with 
  it. "Certainly. I hope you haven't been ill...." 
  "Not at all." He engaged himself with the curry, and the variety of other 
  edibles that Cecelia considered appropriate to breakfast with company. George 
  opened and shut his mouth twice, then shrugged and went on eating his omelet. 
  Buttons, never very forthcoming in the morning, finished nibbling toast, 
  excused himself, and went away; the three young women, after glancing several 
  times from Ronnie to his aunt and back, also left. Cecelia ate her usual large 
  breakfast, trying to ignore all the signals they were trying to pass so 
  obviously. Finally only George and Ronnie were left, Ronnie eating steadily, 
  as if to make up for many lost meals, and George in spurts, eyeing Ronnie. 
  Cecelia struggled not to laugh. It was, after all, ridiculous. There was 
  George, trying to protect Ronnie (too little and too late) from whatever 
  horrors an elderly aunt could inflict on him. Finally she decided to 
  intervene, before Ronnie burst himself overeating, or George had a stroke. 
  "I am not planning to harm him, you know," she said to George. George turned 
  bright red and nearly choked on a muffin. 
  "She's quite right," Ronnie said, in the same pleasant tone he'd used so far. 
  "It's safe to leave us alone." 
  "But -- but you said --" 
  "It's all right," Ronnie said. "Really it is. I can tell you're not hungry -- 
  why not go play something with the others? I'll be along shortly." 
  George, still red and coughing, managed to say that he hadn't meant to 
  interfere and Ronnie would know where to find him. Then, with a nod to 
  Cecelia, he got out of the room as gracelessly as Cecelia had ever seen him 
  move. 
  "You are all right...." Cecelia said. Ronnie's clear hazel eyes gazed into 
  hers, a look that combined all the charm and mischief she had seen in him 
  since birth. 
  "I'm fine," he repeated. "Why shouldn't I be?" 
  "Well..." Cecelia pleated her napkin, a gesture that she knew conveyed 
  feminine indecision to the men in her family. "You were fairly cross about my 
  new captain, and when I wasn't sure your message to me was... was quite true, 
  about studying for exams, and I pressured George --" 
  Ronnie flushed, but managed a smile. "Did he break down and tell you I had 
  planned some mischief? I'm sure he did. Well -- so I had, but I -- I changed 
  my mind. And I did study for exams, but if I tell George that --" 
  "Ah. I see." Into Cecelia's mind came the faint glimmer of what Heris must 
  have done. How she had done it still remained a mystery. But she understood 
  this much of the psychology of the younger set. "You don't want George to know 
  you changed your mind, or that you studied -- you must have been awfully 
  bored, Ronnie, to decide to study." She hoped her voice didn't tremble with 
  repressed laughter on that... or would he think it was a senile tremor? 
  "It was the only thing I could do in that room without -- without letting 
  George know -- " That was undoubtedly the truth, Cecelia thought. What a jewel 
  of a captain. What a marvel. She felt like grabbing Heris and dancing her 
  along the passages... and at the imagined look on Heris's face she could 
  hardly contain her laughter. Ronnie, she saw, was looking at her with some 
  suspicion. 
  "My dear, please, I'm just glad you're not sick, and that you didn't do 
  something awful that Captain Serrano would have had to complain to me about, 
  and that you thought better of it and made good use of your time. I have to 
  admit I find the need to placate George amusing... but then I'm old, and no 
  longer worry about the opinions of friends. When I was your age, their 
  opinions mattered much more." 
  "Even you? I thought you never cared about anyone." The tone was more 
  respectful than the words. 
  "I didn't care about some members of the family -- and I'm not bragging about 
  it. But I had friends -- others who shared the same interests -- and it 
  mattered a great deal to me what they thought. So I will conceal from George 
  your careful study of whatever it was you studied, and pretend to know nothing 
  -- which is in fact just what I do know." 
  "Thank you, Aunt Cecelia," he said. Something in his eyes made her think he 
  was not entirely chastened, but overly polite was easier to live with than 
  whining complaint. "I suppose," he went on, "I should ask you to let me try 
  your simulator." His tone, again, was almost too bland, but she chose not to 
  notice. 
  "Of course. Some of your friends -- Bunny's children, and Raffaele -- have 
  been using it; I made up a schedule so that we don't interfere with each 
  other." 
  "And the captain," he went on. She noticed the tension in his jaw which he 
  probably thought he'd concealed. "Is she coming along well?" 
  "Oh, yes," Cecelia said. "It's too bad she didn't start earlier; she'd have 
  been competitive in the open circuit. As it is, she'll be a reasonable member 
  of the field once she's had some real experience." She smiled at the look on 
  his face, mingled of mistrust and envy. "You'd be good too, I'm sure, if you 
  spent the time on it she has. You're the right build." 
  "But I'm not horse-struck," Ronnie said. "Just as well; Mother would say you'd 
  contaminated me." 
  "Well, make a try at it. You might like it better than you think. The family 
  brought you up to think it was ridiculous, and all because my parents wanted 
  me to marry someone for a commercial alliance, and I wanted to ride 
  professionally. Whether I was right or wrong doesn't affect the nature of the 
  sport." 
  "All right." He held up his hands, as if in defense, and Cecelia realized her 
  voice had risen. That old quarrel with her parents and her uncles could still 
  make her angry. If they had not been so ridiculously prejudiced, she would not 
  have been that defiant: she would have quit in another year or so, certainly 
  after losing Buccinator, and married someone. If not Pierce-Konstantin, 
  someone reasonable. But they had tried to have her barred from competition, 
  when she was leading for a yearly award; she had rebelled completely. 
  It occurred to her that she had more in common with Ronnie than she'd 
  imagined. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Most major space stations followed one of three basic, utilitarian designs: 
  the wheel, the cylinder, and the zeez-angle for situations requiring specific 
  rotational effects. When Heris called up the specs for Sirialis, which all her 
  passengers called "Bunny's planet," she felt she'd taken another giant step 
  into irrationality. A blunt-ended castle tumbling slowly in zero-gravity? This 
  time she didn't ponder it alone; she called her employer, and sent along a 
  visual of the Station where Cecelia had said they would dock. 
  "Is there an explanation, or do I just assume civilian-aristocratic insanity?" 
  she asked. 
  "Insanity isn't a bad guess," Cecelia admitted. From the tone, she was neither 
  surprised nor insulted by Heris's reaction. "There's been a certain -- oh -- 
  eccentricity -- in that family for some generations. Some of us think that's 
  why they got so rich so fast; they've got monetary instincts where the rest of 
  us keep our common sense. This Station, though -- let me see if I can explain 
  it." 
  "No one," Heris said, watching on her own screen the display of crenellations, 
  towers, stairs, arches, and cloisters, rotating but somehow not making sense, 
  "no one could explain this." Her eye tried to follow the progression of one 
  staircase up to a square tower, which was suddenly not where it should have 
  been.... The staircase had to be going down. Someone, she thought, must have 
  made an error in the display. 
  "It began with Bunny's great-great-uncle Pirdich," Cecelia went on, ignoring 
  the comment. "They'd just managed to recover from the worst the original 
  colonists had done, and the lords of the Grande Caravan had been teasing them 
  about how impossible it was. He wanted to make a statement." 
  "That Station is a statement?" 
  "Of sorts, yes. He decided that having overcome what everyone said was an 
  impossible problem in reclamation, he would celebrate it by building an 
  impossible space station. Bunny's family's been overfond of the early modem 
  period of Old Earth all along; this Station is built to look like a design by 
  an artist of that period. I don't know the name; visual arts is not my thing. 
  It is strange, isn't it? And if you think it's impossible, wait until you see 
  the internal configuration and the fountain in the central plaza. Everything 
  in it is taken from the work of the same person, and it's all delightfully 
  skewed" 
  Delightfully was not the word Heris would have picked. In her experience, 
  design problems in space stations caused everyone grief, especially captains 
  of ships docking there. Creativity should be subordinate to efficiency. "Are 
  all three stations like this one?" she asked. If not, maybe she could talk 
  Cecelia into docking somewhere other than the prestigious but clearly 
  impractical Home Station. 
  "Of course not. Once they had one unique impossible station, they wanted each 
  one different. Here -- " From Cecelia's desktop to Heris's the new visuals 
  flashed: one like a stylized pinecone, in silver and scarlet, and one that 
  looked like a worse mistake than the others, as if someone had dropped a pile 
  of construction material onto a plate with a glob of sticky in the middle. "I 
  think that's the worst," Cecelia said. "It's a Dzanian design, very 
  neo-neo-neo, and the fault of Bunny's aunt Zirip, who married a Dzanian, and 
  insisted that her family's fondness for Old Earth was pathological. You can't 
  take anything very big into it, because the parts that stick out are 
  nonfunctional; the docking bays are all nestled among them. There's only one 
  berth for a decent-sized ship, and that's where they do cargo transfer. Zirip 
  thought it was cute, she told me once, because it made for intimate spaces. 
  But Zirip is also the one who converted the closet in her room into her bed 
  and study, and used the room itself for a dance studio. Up until then, I'd 
  thought the oddness in that family rode the Y chromosome." 
  Heris pitied the captains of cargo vessels loading and unloading there, but 
  supposed they got used to it. "And the... er... pinecone?" 
  "Symbolic. So they told me. I've been there once, on a family shuttle; the 
  docking facilities are lovely, but I got very tired of green and brown and the 
  same aromatics all the time. It has the most capacity, and most guest yachts 
  will dock there." At the end, that had the smug tone of someone who knew she 
  was docking at a more prestigious slot; Heris sighed. She knew what that meant 
  -- no hope of talking Cecelia into using another station. 
  Instead, she looked again at the information for inbound ships. It might look 
  like a peculiar sort of castle in the air, but it had modern, well-designed 
  docking bays. The guidance beacons, the communications and computer links, the 
  lists of standard and on-request equipment and connectors: all perfectly 
  normal, exactly what they'd had at Takomin Roads. She wondered who in the 
  family had had the sense to design the practical part. 
  "What sort of facilities does it have for off-duty crew?" Heris asked. She 
  knew this was going to cause an explosion, and it did. 
  "What do you mean, off-duty crew? The crew goes to Hospitality Bay, as I 
  explained earlier." Cecelia sounded annoyed. 
  "Milady." That formality should get her attention. Cecelia was susceptible, 
  Heris had discovered, to very severe courtesy. "You have an entirely new set 
  of environmental components, and the run here from Takomin Roads was just long 
  enough to break them in -- not long enough for this crew to be what I consider 
  well trained. I want a standing watch aboard --" 
  "The Station master won't like it; everyone sends their crews down to 
  Hospitality Bay, and the ships are secured. What do you think, that rustlers 
  or smugglers or something will come aboard?" 
  Heris didn't answer that, although she thought that leaving a ship uncrewed at 
  a private station made it very easy for smugglers to do what they'd already 
  done to Sweet Delight. She waited. Cecelia was not stupid; she would think of 
  that herself in a few minutes. After a silence, Cecelia's voice came back, 
  unsubdued but no longer angry. 
  "I see. You do think exactly that. And someone did put whatever it was in my 
  scrubbers." It had now become "my" scrubbers, Heris noted with amusement. At 
  least she knew what scrubbers were. Cecelia went on. "Did you ever find out 
  what that was?" 
  "No," Heris answered. "And I doubt we will, unless it comes to court. My point 
  is that we need a standing watch aboard; if you authorize it, the 
  Stationmaster will agree." 
  "But what about the expense? And the crew expects their vacation at 
  Hospitality Bay -- won't they be angry?" 
  "Look -- what if a pipe breaks while you're planetside, and floods dirty goo 
  all over this carpet? You don't like the lavender plush any more than I do, 
  but imagine the mess. Imagine what your sister would say. As for the crew, 
  that's my problem; if they're angry, they'll be angry with me. Time they 
  earned what you pay them." 
  "You're determined, aren't you?" That with a slightly catty edge. 
  "Where your safety and the integrity of this ship are concerned, yes," Heris 
  said. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  The Stationmaster required all the weight of Cecelia's patronage to change his 
  mind. "It is not the usual procedure at all," he said. "We have that procedure 
  for a reason; we can't have idle ships' crews roaming about the Station 
  getting into trouble." 
  "They won't be," Heris said. "They'll be busy learning the new systems 
  recently installed on this ship. During their shipboard rotation, they will 
  have very little time to roam about -- and if you insist, I can confine them 
  to the ship, although I would prefer to allow them a moderate amount of time 
  off. Lady Cecelia expressly requested that the crew be thoroughly trained -- 
  there had been incidents -- " She didn't specify, and he didn't ask. 
  "Yes, but -- we really don't have facilities..." 
  "Six individuals at a time aboard," Heris said. "No more than three offship 
  --" 
  "Only three?" the Stationmaster said. Heris smiled to herself. She had won. 
  "Yes. They'll be standing round-the-clock watches, and they have a lot of work 
  to do; I would prefer, because of that, to let them get their meals on the 
  Station, rather than also detail a cook --" 
  "Oh... I see. Lady Cecelia's credit line?" 
  "Of course: the ship's account, with a limit -- " She had to put a limit, or 
  both the Station vendors and the crew would be likely to cheat. 
  "I would suggest thirty a day per person," the Station-master said. She 
  haggled him down to twenty; she had already called up the vendor ads and knew 
  her people could eat well on fifteen. 
  Next she had to tell the crew. She did not expect much trouble, and they 
  listened in respectful silence, although she noticed some sideways glances. 
  The new members, who had never been to Hospitality Bay, were glad enough to 
  rotate in and out. Those who were accustomed to idling away a planetary 
  quartile on full pay might have complained, but remembered the departure of 
  the pilot. Heris hoped some of them would decide to quit; she knew she could 
  do better. When she called for volunteers for the first rotation, Sirkin and 
  the newest crew members got their hands up first -- exactly what she'd 
  expected. She had planned shorter, more frequent rotations (over the protests 
  of both Cecelia and the Stationmaster) on the grounds that unused skills 
  quickly deteriorated. In fact, there were crew members she didn't want to 
  leave in the ship too long. 
  By the time they docked -- without incident: the peculiar looking Station 
  turned out to be well designed where it mattered -- Heris had the roster 
  settled, and enough work planned to keep the standing watch alert. She had 
  scattered her new and most trusted crew among each rotation... and hoped that 
  would keep any remaining smuggler-agents from doing whatever they might 
  otherwise do. Then it was time to pack her own kit, and prepare to accompany 
  Lady Cecelia's entourage to the planet. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  "You were right," Heris said to her employer, as she came out of the droptube 
  into the central area of the Station. "I don't believe it." The ornamental 
  object in the middle had as many eye-teasing impossibilities as the Station 
  itself, and in addition offered the appearance of a stream of water flowing 
  merrily uphill. That alone wouldn't have been upsetting: everyone had seen 
  inverse fountains or ridden inverse scare rides, since the invention of small 
  artificial gravity generators. But this one flowed uphill without a substrate, 
  burbling from one visible guide channel to another through the empty air. 
  "It's a holo, right?" 
  "No -- it's real, in its own way. You can put your hand into it and find out." 
  Cecelia looked entirely too pleased with herself. Heris argued with her mind, 
  and her stomach, and did not put her hand into the water. She was not going to 
  ask how the illusion had been accomplished. Cecelia grinned. "I can tell you 
  won't ask, so I'll give you a hint: Spirlin membrane." 
  Heris was very glad she hadn't put her hand in; it could have been 
  embarrassing. Spirlin membranes, suspended in water, increased surface tension 
  dramatically. They were also highly adherent to human skin, which often 
  reacted with the Spirlin chemistry by fluorescing for days after the contact. 
  "I... see." Heris looked around. This area of the Station seemed to consist of 
  gardens designed to the same weird standards as the Station itself and the 
  fountain. Steps, low walls, terraces with seating arrangements that argued 
  visually with each other -- that seemed determined to flow from angular to 
  curved, and back to angular, or, in some cases, to suggest by forced 
  perspective the incorrect size or distance. Planters suspended at unnerving 
  angles, all full of strange plants pruned to look like something else. When 
  she looked up, Heris found herself staring into the canopy of another garden, 
  looking down onto the heads of people walking along -- she swayed, disoriented 
  for a moment. Cecelia grabbed her arm. 
  "That one is a holo. I should have warned you -- sorry. Almost no one looks 
  up." 
  After that, Heris had no idea what kind of shuttle they would find in the 
  bay... but although it was more luxurious than commercial or military models, 
  it looked much the same on the outside, and brought them to the surface 
  safely. Lady Cecelia's party had it to themselves; Lady Cecelia and Heris in 
  the forward compartment, the young people in the main compartment, and Lady 
  Cecelia's maid and a few other servants in the aft section. Once well down in 
  the atmosphere, the cabin steward served a full dinner; by the time they 
  landed, shortly before sunset, Heris had almost reconciled herself to being a 
  passenger. 
  Chapter Nine 
  "We hoped you'd be here for the first day, Lady Cecelia," said the gnarled 
  little man at the entrance to the stable block. They had walked down from the 
  Main House -- which Heris had barely seen the night before, after the drive 
  from the shuttle-port -- to a set of buildings that looked as large as the 
  house. Pale yellow stone, trimmed with gray stone around windows and doors; a 
  wide, high arch with metal gates folded back... 
  "Things happen," said Cecelia. "Here -- I want you to know Heris Serrano, my 
  guest this year. She's a novice at hunting, but she's developing a decent 
  seat." 
  "Pleased, mum," the man said. Heris felt herself under inspection of some 
  sort, though she wasn't sure what he was looking for. Apparently she passed, 
  for his thin mouth widened to a smile. "Go on in -- he'll be waitin' for you." 

  "Now you'll see," said Cecelia as they came out of the arched entrance into a 
  wide bricked walk that lay between the rows of stalls and a low-fenced dirt 
  enclosure. Beyond was another archway, across which Heris saw a horse and 
  rider move at a trot in yet another enclosure. 
  "Lady Cecelia!" It was clear from the rearrangement of wrinkles that this 
  man's face seldom found such a smile. Lean, tanned, upright, brisk -- this had 
  to be the "Neil" who supervised all the training and the assignment of riders. 
  "About time -- I've held back two good prospects for you." He glanced at 
  Heris, and dismissed her, waving for someone to bring a horse forward. Cecelia 
  interrupted him. 
  "First -- meet Heris Serrano. She's my guest this year, and I've been giving 
  her preliminary instruction on the simulator --" 
  He looked at Heris again, this time with attention, and then back at Cecelia. 
  "With full programming?" 
  "What I use myself. She's a novice, but she's solid as far as she goes. She's 
  taking meter jumps now, but it's only sim; she needs practice before she goes 
  out in the field...." 
  "And you don't want me to treat her like a boneheaded kid who thinks he can 
  ride because he once stuck on a horse at a gallop, is that it? Did you think I 
  couldn't recognize maturity?" 
  "No -- but I want her to have a good experience. And I want you to supervise, 
  not one of your assistants, unless you've got better than last time." 
  "No... they go away when they get too good." His eyes measured Heris again. 
  "Of course... size doesn't matter, and all that, but I'd think to start her on 
  something reasonable. Sixteen?" 
  "Fine." 
  "She has to show me in the ring that she has the basics, but I'll shift her to 
  the outside course right away." 
  "Thanks, Neil." 
  "No problem." He was still staring at Heris as if she had sprouted scales, 
  then he nodded sharply and called "Bring me the bay mare in seventeen; size 
  sixteen saddle, and the eggbutt snaffle." To Heris he said, "If Lady Cecelia 
  says you're a promising novice, I'll believe it, and that mare will give you 
  the chance to show it. Honest, can jump, but not fast enough for the field. If 
  you suit, you can use her here until you qualify." Then, to Cecelia, "Now 
  watch this." 
  A thin girl led up a horse that looked enormous to Heris; it was a brown so 
  dark it looked black except in clear sun. Cecelia nodded. "Is that what you 
  got with the Buccinator sperm?" 
  "Yep. Off the Cullross mares. Two of 'em; the other's a liver chestnut. This 
  one's five, and before you say anything I know I didn't show him to you last 
  year.... Milord said not to, because it's a surprise. Want to try him?" 
  Heris could see the flush on Cecelia's cheek, the delight and eagerness that 
  made her almost girlish. 
  "Of course...." She was up in a flash, rising lightly to the hand that gave 
  her a leg up. Heris had, by this time, seen her employer on many horses in the 
  training cubes; she thought she knew how that long, lanky body, almost too 
  stiff at times on the ground, would look astride. Cecelia looked better -- as 
  if she and the horse had fused into one. 
  "Here, sir." That was someone else, with a smaller brown horse for Heris. The 
  man nodded at her, and she mounted without waiting for assistance. 
  "Come on, the both of you," he said. "You'll need to warm up inside anyway." 
  Heris, on her first live horse since her time in the Academy, found that 
  coordinating the movement of legs and hands while the horse actually walked -- 
  walked toward something -- was harder than she expected. She liked the higher 
  viewpoint, but wanted to spend it looking around, not steering. Ahead of her, 
  on the dark horse, Cecelia seemed to be having no problems. Heris lined up 
  behind her and hoped her horse would follow calmly while she tried to remember 
  all the lessons. 
  The inner training area, a walled oblong, offered fewer distractions. They 
  walked to the right; Neil moved to the center, watching. Heris began to relax, 
  letting her body discover the difference between the simulation and reality. 
  It still felt strange. This was not a mechanical device, or an electronic 
  image: this was an animal, a live thing, that smelled like an animal and felt 
  (when she dared touch the neck) like an animal. The horse blew, a long 
  slobbering breath, and Heris felt that in her legs. 
  Simulations work, she told herself. They're effective training tools; you 
  learned to pilot a ship off simulators; of course you can ride this animal. 
  The animal was slowing down, she realized, because she wasn't giving enough 
  signal with her legs. The simulation tended to keep a pace more easily; 
  Cecelia had mentioned that some horses required more leg pressure. Heris 
  increased it, and the horse's head came up (just like the VR image!) and it 
  walked faster. Mare. The man had said mare, and mares were females... so she 
  walked faster. 
  "Reverse," Neil said. Almost before she thought, Heris had shortened one rein, 
  shifted her legs slightly and the mare was turning smoothly to reverse 
  directions. It worked. Of course it had worked in the simulator, but it worked 
  on a real horse, too. She felt better. Maybe everything would work on the real 
  horse. She looked over at Cecelia, across the circle. Her employer did not 
  look anywhere near her actual age on that horse; she could have been Heris's 
  age or even younger. 
  "Pick up a nice trot, now," Neil said. 
  Trotting felt completely different from the simulator. She was off balance at 
  first, and she sensed Neil's disapproval. It took her an entire circuit of the 
  ring to figure out what was wrong; her ship-trained sense of balance had 
  worked on the simulator because it wasn't going anywhere relative to the ship 
  -- but the horse was going somewhere on the ground. If she leaned forward a 
  bit more -- she experimented -- suddenly the movement felt right. Cecelia was 
  right -- it could feel like dancing. 
  With that experience to draw on, she was prepared for the difference in the 
  feel of the canter, and compensated within a few bounds. The rush of cold air 
  on her face was exhilarating; she didn't want to stop. 
  "She'll do," Neil said to Cecelia. Then, to Heris, "All right, Captain -- back 
  to a walk now, and bring 'er in to the center. You can watch Lady Cecelia." 
  Heris slowed, remembering to brace her back, and guided the mare to near Neil. 
  Cecelia's horse was walking again. Heris tried to notice the things she'd been 
  taught to notice, but what struck her most was the horses size. Even from up 
  here, it looked big. When Heris had settled the mare in a halt, Cecelia nudged 
  her mount to a trot. She hadn't waited for Neil's signal, Heris noticed. 
  Watching the big horse trot, she wondered why Cecelia hadn't overtaken her. It 
  moved so much faster.... Cecelia slowed it again; its neck arched and its 
  steps shortened. Then it stretched, then compressed again. Heris was 
  fascinated. 
  "Let's try you both on a few fences," Neil said. He led the way out of that 
  ring into another, where four small jumps were set up. "You first," he said to 
  Heris. "Just pick up a trot and take the little white one." 
  Heris collected the mare, pushed her into a trot, and approached the first 
  jump. It seemed to stay in place while she moved, while the simulator had 
  given the illusion of the jump shifting toward her. Even as she thought this, 
  the mare rose to the jump, and Heris leaned into it. It felt the same, though. 
  She turned the mare around, awaiting orders. 
  "Now try these two," Neil said. That, too, went smoothly; she felt steady and 
  safe, but she knew the jumps were small. At Neil's command, she trotted over 
  all four, then cantered over a pair -- an in-and-out, he called it. He yelled, 
  and several husky youths appeared and moved the jumps around. Again she 
  jumped, first at a trot, and then a canter; first one way, then the other, as 
  the fence crew changed distances and heights. Neil said nothing about her 
  performance until it was over, when he called her to him. "Lady Cecelia's 
  right," he said. "You're a solid novice. We'll see later what you do in the 
  open. Walk 'er in circles down there -- " He pointed to the far end of the 
  enclosure. 
  Now it was Lady Cecelia's turn. The big dark horse poured over the jumps at a 
  trot, hardly seeming to lift itself. The jumps were raised, the distances 
  changed. Cecelia had explained the reasons, but even the simulator had not 
  made it clear to Heris just what these changes demanded from a live animal. 
  She watched the dark horse arch, lifting its knees high, as the jumps came up; 
  she watched it compress and lengthen as the jumps were placed closer together 
  or farther apart. And Cecelia, whom she had once considered a rich old 
  eccentric... Cecelia flowed with the horse, a part of it. 
  When they were through, they walked back up to the house together. Cecelia had 
  told Neil she would come back later to ride the other horse. "Now I want to be 
  sure Heris is settled," she said. "She needs to meet a few people, learn where 
  things are." 
  "Of course," Neil said. "But give me a call just before you come down." 
  Now Heris looked around her, more at ease than before. Like the house itself, 
  all the surrounding buildings were either built of stone or faced with it. 
  Most had stone or tile roofs as well. It looked remarkably like the cube of 
  Old Earth Europe. 
  "I suppose it's like the old parts of the Academy," she said, turning to watch 
  someone ride along a narrow cobbled street lined with stone buildings. 
  "Nostalgia or something..." 
  "And economy, here," Cecelia said. "You have to remember when this was settled 
  -- a bare two centuries ago. Bunny's ancestors had money, yes, but it was far 
  cheaper to import workers to build with local stone, than to import an entire 
  factory to create conventional materials. I suspect that the first ones simply 
  copied designs from old books -- and then it began to look Old Earthish, and 
  if someone teased them... well, that would have done it. They'd have insisted 
  it was intentional." She walked around a circular tub planted with brilliant 
  red flowers. "Of course it had all the usual comforts from the beginning; they 
  didn't start out to build historical reproductions." 
  "But what about the horses? Have they always had horses here?" 
  "Probably. Colonial worlds usually have horses; they're cheap local 
  transportation, self-replacing. Horse-based agriculture, too. Have you visited 
  many worlds in the early stages of settlement?" 
  "No, not on the surface. Except for leave, I've spent my time in ships or 
  offices." 
  "Mmm. Well, most import draft animals. Which ones depends in part on the world 
  itself, and in part on the settlers. The dominant draft animal can be equine, 
  bovine, or camelid." 
  "Camels?" asked Heris. She was not sure she knew what a camel looked like. 
  "And llamas," Cecelia said. "Have you ever seen camels?" 
  "No." This time she didn't explain. 
  "I haven't either, except in illustrations. One early Old-Earth breed of horse 
  was used in the same culture that also had camels. Ugly beasts, with humped 
  backs. It was said that they could be ridden, but I don't see how." Heris 
  didn't even want to think how. Tomorrow morning, she would be hunting again. 
  She was sure Heris would graduate into a hunt soon, and perhaps into the 
  greens in a week or so, but for now all she wanted to think about was tomorrow 
  morning. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  If it wasn't Opening Day, with its farcical reproductions of ancient 
  ceremonies via Surtees and Kipling, it was a hunting dawn. Cecelia put her 
  head out the window and breathed deeply. Yes. Cool enough, crisp and dry, and 
  she would have a new mount today. A Buccinator son. Sometimes the gods 
  rewarded you for virtues unknown. 
  Bunny's staff served impeccable, lavish hunt breakfasts -- and she enjoyed 
  food -- but today she hardly noticed either the traditional dishes or the 
  taste. The green hunt, composed of the most experienced and best riders, 
  talked little at breakfast this early in the season. Later, perhaps. Now they 
  all wanted but one thing -- the horses, the cold air, the speed, the chase. 
  They recognized this in each other; glance met glance over the clattering 
  silverware. 
  Outside, with the low sun gilding the stones, Cecelia walked down to the 
  stable block as happy as she had felt since leaving competition. This is what 
  life was about: a hot breakfast comfortable in one's stomach, and the prospect 
  of a good horse to ride over open country until the day ended. In her 
  saddlebag was her personal choice for a lunch snack -- on this, Bunny made no 
  attempt to enforce the more foolish tradition: if you wanted a thermpak of 
  shrimp-in-sweet-sauce, you could have it. Cecelia favored a hot turkey 
  sandwich, pickles and cheese, and hot coffee. 
  Buccinator's son, powerful and alert, stood waiting, held by a groom. She 
  mounted, picked up her reins, nodded to the groom, and set off at a walk to 
  quarter the yard. Then out the great stone arch to the front of the Main 
  House, where Bunny and the huntsmen would have brought the pack by now. Hooves 
  rang on the stones, riders began to talk, once mounted, in the quiet tones of 
  those who expect to be listened to. 
  She came around the side of the house.... ' There, in the sunlight, were the 
  hounds, sterns wagging as they swirled in controlled chaos around the hunt 
  staff in scarlet. Bunny grinned as she rode up to him. "You like him, do you?" 

  "You stinker -- you might have let me see him last year." 
  "He wasn't ready. But you're first to take him into the field; he's been 
  schooled but never hunted." 
  "You are most generous." And he was. To let a guest take a green horse into 
  the field -- with the green hunt, over the most demanding country -- she was 
  not sure she would have done it, had it been her horse and her country. 
  "He couldn't be in better hands," Bunny said. "One concession -- we're going 
  to start with the Long Tor foxes today." Which meant less woods riding, more 
  in the open, but the fences were stone walls, unforgiving of mistakes, and in 
  the open they'd be riding faster. 
  "Sounds like fun," Cecelia said. Other riders came up then, paying their 
  respects to the master, and she circled away. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  The Long Tor foxes cooperated by leading a long, circuitous chase across the 
  open slopes, in and out of difficult ravines, back up and around almost to 
  their beginning. The Buccinator son proved himself, maturing at every wall and 
  ditch, the scope and speed of Buccinator bloodlines keeping him out of trouble 
  and well up. Cecelia didn't push him. There was no reason to race; everyone 
  knew how she could ride, and everyone knew the horse was green. Far more 
  important to give him a good day's work, and the confidence to go on another 
  time. They rode back in a golden afternoon, the young horse still with power 
  to spare, and Neil gave her a thumbs-up when she came through the arch. 
  "Cool and quiet, and not a mark on him... and you're happy with him?" 
  "He's all you promised. Never shirked, never tried to turn away from anything. 
  He'd have gone faster if I'd asked -- actually, I had to hold him back at 
  first." 
  "Good. That's what I hoped for. He should be ready day after tomorrow; you can 
  have old Gossip tomorrow, if you want." 
  "Give him two days off," Cecelia said. "It's his first season. Flat work 
  tomorrow, and the day after I'll come do a little schooling on him when I get 
  back from the hunt --" 
  "You think you'll have the energy?" 
  Cecelia gave him a mock glare. He was always trying to suggest she was too 
  old, but they both knew it was a joke. "I could school three horses now, as 
  you well know -- shall I prove it?" 
  "No... just give Gossip a run tomorrow. I let Cal have him for Opening Day, 
  and he bucked over the first ten fences, Cal said. Your friend Captain 
  Serrano's doing well; I'm going to put her in the blues, for her first run." 
  Cecelia came back to the house thoroughly satisfied. Now if Heris and young 
  Ronnie would only realize how much fun this was. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Heris had spent several hours riding to Neil's exacting standard, on the flat 
  and over the fences of the outside course. His announcement that she would 
  ride in the blues was, she knew, a reward, though she would just as soon have 
  had something more tangible and immediate. She came back to the house stiff 
  but not really sore, ready for a hot bath, but the house itself fascinated 
  her. 
  The big stone building was huge, an institution rather than a dwelling place. 
  It had four levels aboveground and one below, and an astounding number of 
  rooms, corridors, staircases, arches, ramps, lifts, balconies, and other 
  architectural bits for which Heris had no name. On the ground floor were rooms 
  devoted to reading, sitting, talking, dancing, dining, lunching, breakfasting, 
  and playing games of chance or billiards. High ceilings and large rooms made 
  Heris think of an overdecorated flight deck on her cruiser. Most of the guest 
  rooms were on the second floor, along with another library and a '"withdrawing 
  room" for women, which overlooked a rose garden. The third floor, Cecelia 
  said, had both guest rooms and family suites, while the fourth was 
  (traditionally) the servants' quarters. 
  Heris had a bedroom the size of her entire suite on the yacht, with a bathroom 
  almost as large as the bedroom. Two windows opened to the east, with a view 
  across a lower roof to scattered buildings on green fields beyond. A white 
  vase filled with fragrant roses stood on the black polished bureau; a deskcomp 
  stood beside it. The bathroom amazed her even more. As big as most rooms, it 
  had every luxury fixture she'd heard of, and two she hadn't. She eyed the 
  nozzles with suspicion and left them alone. She bathed, relaxed for a time in 
  swirling hot water, and dried her hair, half amused at herself for taking so 
  long. It was a very unmilitary situation. 
  The same dress she had worn that first night at Takomin Roads would do, 
  Cecelia had said, for dinner. She added a simple but elegant silver necklace, 
  then made her way through the maze of corridors to the main stair, and 
  descended its graceful curves. Voices rose towards her; she felt as shy as she 
  had the first night on a new ship, coming to the wardroom. 
  Cecelia waited at the foot of the stairs, her short hair lifted into a 
  graceful wave of silver and auburn. She wore the amber necklace Heris had 
  admired, and a long, beaded tunic in bronze and ochre over a flowing 
  copper-colored skirt. It was hard to believe she was an old woman, and had 
  spent all day on a horse. She smiled. 
  "I thought you might like a few introductions." 
  "Thank you," Heris said. She had tried to form no expectations, but she was 
  surprised. All the men in traditional black and white, all the women in long 
  gowns, looked more like athletes than wealthy layabouts. Yet the surroundings, 
  and the clothes, and the jewelry, were straight out of caricature. She managed 
  not to stare as a dark-haired beauty undulated by in a rustle of silvery silk, 
  its folds seemingly held to her by affection alone. 
  That's the Contessa," Cecelia said. Her eyes twinkled. "That's what she likes 
  to be called, rather. It's all a sort of game... being a character out of 
  history, or rather out of a story about history. They've read all the fiction 
  of the period, and they take parts. Not formally, in the evenings, but one is 
  expected to recognize a good version of a familiar character." 
  "Books... like the Surtees and Kipling you loaned me?" 
  "That's a beginning. You'll have to look into Bunny's library. Come along -- 
  you need to meet him." 
  Heris tried to suppress her curiosity in the presence of her host, Lord 
  Thornbuckle. Was he, too, taking a character to portray? Was that long, 
  foolish face his by nature or by design? He murmured a greeting to her, a 
  longer and warmer one to Lady Cecelia, along with his regrets that she had not 
  made the Opening Day. 
  "We had some delays," Cecelia said. 
  "So I understand from the children," he said. "How nice of you to have brought 
  them along. Sorry -- let's talk after dinner -- " And he turned to greet 
  someone else, with a faint shrug that made clear to Heris he'd rather talk to 
  Cecelia. 
  "And you must meet Miranda," Cecelia said. "His wife, Buttons and Bubbles's 
  mother, though it's hard to believe. She takes rejuv like kittens take cream." 

  And in fact Heris would not have suspected the sweet-faced blonde to be old 
  enough to have children Bubbles's age... let alone older ones. Miranda 
  murmured polite nothings to them, and introduced them to a Colonel Barksly, 
  who eyed Heris warily before wandering off to get something to drink -- or so 
  he said. Heris suspected he would go straight to a comp and start looking her 
  up in some index of officers somewhere. She wished him luck. Miranda confided 
  to Cecelia that they were having trouble again with "that Consuela woman" and 
  Cecelia made appropriate sympathetic noises before excusing herself to 
  "introduce Captain Serrano around a bit." 
  Heris had never been fond of the predinner social hour anyway, and this one 
  seemed to last forever. She felt out of place in these tall, cold rooms with 
  their consciously ancient decorations, surrounded by people whose gowns had 
  cost more than her Fleet salary. But just as she thought how much she would 
  prefer a snack in her room, a sweet-toned bell rang and someone (she couldn't 
  see who) announced dinner. A flurry of movement; she found herself provided 
  with a dinner partner (and felt fortunate to have read the Kipling) and soon 
  sat at the long, polished table beneath the pseudobaronial banners. 
  Her partner, it seemed, was one of Bunny's distant cousins, and "desperately 
  keen to hunt." Heris had no trouble with the conversation. The cousin wanted 
  only a listener for his tale of the Opening Day hunt, todays hunt, the 
  performance of his horse, the beauty of the weather, the cunning of the fox, 
  and the inept handling of the hounds by the new huntsman. 
  "-- wouldn't pay him any mind at all, and worse all day. Bunny should never 
  have let Cockran retire." 
  "Nonsense!" huffed a husky man from across the table. "Cockran hasn't been 
  well the last two seasons, and he's due for rejuv. Bunny had no choice. 
  Besides, Drew wasn't that bad. That couple of pups gave him trouble, but the 
  good old 'uns stayed true. And that last run --" 
  "Well, but you weren't up where you could see the cast in that wood --" 
  The food that came and went through all this was ample and hearty, not nearly 
  as elegant as the meals Cecelia had served her, but more filling. Heris 
  wondered if Bunny's household adhered to the custom of women leaving the table 
  early, or to the more modern format where the heavy drinkers dispersed to one 
  room, and those preferring stimulants to another. The latter, she found; she 
  went into the "coffee-room" with some relief, for the long-winded cousin had 
  chosen to drown his bruises in brandy. 
  "You're ex-military aren't you?" asked someone at her elbow. The colonel she'd 
  been introduced to earlier, in fact. Barksly, that was his name. Heris 
  repressed a sigh. Two bores in one evening? But the colonel's brown eyes 
  twinkled at her. "You deserve a medal for that -- Laurence Boniface has rarely 
  had such a patient listener; most of the ladies gather their conversational 
  reins at the beginning and try to make a race of it." 
  "The food was too good," Heris said demurely. He laughed. 
  "And I thought it was recognition of a hopeless cause. Tell me, though: 
  royals, regulars, or ground forces?" He was not one to give up an inquiry. 
  "Regulars." She would make it short and firm; would he take the hint? 
  "Ah," he said. She could almost hear the gears twitching in his brain. "I met 
  an Admiral Serrano once, at an embassy do on Seychartin." 
  "If he was two meters tall, with a scar from his left ear across his cheek, 
  that was my uncle Sabado. If she was my height, with lots of braids, it was my 
  aunt Vida." Actually there had been eight Admiral Serranos in the past fifteen 
  years, but only two that she knew of had served on Seychartin while holding 
  that rank. 
  "Your aunt, then. There's a strong family resemblance." 
  "So I've been told," said Heris. She braced herself for more questions; she 
  knew he was asking them in his mind. But his next words left the questions 
  untouched 
  "It's unusual for Regular Fleet officers to have riding as a hobby," he said. 
  "Lady Cecelia would convert anyone," Heris said, relieved. Maybe she was safe, 
  now, although this sort of colonel had a habit of making oblique attacks later 
  in an acquaintance. "We had a wager, which she won; the forfeit was that I 
  would take instruction from her. In the process, I discovered an interest." 
  "Ah," he said, this time in a different tone. "Do you know, years ago when I 
  was a small boy, I happened to see her ride, one of her professional events. 
  It was cold and wet, I remember, a nasty blowing drizzling rain that went 
  right through whatever you wore. I had been bored, even though I rather liked 
  horses, because I couldn't see over the grownups. I would see the top of 
  someone's cap flash by, and that was it. People would groan or cheer, and I 
  didn't know why. My feet were cold; my neck was wet; I'd have gone home if I 
  could. Then everyone was saying 'Here she comes!' and someone -- I never even 
  knew the man -- set me up on his shoulders, and out of the murk came this huge 
  horse with a red-headed woman on it, and they jumped something that looked to 
  my child's eyes to be four meters high and every bit that wide. Of course it 
  wasn't, but I was impressed anyway. For a whole term I wanted to be an event 
  rider." 
  "Were you ever?" asked Heris. She found she really cared; he had a gift for 
  storytelling that Bunny's poor cousin utterly lacked. 
  "Oh, no. I was too young to be faithful to dreams; the next thing I wanted to 
  do was play a very rough ball game popular at our school, and since it was 
  available and good horses were not, I learned to play that, and liked it. Real 
  riding came later, and by then I knew I wanted a career in the military or 
  possibly security forces." 
  "I wish I'd seen her," Heris said. "She's shown me the cubes, of course, but 
  now that I've ridden a real horse I can imagine that the effect is very 
  different if you're actually there, seeing it." 
  "Magnificent," he said, smiling. "But do you have your hunt assignment yet?" 
  "Blue," said Heris. "Day after tomorrow, Neil said; tomorrow I'm to have 
  another session over fences." 
  "Good for you. If he's scheduled you into the blue, you're doing well. Let me 
  introduce you to some of the other blue hunt members." He led her to a cluster 
  of people who were all talking about the day's chase. Heris wondered which 
  hunt he rode with. Cecelia had explained the system, but it still seemed 
  odd.... For one thing, she didn't understand why the hunt levels didn't have 
  names taken from the books, instead of colors. If they were all so interested 
  in reproducing history... 
  "Ah," said a tall lanky blond man. "Captain Serrano, Lady Cecelia's new friend 
  -- we've heard about you." Heris had no chance to wonder what he meant, for he 
  went on. "Nell's bragging to everyone -- of course, she's his pet example of 
  what we should all aspire to, and now as a teacher as well as rider. Is it 
  really true that you had never mounted a live horse until today?" 
  Heris allowed herself a slow smile. "Not at all. But it's true I had ridden 
  little, many years ago, and hadn't been on a horse since I was... oh... 
  perhaps twenty-three." 
  "You'd never jumped?" 
  "No." 
  "I told you, Stef, Lady Cecelia's simulator is legendary." That was a 
  red-haired woman about Heris's height, who wore a gown of mossy green with 
  wide sleeves.... Heris realized why, when she saw the wrist brace. 
  "It must be." Stef, the tall man, shook his head. "Maybe it would help me. It 
  took me five seasons to work up from the red hunt to the blue, and I've been 
  stuck in blue for ten." Others chuckled; the red-haired woman turned to Heris. 

  "Tell me -- did you find real horses easy after the simulator?" 
  "Not exactly easy, but much easier than I would have without it. And after the 
  second ride, it was almost the same, a continuation of the same training." 
  Cecelia appeared at her shoulder. "I hate to break this up, but you've got 
  that early lesson, and I'm off with the greens at dawn -- and there's a 
  message from the Station." She smiled at the group around Heris, and they 
  smiled in a way that let Heris know how much clout Cecelia had. She was almost 
  tempted to refuse the suggestion just to see them react, but that would be 
  cheap, so she said good night and followed Cecelia upstairs. 
  "Message?" she asked on the way. 
  "Nothing much -- the ones you left aboard --" 
  "The standing watch," Heris murmured. 
  "Whatever. Letting you know that the others arrived safely in Hospitality Bay, 
  and that the new equipment is functioning correctly so far. Did you ask for 
  regular reports?" 
  "Of course," Heris said. "If they didn't report, how would I know whether 
  things are going well?" 
  "Oh. I'd assume they were -- but before you even remind me, if it were a 
  stable and not a ship I would be the way you are. When I was off competing, I 
  spent incredible sums checking back with the home yard to see if they'd 
  remembered things -- and they always had." 
  "Because you checked," Heris said. "I'll call back up -- anything else?" 
  "Well... yes. I hope you won't be offended --" 
  "I won't." Although she wasn't entirely sure. On her home ground -- and she 
  treated Lord Thornbuckle's planet as her home ground -- Cecelia had some of 
  the very habits Heris had feared when she first hired on with a rich old lady. 

  "Some of them are terrible gossips," Cecelia said, speaking softly. "It's not 
  just that they'll repeat what you said.... They'll embellish it. It'll be 
  worse because you're here as my guest; they've chewed my past to tasteless 
  mush already, and you're something new. I know you can deal with it, but don't 
  be surprised if you hear that we're lovers or something." 
  "Lovers!" Heris nearly choked. "Us?" 
  "Predictable gossip," Cecelia said. Her cheeks were very pink. 
  "I'm sorry." Heris realized that her reaction could be construed as 
  unflattering. "It's just -- I mean --" 
  "We aren't. I know. But since I never married, they've been trying all the 
  theories about why not, one after another until the end and back again. That 
  crowd that rides the blue hunt is the worst -- Stef, in particular, would 
  rather talk than ride, as you can tell when you see him mounted." 
  "You know," Heris said, as they mounted another flight of stairs, "I wouldn't 
  talk about you -- or Ronnie." 
  "I know. It's not that I just -- I want you to enjoy this, Heris. Not as my 
  captain, but as my guest. And it occurred to me that you might not have their 
  sort of gossip in the military." 
  "Oh, don't we!" Heris chuckled. "Same both places, I expect. Some wouldn't 
  touch it, but others can't wait to guess who's in bed with whom, using what 
  chemicals or gadgets. Don't worry; I can be dense when it suits me." 
  "Good." Cecelia took a few more steps, then stopped to face Heris. "If you pay 
  attention in the blue hunt, you'll probably be up in green very soon. They're 
  looking for several things -- how solid you are over fences, how done the 
  horse comes back, and whether you interfere in the field." 
  "Do you want me in the green hunt?" Heris asked. It had become clear how much 
  respect the greens had, but not whether Cecelia wanted competition. 
  "Of course I do! Heavens, girl, I wouldn't have brought you if I'd thought 
  you'd be stuck in a lower hunt the whole season. It wouldn't have been fair to 
  you, or as much fun for me. Go on, now, and get your rest. I'll be interested 
  in hearing about your day." 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  That last visit to the tailor had taken out the slight wrinkle in the back of 
  her jacket.... Heris looked at herself in the mirror with a mixture of 
  amusement and pride. Amusement, because the clothing proper to foxhunting 
  still struck her as ludicrous: why wear light-colored tight breeches when you 
  were going to gallop big dirty animals through the mud? And pride, because at 
  over forty she still had the condition to look sixteen or so in those same 
  tight pants, white shirt, and dark jacket. 
  Despite the training, and Cecelia's assurance that she was ready, Heris found 
  the chaos in the blue hunt's meeting area tingling along her nerves. She 
  looked for Neil, but saw only the second level of help. Of course, Neil would 
  be with the green hunt. Surely he'd chosen the mounts, though.... She eyed the 
  big red -- chestnut, she reminded herself -- gelding being led towards her 
  with some concern. 
  "Tiger II," said the groom, a thickset woman even darker than Heris. "Need a 
  leg?" 
  "In a moment." Heris went through the drill Cecelia had taught her, checking 
  the bridle and girth herself, then accepted a leg and swung into the saddle. 
  She hoped the beast's name did not reflect his temperament 
  "He pulls, sometimes," the groom said. "But he'll answer a sharp check. Keep 
  him back, and calm, and he'll go all day. Get in a fight with him, and you'll 
  wish you hadn't." 
  Great. She had a problem horse for her first hunt, her first performance in 
  front of everyone. She looked down at the groom, expecting to see sly 
  satisfaction, but the woman's smile was friendly. "Don't worry," the woman 
  said. "He's not a bad 'un for a first time out; he can jump anything, and will 
  -- the only thing is don't let him go too strong till he's worked himself down 
  a bit." 
  "Thank you," Heris said. "Any other advice?" 
  This time the woman's face creased in a broad grin. "Well -- I wouldn't let 
  him slow down in water... he likes to roll. If you come to a stream, get him 
  over in a hurry." 
  The horse snorted and shook his head; Heris firmed her grip on the reins. 
  "I'll be careful," she said. The groom stepped back. Heris looked around and 
  saw that about half the riders were up. She had room to walk the red horse -- 
  Tiger -- in a small circle, and did so, first one way then the other. As the 
  minutes passed, she calmed down. It was just another horse, and they were 
  going out to ride over just another field. She had told herself that same lie 
  in other situations, and it always helped. So did "tonight this will be over." 

  Chapter Ten 
  The hounds led the way, their long tails -- Heris couldn't make herself call 
  such a biologic ornament a stern; ships had sterns -- whipping back and forth 
  or carried high, eager. She got only a glimpse of them before the rest of the 
  field passed out the gate and blocked her view. She intended to make sure 
  Tiger understood who was in charge while they were still at a walk. 
  As they came around the end of the stable wing, Heris could see both the other 
  hunts moving away to the east and west. The beginners (so Cecelia had called 
  them), would hunt the flat, open country to the east, where the fences were 
  lower and the pseudofoxes lived in brushy thickets. The green hunt had the 
  western hills, with long open slopes and timber at the top and bottom. And 
  they, the blue hunt, had a mixed country, rather like lumpy potatoes in a 
  kettle. Little hills with little creeks between them, little patches of woods 
  and others of brush, odd-shaped fields bordered with stone walls or ditches or 
  both. 
  Verisimilitude, Cecelia had explained, influenced only some of Lord 
  Thornbuckle's eccentricities. That rather lumpy country had been the first 
  colony settlement on this world, bought out by one of the present owner's 
  ancestors. They had tried to make a quick profit out of open-pit mining to pay 
  off their initial investment, then botched the mid-level terraforming that was 
  supposed to convert the area into something their heirs could live on and 
  from. Instead, they went broke, and left behind ugly pit mines, irregular 
  heaps of spoil, ponds and wandering streams fouled with acid and heavy metals. 
  Now, some hundreds of years later, the area was still unsafe for use in any 
  food chain humans would use, but it could support hardy plants, animals with a 
  tolerance for heavy metals and acid water, and recreation. Wool and leather 
  and sport were its crops. 
  Tiger yanked on the bit, and Heris brought her mind firmly back to the 
  immediate moment. Someone had trotted past -- she found it hard to recognize, 
  in the plain black coats and hats, the people she had met at dinner the night 
  before -- and the red horse wanted to follow. She refused, and met his attempt 
  to sidle out from behind the horse in front with a firm leg. He tested her in 
  the next few minutes, as they rode to cover, with a curvet here, and a 
  pretense at a shy there; she was reminded of certain troublemakers she had 
  known, and had no problem keeping him under control. 
  "Ah -- Captain Serrano!" The grinning man next to her was the tall lanky blond 
  Cecelia had said liked talk better than riding. He was on a horse which looked 
  like a stuffed caricature of the animal Neil had shown Cecelia: large, dark 
  brown, but this time coarse and bulgy instead of powerful and sleek. And he 
  rode sloppily; even Heris could tell that. "Lovely morning, isn't it? Are you 
  ready for Tiger? Did they tell you?" 
  "That he pulls, yes, and to keep him out of the water." Heris glanced around. 
  They were near the tail of the group, and she could tell from the tension in 
  the reins that Tiger wasn't happy about it. 
  "You don't have to stay back here," the man said. Stef, his name was. 
  "Mid-field's enough; just keep him away from the leaders." 
  "I'm fine," Heris said. "I like to watch the others." Cecelia had told her to 
  stay well back, even this far back, and she trusted Cecelia's advice more than 
  someone who sat his horse like a jellied custard. 
  "Come on, Stef!" someone called from ahead, and he shrugged and kicked his 
  horse into a trot. Heris anticipated Tiger's attempt to lunge forward, and 
  rehearsed for the hundredth time what Cecelia had told her, and what she had 
  read. 
  The hounds would be turned loose to find the smell -- the scent -- of one of 
  the pseudofoxes, and then they would "give tongue." Now that Heris had heard 
  them, from a distance, she agreed that "barked" was inadequate. With the 
  hounds following the scent, the field would follow -- cautiously -- because 
  pseudofoxes, like their Old Earth predecessors, were tricky beasts. More than 
  once they'd popped into view in the midst or even rear of the field, causing a 
  wild confusion of horses and hounds and usually getting clean away. One had to 
  give the pack time to work the scent, to untangle the maze the prey left, and 
  push the fox into the open. Only when the fox was sighted did things move 
  faster -- eventually very fast. 
  They came to a scrubby wood bordered on one side by a tangle of two-meter 
  brush. Riders gathered in a clump; the few who spoke did so quietly, and most 
  checked girths and stirrup leathers, and kept quiet. Heris put a leg forward 
  cautiously and found that Tiger's girth could come up another notch, just as 
  the groom had said. She drew in a long breath of cold, moist morning air, on 
  which the smell of horse and dog and wet clay hung suspended in a fundamental 
  cleanliness utterly unlike ship's air. Planets felt so spacious; there always 
  seemed to be room, somewhere beyond -- although she knew very well they were 
  as tightly limited as any ship, just larger. Somewhere ahead and to the left, 
  she heard the noise of the pack, the busy feet pattering on leaves and twigs, 
  the coarse, eager panting, an occasional muffled yelp. Something small and 
  gray and bouncy -- not a pseudofox, but something it probably ate -- shot into 
  the clearing and two horses shied away from it. Tiger threw up his head, but 
  Heris held him firmly and the little animal scattered through the field 
  without causing any real damage. Another animal -- Heris got a good look at 
  this one, and it was a small, black, tree-climber with a bushy tail -- clung 
  to a nearby tree and made angry chattering noises at them, flipping its tail 
  as punctuation. 
  Heris had just begun to wonder if anything would happen when one of the hounds 
  gave a sobbing moan, and another joined in. She had lost track of their 
  movements; they now sounded ahead and to the right, and she could hear 
  crackling in the brush. Around her, the riders gathered up reins, and edged 
  into position. Some began moving, at a walk, in the direction of the noise. 
  Then a horn blew a signal she didn't know, and everyone set off after it. 
  For a long time they seemed to move at a walk or slow trot, making their way 
  through the woods and through a lane in the brush beyond it. Tiger tossed his 
  head a lot, but otherwise gave Heris no trouble. At the end of the brush a low 
  stone wall offered the first chance to test jumping skills in the field. 
  Heris, at the end of the field, had to wait a long time while others scrambled 
  over, some with difficulty. By the time it was her turn, stones lay tumbled at 
  the foot, and the wall was scarcely a half-meter high. Tiger bounced over it 
  with contempt, ears flat, and kicked up on the far side. Only those who had 
  had refusals and turned aside to wait were behind her now. She could see the 
  backs of the first riders rising as their horses leaped an obstacle across the 
  field she'd just jumped into. 
  Tiger fought the bit all the way across the field, took off late for the rail 
  fence on its far side, and whacked it with his forelegs. Heris had no trouble 
  staying on, but she could tell her shoulders would hurt if he was this 
  stubborn all day long. The fence seemed to have settled him, though, for he 
  followed the field along a track through sparse trees without trying to race 
  ahead. Heris couldn't see exactly where they were headed next, but she felt 
  more confidence in her ability to survive this odd ritual. 
  Tiger's strong trot brought the field back to her, as most of the riders chose 
  to squeeze through a gate at the end of the track rather than jump another, 
  higher wall. Some of those who had tried the jump hadn't made it; Heris saw 
  one woman climbing back onto her horse, and a man stalking a loose horse which 
  was slyly moving off just too fast to be caught. Beyond the gate, they faced a 
  sluggish stream, well-muddied by recent crossings, and a steep slope across it 
  up one of the small irregular hills. Remembering the groom's advice, Heris 
  took a firm contact, and gave Tiger a smart tap in the ribs. With a snort, he 
  plunged into the water, and lurched up the far bank. Heris couldn't remember 
  if she was supposed to avoid trotting up hill or down (someone had said 
  something about it, she thought) so she walked sedately up, trusting that she 
  could see where everyone was from the top. Tiger's ears were no longer back; 
  apparently he'd given up the fight 
  She had imagined a hill like an overturned bowl, with a definite top, from 
  which she could see all sides. As soon as the slope flattened, she realized 
  her mistake. She might as well have assumed that being at the top of a loading 
  platform or the flight deck of her carrier would let her see everything going 
  on below. From the irregular and unlevel top of the hill, the downward slopes 
  were mostly invisible. Some fell off steeply, and others were hidden in clumps 
  of trees or brush. She looked around for a clue. The ground had plenty of 
  hoofprints, but she was no tracker to know which were recent. Far off in the 
  distance, tiny horses stretched across the slope of another hill -- but that 
  couldn't be the hunt she was following, it was too far away. A fresh breeze 
  made just enough noise in the nearest trees to cover the sound of the 
  hounds... although she hadn't heard it for some time, she realized. She'd just 
  been following the tail-end riders. 
  She felt stupid, and bored, and suddenly very irritated with Lady Cecelia. 
  Surely this was not what riding to hounds was supposed to be like, dawdling 
  along at the end of a group of people who fell off and got lost. How could 
  they call it hunting? Only those in the front of the group were actually 
  hunting, and they were just following the hounds, who were chasing a fake fox, 
  an artificial animal designed to be quarry. The whole thing was a fake -- a 
  pretense of historical accuracy, modified for modern convenience. 
  A quiver beneath her reminded her that she wasn't standing on a machine, or a 
  fake animal, but riding a real, living animal with its own initiative. Tiger's 
  ears were forward, pricked, and he stamped the ground with a forehoof. She 
  looked in the direction of his gaze. The little horses had disappeared into a 
  wood, too far away still, she was sure... but Tiger didn't think so. 
  She muttered a curse that was thoroughly untraditional on the hunting field, 
  being born of things you could do with weapons found only on spaceships, and 
  nudged Tiger into motion. "You like to hunt, they told me," she said to the 
  horse's ears. One of them flicked back, as if he understood. "Find the damned 
  hunt, then." Tiger picked up a trot, and as the downhill slope steepened, he 
  lunged into a gallop. Heris had just time to think she shouldn't have let him 
  do that. Then they were in the trees, and she was too busy keeping her head 
  off limbs to worry about it 
  Out of the woods, into a field bounded by more woods: Tiger took the fence 
  from trees to grass in an easy bound, crossed the field in five strides, and 
  rolled over the wall at the far side into a track Heris had not noticed until 
  they were in it. No trees... a long curving ride up and around the shoulder of 
  another hill, through an open gate, down across a grassy field. Tiger, wiser 
  than she, skirted the rock-edged sinkhole in the middle and made for a gap he 
  evidently knew well. A downward rocky slope, where even Tiger slowed to a 
  walk, and Heris got her breath back as they slithered through some 
  spicy-smelling trees towards another creek. That had been fun, if scary: she 
  began to think that whether it counted as hunting or not, it was more fun to 
  ride fast than slow. 
  By this time Heris had no idea where they were, but the horse's ears still 
  pricked forward. He minced across the little creek and into the woods on the 
  far side. Suddenly Heris heard the hounds again, and from this distance had to 
  admit they sounded almost like horns themselves. They were ahead through the 
  woods, moving left to right.... She gathered herself just in time, as Tiger 
  sprang upward, dodging through trees with no regard at all for her legs. She 
  could steer him, she found, and even moderate his speed; she pulled him to a 
  solid canter rather than a headlong gallop. 
  The belling of hounds rang out nearer; at the top of the wood, they came out 
  of the trees to find the hounds strung out on that hill's bald top, with the 
  field close behind them and the fox in view before. Heris managed to swing 
  Tiger around behind the front runners, though he fought her. Then they were in 
  with others, galloping over short grass toward what looked like a pile of 
  rocks. The leaders swerved around it, and poured over a wall just ahead of 
  Heris. Tiger rose to the wall, and she got a quick glimpse of where they were 
  going -- the hounds, the streak of red-brown that must be the fox, the 
  huntsman in red -- before they were into the next field, this one draped 
  across the shoulder of its hill like a shawl. Tiger flattened beneath her, 
  passing a gray horse and a black, and jumping the briars and stones that 
  separated that field from another. 
  "Well ridden!" came from behind her, but she had no attention to spare. His 
  earlier exertions hadn't tired the red horse, and he was pulling her arms out. 
  The leaders were nearer now, as Tiger thundered on, lunging against the reins, 
  and his next jump put him even with the first of the field. Heris knew she 
  should be holding him back... but excitement sang the last remnants of doubt 
  out of her bones. She had not felt this exultation since -- she pushed that 
  away. Now -- this horse, this field, this next jump -- was all that mattered. 
  All in a clump they raced, angling across the field after the hounds, to jump 
  a sharp ditch.... Someone fell there, but Tiger had carried her over safely. 
  Ahead was another rockpile, to which the fox sped, and into which it vanished. 
  The hounds swarmed over it, clamoring, but they were not diggers and the fox 
  had found a safe lair. Heris got Tiger slowed, then circled him until he 
  walked; he was wet and breathing hard, but clearly not exhausted. Nor was she; 
  she hoped they'd find another fox and do it again. She could have laughed at 
  her earlier mood: boring? This? No. It was all Cecelia had promised. 
  The huntsmen set to work to call the hounds back and get them in order. 
  Meanwhile the rest of the blue hunt rode up. Some she had met, and some she 
  hadn't, all now willing to speak to her and tell her how well she'd done. 
  "I didn't really," she said to the third or fourth person who came up to her. 
  "I got lost, then the horse seemed to hear something --" 
  "But that's wonderful," the woman said. She had one wrist in a brace, and 
  Heris realized it was the same one she'd seen at dinner. "That's what you're 
  supposed to do, and you actually caught up. Most people, once they're lost, 
  spend the whole day wandering around without a clue, or give up and go home." 
  "Which hill were you on?" one of the men asked. Heris looked around, but had 
  no idea. The jumbled landscape looked as confused to her as a star chart 
  probably would to these people. 
  "It was near the beginning," she said slowly. "There was a track through 
  woods, then a creek, then a lot of tracks straight up the hill...." 
  "The Goosegg? You got here in time for the final run from Goosegg?" Now they 
  seemed even more impressed. Heris wondered why. She thought of asking but 
  shrugged instead. 
  "Tiger did it," she said. It was true, anyway: he had known where to go, and 
  he'd taken her there without any serious bruises. They liked that, she could 
  see; Cecelia had told her that horse people expect riders to praise horses and 
  take the blame themselves for errors. 
  For a time, nothing much happened; the hounds stood panting, tongues hanging 
  out; some of them flopped down and rolled. Riders stretched, or took a swallow 
  from flasks in the saddlebag. A few dismounted, and disappeared discreetly 
  behind the rockpile. Horses stood hipshot, or walked slowly around as their 
  riders talked or drank. A few stragglers appeared, one by one, on lathered 
  mounts, but perhaps a third of the field had disappeared. Heris wondered if 
  they were going to look for another fox -- it was still morning, by the sun. 
  When the hunt moved again, it was both calmer and more businesslike than the 
  morning's first action. Heris felt the difference as a sense of purpose, as if 
  a ship's crew steadied to some task. First the huntsman took the hounds down 
  the field, toward a patch of woods near a stream -- this one, Heris noted from 
  the hillside, widened to a pond at one point Riders rechecked girths and 
  stirrups; those who had dismounted got up again, and those who had been 
  chatting stopped. Someone Heris didn't yet know put to her eye a most 
  untraditional military-issue eyepiece; Heris wished she herself had had the 
  wit to get one; that lucky soul would be seeing whatever she looked at in 
  plenty of magnification and perfect lighting. She could see fleas on the fox's 
  coat, if a fox came out. 
  Then the hounds found another trail. At the first peel of the horn, Tiger 
  trembled; Heris steadied him, but didn't hold him back to the rear of the 
  group this time. Steadily, without haste, the field moved toward the call at a 
  brisk trot. This time no one in front of Heris had a refusal at the low wall 
  and ditch... nor did she... and they trotted on through the woods, lured by 
  the hound song and the horn. Behind her, the bulk of the field stretched out. 
  Out of the woods: she could see the scarlet coats ahead, the hounds now fifty 
  meters in the lead across a field. Tiger wasn't pulling as badly, but her 
  sentiments were with him, now; she would like to have charged at the next 
  field as fast as he would go. It had become more than the physical delight of 
  riding over fences at speed; it was a hunt, and she wanted to be part of it. 
  Now she could admit it to herself -- she had not felt this completely alive, 
  this exultant, since she'd commanded her own ship in combat. And that had been 
  tempered with grief and worry, knowing that she risked her crew, people who 
  trusted her. Here, she risked only herself; she had no responsibility for the 
  others. No wonder people liked hunting... but she had no more time to think 
  about it, and that, too, became part of the pleasure. 
  That run, her first full run, remained a confusion in her mind, when she tried 
  to tell Cecelia about it. Field and wood and field succeeded each other too 
  rapidly; she had to concentrate on riding, on steering Tiger around trees and 
  readying herself for the fences, walls, ditches, banks that came at her every 
  time she thought she'd caught her breath. It felt as if they'd been riding all 
  day -- a lifetime -- when she heard the hounds' voices change, heard the 
  huntsman yell at them, and realized that they'd caught the fox, out in the 
  middle of a vast open bowl between the hills, with a little stinking marsh off 
  to one side. This time Tiger was willing to stop; she sat there panting and 
  hoping she would not disgrace herself by slithering off his back to lie in a 
  heap on the ground. 
  Breath and awareness came back to her even as the rest of the field came up. 
  "You can ride," said the woman with the wrist brace, again beside her. "Don't 
  tell me it's all that horse; I've ridden him myself." 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  In the hunting frenzy of Lord Thornbuckle's establishment, Ronnie saw his 
  companions change. Buttons, who had been growing perceptibly stuffier over the 
  last year, became a proper son of the household, and took over the red hunt 
  without complaint. He seemed almost a parody of his father, despite the 
  difference in looks. Sarah simply vanished; when they asked, Buttons looked 
  down his nose and muttered something about wedding preparations. Ronnie wished 
  he had such a handy excuse. The others had to undergo evaluation by the head 
  trainer -- a humiliating experience, Ronnie thought. Raffaele rode better than 
  he'd expected; though the trainer complained about her form, she never fell 
  off, and was passed to the blue hunt after only a week's review. He and George 
  and Bubbles, though, were stuck with two daily lessons. 
  Ronnie hated the lessons; they spent nearly all the time at a walk or trot, 
  with a sharp-voiced junior trainer nagging them about things Ronnie was sure 
  didn't really matter. The trainer wasn't nearly as hard on Bubbles; he figured 
  that was favoritism toward a family member. Afterwards, on the way back to the 
  house to swim or play chipball, Bubbles would critique his lesson again, in 
  detail. When he finally burst loose and told her she had to be as bad, or she 
  wouldn't still be having lessons too, she slugged him in the arm. 
  "I could ride to hounds any day of the week, you idiot. I'm babysitting you 
  two. It wouldn't be fair to make you stay in lessons by yourselves, Dad said." 
  She glared at both of them. "You ought to be grateful, but I don't suppose you 
  are." 
  Ronnie wasn't. That only made it worse, and his arm really hurt. He hadn't 
  asked for this. She was supposed to be his girlfriend, and she'd been acting 
  as if he were a nuisance. 
  The crisp, clear weather of the first few days ended with a cold front, 
  clouds, and drizzle. It made no difference what the weather was -- lessons and 
  hunts went out on schedule. Ronnie hated the cold trickle down the back of his 
  neck, the horrid dankness of wet boots, and he didn't want to get used to it. 
  Tradition be damned; why couldn't they wear proper weather-sensing clothing 
  like the Royal Service did on maneuvers? 
  At dinner each day, the Main House crowd seemed to divide naturally along hunt 
  lines. The greens, his Aunt Cecelia quite prominent among them, had their 
  favorite rooms and corners, and so did the blues. The reds condescended subtly 
  to those not yet assigned, but knew their place compared to the other hunts. 
  Bubbles left them, pointedly showing off, Ronnie thought, her ability to 
  mingle with ease as well as her white shoulders. The only young women among 
  the unassigned were too young for him, and too gawky -- a pair of earnest 
  cousins so obviously overawed by their surroundings that they blushed if 
  anyone came near. Bubbles had introduced them as "Nikki and Snookie; they used 
  to come a lot back when I was a kid" and then walked off. 
  When Captain Serrano showed up with a foxtail one evening ("Not the tail, 
  stupid, the brush!" Bubbles hissed) after her first hunt with the blues, 
  Ronnie was disgusted. He had spent five hours that day riding three different 
  horses in boring circles, trotting over boring little fences in a boring ring. 
  He'd been told he might be allowed on the outside course in a couple of days, 
  if he concentrated. And she -- twenty years older, if a day -- had been 
  allowed to skip the red hunt altogether, go into the blues, and had had a good 
  first hunt. It wasn't fair. For the first time since his lessons on the ship, 
  he thought of revenge, but he resisted. It wasn't worth it. 
  His only solace in these trying days was Raffaele, of all people. George 
  dragged her away from a group of blues one night, and gave a humorous account 
  of their day's lessons. Ronnie felt humiliated -- he didn't fall off that 
  often, and George didn't mention any of his own mistakes -- but Raffaele's 
  glance at him was sympathetic. After that she came of her own accord every 
  evening, for a few minutes at least. She asked once where Bubbles was, and 
  Ronnie shrugged. She asked no more, but he noticed that she talked to both of 
  them, not just George. And when George was taken up by a group of older men 
  who knew his father, Raffaele kept coming, chatting quietly with Ronnie in a 
  way he found more and more soothing. 
  By the time he finally got his pass to hunt with the reds (two days before 
  George, a minor triumph which by then he didn't enjoy), he expected no 
  pleasure. The morning dawned murky and cold with vague clots of mist hiding 
  the low places; Ronnie felt stiff before he even got to the stables. Buttons, 
  spruce and cheerful, grinned at him as he stumped into the yard where the hunt 
  gathered. 
  "Good for you!" he said, too loudly for Ronnie's taste. "I knew you'd beat 
  George out of the lesson pit. It's a good day for scent, anyway." He wore the 
  red coat and insignia of the M. F. H. of the reds, and looked as if he'd been 
  born in it 
  "Oh... George will be along soon enough," said Ronnie vaguely, looking around. 
  "Where's Bubbles?" 
  Buttons laughed. "Taking a vacation. She's riding with the blues today. We 
  decided George could survive without a family member for one lesson." 
  This reminder of his situation did not help. Ronnie grunted, and looked around 
  again. A groom waved to him, and he went over to get on the dark, heavy animal 
  that was his for the day. "Thumper," he was told, "is good, solid, reliable, 
  and not too fast. Bring him home safe." Ronnie noticed nothing was said about 
  his safety. 
  They rode out into the cold murk. Thumper seemed to think his place was the 
  back of the field; Ronnie kicked vigorously and got him up to the middle. 
  "Eager, aren't you?" asked someone sarcastically. Ronnie ignored him. They all 
  milled around in a wet meadow while the hounds cast about for a scent. No one 
  spoke to Ronnie, and he knew they were all eyeing him. His neck felt hot. When 
  the hounds began to speak, he urged Thumper in that direction, but the others 
  were faster. He trotted along near the back of the group, getting well 
  spattered with mud the other horses kicked up. Thumper slowed, and Ronnie 
  couldn't blame him. It must be worse for the horse, he thought, getting mud in 
  his face and not just on his legs. 
  After awhile, the horses ahead of him sped off at a canter. Ronnie followed. 
  Now the mud flew higher; he could see it spattering the ground ahead of him. A 
  hedge appeared from the murk, and Thumper lifted to it. On the far side, a 
  ditch gaped; Thumper stretched, and Ronnie clung, slipping a bit at the rough 
  landing. But he regained his seat and urged Thumper on through a flat field 
  after the others. He wished someone had seen -- it was a larger jump than he'd 
  ever taken in a lesson. 
  After some minutes of this he was breathless and sore. It was much harder than 
  the lessons, even the ones on the outside course. He couldn't tell what kind 
  of obstacle was coming. There never seemed time to plan an approach, to get 
  himself ready for the jump. Thumper had a rough, lumbering stride, and while 
  he jumped safely, never hitting anything, he took off with a lurch and landed 
  hard each time. He was doing better than some (he had seen riders sprawled on 
  the wet ground, loose horses, people remounting) but he couldn't get Thumper 
  to catch up with the field. 
  Far ahead, the horn rang out again. Thumper knew that signal, and churned 
  ahead faster. Now they passed stragglers, riders whose strained faces showed 
  that they found this as tiring as Ronnie did. He wondered why they 
  bothered.... Were there that many bossy aunts in the universe? He saw a rail 
  fence coming up, and braced himself.... They were over safely, but another 
  loomed up. With a curse, Ronnie grabbed mane, and survived that one too. 
  Thumper plunged on, into the rear of the slowing field... The dogs had caught 
  the fox, though Ronnie couldn't see it. He pulled on the reins, and Thumper 
  slowed to a walk, then stood, sides heaving. No one seemed to notice them now; 
  the red-coated hunt staff in the center were doing something, and then 
  everyone laughed and cheered. 
  The crowd spread out, as the riders walked their horses slowly around. "Made 
  it, did you?" asked someone Ronnie had seen in the red hunt group at dinner. 
  "Must have been pretty far back. Too bad you weren't up. You might've had a 
  chance at the brush, being as it's your first day." 
  "Well, I made it," Ronnie said. He meant to say it blithely, but it came out 
  sounding disgruntled. The man rode off with a shrug. Thumper heaved a great 
  sigh, and shook his head a little. Ronnie noticed others getting flasks out of 
  their saddlebags. He started to reach for his, and remembered that he'd 
  forgotten to bring it. It seemed suddenly darker, and the first cold drops of 
  the day's rain splashed his hot neck. 
  By nightfall, he had ridden too many hours, fallen off twice (both times some 
  helpful stranger caught Thumper and brought him back) and was wet to the skin 
  with both sweat and rain. His throat felt raw, his nose was running, and his 
  knees and ankles felt as if he'd played the finals of some dismal professional 
  sport invoking large angry men pounding each other to mush. He managed to stay 
  on Thumper until he guided him through the gates of the yard, and then 
  slithered off, staggering as he landed. 
  "Do you need assistance?" asked the groom, with a quick glance at him. She was 
  already pampering Thumper, he noticed. 
  "I had a fall," he said, through gritted teeth. "But nothing's broken." 
  "Good day, then," she said, leading the horse away. "If nothing broke." 
  He stumped up to the house, hoping to make it to a hot bath without meeting 
  anyone, but of course there was George, dapper and witty, with Raffaele on his 
  arm. 
  "What did you fall into, the pigpen?" asked George. Ronnie was glad to note 
  that Raffaele did not smirk. She was dry and clean and lovely, but she did not 
  smirk. 
  "Just a muddy ditch," Ronnie said. He hoped it sounded casual, the way he'd 
  heard others speak lightly of problems in the field. 
  "I haven't fallen off in a week," George said. "Even though it really rained 
  hard during my second lesson today." 
  "It's different out there." Ronnie shot a glance at Raffaele. She wasn't even 
  smiling; she looked as if she knew that his shoulder and hip hurt, and was 
  sorry. 
  "I'll bet Bubbles and Raffa didn't fall," George went on. "Did you?" 
  Raffa turned an enchanting shade of pink; Ronnie had never thought how lovely 
  a blush could look against dark hair. "Almost," she said. "My horse stumbled 
  on landing over a big drop, and I was right up on her neck...." 
  "But you didn't fall," George brayed. "Now if that had been Ronnie, he'd have 
  gone splat, right?" 
  "Excuse me," said Ronnie, trying for coolness and achieving only the very tone 
  of wounded dignity he least wanted. "I'd like to take a bath before dinner." 
  "I should hope so," George said. "You certainly need one." 
  Ronnie fumed his way to his room. Bad enough to have to spend a wet cold day 
  riding a clumsy horse over mud and rock. Bad enough to fall off and be bruised 
  from head to heel. But to meet the impossibly dapper George on the way back -- 
  to be twitted about his muddy state -- that was too much. People that thought 
  this was fun must be completely insane... except maybe Raffa, because after 
  all women were different. 
  He simply could not spend the entire winter at this ridiculous sport. He had 
  to get away, somehow, and do something where he didn't feel a complete fool. 
  Chapter Eleven 
  "I'm not sure this is a good idea," Ronnie said 
  "Do you really want to spend another day bouncing around on that horse?" asked 
  George. Of course he didn't; that was the point. It had been bad enough before 
  George got into the hunt, and worse afterwards. But sneaking off like this? 
  George went on, "You look ridiculous --" 
  "I do not." Ronnie glared at his friend George had not fallen off in his first 
  time in the field, and it had gone to his head. He seemed to think a 
  successful maiden appearance made up for later runaways, buckings off, and an 
  inability to keep up with the field on a slow day. "I ride better than you --" 

  "And not nearly so well as your aged aunt or that demon captain of hers. 
  Honestly, I had no idea the Regs went in for horse riding; I thought they 
  spent all their time polishing weapons and doing drills." 
  Ronnie snorted. "They do love drills, don't they? At least down here Captain 
  Serrano can't interrupt our sleep." 
  "No. That's the purview of your aunt, waking us up before daylight to gobble a 
  disgusting breakfast and clamber onto great clumsy, smelly animals...." 
  Ronnie felt a perverse desire to insist that it wasn't that bad but Bubbles 
  had already started laughing. 
  "And you did look so funny, lamb, when you were stuck in that hedge, all 
  red-faced and blubbering." She patted him on the shoulder as she clambered 
  past him. He could see by the dome-light that Raffa was trying to smother her 
  giggles and shush Bubbles. 
  "Fine." Ronnie slid the canopy forward; the others were still giggling and 
  stowing their supplies in the lockers. He was beginning to wish he hadn't 
  agreed to this, but how could he back out now? He called up the preflight 
  checklist on the display and started down it. The computer would have done 
  everything, of course, but he was not as careless as his aunt thought. 
  "Come on, Ron," George said. "Get this thing off the ground." 
  "Preflight," Ronnie said. George should know that -- or was he so involved 
  with Bubbles that he'd lost the rest of his wits? George heaved a dramatic 
  sigh, which Ronnie ignored. He worked his way down the rest of the preflight 
  list in silence; as usual, everything seemed to be in order. Ronnie inserted 
  the cube and checked the readout: it had accepted his course programming, and 
  calculated fuel consumption based on satellite weather information. "Refuel 
  once," he said. "Anyone care if it's Bandon or Calloo?" 
  A ragged chorus, which sounded louder for Bandon; Ronnie entered that with the 
  touchpad, cast a glance back to make sure all the loose items were stowed, and 
  pressed the green button. The engines caught, and the computer took over the 
  final preflight power checks. At least he knew what the readouts meant, though 
  he could not, from this point on, override the computer's decisions. Not much 
  like a Royal trainer; these civilian models would fly themselves, given the 
  chance. He laid his hands lightly on the yoke anyway, and punched for manual 
  takeoff. He felt the yoke quiver, and the computer displayed his options. If 
  he stayed within these margins, he could have control -- and within those, he 
  could control one axis. For a moment it amused him -- for a human to be 
  allowed to fly the machine, he had to fly like a machine. 
  It would be practice, and he had always enjoyed flying. He flicked his fingers 
  over the yoke studs -- power, directional focus, attitude -- and the computer 
  agreed that he knew what he was doing. He didn't know if the others noticed, 
  but he had manual control until he chose to relinquish it, when the craft was 
  at 5, 000 meters and on course to Bandon. 
  "It's dark outside," Raffaele commented as the craft leveled. "There's nothing 
  but -- " She peered back. "Nothing but the House lights...." 
  "We had to leave before daylight," George pointed out "Or Ronnie's aunt would 
  have stopped us." 
  Ronnie tried to see past the reflections on the canopy. Nothing but 
  darkness.... He flicked off the interior lights, and looked harder. Nothing 
  ahead but darkness, nothing to either side but darkness. He'd never seen 
  anything quite so black in his life. 
  "It'll be dawn soon," he said. "And the computer doesn't need daylight." As it 
  came out of his mouth he realized that they knew that -- he was comforting 
  himself. Darkness hid his blush. Behind him, ostentatious yawns indicated that 
  the others would pretend to sleep. Someone turned on one of the tiny reading 
  lights, a soft glow in the rear of the cabin; Ronnie left the main cabin 
  lights off. 
  He found that he kept looking to the right, hoping to see some glimmer of 
  dawn. Just when he had given up hope, and convinced himself that he would have 
  to endure flying down a black drainpipe forever, a sullen glow lit the 
  horizon, more feeling than color. Soon he was sure of it; a dim redness 
  blotched with black -- clouds, he realized -- and then a curious fuzzy quality 
  to the outside. Still dark, still impenetrable, but somehow seeming larger 
  than it had. As the light strengthened, he saw the sea beneath, oddly brighter 
  than the sky. Away toward sunrise it stretched, and the clouds hung over it in 
  dark columns, their tops flushed pink now with the coming light. 
  Ronnie had never flown along a coast at sunrise; he had not imagined the 
  impossible combinations of green and blue and purple, the piles of pink and 
  gold, which clouds and sea and sunrise make. He looked down on the dark land 
  slowly coming out of the dark haze of night, the shoreline edged with ruffles 
  of colorless surf that would soon be silver and blue. His quick memory for 
  maps told him they were almost a third of the way to Bandon; the computer 
  would soon change their course away from sunrise, across the narrowing belt of 
  land and out across the ocean to that cluster of islands. He hoped it would 
  not change before he could see the sun lift out of the sea. 
  "There's nothing down there at all," Raffaele said, in a voice that began 
  sleepy and ended worried. "Where are we?" 
  "This is the Bottleneck," Bubbles said, yawning. "Gorgeous morning, especially 
  since I don't have to climb on a horse. Don't worry, Raffa, we can't get lost. 
  The computer on this thing has a direct line to the navsats. If we went down, 
  someone would be there in no time." 
  "But somebody must live somewhere," Raffa grumbled. 
  "On up the coast a bit there's a settlement of wildlife biologists," Bubbles 
  said. "They're to keep the stuff we don't want out of the Hunt grounds." 
  The sun came up and glittered on the surf just as he had imagined, and a few 
  minutes later the computer swung them left, away from the coast, and across 
  the forested Bottleneck. Bubbles served breakfast, pastries and fruit and hot 
  coffee she'd filched from the kitchen before they left. Ronnie stretched, 
  enjoying the comfort of baggy trousers, loose shirt, and low, soft-sided boots 
  after the confines of hunting attire. By the time they'd eaten, they'd crossed 
  the other coast and were headed across a blue wrinkled ocean toward the 
  islands. Ronnie had nothing to do, so he turned his seat around and listened 
  to the girls speculate on when Bunny would send someone after them. 
  "I hope it's not Aunt Cece," Ronnie said. 
  "He wouldn't send her; she's a guest," Bubbles said airily. "It'll probably be 
  some boring mid-level administrator." 
  "We could just tell your father," Raffa said. "Once we get there, that is." 
  Bubbles wrinkled her nose. "You don't know how he is. He'll lecture me. I'll 
  get mad. We'll argue. And then I'll have to make up, or he will, and that 
  takes time I could be enjoying with you." 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Ronnie put the landing system on automatic when he thought they were in range 
  of Bandon. It would contact the field, and bring them in without his 
  intervention, though he hoped the computer would allow him a "manual" landing. 
  When the com beeped, and the field-authorization light turned red, he assumed 
  that the field wanted a voice-contact; it seemed a reasonable way to keep out 
  unwanted guests. "Any special code words?" he asked Bubbles. She shook her 
  head. 
  "No -- just give the flitter number. It's on the family list." 
  "Bandon field," Ronnie said. "Permission to land and refuel, number 002413." 
  "Permission denied." The flat, almost metallic voice conveyed no interest in 
  negotiation. Ronnie stared at the computer display. He had never heard of a 
  civilian field refusing permission to land and refuel. 
  He repeated his original call, and added that they were low on fuel. 
  "Permission denied," the voice said again. 
  "Override that," Bubbles said from behind him. "Put in 'Landsman 78342' and 
  see what happens. That's Father's personal code." 
  Ronnie poked at the screen, and hit the orange override button, but the voice 
  repeated the same statement with the same mechanical lack of expression. 
  "Can we make Calloo from here?' asked George. 
  "Just barely," Ronnie said, with a glance at the fuel readout. "And I don't 
  see why we should. This is Bunny's flitter, and Bubbles just gave us the 
  internal authorization number. If it won't accept it, something's wrong." 
  "We don't want to land if something's wrong," George said. Then, "What could 
  be wrong? What's on this island, anyway?" He turned to Bubbles. 
  She frowned thoughtfully. "Well... the landing field, maintenance station, and 
  the family's lodge -- no resident staff, though --" 
  "There's a lodge here, too?" Ronnie asked. "Then why did you tell me to 
  program for Whitewings?" 
  "We wanted to be out of everyone's reach. This is too close -- it's the first 
  place they'd look." 
  Ronnie looked out the canopy. Heavily wooded islands lay scattered in odd 
  shapes across the sea. Bandon, the computer readout told him, was a half hour 
  ahead. He could see its distinctive shape beyond the nearest island. Calloo, 
  the northernmost of the chain, lay far to their right. "We ought to find out 
  what's wrong," he said. "We'll go on to Bandon and take a look." They could 
  still make Calloo, he thought, if they had to, and if they found out something 
  important, Bunny might forgive their disappearance. With the vague notion that 
  he was being careful, Ronnie let the flitter drop lower and skimmed just above 
  the forest, following the contours with care, then made a low approach across 
  the sea between that island and Bandon, edging past a smaller island not quite 
  in his path between them. He did not look outside, concentrating instead on 
  his instruments. If he dipped too low, the flitter's automatic safety 
  overrides would lower the plenum and convert it to an airboat. That could be 
  most embarrassing. 
  George saw the danger first. "Look out!" he yelled. Ronnie looked back at him, 
  wondering what kind of game they were playing back there; Raffa yelped, 
  peering out the starboard side. Then he saw it, just before it struck, an odd 
  shape trailing a line of orange smoke. The flitter jerked itself out of his 
  control, bouncing up and sideways, and a good half of the readouts went red; 
  something snarled angrily in its power section, a sound that spiralled up into 
  a painful whine and then stopped abruptly. 
  Ronnie grabbed the controls back, felt the ominous mushiness, and went into 
  the emergency landing sequence he had never expected to use once past his 
  piloting exam. Would they make it to land? The airspeed readout, like all in 
  that bank, was dead; the white beach and green trees ahead moved nearer too 
  slowly. Behind him, no one spoke. George clambered forward, disturbing the 
  flitter's precarious balance, and dropped into the other forward seat. 
  "I think it was a signal rocket," he said calmly, as if continuing a casual 
  conversation. "All that red smoke..." 
  "She's nose-heavy," Ronnie grunted. "And the hydraulics are shot. Use that big 
  foot on the floor, not your mouth." 
  Whatever George did made no difference; the flitter sank towards the waves. 
  "Brace up, you girls," George said to the back seats; Raffa was the one who 
  said, "Brace up yourself, Gee -- we're trying to get the raft out" 
  Ronnie tried once more to pull the nose up, but the flitter shivered all over 
  like a nervous dog. Flitters don't stall, he remembered being told, but they 
  crash all the same. It occurred to him that even if they made it to land, he 
  might simply crash head-on into the lush forest. Could he maneuver at all? 
  Altitude, then maneuver, he remembered. But he had no altitude. He tried; the 
  flitter slewed sideways, but answered sluggishly. He could parallel the 
  coastline and those trees.... 
  "George -- there -- those people -- " Ronnie did not look; he had to keep the 
  flitter in the air as long as he could. George leaned to see, then grunted, as 
  if it were a marvel. 
  "Damn near naked," he said. "But armed.... I think that's the launcher he hit 
  us with." 
  Ronnie put all his strength into willing the flitter not to crash into a lump 
  of trees nearer shore than the rest. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  They were down, and not dead -- at the moment, that was all he cared about. 
  His hands ached; his ears rang; his whole body hurt. But they were alive, and 
  out of the flitter -- which now looked far too small to have held so many 
  people and so much fear. Bubbles and Raffa, with far more gumption than he 
  would have expected, had unloaded everything useful from the flitter. The 
  survival raft and all its provisions, the scuffed but whole duffles. 
  "Never pays to buy cheap luggage," George said, in the tone that had won him 
  the nickname "Odious," as he brushed the sand off his and hoisted it to his 
  shoulder. "Come on, now, Ronnie -- give the girls a hand, can't you?" 
  Ronnie glared at him. He looked, the odious George, as he always did -- fresh, 
  creased, polished to a high gloss. Not a hair of his dark head ruffled, not a 
  smudge. He looked like that on horseback, and even when he fell off he never 
  looked rumpled or dirty. He looked like that on mornings after, and on hot 
  afternoons on parade. It was unfair, and his brother officers had done all 
  sorts of things to ruin that polish -- but nothing worked. "Dip the odious 
  George in shit," some senior cadet had said their first year, "and not only 
  wouldn't it stink, it'd take a shine." 
  Now, on the sandy beach after a flitter wreck, Ronnie thought he knew what he 
  looked like. He said nothing, but picked up two of the remaining duffles, 
  staggered a bit, then dropped them. 
  "What now?" asked George. 
  "The beacon," Ronnie said, clambering onto the flitter. He wished he could 
  remember how he'd gotten out of it. "We need to signal for a pickup, unless 
  you plan to swim back to the mainland." 
  "You gave it to me," Bubbles said. She looked worried. "You don't remember?" 
  He didn't remember. He crouched on the Bitter's canopy, suddenly aware that he 
  was not functioning in some important way. He looked around, blinking. The 
  sea, the sand, the trees: he remembered that. They'd crashed the flitter, and 
  whoever owned it would be furious. Who had crashed the flitter? They weren't 
  designed to crash easily and he and George were both good pilots. He looked at 
  the flitter itself, at the large hole in the engine section, the scorchmarks 
  black on the outer skin. "What happened?" he said, knowing it was a stupid 
  question, though it was all that occurred to him. 
  "Damnation!" George's voice, closer. "He's concussed; he doesn't know what's 
  happened or -- c'mon, ladies, we've got to get him away from here." 
  He heard Raffa ask why, and Bubbles remind George that injured people 
  shouldn't be moved until medical personnel arrived, but someone stronger than 
  Raffa or Bubbles pulled him off the flitter and slung him over a muscular 
  shoulder. That completed his collapse; he spewed the breakfast he'd eaten down 
  George's legs and knew nothing more for a time he could not measure. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Ronnie awoke lying on his back with the sun prying his eyelids apart and 
  someone beating his head with a collection of spoons. At least that's what it 
  felt like. He had no desire to move, though he would have appreciated quiet, 
  darkness, and a cool wet cloth on his forehead. A sympathetic murmur would 
  have been nice too. Instead the only voices he recognized sounded angry and 
  frightened. 
  "If my father knew -- " That had to be Bubbles, pulling off her best 
  daughter-of-greatness act. 
  "And what makes you think he doesn't?" asked a man's voice, in a tone that 
  meant Bubbles was making no impression at all. Or the wrong one. 
  An instant's pause, then, "What do you mean, he knows?" 
  Laughter with no humor in it, the kind of thing Ronnie had heard only a few 
  times in his life; it frightened him then, and now. 
  "I don't suppose he knows his daughter's involved, no." The man's voice had 
  some familiar tone that Ronnie felt he should know but could not quite 
  recognize. "But something like this, as big as it is, on his favorite resort 
  world: how could he not know?" 
  "Something like what?" That was Raffaele, Ronnie thought. A girl who believed 
  that the facts would explain themselves. 
  Another man's voice, this one quite different. "Oh, I 'spect you know, little 
  lady." Every hair on Ronnie's body rose at that "little lady." He wanted to 
  leap up and knock that voice into the sea, but he could not move. "It's a 
  hunter's paradise, isn't it? And your dad, or maybe it's her dad, is a famous 
  sportsman, isn't he? And the whole point of sport is you give the prey a 
  chance, eh? Isn't it? That makes it a challenge, see?" 
  The reiterated questions struck Ronnie as false, theatrical, like something 
  from a storycube. Certain dialects did that, he thought. 
  "Manhunting," the first voice said. "As you very well know, since you came 
  here for that purpose." Ronnie tried to process that: manhunting? Manhunts 
  were for escaped criminals, or lost children. 
  "But it can go two ways, see?" the second voice interrupted. "Hunting 
  predators it can always go two ways, and men are the most dangerous. There was 
  a story once --" 
  "Everyone knows the story, Sid; be quiet." The command in that first voice 
  finally made the connection for Ronnie. It sounded like Captain Serrano. It 
  sounded like Captain Serrano the time she had ordered him off her bridge, or 
  the time he had overheard her talking to Aunt Cece about battle. He struggled 
  to open his eyes and found himself blinking up at a dark unsmiling face. 
  "Well," the man said. "And what have we here, young man? Who are you?" 
  "Ronald Vertigern Boniface Lucien Carruthers," he heard himself say, as if in 
  one of the practice sessions in the squad. "Royal Aero-Space Stellar Service." 
  He looked around, now that he could see, and there was the odious George, 
  looking remarkably tidy with a gag stuffed in his mouth and an angry 
  expression on the rest of his face. Bubbles looked almost as angry; he 
  wondered if she was going to come out of her usual wild-blonde disguise for 
  the occasion. And Raffa -- whom he hoped would someday be his Raffaele -- had 
  no expression at all. He had never seen her like that, and he hoped he never 
  would again. 
  The dark face above his did not smile. "Royal ASS, eh? And you probably think 
  that means something here." 
  Ronnie had heard that version of his service's initials before; he ignored it 
  now, as beneath the notice of a wounded officer. "And you?" he asked, as he 
  wondered which of his limbs still worked "I have not the honor --" 
  A snort of contempt, and a growl from others he had not yet noticed. "That's 
  the truth, little boy soldier -- you have not the honor indeed. You don't know 
  what honor is." 
  From a little distance, he heard another mirthless chuckle. "Little peep 
  plonks down in a flitter and bumps his poor little head, pukes out his guts, 
  and thinks he has a right to say the H-word...." 
  "Shut up, Kev. We don't have time for your nonsense any more than his." A jerk 
  of the head indicated George. The dark eyes contemplated Ronnie. "But you -- 
  you're going to give us the truth, Mister Ronald Vertigern Boniface Lucien 
  Carruthers of the Royal Assholes. You didn't learn to fly with that bunch of 
  old ladies, boy: who are you really from?" Hard hands grabbed his ears and 
  shook his head. He had thought it hurt before; now he knew it had merely been 
  uncomfortable. He felt his eyes water, and hated the man for that. His stomach 
  roiled, and he choked back another wave of nausea. 
  "I told you," Bubbles said, before he could get any words out. "We're from the 
  Main Lodge; we wanted to get away from the fox hunting --" 
  "And try other game?" suggested another voice he could not see. 
  "And just play around," Ronnie said. At the moment he didn't care if he did 
  die; his head might as well have a real axe in it as whatever was causing what 
  he felt. He knew his voice sounded weak and querulous; he felt weak and 
  querulous. "My aunt Cece -- you wouldn't know her -- and that demon captain of 
  hers wanted me to spend all day every day on a horse chasing some miserable 
  little furry thing over fields of cold mud and fences designed to make horses 
  fall down and dump their riders." He took a breath; no one interrupted. "And 
  we got tired of it," he said, closing his eyes against the bright glare of the 
  forest canopy. "We wanted to rest. We wanted to have fun. I asked Bubbles if 
  there wasn't some place on this miserable dirtball that wasn't cold and muddy 
  and full of horses, and she said let's go to the islands." 
  "Oblo?" The first voice seemed to be addressing someone else; Ronnie gave 
  himself up to contemplation of his headache and the mystery of his stubbornly 
  unhelpful arms and legs. He finally thought he felt something weighing him 
  down, or tying him down, or something of that sort. External, not internal -- 
  he was sure he was wiggling his toes. For some reason, the discovery that he 
  probably didn't have a broken neck did not make him feel better. 
  "No weapons -- not with them or on the flitter, 'cept a cateye. That's 
  standard survival gear on flitters, most worlds." Oblo, if that was the 
  speaker, had the same businesslike tone as the first voice. "Food and minor 
  medical supplies in stuff they'd pulled out to take with them. All the IDs 
  check out, as far as we can know without accessing a link. Flitter ID was 
  still in the active comp, no sweat getting it out; it's Lord Thornbuckle's all 
  right." 
  "And the beacon?" asked the first voice. 
  "Back aboard, sir, same's you said. Tough to make it look like it hadn't ever 
  been out, though. On the other hand, maybe they'll accept all that cracked 
  casing as why it doesn't work. Did my best." 
  "I'm sure you did, Oblo." 
  Ronnie opened his eyes again, to find the dark face he remembered looking 
  across him to someone else. "Why'd you put the beacon back?" he asked. "That's 
  stupid -- we need rescue here." 
  "You may need rescue," the dark man said, "but we don't need hunters tracking 
  us by that thing." 
  "You... shot us." He was sure of it, though he saw no weapon that could have 
  served. 
  "Yep. Thought you were the hunters, and we had a chance to drop you in the 
  water. Not a bad job of work, the way you got that flitter to land." The dark 
  man hawked and spat juicily. "Wasted all the work on you, looks like now, and 
  we've still got them to deal with. And'f they know about you, we've got even 
  more trouble, if that's possible." 
  "Oh." Ronnie could not think of anything to say, and looked at George -- but 
  George, gagged, could not argue for him. 
  "I'm sure my father doesn't know," Bubbles said, into the brief silence. Her 
  blonde hair looked straggly, coming out of whatever she'd done to keep it in 
  tousled curls. She raked it back with both hands, hooking it behind her ears, 
  and started in again. "This is our special place, the kids' place -- even if 
  he did something so horrible, he wouldn't do it here." 
  "Kids' place?" 
  "We camped here, every summer until I was fifteen or so. Some of the younger 
  cousins still do." Ronnie let her voice lull him back to sleep; he didn't like 
  being awake any more. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  When he awoke again, the first thing he heard was George's voice. Poor idiots 
  he thought lazily. You should have left him gagged. Then he realized what he'd 
  thought, and woke up the rest of the way, ashamed of himself. He was no longer 
  tied (if he had been tied; he found his memory wobbly on that and other 
  points) and when he tried to sit up, someone's arm came behind him, lifting 
  his shoulders. Even under the forest canopy, he could tell that some hours had 
  passed; the bits of sun poking through came at a different angle. Someone had 
  cleaned his face; he couldn't smell the vomit anymore, and was grateful. 
  Without a word, a brown hand came from behind him and offered a flask of 
  water. He took it and drank. 
  They were all there: Bubbles, Raffa, and George, and the faces he remembered 
  from that nightmarish time when he'd been flat on his back. Now, right side 
  up, he recognized the hostile expressions as exhaustion, fear, uncertainty. He 
  saw only eight or nine, but noises in the thick undergrowth suggested at least 
  as many more. 
  "The point is, Petris," George was saying, "that Ronnie and I are both 
  commissioned officers of the Royal..." His voice trailed away as the snickers 
  began, and he turned red. 
  "Son," the dark man said, "the point really is that we know how to fight a war 
  and you don't. You'd get us killed; you damn near got yourself and your girls 
  killed. I don't care how many glittery stripes and pretty decorations you've 
  got on your dress uniform, nor how bright your boots shine; you don't know one 
  useful thing about staying alive in this mess, and I do." 
  George looked around for support, and caught Ronnie's eye. "Good -- you're 
  awake now. Tell him -- we're officers; we should be in charge." 
  In charge? In charge of what? The dark man -- Petris? -- had said something 
  about a manhunt, but he didn't want to hunt anyone. He wanted to wait until he 
  could think straight, and then fly back to the mainland. His mind gave a 
  little jerk, like a toy train jumping to another track. They were being 
  hunted, that was it, the men on the island. They were trying to fight back, to 
  hunt the hunters. And George thought he and Ronnie should organize that? 
  Ridiculous. Ronnie shrugged, "He's right, George. We're worse than the girls 
  -- they at least know what they don't know. We keep thinking we do know." He 
  hardly knew what he was saying, over a dull pounding in his head, but that 
  made the best sense he could. "You're -- Petris, sir? I agree with you." 
  The dark man gave Ronnie the first friendly look he'd had. "Maybe that knock 
  on the head put your brain right side up after all. Oblo, give this lad a 
  ration bar." The same dark hand that had passed him the water flask held out a 
  greasy, gritty bar that Ronnie recognized as part of the flitter's emergency 
  supplies. He took it and nibbled the end. His body craved the salt/sweet 
  flavor. 
  "Ronnie, you can't let that -- that person ignore your seniority." 
  Ronnie grinned, and his head hardly hurt at all. "I'm not letting him ignore 
  my seniority; I'm ignoring it. Remember what old Top Jenkins said about tooty 
  young cadets?" 
  "We aren't cadets any more." George was still bristling; for the first time, 
  Ronnie saw his father in him, the courtroom bully. "We're officers." 
  "We're prisoners, if you want to be precise," Ronnie said. "Come on, George... 
  look at it this way. It's an adventure." Petris scowled, but George finally 
  grinned. Ronnie tried to explain to Petris. "It's a saying we have.... We 
  started in boarding school together... and George would think these things up, 
  or Buttons would, or Dill, and the rest of us would say how crazy it was, and 
  how much trouble we'd get in, and whoever began it would say, 'It's an 
  adventure'." 
  George chuckled. "I remember who started it -- Arthur whatsisname, remember? 
  Had that streak of pale blue hair he claimed he'd inherited? Got us into some 
  frightful row, and when we were called up said, 'Look at it this way, boys -- 
  it's an adventure.' And we all went in sniggering like fools and got twice as 
  much punishment as usual." 
  "I can see why," Petris said, with emphasis that stopped the chuckle in 
  Ronnie's throat. "This is not an adventure. This is a war. The difference is 
  that between whatever punishment you got, and death. Go in sniggering, as you 
  put it, here -- play the fool here -- and you will be dead. Not charmingly, 
  tidily, prettily dead, either." His gaze encompassed George, who still looked 
  entirely too dapper for the circumstances. 
  "I know that," George said irritably. 
  "Then act like it." Petris turned back to Ronnie. "And you, young man, if 
  you're finally getting sense, get enough to live through this and grow up." He 
  glanced sideways at the girls, but said nothing to them directly. Did he think 
  women were nonentities? He must not have known Captain Heris. 
  He didn't realize he'd said the name aloud until the other man reacted. 
  "Captain who?" Petris looked dangerous again. Ronnie choked down the rest of 
  the ration bar. 
  "Serrano. Heris Serrano. She's ex-Regular Space Service, like you." 
  "So that's where she ended up." A feral gleam lightened his dark eye. Ronnie 
  was startled; it was the first personal emotion he'd seen Petris exhibit. 
  Petris grinned; it was not a nice grin. "She did have a comedown, after all." 
  "A comedown?" 
  "To play captain of a rich lady's yacht. Serves her right." 
  "What for?" asked George. Ronnie was glad; he too wanted to know, but he had 
  already been chewed out for asking too many questions. 
  Petris glared at him. "None o' your --" 
  "Tell them," Oblo said. "Why not? You don't want to protect her." 
  Petris shook his head. "No. That's right enough. But do you think these 
  Royal-ass punks can understand it?" 
  "Might learn something," Oblo said. Ronnie felt a tension between the two men, 
  not quite conflict, and wondered what it could be. 
  "All right." Petris wiped his mouth with his hand, and settled back, looking 
  past them. "It started with the Cavinatto campaign, which is too new to have 
  been in your studies, so don't argue with me about it Scuttlebutt says it was 
  Admiral Lepescu who thought up the lousy plan; from what I know of him I 
  wouldn't doubt it. If our captain had followed his orders, most of us would've 
  died, and it wouldn't have accomplished a damn thing. It was a stupid plan, 
  and a stupid order." 
  "But -- " George began; Petris glared him down. 
  "Do you want the gag again? Then be quiet. I know what you think -- officers 
  that refuse orders are traitors and should be shot -- right?" 
  George nodded and shrugged at the same time, trying not to offend. Ronnie 
  almost laughed aloud -- but not when he saw Petris's face. 
  "That's what the rules say," Petris went on. "No matter how stupid, how 
  bloody, or how unnecessary, officers obey their seniors and enlisted obey 
  officers. Mostly they do, and mostly it works, because when you're not in 
  combat, a stupid order won't kill you. Usually. But then there's combat. You 
  expect to die someday -- it's not a safe profession, after all -- " Behind 
  Petris, the others chuckled, but he ignored them. "But what you hope for is 
  that your death will mean something -- you'll be expended, as the saying is, 
  in some action that accomplishes something more than just turning you into a 
  bloody mess." He was silent after that so long that George stirred and opened 
  his mouth; Ronnie waved at him, hoping he would keep quiet. Finally Petris 
  looked at both of them and started speaking again. 
  "It's not that anyone doubted Serrano's courage, you know. She'd been in 
  action before; she had a couple of decorations you don't get for just sitting 
  by a console and pushing the right buttons. No -- what she did, refusing a 
  stupid order that would kill a lot of people without accomplishing any 
  objective, that was damn brave, and we all knew it. She was risking her 
  career, maybe her life. When it was over, and she faced the inquiry on it, she 
  didn't try to spread the blame -- she took it just the way you'd expect -- 
  would have expected -- from knowing her before. I'd been with her on three 
  different ships; I knew -- I thought I knew -- what she was. She was facing a 
  court-martial, dishonorable discharge, maybe prison time or execution, if she 
  couldn't prove that Admiral Lepescu's order was not only stupid but illegal. I 
  was scared for her; I knew she had friends in high places, but not that high, 
  and it's damned hard to prove an admiral is giving bad orders just because he 
  likes to see bloodshed." 
  He paused again, and drank two long swallows from his flask. "That was the 
  Serrano I thought I knew -- the woman who would risk that." His voice slowed, 
  pronouncing every word as if it hurt his mouth. "Not the woman who would take 
  the chance to resign her commission before the court and lay the blame on her 
  crew. Leave us to face court-martial, and conviction, and this -- this 
  sentence." His wave included the place, the people, the situation. "She didn't 
  come to our trial; she didn't offer any testimony, any written support, 
  nothing. She dumped us, the very crew she'd supposedly risked her career to 
  save. It didn't make sense, unless her decision to avoid that engagement 
  really was cowardice, or she saw it as a way to leave the Service...." 
  Ronnie said nothing. He remembered his first sight of Captain Serrano, the 
  rigidity with which she had held herself, like someone in great pain who will 
  not admit it. He remembered the reaming out she'd given him, that time on the 
  bridge, and what he'd heard her say to his aunt... scathing, both times, and 
  he'd sworn to get his vengeance someday. She had held him captive, forced his 
  attention, "tamed" him, as she'd put it. He had had to watch her take to 
  riding, and hunting, as if she were born to it, while he loathed every hour on 
  horseback; he had had to hear his aunt's praise of her captain's ability, and 
  her scorn of him. That, too, he had sworn to avenge. Now was his chance, and 
  it required nothing of him but silence. 
  He met George's eyes.... He had told George, he remembered, what Serrano had 
  said about her past. He had been angry, and he had eavesdropped without shame, 
  and shared the gossip without shame. Now he felt the shame; he could feel his 
  ears burning. 
  "It wasn't that," he heard himself saying. Petris looked at him, brows raised. 
  "She didn't know," he said. 
  "How do you know?" asked Oblo, before Petris could. 
  "I -- I heard her talking to my aunt," Ronnie said. He dared not look at 
  Raffa; she would be ashamed of him. "They told her -- I suppose that admiral 
  you mentioned -- that if she stood trial, the crew would be tried with her, 
  but if she resigned, no action would be taken against her subordinates." 
  Petris snorted. "Likely! Of course she'd make up a good story for later; she 
  wouldn't want to admit she'd sold us --" 
  "I'm not sure," Oblo said. "It could be. Think, Petris: which is more like our 
  Serrano?" 
  "She's not my Serrano!" Petris said furiously. For a moment, Ronnie thought he 
  might attack Oblo. "Dammit, man -- she could have --" 
  "Could have been tricked, same as us." Oblo, Ronnie realized, had never wanted 
  to believe Serrano guilty of treachery. He turned to Ronnie. "Of course, lad, 
  she's your aunt's captain -- you'd like her and defend her, I daresay...." 
  "Like her!" That was George, unable to keep quiet any longer. "That -- that 
  puffed-up, arrogant, autocratic, bossy -- ! No one could like her. Do you know 
  what she did to Ronnie? To Ronnie -- on his own aunt's ship? Slapped him in 
  the face! Ordered him off the bridge, as if he were any stupid civilian! And 
  me -- she told me I was nothing but a popinjay, a pretty face with not the 
  sense to find my left foot --" 
  "George," said Ronnie, trying not to laugh. "George, never mind --" 
  "No, Ronnie." George looked as regal as he could, which was almost funnier. 
  "I've had enough of this. Captain Serrano may have been your aunt's choice, 
  but she was not mine. All those ridiculous emergency drills -- I've never seen 
  such a thing on a proper yacht. All that fussing about centers of mass, and 
  alternative navigation computer checks, and whatnot. I'm not a bit surprised 
  that woman got herself in trouble somewhere; she's obsessed with rules and 
  regulations. That sort always go bonkers sometime. She drove you -- the least 
  mischievous of our set -- to eavesdrop on her conversations with your aunt --" 

  "Enough," said Petris, and George stopped abruptly. "Let's hear, and briefly, 
  from you, Ronnie. What precisely did you hear, and under what circumstances?" 
  Ronnie gathered his wits again. "Well... she had chewed me out, and waked us 
  up three lateshifts running for drills. I wanted to get back at her -- " Put 
  that way, it sounded pretty childish; he realized now it had been. "So I 
  patched into the audio in my aunt's study." He didn't think he needed to tell 
  Petris about the stink bomb, or its consequences. "She and my aunt talked a 
  lot -- mostly about books or music or art, sometimes about the ship or riding. 
  But my aunt wanted to know about her time in the Service, why she resigned. I 
  could tell the captain didn't want to answer, but my aunt can be... 
  persuasive. So that's what she said, what I told you before. She was offered a 
  chance to resign her commission rather than face a court-martial, and was 
  promised that if she resigned no action would be taken against any of her 
  crew. Otherwise, she was told, her crew would also be charged, and it was more 
  than likely they'd all be condemned. She... cried, Petris. I don't think she 
  cries often." 
  The man's face was closed, tight as a fist; Ronnie wondered what he was 
  thinking. Oblo spoke first. 
  "That's our Serrano, Petris. She didn't know. She did it for us -- they 
  probably wouldn't let her come back and explain --" 
  "Yes," Ronnie put in. "She said that -- she had to resign, right then, in that 
  office, and not return to the ship. She said that was the worst of it, that 
  someone might think she'd abandoned her crew, but at least they'd be safe." 
  "That... miserable excuse for an admiral..." Petris breathed. Ronnie sensed 
  anger too deep for any common expletives, even in one so accomplished. "He 
  might have done that. He might think it was funny." 
  "Naw," said Sid. Ronnie recognized the nasty voice that had raised the hairs 
  on his arms earlier. "I don't believe that. It's the captain, like you told me 
  at first. Why'd she resign if she wasn't up to something, eh? Stands to reason 
  she has friends to cover for her." 
  "You weren't in her crew," Oblo said. "You got no right to judge." He looked 
  at Ronnie. "You are telling the truth." It was not so much a statement, as a 
  threat 
  Ronnie swallowed before he could answer. "I overheard what I told you -- and I 
  told George. I hated her; I hoped to find some way to get back at her. But..." 
  His voice trailed away. 
  "But you couldn't quite let us believe the lie, eh?" said Petris. He smiled, 
  the first genuine friendly smile Ronnie had seen on his face. "Well, son, for 
  a Royal ASS peep, you've got surprising ethics." He sighed, and stretched. 
  "And what would you want to bet," he asked the others, "that Admiral Lepescu 
  planned to let her know later what he'd done? When it was too late; when it 
  would drive her to something he could use...." 
  "Does he know she's here?" Ronnie asked, surprising himself. "Could he have 
  known who hired her, where she was going?" 
  "Lepescu? He could know which fork she ate with, if he wanted to." 
  Chapter Twelve 
  Heris came out of the shower toweling her hair, to find Cecelia sitting 
  upright in the desk chair, already dressed for the day's hunt. 
  "I didn't know I was late," Heris said. Her own clothes lay spread on the bed; 
  she had come from the shower bare, as usual, and shrugged when she realized it 
  was too late for modesty. She hoped anger would not make her blush; Cecelia 
  had no right to invade her room. 
  "You're not," Cecelia said. "I can't find Ronnie. Or George. Or their 
  girlfriends." Then her voice sharpened. "That's a -- a scar --" 
  Heris looked down at the old pale line of it, and shrugged again. "It's old," 
  she said. And then, realizing why Cecelia was so shocked, explained. "No regen 
  tanks aboard light cruisers. If you get cut or burned, you scar." She pulled 
  on her socks, then her riding pants, and grinned at Cecelia. "We consider them 
  decorative." 
  "Barbaric," said Cecelia. 
  "True," Heris said. "But necessary. Would you have quit competitive riding if 
  you'd had to live with the scars of your falls?" 
  "Well... of course not. Lots of people did, in the old days. But it's not 
  necessary now, and --" 
  "Neither is fox hunting," Heris said, buttoning her shirt and tucking in the 
  long tails. "Very few things are really necessary, when you come down to it. 
  You -- me -- the horses -- all the rituals. If you just wanted to exterminate 
  these pseudofoxes, you'd spread a gene-tailored virus and that'd be it. If you 
  just wanted to ride horses across fences, you could design a much safer way to 
  do it -- and not involve canids." 
  "Hounds." 
  "Whatever." Heris leaned over and pulled on her boots; they had broken in 
  enough to make this easier and she no longer felt her legs were being reshaped 
  as the boots came up. She peered into the mirror and tied the cravat 
  correctly, slicked down her hair, and reached for her jacket. "Ready? I'm 
  starved" 
  "You didn't hear me," Cecelia said, not moving. "I can't find Ronnie and the 
  others." 
  "I heard you, but I don't understand your concern. Perhaps they started early 
  -- no, I admit that's not likely. Perhaps they're already at breakfast, or not 
  yet up from an orgy in someone else's room --" 
  "No. I checked." 
  Heris opened her mouth to say that in a large, complicated building with 
  dozens of bedrooms, near other buildings with dozens of bedrooms, four young 
  people who wanted to sleep in could surely find a place beyond an aunt's 
  sight. Then she saw the tension along Cecelia's jaw. "You're worried, aren't 
  you?" 
  "Yes. They didn't hunt yesterday; they were supposed to be out with the third 
  pack, and Susannah mentioned she hadn't seen them. The day before, you 
  remember, Ronnie missed a lesson." 
  "But --" 
  "I found Buttons, and asked him. He turned red and said Ronnie, George, and 
  the girls had gone picnicking day before yesterday. He didn't know about 
  yesterday, or said he didn't. And there's more." When Cecelia didn't go on, 
  Heris sat on the bench at the foot of her bed. She knew that kind of tension; 
  it would do no good to pressure her. "There's a flitter missing," Cecelia said 
  finally. "I had to... to bribe Bunny's staff, to find that out. Apparently 
  Bubbles is something of a tease; it's not the first time she's taken out her 
  father's personal flitter, and the staff doesn't like her to get into trouble. 
  They cover for her, with the spare. So Bunny doesn't know a thing...." 
  "And they've been gone a day... two days? Maybe three?" 
  "Yes. According to the log -- they do keep one, just to be sure Bubbles 
  doesn't get hurt -- they left well before dawn day before yesterday. Filed a 
  flight plan for some island lodge called Whitewings. I've never been there, 
  but I've got the map." She handed Heris the data cube; Heris fitted it into 
  the room's display. "The problem is, they aren't at Whitewings, either. It's a 
  casual lodge -- no resident staff, although it's fully equipped. There's a 
  satellite beacon on the flitter, of course, and there's been a steady signal 
  here -- " Cecelia pointed to an island much nearer than Whitewings. "No 
  distress call, and it's at another lodge. Michaels, who's the flitter-chief, 
  thinks Bubbles just changed her mind and decided to hide out on another island 
  in case I followed the trail this far." 
  "She'd know about the beacon, though --" 
  "She'd think I wouldn't." 
  "Ah." Heris stared at the display. "What's on this other island?" 
  "Bandon? It's another lodge, more a family place, although it's got a large 
  landing field. Michaels says the family goes there every spring, at least 
  once. When the children were younger, they used to camp on one of the smaller 
  islands, while the adults stayed on Bandon. He says it's lovely: forested 
  islands, clear water, reefs. Imported cetaceans, some of the small ones that 
  Michaels said play with humans. Bubbles has always liked it better than 
  anyplace on the planet, he says. Whitewings is colder, usually stormier." 
  "That makes sense. So you think they're all sunning themselves, swimming 
  lazily -- ?" 
  "No. I can't say why. But I think they're in trouble. And I can't imagine 
  what. This is a safe world; there's nothing on the islands to hurt them -- I 
  asked Michaels. Their com links are unbreakable; if they needed help, they'd 
  ask for it. They can't be in any real trouble -- not all four of them. But --" 

  "Tell Bunny," Heris said. When Cecelia's expression changed, she realized 
  she'd used his nickname for the first time. He had always been Lord 
  Thornbuckle to her. She started to apologize, but Cecelia was already talking. 

  "I don't want to do that. Not yet. He's upset right now with that 
  anti-blood-sports person who got herself invited under an alias. He's not at 
  his best." 
  "But if his daughter -- no, never mind. What do you want me to do?" 
  "I'm not sure. I don't suppose there's any way the Sweet Delight could tell -- 
  ?" 
  Heris smacked her forehead with the flat of her hand. Stupid! She'd nearly 
  turned into a dirtsider, all the time she'd spent traveling at the speed of 
  horseflesh. "Of course," she said. Then -- "But can I get a closed channel, a 
  secure channel, from the house?" 
  "Yes, with my authorization. We'd best do it from my room." 
  Cecelia's room, Heris noted, had even more windows on the morning side of the 
  house -- no wonder she woke so early -- and was half again as large as her 
  own. The deskcomp looked the same, however, and Cecelia soon had what she 
  considered a secure line to the station. She handed the headset to Heris. 
  "Captain Serrano; a secure line to the officer on deck, Sweet Delight." 
  "At once, Captain." She thought that was probably the Stationmaster himself, 
  but no visual came up. When the screen lit, it was to show the familiar 
  bridge, warped a bit by the wide-angle lens, and Nav First Sirkin. 
  "Captain Serrano," the younger woman said. She looked only slightly surprised. 

  "I'd like a scan report from... oh... say... fifty-five hours back. Did you 
  log a flitter flight from the Main Lodge, this location, to an island group to 
  the west?" 
  A broad grin answered her. "Yes, ma'am. That was my shift, and I remember it. 
  Let me bring up the log and scan." The log display came online, a narrow 
  stripe along the side of the screen, with time and date displayed in both 
  Standard and Planetary Local. The log entry, terse and correct, noted the size 
  of craft, the course, and the recognition code of the flitter beacon. The scan 
  proper, a maze of graphics and numbers, matched the log except in one 
  particular. 
  "They signalled," Heris said, her finger on the scan. "They called a fixed 
  station -- probably the landing field at Bandon. And something responded --" 
  "Michaels says it's an automatic loop. There's no one at the field unless 
  family's expected." 
  "Hmmm. And what's this?" Heris pointed to a squiggle she knew Cecelia could 
  not interpret, and spoke to her Nav First. "Did you log the other traffic?" 
  "Yes -- although since it didn't have a satellite locater signal, I assumed 
  they were just maintenance flights or something." 
  "Or something," said Heris. She felt an unreasoning surge of glee and grinned 
  at Cecelia. "Good instincts: something is definitely going on out there." 
  "Smugglers, I suppose," Cecelia said with refined distaste. "I never saw a 
  world without some of it. Probably off-duty crews." 
  "No," the Nav First interrupted. "At least some of them are Space Service. 
  Regular, Captain, like yourself." Heris winced at the pronoun; centuries after 
  overzealous English teachers had tried to stomp out misuse of me, the 
  reflexive overcorrection lingered as a class distinction. But that was 
  unimportant now. 
  "How do you know?" she asked. The younger woman flushed. 
  "Well, I was sort of... listening in to see how good that new scan technology 
  was --" 
  "And you picked up Fleet traffic?" If she had, Heris would report it, small 
  thanks though she'd get for it. 
  "No, ma'am. It was a private shuttle from a charter yacht docked at Station 
  Three. Someone groundside asked if Admiral Lepescu was aboard, and the shuttle 
  said yes." 
  Heris felt as if someone had transplanted icewater into her arteries. She 
  started to ask more, but Cecelia interrupted, with a hand on her arm. 
  "I want to go after them." 
  "Why?" Heris's mind had clamped onto the admiral's name; she could not think 
  why Cecelia would want to follow him. 
  "To bring them back. Before Bunny finds out." 
  The youngsters. Ronnie and all. Not Lepescu. Heris struggled to keep her mind 
  on the original problem. They had gone off illicitly, and had not signalled, 
  and their craft's locator beacon still functioned. And Cecelia wanted to bring 
  them back. That ought to be simple enough. She forced herself to look closely 
  at all the details Sirkin had displayed. One caught her eye at once. 
  "Sirkin -- that flitter locator beacon -- it's not on Bandon." 
  "No, Captain; there's a whole group of islands, and it's on the one just north 
  of Bandon." 
  Heris turned to Cecelia. "But the family lodge is on Bandon proper, surely -- 
  with the landing field?" 
  "I think so." Cecelia's face contracted in a thoughtful frown. "I don't really 
  know; I've never been there. Michaels implied it was on the same island." 
  "Of course they may have decided to camp on the beach...." Heris looked over 
  the rest of the data. "You said Bubbles had camped on one of the other 
  islands. Odd -- the flight path of that flitter doesn't look right. You'd 
  think they'd have gone by Bandon to pick up supplies, at least. Did they take 
  off with full camping equipment? Or would Michaels know?" 
  "I could ask," Cecelia said. "You think they meant to land at Bandon and 
  didn't? They crashed?" 
  "Could be." Heris felt frustration boiling through her mind. Once she would 
  have had the information she needed; once she would have had trusted 
  subordinates to find out anything she lacked. People she could trust... she 
  would not let herself remember more than the trust. At least they were safe, 
  she told herself fiercely. At least they still had each other. She had bought 
  them that much. 
  And she might have the chance to see Lepescu again. Without Fleet 
  interference. Without witnesses. 
  "Lepescu," she murmured, hardly aware of saying anything. "You bastard -- what 
  are you doing here?" 
  "I remember," Cecelia said. "He was the admiral who got you in trouble." Heris 
  looked up, startled out of her train of memories. 
  "He was the admiral who nearly got us all kitted," Heris said. "The trouble 
  was negligible, really...." Now she could say that. "The question is, why is 
  he here? To cause me more grief? It would have been easy for him to find out 
  who hired me, and where we were going, but I can't see why -- or what he can 
  do worse than he's done. Aside from that --" 
  "Bunny didn't invite him," Cecelia said smugly. She had the authorization 
  codes for Bunny's personal guestlist database, and had run them on the 
  deskcomp. "Never has, according to this. Let's see... no, nor any of Bunny's 
  relatives. He's another crasher." 
  "Here? No, because Sirkin said that transmission went to a shuttle landing at 
  Bandon." 
  "Where nobody's supposed to be," Cecelia reminded her. "Where I didn't know 
  there was a landing zone equipped for shuttles." 
  "Whose ship did he come on?" Heris asked. Cecelia couldn't know, she realized, 
  and asked Sirkin, who had stayed online. 
  "All I know is it's a charter yacht out of Dismis, the Prairie Rose. I'd have 
  to have authorization to find out more..." 
  "We'll do that," Heris said. "But post the orders to monitor that flitter 
  beacon, and any and all traffic on that island or the ones next to it. I'll 
  want flitter IDs, com transcripts, everything." 
  "Yes, Captain. Right away." 
  "And be prepared to patch my signal from a flitter or other light craft. Lady 
  Cecelia and I will be checking on that beacon ourselves." As she said it, she 
  raised her brows at Cecelia, who nodded. It was crazy, really. At the least 
  they ought to tell their host and let him assign his own security forces to 
  it. But the thought that she might come face to face with Lepescu, 
  unwitnessed, slid sweet and poisonous into her mind. With Cecelia's 
  authorization, she could confront him -- an uninvited gate-crasher -- and 
  demand the answers that had eluded her before. She closed her eyes a moment, 
  imagining his surprise, feeling her hands close around his throat.... Her 
  mouth flooded with the imagined taste of victory, and she had to swallow. 
  "Heris?" Cecelia was looking at her strangely. It was that expression, on the 
  faces of her classmates at the Academy, that had first given her an inkling 
  that she had inherited her parents' gift of command, the essential 
  ruthlessness of decision. 
  "Just thinking," Heris said, pulling her mind back onto the designated track. 
  It was crazy, she thought again, almost as crazy as the orders she had refused 
  to obey. She and Cecelia had no idea what was going on over there, she knew 
  Lepescu was dangerous in any context, and yet they were preparing to fly off 
  as if it were an afternoon picnic. As if they were safe, protected by the 
  social conventions of Bunny's crowd. But Lepescu wasn't part of Bunny's crowd. 
  Why was he here? What was he doing, and what would he do when he saw her? How 
  many unauthorized visitors were on this island, and why hadn't Ronnie and 
  Bubbles called in? 
  "At worst," Cecelia said, interrupting her thoughts again, "I suppose we'll 
  find the crashed flitter and they'll all be dead. Otherwise they'd have called 
  in, if they needed help." She didn't sound certain of that. 
  "Umm." Heris dug through her daypouch for the notepad and stylus she carried 
  out of habit. "We need to do a little planning here. Worst case -- all dead. 
  Next worst -- injured, needing evacuation. We really should bring some help. 
  The local security force, a medic or two --" 
  Cecelia looked stubborn. "I don't want to. It's my nephew, after all. If I can 
  get him out of this without Bunny's knowledge, keep it in the family --" 
  "Have you considered violence?" asked Heris. At Cecelia's bewildered 
  expression, she explained. "I told you about Lepescu. If he's here, uninvited, 
  I would expect some kind of nastiness going on. There are stories about him 
  and his cronies -- " She could feel her lip curling. 
  "But what could he be doing?" asked Cecelia. "He doesn't have any troops to 
  command here -- wait -- you don't think he's trying to invade or something? 
  Take over Bunny's holdings?" She looked frightened. 
  "No... I don't think so." It did not make sense that a mid-list admiral would 
  alienate so powerful a family; besides, he could not invade without troops, 
  and one shuttle load would hardly be enough. Heris thought for a moment "Wait 
  -- remember that Kettlegrave woman?" 
  "The one blathering on about blood sports?" 
  "Yes. She said something -- about fox hunting leading to other things, those 
  who would hunt innocent animals being just as willing to hunt people --" 
  "Ridiculous!" Cecelia sniffed. "Bunny's as gentle as his nickname --" 
  "Bunny is. But Lepescu is most definitely not. What if there's some kind of 
  illicit hunting -- no, not people of course, but something else, that Bunny 
  wouldn't like, with the fox hunting season as cover -- " Even as she said it, 
  she remembered that Lepescu belonged to a semi-secret officers' club. She had 
  not been invited to join, but Perin Sothanous had. He'd refused, and kept his 
  oath not to talk of what he'd learned... but she had heard him say it was 
  "--really sick -- they think the only true blood-sport is war." 
  "You have a wicked mind," Cecelia said. 
  "I know. But it makes sense. You told me that Bunny has some rare and valuable 
  animals that are practically pets. What if they're being hunted? We'll go 
  armed, and expect trouble: it's the only sensible way." 
  "Armed?" 
  "Of course. Lepescu is dangerous, and he's not alone. We don't know what those 
  youngsters have gotten into, and we have to be able to get them and ourselves 
  out." Even as she said it, she knew they couldn't possibly do this alone. It 
  was stupid. Militarily, it was suicide. A flitter held eight easily, ten if 
  cramped -- could they squeeze in some muscle on the way out? No -- she could 
  not command any of Bunny's staff, and she wouldn't trust them anyway. She 
  ached for her lost crew, for Oblo and Petris who would have stood behind her 
  in anything. Except the trial, her mind reminded her. She argued back to her 
  memory: They would have, but I wouldn't put them through it. 
  She shook herself physically, as well as mentally, and signed off with Sirkin, 
  giving the few final orders. She would have to do this alone, because there 
  was no other way. At least she could prepare Cecelia for what they might face. 

  "Rifles," she said. "At a minimum, and if you can use a bow --" 
  "Of course," Cecelia said, still looking shocked. "But why --" 
  "It's quieter." Heris had pulled out her notepad again, and was figuring on 
  it. Supplies: they'd have to assume they couldn't use Bandon, so they'd need 
  food, medical supplies, ammunition for the weapons she intended to take, 
  protective gear, whatever communications and electronic gear she could lay her 
  hands on -- she looked at the wall chronometer -- in half a standard hour. 
  They'd need to leave before the day's hunt gathered. It was crazy. They should 
  tell Bunny; they should use his staff for this. 
  "Should we take something larger than a standard flitter?" Cecelia asked. 
  "Hmm? What else?" Heris computed cubage and mass on her notepad and entered 
  the total. They would have to change from hunting clothes, too, or take along 
  something more suitable and change en route. 
  "A supply flitter, I was thinking. We could take more supplies, and if one of 
  them is injured..." 
  "Good idea. Will they sign one out to you?" 
  Cecelia looked affronted. "I've been a family friend for years -- of course 
  they will. Michaels will be glad someone's checking on the young people." 
  "Fine. Then get this list" -- Heris handed it to her -- "loaded as soon as you 
  can. I'll pack my kit, and what else we need." 
  "The weapons." Cecelia scowled. 
  "Yes. The weapons." The weapons were going to be a problem, any way she went 
  at it. Personal weapons were common enough, but Cecelia, as a dedicated fox 
  hunter, had brought none with her, and Heris's own small handgun would not be 
  enough. 
  That morning the green hunt gathered at Stone Lodge, so the house staff at the 
  Main House seemed less rushed. The housekeeper's eyebrows went up slightly 
  when Heris mentioned weapons, but the brief explanation that Lady Cecelia 
  wanted to find her nephew brought them back down, as if Lady Cecelia could be 
  expected to take after her relatives with firepower. 
  "Senedor and Clio have a shop here during the season," the housekeeper said, 
  mentioning a firm of weapons dealers as famous in their way as the great 
  fashion houses. "I imagine they would have anything Lady Cecelia might want." 
  "Thank you," Heris said; once she'd heard the name, she remembered seeing the 
  S&C logo outside one of the little stone buildings that made up the commercial 
  row: saddlers, bootmakers, tailors and bloodstock agents. 
  Senedor & Clio's local representative welcomed her with a wink and a smile. 
  "Lady Cecelia, eh? What's she doing now, deciding to turn elphoose hunter? 
  You're her captain.... You look like regular military." 
  "I was." Heris did not elaborate. She had thought of a good story on the way 
  over. "Look -- I'm buying two lots -- they'll need separate accounting. Lady 
  Cecelia's yacht is woefully undergunned; the crew's arms are pitiful." In 
  fact, the crew had no weapons at all. "I finally convinced her that in some of 
  the places she wants to travel, she needs to arm the crew with something more 
  advanced than muzzle-loaders from the family museum." 
  The man chuckled. "A lot of these aristocrats are like that -- they don't 
  expect to need real protection." 
  "And most of them probably don't," Heris conceded. "The ones who make a safe 
  round from hunting here to deep-sea fishing on Fandro and back to court for 
  the season... but you know Lady Cecelia isn't like that." The man nodded. 
  "So... I'm going to do my job and see that she isn't hijacked somewhere." 
  "Umm. We don't carry many of that sort of thing down here," he said. "But 
  let's see... here." The holo catalog showed something that looked like the 
  landing troops' rifles and submachine guns. Exactly what Heris had been hoping 
  for. "These are made by Zechard, who as you know supply the fleet marines. 
  Ours, of course, go through additional testing from the factory. We have a 
  gross of each model up at Home Station, and we could deliver anything up to 
  that quantity direct to Lady Cecelia's yacht. The Sweet Delight, isn't it?" 
  Heris wondered if Lepescu knew that somewhere on Home Station were a gross 
  each of military quality rifles and the stubby-barrelled weapons which had 
  been called OOZ for time out of mind. Heris remembered that one instructor at 
  the Academy had said they were supposed to be O07's, but through a computer 
  glitch they'd been renamed. The landing force's gory jest was that they were 
  called OOZ because that's what they made of anyone foolish enough to get in 
  the way. And how many were on the other Stations? She did not ask, but smiled 
  ruefully at the salesman instead. "That would cause problems," she said. "At 
  least now. You've probably heard that we've a standing watch aboard -- ?" 
  "Yes -- that's why I thought --" 
  She shook her head at him. "The Stationmaster was none too pleased about that; 
  Lady Cecelia is sure he will not like having that crew armed with modern 
  weapons. Of course they're harmless -- it's only a handful, and most of them 
  don't yet know how to use these -- " She tapped the holo catalog and the image 
  shivered. "But she said to gather the weapons here and transport them under 
  her personal seal and responsibility when we leave. She is concerned as well 
  that such weapons look too..." Heris's lips pursed and she gave the salesman a 
  look of complicity. "Too real. You know -- it would ruin her decorating scheme 
  or something. I wondered if you had a small number of those which could be 
  customized to look more like hunting weapons." 
  The man's eyes brightened. "Ah... yes. Here." The catalog image flicked to 
  something with a stock of burnished wood instead of extruded 
  carbon-fiber/alloy and a civilian-style sighting system and computer socket. 
  "It's the same, exactly, but with add-on about two hundred grams heavier. It 
  does cost more...." 
  "Perfect," said Heris firmly. "Twenty of the rifles, and five subs...." The 
  OOZ had been prettified with wood and inlay, but less successfully. They would 
  pass, however, for the weapon many explorers carried on pioneer worlds. 
  "I don't have that many set up," the man said. At her frown, he added quickly, 
  "But it doesn't take long. The hunt's away today, and my techs are both free. 
  A few hours only...." 
  They didn't have a few hours. "How many do you have ready?" Heris asked. "I 
  wanted to show milady what they would look like." 
  "If brasilwood and corriwood are acceptable, I've got a couple of beauties 
  already made up." He vanished behind a mesh grill and returned with two of the 
  rifles and a single submachine gun. The rifle stocks had the curly green and 
  blue grain of brasilwood, probably from a plantation on this very planet; the 
  OOZ's wood decoration was in the pale yellow and gray grain of Devian 
  corriwood. Heris ran tier fingers over both; the rifles felt silky and the sub 
  a bit tacky, giving a grip that would always hold no matter what. She picked 
  up each weapon to check its balance. 
  "You'll want to fire them," the man said with certainty. "Our range is back 
  here --" 
  "Just a moment," Heris said. "This is not all, remember? On Lady Cecelia's 
  personal account, not the yacht account, I will need to select personal 
  weapons for her." She paged through the catalog, and allowed the salesman to 
  lead her towards the items she already knew she wanted. Light hunting rifles 
  with day-and-night optics, IR range finding, and computer links for special 
  purposes, a narrow-beam optical weapon that could also be used to operate ship 
  controls, personal protective gear.... The salesman seemed to consider it 
  natural that she ordered for herself as well, but she dared not put vests and 
  helmets for the young people on the list. 
  Then it was done, and he led her through another mesh grill to the indoor 
  firing range without waiting for her opinion. She forced herself to follow 
  with no sign of hurry. Surely Cecelia wouldn't get the flitter loaded in the 
  time limit she'd given her. And despite her need to hurry, her training held 
  -- you could not trust a weapon you had not personally tested. 
  When all the weapons had checked out, as she had been sure they would, she 
  came back to the main showroom and glanced around. "I'll contact you when Lady 
  Cecelia approves the choice of wood for the stocks, and I'm hoping to convince 
  her to buy appropriate armor for the crew as well. We'll be using these in the 
  next few days; I'll need ammunition...." 
  "Here," he said, stacking boxes of clips. "And I presume a weaponscart?" 
  Heris nodded, glad that she would not have to pay for this. Cecelia's credit 
  cube went into the reader, and the assembled weaponry stacked neatly into a 
  covered cache on a cart that looked like a miniature flitter and hummed at 
  her. 
  "Palm-print it," the man said. Heris laid her palm on the membrane set in one 
  side of the thing's bow, and it bleeped. "It won't open the cache to anyone 
  else," he said. "It'll follow you; if you want it to stay somewhere, 
  palm-print and say, 'Stay. ' But I'd keep it with you; if it's stolen someone 
  could break in. Local law says those weapons are your responsibility now." 
  "Thank you," said Heris, and retrieved Cecelia's cube. She hadn't even looked 
  at the total; it was like going into Fleet refitting. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  On the way back to the flitter bays, Heris's mind caught up with her again. 
  What she was about to do, with Lady Cecelia and a supply flitter, was exactly 
  what Admiral Lepescu had demanded that she do with her crew and ship... what 
  she had refused to do, in fact. Why was she so willing now to charge into an 
  obvious trap? If she wouldn't risk a crew of professionals, why would she risk 
  one rich old lady? And what did that say about her loyalty to her employer? 
  If she tried this, and failed, Lepescu would have beaten her twice -- he would 
  have made her play his game, something she couldn't avoid as a military 
  officer.... But now she had options. 
  If she could think of them. If she had time. If she could convince her 
  employer who was even more stubborn, if less vicious, than Admiral Lepescu. 
  Of course, she could try another end play and tell Bunny herself. Let Lady 
  Cecelia fire her, if that's what it came to. That's what she'd done last time, 
  and it hadn't worked.... She did not have to make the same mistake twice. 
  This time, if what she suspected was true, Lepescu was in the trap -- not her. 
  She could win, using her own strategy, and prove she'd been right. 
  But she had to convince Cecelia. 
  Chapter Thirteen 
  "This is the island we're on," Petris said, outlining it on the chart. They 
  had survived their first night on the island; Ronnie felt much better, and 
  ignored the dull pain in his head. He had kept that first ration bar down, and 
  another this morning; he was sure he was over his concussion. "About eight 
  kilometers by five," Petris went on, "but most of it's narrower. Relief's 
  about two hundred meters -- this hill's given as two-twenty. It's steeper on 
  the west, but nowhere difficult, except for this little ravine here -- " He 
  pointed. "Now -- the cover is mixed: open forest, on these slopes, and down 
  near the water scrub undergrowth. It's full of trails as a kid's playground in 
  some park --" 
  "That's what it was," Bubbles said. "I told you; we all camped over here. My 
  cousins, too. About -- oh -- five years ago was the last time I remember. We'd 
  stay here while the grown-ups were on Bandon. We'd sail over in little boats. 
  My father thought it up -- it was out of some old books from England on Old 
  Earth. Kids went camping on an island --" 
  "Yes, well, this isn't camping." Petris dismissed her memories abruptly. Oblo 
  spoke up. 
  "Do you remember seeing anything that indicated someone else used the island 
  that way?" 
  "No." Bubbles wrinkled her nose. "No -- in fact, we always had to clear the 
  trails every year. I wanted to have someone do it, but my father insisted we 
  'have the fun' as he put it." 
  "So this kind of hunting was either somewhere else, or not going on then," 
  Oblo pointed out. "It would be interesting to know when it started, if your 
  father hired someone new, who could have set it up. It would take connections 
  -- someone who knew likely clients --" 
  Bubbles frowned. "I'm trying to think. Daddy mentioned he'd hired a new 
  outrange supervisor when Vittorio Zelztin retired, but I don't remember what 
  he said. It didn't seem important." 
  "Not as important as staying alive," Petris said. "And we need to break this 
  up and get moving. Let me finish the briefing." He waited until Ronnie wanted 
  to ask why, then went on, sure of their attention. "They introduce new prey 
  when they have confirmed killing all but two of the old ones. Those are the 
  preeves, the previous survivors. That's how we know some of the things we do, 
  and that's where our few weapons come from. New prey's given two days free, 
  then hunting resumes. They supply basic rations every four days at a single 
  site on the west side of the island, during a non-hunting period. They hunt no 
  more than fourteen Standard hours a day. The problem is, we're not sure which 
  fourteen hours. Sometimes they do a split shift. If we don't keep a constant 
  watch, they're over here before we know it. 
  "What the preeves told us is that the first week they hunt only in daylight. 
  That weeds out the really stupid and incapable, they think. Then they start 
  night-hunting. They have dark gear; we don't. If they hunt all night, they'll 
  leave us alone the following day, but they usually hunt only half a night 
  shift. From sundown to midnight, or midnight to sunrise, say. We've been here 
  a couple weeks, so they're night-hunting almost every night. Last night they 
  didn't -- I expect they were waiting to see if you were followed." 
  "If they have Barstow sensors, why don't they just find us and wipe us out?" 
  asked George. 
  "They don't use Barstows," Petris said. "Again, that's not 'sporting' in their 
  books. The preeves say if someone eludes them the full month, they'll use a 
  Barstow to find and capture him -- but that almost never happens." 
  "But if they know we're here -- and they want to eliminate witnesses -- won't 
  they use Barstows sooner this time?" 
  "I was hoping you wouldn't ask that. They might. And if they do, we're out of 
  luck. We can't build a shelter that will shield us from Barstow scans and 
  escape notice in flyovers. The island's not deep enough, and the woods aren't 
  thick enough." 
  "That other flyover," Raffa said. "That could've been a rescue attempt, but we 
  weren't there." Ronnie had missed the flyover, but they'd told him about the 
  flitter that came, hovered above the wreck, and then departed. 
  "They'd only want to rescue us if they could do it before we made contact with 
  the prey," Bubbles said. Looking at her now, Ronnie could hardly believe that 
  was her name. None of the fluffhead left, none at all. "They'll think -- if we 
  met them -- the secret's out. Either they have to kill us all, and fake an 
  accident somehow, or they have to escape. And even if they do escape, there's 
  the evidence...." 
  "So the only logical thing for them to do is add our names to the list and go 
  on." Raffa shivered. "I don't like this. Yet -- if they kill us, there'll be 
  the evidence then, too. When someone comes to look." 
  "Unless they try to capture you four," Petris said. "And then kill you in some 
  way that can be explained. They might well try a chemical weapon. Knock you 
  unconscious, take you up in a flitter -- even your own -- and drop you into 
  the rocks. If we're all dead and gone -- or if they can create that accident 
  on another island -- it might well pass. Ordinarily, the preeves say, they 
  don't use chemicals, but now they might." 
  Ronnie lifted his head. Had he really heard something, or... Petris was alert 
  too. Something -- but he couldn't define it. "Flitter," said Oblo. "I'll see 
  about it." 
  "We make a plan every day," Petris said, as if nothing had happened. "You have 
  to... else it's just running and waiting to be killed. That's what happens to 
  most. Or they make a plan, and run the same one every day. That won't work 
  either. The only hope is to make the hunters work... get back at them." 
  "Attack them?" George asked. "You do have more men, don't you? How many 
  hunters are there?" 
  "More, but not more firepower. Not more resources. We can't attack in force, 
  but we do feint. We scare them sometimes. They like that, the preeves tell us; 
  I hate to give them the satisfaction, but it does make them slow down and be 
  careful. As for how many, it seems to vary. I'm sure we're not seeing the same 
  ones each day; if it's anything like big game hunting, there's a larger party 
  of hunters over on Bandon, and they take turns. I'd like to kill them but so 
  far we haven't." 
  "Has anyone ever?" Raffa asked. 
  "So I hear," Petris said. "But you don't know how much to believe. The preeves 
  they send with us are not exactly reliable. They've been known to turn a group 
  that was doing too well. We found a locator on Sid, for instance." 
  "But you didn't kill him," George said. "Why not?" 
  "Do you kill everyone who just might hurt you someday?" Petris looked 
  disgusted. "Get some sense, boy. Everyone who's been through this has 
  knowledge we need; we can't afford to lose anyone. He knows we know he might 
  turn; he knows his best chance at survival is with us -- at least now." 
  "So how many do you have, altogether?" 
  "Never you mind. What you don't know, you can't tell. But we've lost only two, 
  in the time we've been here; the preeves say that's much better than usual. 
  Now -- what we're going to do is this...." Petris leaned over the map. "We've 
  got to separate you four, because they need you worst. Can't let them get you 
  in a lump. The longer it takes, the more chance one of you'll be alive to 
  report all this. At the same time, I can't protect you all. My people wouldn't 
  go for it, and I don't have the ability anyway. So you ladies will have to go 
  here" -- he pointed to the ravine on the map -- "unless you can find those 
  hiding places you think you remember... ?" He looked at Bubbles. 
  "I wish Kell hadn't been so secretive," Bubbles said. "I'm sure there is a 
  cave somewhere -- " Petris ignored this; he had not been impressed with a 
  possible cave she had never seen for herself. 
  "You want me to go somewhere alone?" Raffa asked. She looked pale. 
  "It would be best," Petris said, almost gently. "That ravine's hard to climb; 
  they avoid it except at the ends, and there's a lot of cover -- big rocks and 
  so on. They go along the edges, and watch both ends, but they can't see 
  everything. If you tuck yourself under a boulder, that's as safe a place as I 
  can offer." 
  "I want to do something," Raffa said. "Not sit under a rock and shiver." 
  "We don't have any training," Bubbles said to her. "Not even as much as Ronnie 
  and George. The best we can do is stay out of the way." 
  "No." Raffa glanced at Ronnie and away; he felt his heart contract. She was 
  thinking about him, he knew it. 
  "You two," Petris said, with a nod to Ronnie and George, "are another problem. 
  You might be useful, or not -- I can't tell until I see you in action. What 
  we're going to do is try to make them think you wandered into the forest north 
  of the stream, maybe heading for the point up there. It's more rugged country. 
  I want you to go up there now, and make some trail. Scuff and scrape as if 
  you're dragging something or someone. Drop something unimportant that might 
  have fallen off your packs. There's no way to disguise what happened to your 
  flitter, but they may not have realized we've met. If you headed that way, and 
  we were keeping watch to the south and east, you could have gotten away from 
  us. Not really, but they might believe it." 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  In other circumstances, it would have been a pleasant afternoon's hike up the 
  ravine. Bubbles found it hard to remember the danger; the lower forest smelled 
  as fresh as she remembered, and then the scramble up the rocks took her breath 
  away. A clear rivulet still splashed from pool to pool, and red and gold 
  amphibians still hurled themselves into the water as she came near, with 
  agitated squeaks. A few rocks had moved in seasonal floods -- she recognized 
  one boulder by an odd inclusion, now upside down from where it had been -- but 
  most of the trail was familiar. 
  Higher on the slope, a breeze stirred, lifting the hair on the back of her 
  head as it rose from the forest canopy below. She could see more of the sky, 
  now, and smell the sea as well as the rock and flowers. Raffa, behind her, 
  scuffed her feet in the dirt but said nothing. Bubbles was glad. She wanted to 
  combine the old memories, once thrust away as too childish, with the present 
  experience. Finally she stopped, winded, on a broad flat outcrop where the 
  ravine angled south, away from the shore. Looking back she could see nothing 
  but billows of green concealing the shape of the land itself. Raffa, panting, 
  dropped to the rock and lifted the hair from her neck. 
  "You did this every year?" she asked, after a moment 
  "Most years, for awhile. When my Uncle Gene would come, and bring the 
  cousins.... I suppose, really, Mother wanted us out of the main house, away 
  from more important visitors. All of us together could be noisy." She grinned 
  down at Raffa. "When we camped over here, we'd divide in two groups, at least, 
  and play hunting games. Stuff we'd read about or seen on the old cubes --" 
  "We used to go to my Aunt Katy's house and ride up in the hills," Raffa said. 
  "On Negaire -- no pretty islands there." 
  Bubbles shivered. "Ugh. Cold and wet all year round, isn't it? You didn't camp 
  out, surely?" 
  Raffa nodded. "Better than in this heat. We pretended to be steppe nomads and 
  so forth, but mostly we lived in caves. There was a big one, very handy, about 
  a day's ride away, and another smaller one on the other side of the hill. We 
  painted monsters on the walls; one of my cousins tried to paint us, but he 
  couldn't draw." 
  "Cave." Bubbles glowered at the water. "I wish I knew if Kell told the truth. 
  He said it was big enough for all of us, but he wouldn't share it, the pig. 
  He's like that still, loves secrets and won't share. There's no place else as 
  good, if it's real." 
  "You're sure you have no idea where it is?" 
  "Only where it isn't. We did look, but we never found it in the likely places 
  -- up here, or in the valley between this hill and the next. And knowing where 
  not to look still leaves a lot of island. Why -- you think we should look?" 
  "If we found it, we'd be a lot safer than hiding under a rock," Raffa pointed 
  out. "And we'd better be going; we certainly aren't safe sitting here 
  chatting." 
  "We'll climb straight over the spine," Bubbles said, leading the way up the 
  narrowing ravine. "I hope the old trail along the crest is still there. It has 
  a few hidey-holes I know about." 
  Along the spine of the island, the rock outcrops formed stout pillars, two to 
  three meters tall, in ragged rows that wobbled along parallel to the crest 
  like rotting teeth. Between the rows, the hollows were unevenly filled with 
  soil and overgrown with thorny vines and bushes. A winding thread of trail had 
  been hacked clear at the very crest; Bubbles could not tell if it had been cut 
  by hunters or hunted. It didn't really matter. They would have to get off it 
  quickly, because the hunters certainly knew about it. 
  She counted the pillars. If only she could remember the pattern... three tall 
  ones, a short, two tails and then two -- three? -- short ones... there. She 
  squeezed between two of the shorter rocks -- had she been that much thinner 
  five years ago, or had the rocks shifted? -- and then crouched to wiggle 
  beneath the huge briar that lay over what had always been her own special 
  hiding place. The hooked thorns scraped on her knapsack as she slithered 
  further in, her nose hardly off the dark, dank-smelling soil. It hadn't felt 
  this small the last time.... She called back to Raffa. "You have to go under 
  this thing -- you can't go through it with anything short of power tools." 
  "Give me a steppe pony any day," Raffa said, but she gave only one muffled 
  yelp when the thorns caught her hair, and slithered very efficiently for 
  someone who often pretended disdain for physical exertion. "Do you want me to 
  do anything about the way we came in?" 
  "Nope." Bubbles edged past the cluster of woody stems and felt around the far 
  side of it. She had had a little hole there, once, with a box in it, but she 
  couldn't see. It was dark under the briar's canopy after the brilliant 
  sunlight on the trail, a warm brown gloom lightened by freckles of sun. 
  "As much as we've shaken it, the outer branches will go back down. I used to 
  do this all the time, and the guys never found me." The little hole in which 
  she'd tucked a boxful of handy items years before had grown into something a 
  handspan across and deeper than her fingers. Burrow. Something was living 
  here. She tried to remember just what did live on this island. Nothing 
  venomous, nothing particularly large or dangerous. Except the hunters. She 
  realized she'd forgotten them for a few minutes, here where her safe childhood 
  was so real, and the hunters hardly believable. 
  On the far side of the briary tangle, lodged in fallen leaves against another 
  standing stone, Bubbles found her box. She blessed her younger self for 
  insisting she wanted a real expedition box, the kind that was supposed to last 
  through anything. She dragged it out of the leaves and scrunched sideways so 
  that Raffa could come up beside her. 
  "I forgot this the last time we were here," she said. "We were in a hurry to 
  leave -- I was going to St. Eleanor's for the first time -- and by the time I 
  remembered I'd left it, there was no time to go back." The box had no lock, 
  only an L-shaped catch, now crusted with dirt and time. Bubbles broke a 
  fingernail on it and muttered. Probably nothing in it -- a decayed sandwich, 
  some childish bauble -- but something drove her to open it. 
  "Let me try," said Raffa. Bubbles slid the box over to her, and sucked her 
  bruised fingertip. Raffa had picked up a twig, and used that to prod out the 
  caked dirt around the latch, then spit on it. When she pushed, the latch moved 
  with a minute squeak. "Here," she said, handing the box back. "You open it -- 
  it's yours." 
  Bubbles felt a curious reluctance to open it, as odd as the determination a 
  moment ago to make that latch move. Silly, she thought. There could be nothing 
  really useful in this box -- not as useful as the things in the survival packs 
  on the flitter. Just junk that would remind her what a silly child she had 
  been. She struggled for a moment, having forgotten the exact movement it took 
  to pry the lid up -- the box had a good seal on it. Then it lay open, a time 
  capsule from her childhood, her forgotten treasures rattling a little from the 
  movement of her hand. 
  A seashell, one of the purple cone-shaped ones. A bracelet woven of dune-grass 
  -- she blushed, remembering who had woven it, and why. A little black blob, 
  smooth all over... raked from the fire the time Kell had melted the handle 
  from the frying pan. A single sheet of photocells, ready to be spread in the 
  sunlight again... if she had anything to recharge. A bit of faded ribbon... 
  she remembered clearly the shade of purple it had been. A whistle, a 
  foil-wrapped ration bar, a tube of first-aid ointment and a packet of 
  bandages, a length of fine fish-line, neatly coiled, with two hooks and a 
  handful of differently shaped sinkers. And the compact silvery locator beacon, 
  with the lanyard still looped through the ring on top. 
  "Isn't that a -- ?' Raffa started to ask. 
  "Yes. And it will work." She looked at the charge level on the side; as she'd 
  expected, it had held its charge.... The good ones did, and her dad had always 
  provided them with good ones. Besides, she had the photocells to top it up 
  with. "We can get help," she said, and sat up cheerfully only to ram her head 
  into the nest of thorns close above. Her eyes watered, and she held very 
  still. It was the only way with these island briars: jerk away and she'd lose 
  half her hair and part of her scalp. In the time it took Raffa to work her 
  free, she was able to think why they couldn't use the locator yet. There would 
  be no easy rescue, any more than easy extrication from the briar. 
  "But if we could get to Bandon," she said. "If we could steal their flitter, 
  maybe, while they're hunting the others... this will override anything." 
  "There's more of them on Bandon," Raffa reminded her. "Hold still, yet. You've 
  got a thorn right in your scalp. Do these things leave the husk in?" 
  "Sometimes, and it festers if they do. Get it all if you can." She was a 
  little surprised at how deft Raffa's fingers were, and how calm she was 
  staying. Was this the same Raffa who had seemed an obsessive worrier? 
  "There," Raffa said finally. "I don't think there are any husks, but if you'll 
  hand me that tube of gunk -- thanks -- I can put a dab on a few places... 
  yes... they were bleeding a bit. Keep the flies off, eh?" 
  "How long has it been?" Bubbles asked, putting everything back in the box and 
  latching it. They had left Petris and the others before noon, and she realized 
  they had better think about where to spend the night. Light came to them 
  between the stones, sideways; the slope below, on the west side of the island, 
  would still be in daylight for awhile, but where would the hunters go? Up 
  here, along the high trail? Along the slopes? 
  "Should we stay here?" Raffa asked, as if she were seeing the thoughts in 
  Bubbles's head. "We're out of sight, but if they have any kind of sensors --" 
  "I don't know a better place, not without time to look for it." Bubbles peeked 
  out the west side of the tangle; they were high enough that she could see out 
  over the lower forest to the sea. The few clouds drifted past, their shadows 
  sliding up the slope like vast hands caressing the trees. "The main thing is 
  to keep well away from Petris and the others.... Someone has to get back...." 
  "Oh..." Raffa's breath came just as Bubbles realized one shadow wasn't sliding 
  upslope.... Small, regular, it moved swiftly against the wind, downslope to 
  the south of them, and then ran along parallel to the ridge. 
  "Eyes down," Bubbles said, taking her own advice. Now that it was upwind, they 
  could hear the faint whine of the flitter. Surely the briar was thick enough 
  -- old, tangled, too dense for anyone to see through. But every freckle of 
  light suggested it was as porous as a fishing net. She felt sure she had 
  something shiny on her back, something that would glitter -- she should take 
  it off. But her arms had no strength; she lay, hardly breathing, trembling. 
  The flitter's shadow passed over them, as if a cold hand lay on her back, and 
  went somewhere else. She could hear the whine moving north, she thought, 
  toward the tip of the island, but she dared not move. 
  "So," Raffa said, hardly louder than a breath. "They're here. And it's not a 
  game." 
  "No." Immediately below them, on the west slope, the rock nubbins were only 
  sparsely covered.... They couldn't count on reaching the cover below without 
  being seen. They would have to stay here until the flitter landed somewhere. 
  What if it didn't? It had not occurred to her that the hunters might well keep 
  someone aloft, especially in this emergency. 
  "How come people in entertainment cubes never need a bathroom?" asked Raffa. 
  "Mmm. You're right." Now that Raffa had brought it up, she felt the same 
  desperate need. "We can't leave cover now," she said. She wriggled toward the 
  north side of the briar, where its canopy lay along a lower stub of gray 
  stone. Just beyond that was another hollow; she could see into it by risking 
  another hair-pulling match with the briars canopy. This one had no handy roof; 
  a small tree had died and collapsed, and the vines that covered it matted the 
  ground. 
  "We should've found a place before we came in here," Raffa said. 
  "You're right," Bubbles said, squeezing onward around the briar's central stem 
  and root complex. In the northeast corner of their thorny shelter, she found 
  what she remembered, a niche in the big stone between them and the trail. Here 
  the briar, reaching for light, lifted enough to allow someone to sit upright. 
  And below was the other refinement of her childhood hiding place, a standard 
  expedition one-man composting latrine unit, carefully dug into the soil. Her 
  parents had been, she'd thought then, ridiculously fussy about pollution; one 
  summer they'd all been yanked back to ail-day lessons at the Big House for two 
  weeks just because one set of cousins had dug a real latrine in a spurt of 
  enthusiasm for historical authenticity. They had all had to memorize the list 
  of diseases they could have given themselves, and the life cycles of 
  innumerable disgusting parasites, before they could come back. They could have 
  all the prefab units they wanted, her father had said, but they must use them. 
  She scrabbled at the lid, said a brief prayer to some nameless deity that none 
  of the more agile crawlers had gotten into it, and pulled it open. "But here," 
  she said triumphantly. "All the comforts of home, more or less. Deodorizing, 
  too." Since she was in place, she took the first turn, and felt much better. 
  Raffa followed her, gave a sigh of relief, and latched the lid back down. 
  "Now if you could just excavate us a cave right here..." 
  "Nope. I tried hard enough, but it's solid stone below a few inches of 
  leaf-drift And I think we'd better get what rest we can. Just at dusk we could 
  move downslope, if we're careful." 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Bubbles had not really expected to sleep, cramped under the briar in the hot, 
  sweaty dimness, but she woke at the crunch of footsteps somewhere nearby. It 
  was completely dark, and for a moment she could not think where she was. Then 
  she remembered. The hand on her ankle, a grip hard enough to pinch, must be 
  Raffa's hand. She reached back and touched it, and Raffa gripped her hand 
  instead. Her breath seemed trapped in her lungs. The footsteps came nearer, 
  not hurrying. Panic clogged her ears with her own heartbeat; she could not 
  tell how far away the sound was. A voice murmured something she could not 
  distinguish. A faint crackle followed; her mind raced, suggesting that the 
  crackle was a comunit, which meant the footsteps were a hunters. I knew that 
  already, she argued back at her mind. Raffa's fingers in hers were cold; she 
  shivered, but forced herself to lie still. Another crunch, a boot on the rough 
  path beyond the stone. She heard a scrape and a soft curse as someone found 
  the space between the stones too narrow. Something shook that side of the 
  briar, as if the hunter had taken a stick to it; the branches squeaked 
  overhead. Raffa's fingers tightened suddenly. Could she see something from her 
  side of the briar? But the footsteps went away, the faint scrunching growing 
  fainter. Raffa's fingers relaxed but did not pull away. 
  Her breath came out all at once; she felt dizzy and faint even lying down. 
  What if she'd been asleep... and dreaming... and had snored? Her first school 
  roommates said she snored. Just when she thought it might be safe to murmur 
  something to Raffa, she heard another sound. Not nearly so loud as the first, 
  as if the feet wore something softer than boots. Three steps, a pause. Four, 
  and another pause. Two... whoever it was was now just outside the cleft they'd 
  come through. Bubbles held herself rigidly still, trying not to breathe. 
  Then the crack of a weapon echoed along the stones, and the person nearest 
  them gave a soft cry. Bubbles heard the slither and thump as he fell, and the 
  ragged breathing louder than the stifled moans. The other footsteps came back 
  at a run and paused; even from behind the rock, Bubbles could see the glow of 
  light as the hunter turned on a torch. 
  "Got one," he said, this time loud enough for Bubbles to hear; she assumed he 
  was talking into his comunit. "By the tattoo, it's one of the preeves." The 
  comunit crackled and muttered back to him. "Right," he said. "I'll bring the 
  IDs. No sign of the others." Bubbles heard the click as he shut the comunit 
  cover, and then a grunt and thump as if he bent to set down his weapon and 
  lean over the body. 
  Then -- "Got one too," said the other man, in a harsh voice thick with pain. 
  The hunter squealed, then gasped, and Bubbles heard the fall of another heavy 
  body, the thrashing of limbs, the rattle and clatter of equipment banging on 
  the rocks. The light went out. Then silence, but for a final few noisy gasps. 
  For the first time in her life, Bubbles envied those of her friends who had a 
  religion: they would have had some deity to swear to, or at, or on. "We can't 
  stay here," she said quietly. Her voice surprised her; it sounded as calm as 
  if she were in her mother's drawing room discussing the weather. 
  "He touched me," Raffa said. Her voice, too, was quiet. "With a stick or 
  something, when he prodded the briar." 
  "We have to go," Bubbles said. "They'll send someone." Through the gap in the 
  stones, the smell of blood and something worse rolled as if on a stream of 
  water. Her stomach churned. 
  "How can we? We can't see anything...." 
  "We have to. It won't be so dark out from under this briar. Turn around and 
  let me get past." 
  "You're not going that way?" The calm seeped out of Raffa's voice, leaving 
  honest fear behind. 
  "I want his weapons," Bubbles said. "And his comunit, and his night goggles." 
  "But then they'll know someone came after," Raffles said. Bubbles paused. She 
  hadn't thought of that. As it was, they might assume that what it looked like 
  was indeed what happened -- a victim not quite dead who killed his careless 
  killer. If she took anything, they'd know someone else had been there. But it 
  didn't matter. 
  "They know we're here," she said. "They're going to hunt until they find us. 
  His things will give us a better chance. You stay here -- we'll go downhill 
  afterwards." 
  Out from under the briar, starlight gave a faint glow to the standing stones; 
  in the distance, the sea glittered. Bubbles paused in the gap between the 
  stones, listening. She could hear nothing. When she peeked out, she could see 
  the tangle of dark forms that must be the two men's bodies. Quickly, before 
  fear could overwhelm her again, she forced herself to move out onto the path. 
  Her foot slipped, and when she put her hand down it was into warm, wet, 
  stinking slime. She choked down her nausea, and wiped her hand on the nearest 
  body. They were dead; it didn't matter now. She fumbled at the bodies, 
  expecting every moment the shot that would kill her, the hiss of gas that 
  would paralyze her. 
  The bodies were still warm; she hated the feel of the skin, the stiffening 
  texture of it, as she felt around for the hunter's night gear. Goggles around 
  his neck, on a thong -- he would have dropped them before lighting his torch. 
  They felt wet -- blood? She cut the thong with her knife, and felt around for 
  the torch. She risked a quick flash of it. The goggles were covered with 
  blood, which she cleaned off with the dead hunter's shirt-tail. There was the 
  comunit which she scooped up, and there the man's rifle with its targeting 
  beam. Her own hands were covered with blood, and one foot would leave bloody 
  footprints until it dried. She flicked off the torch, and called softly to 
  Raffa. 
  "Come on out -- if I go back through, I'll leave a trail. We'll leave the main 
  trail farther down, and have this hidey-hole again later if we need it. Bring 
  my box." She put the comunit in her shirt pocket. 
  A cautious rustle, and Raffa came out with both knapsacks. Bubbles handed her 
  the rifle, and put on the night goggles. Now she could see well enough without 
  the torch to finish rummaging in the dead hunter's pack. He had carried a 
  backup weapon with a removable stock in his pack; she took that and his 
  needier, and the dead preeve's knife. Unfortunately the hunter had not carried 
  an extra set of night goggles. Finally, she did her best to clean her 
  bloodiest hand and foot, so they'd leave no more traces than necessary. 
  Then she led Raffa southward down the trail. Neither of them questioned who 
  should lead; it was her island, and her duty to protect Raffa if she could. 
  There had been a series of parallel trails down the west side of the ridge, 
  long ago; as she recalled, you could go down almost anywhere. She ducked 
  between another pair of standing stones, and fought through a tangle of vines, 
  and then found the next gap downhill. To her enhanced vision, the broken slope 
  below was empty of anything but crumbling rock and low scrub; Raffa, behind 
  her, said, "How is it?" 
  For answer, Bubbles passed her the goggles; she felt suddenly blind when she 
  took them off. "See for yourself. Pick a route, stay low, and don't hurry. 
  We've got to be quiet." 
  "You need these." Raffa passed the goggles back; Bubbles pushed them away. 
  "It's your turn, and I'm supposed to know this place. I'll go first; then you 
  can find me. Not too close." Her eyes were adjusting; she squeezed them 
  tightly a moment or two, and when she opened them found she could just make 
  out the larger rocks. Slowly, carefully, she edged downward, placing each foot 
  with precision so that she could test the ground before putting her weight on 
  it. She remembered reading her brother's service manual on this sort of thing; 
  she had found it funny. She had imagined the dapper George crawling about in 
  the dark counting his steps on zigzags and getting dust on his impeccable 
  trousers, or slithering on his stomach. And here she was... wishing she knew 
  if crouching was enough, if she should be down flat, crawling, if the zigging 
  and zagging from one rock to another was actually doing any good, or only 
  taking longer. A pebble rolled out from under her foot with a faint clatter. 
  She froze. She could hear nothing now but her own pulse beating. She took 
  another step down, and another. The black line of trees rose toward her, 
  welcoming. 
  Chapter Fourteen 
  "Well, well... hello, darlin'." It was not a voice she wanted to hear, that 
  confident male purr. "A gal could get hurt, wanderin' around in the dark like 
  you are.... You better let me give you a hand." A blot of nearer darkness rose 
  from the trees and moved toward her, boots scraping on the rock; she could see 
  a narrow gleam that might be starlight on the barrel of his weapon. 
  "No..." She hadn't meant to say anything, but fear left no room for the breath 
  in her lungs. 
  "C'mon, hon," he said. She couldn't tell quite how far away he was -- two 
  meters? Three? "Wasn't that your flitter crashed on the other side of the 
  island? Your dad sent us out to find you...." For a moment relief washed over 
  her, but she couldn't believe in it. Still, if he thought she didn't know, he 
  might not kill her right away. And if he thought she was alone, if he hadn't 
  seen Raffa, perhaps Raffa could still get away. 
  "You're... one of the outrange patrols?" she asked. A confident chuckle came 
  from him. 
  "That's right, hon. And you're gonna be fine, now. Just come along with 
  me...." 
  For the third time that night, Bubbles heard death close by. This time she 
  heard the bullet smack into him an instant before the loud crack from upslope, 
  where Raffa was. The impact threw him back, to land with a crash in the low 
  vegetation of the slope. A few loose rocks clattered on downhill. Bubbles 
  doubled up, retching. It was too much. She had little in her stomach to lose, 
  but wanted none of it. She could hear Raffa coming down, much faster than she 
  had, with the aid of the goggles. 
  "Are you all right?" Raffa's voice, from near the fallen hunter. 
  "Y-yes." Her body gave a final convulsive heave, then allowed her to lift her 
  head. "I... didn't know you knew how to shoot." 
  "My Aunt Katy. She made us learn. Gave prizes." From the sound of it, Raffa 
  was fighting her own nausea. Bubbles felt shaky and ashamed of herself. She 
  was supposed to be the leader here, and she'd fallen apart. She forced herself 
  to stand, to stumble the few strides in the dark to where Raffa bent over the 
  dying man. 
  "I thought they died quicker," she said, trying for the calm tone of earlier. 
  "They do on the action cubes." The man's breathing sounded horrible, bubbly 
  and uneven. She was glad she couldn't see his face. 
  "Here." Raffa pushed a set of goggles into her hands. "Now we can both see. 
  And we'll take his weapons and comunit." She spoke hurriedly and roughly, her 
  voice slightly shaky. "I saw him, after you started down. I didn't dare 
  call...." 
  "Right," Bubbles said. 
  "I kept wanting you to go more to the right. Give me space. I was so scared -- 
  " For a moment they clung to each other, shaking, wanting to cry but knowing 
  they had no time. "Got to go," Raffa said finally, pushing away. "They'll be 
  coming." 
  Bubbles stood, staggering a little from the weight added to her original pack. 
  They each had two rifles now, and a needier, and a comunit, and more knives 
  than they could possibly use. If they could get some of this back to Petris... 
  but they couldn't. Quickly, careless for the moment of the noise, they got 
  themselves into the forest below. 
  Once or twice, in childhood, they had tried skulking around in the woods at 
  night. With torches, of course. They'd given it up, except for raids along the 
  beach, after someone -- she couldn't remember who -- had broken an ankle while 
  trying to climb the ridge in a cross-island overnight race. They'd had to call 
  for help, and the adults had been scathing about children who didn't have 
  enough sense to stay off slippery rocks in the dark. Buttons, the acknowledged 
  boss of the campsites, had forbidden night wandering, and they'd mostly 
  obeyed. Bubbles hadn't minded, because she preferred to sleep at night rather 
  than nap in the daytime. 
  Now, with the night goggles on, she was glad of the covering darkness. She 
  could see well enough to avoid hanging creepers, thornbushes, and other 
  hazards; she knew from her time on the open slope that no one without night 
  goggles could see her. Of course the others had them... but so did she. 
  Soon she slowed, and began listening again. She stopped completely for a 
  moment. Her stomach growled loudly, reminding her it was empty. She heard 
  Raffa scrabbling in her knapsack, then a faint metallic rasp and a gurgle. 
  Water. She realized how thirsty she herself was, and took off her own 
  knapsack, trying for silence. Where was the noisy wind when you needed it? The 
  water eased her throat and washed away the foul taste of her nausea. Now she 
  was hungry. She tapped Raffa's arm, and when she leaned closer murmured to 
  her. "Eat now -- while walking." She could see Raffa's nod as clearly as if it 
  were daylight. 
  They had the survival rations from the flitter, tubes of thick goo that tasted 
  of fat, sugar, and salt. Bubbles swallowed half of hers at once, and tucked 
  the rest into her pocket. She started off again more slowly, trying to 
  remember how the land went on this side of the island. How far south were 
  they, and how near was the swamp? Should they start back north, and hope to 
  work into the more rugged terrain along the north shore? 
  Nothing moved in the woods around them. She remembered, from those childhood 
  visits, flocks of birds and many small animals -- lizards, some nonvenomous 
  snakes, land crabs. Once she'd been frightened by a tortoise big enough to sit 
  on; she'd thought it was a shiny brown rock. There was less undergrowth than 
  she remembered, and she found it easy to walk between the trees. The slope 
  flattened beneath her feet; the forest rose higher overhead, and even with 
  night goggles she couldn't see that much. Whenever she stopped to listen, her 
  legs trembled; she knew they needed to rest. 
  Raffa tapped her shoulder. Bubbles leaned close to her, and Raffa said, "I 
  think I hear water." 
  Bubbles tried to filter out the sigh of the breeze in the leaves... yes. A 
  rhythmic rush and silence... waves breaking, but gently, in this little wind. 
  "You're right," she said quietly. "And they might have someone on the beach -- 
  it's narrow here." Now which way, south or north? Her mind was clogged by 
  exhaustion and fear. She had started out hoping to find her old hiding place, 
  and then thought of Kell's cave, wherever that was... but now... she wished 
  she knew just where they were, and how far it was to someplace else. 
  "I'd vote north," Raffa said, as if she'd asked. "Away from their camp." For a 
  moment Bubbles wanted to protest; they had weapons themselves, now, and night 
  gear. They were as dangerous as the hunters. But they weren't, really: they 
  were untrained girls, and very tired. Staying as far from the hunters' camp as 
  possible made sense. 
  "Good idea," Bubbles said, and turned right, away from the beach. They walked 
  slowly, as quietly as they could manage, stopping every few minutes to look 
  around them. The walk took on a dreamlike character -- the eerie landscape in 
  the night goggles, that looked like something meant to be scary but done on a 
  low budget, the silence, their exhaustion that forced concentration on the 
  simplest movements. When a great tree loomed up that Bubbles remembered from 
  her childhood trips, she moved into the dense shadow of its massive bole and 
  stopped. 
  "We've got to rest," she said, "while one of us can stay awake to watch. You 
  sleep first." 
  "Right." Raffa's vague shape folded up to sit against the tree. Bubbles 
  leaned, but did not sit. If she sat, she would sleep. She could not be scared 
  enough to stay awake, not now. She fished the rest of the ration stick out of 
  her pocket and ate it, and drank more water. Her legs ached; the pack straps 
  seemed to burn along her shoulders, but she was afraid to take the pack off. 
  What if they had to run for it? 
  She realized then that she hadn't even checked to see if the rifle she carried 
  was loaded. She fumbled at it. It wasn't exactly like the one she'd been 
  taught to use, and she couldn't find the little doohickey -- it had a name, 
  but she'd never learned it -- to release the clip. She found something 
  sticking out of the stock, and pushed it, and a line of red sprang across the 
  space under the tree to another tree trunk. "The rifle hummed; desperately she 
  pushed the knob this way and that until it moved and the light disappeared and 
  the hum ceased. She stared around, sure that someone must have seen that red 
  light, but nothing moved and no sound disturbed her. After awhile, her heart 
  quit trying to climb out her mouth, and she tried to think what that had been. 
  Firearms were not her hobby; she had learned to shoot only because of the 
  elphoose hunts. Her father had insisted she must learn. 
  Red light. A hum. Red light made her think of the vidcams in the drama 
  department... range finders... so it might be a range finder. And the hum... 
  like the hum of the automatic focus adjustments. She felt carefully along the 
  entire stock. A tiny flap covered a socket -- pins inside -- a connection for 
  some computer attachment? She found three more buttons or knobs, and left them 
  alone. The scope... she lifted the rifle to her shoulder and tried to peer 
  through it, but the goggles interfered. After a quick look around, she slipped 
  them off and looked through the scope. It gave a brighter image than the 
  goggles, in crisp grays rather than smudged greenish yellow. Her finger found 
  knobs on the scope, too.... She left them alone, and put her goggles back on. 
  Something flared in her pocket, a small blinking light that the goggles made 
  into a white beacon. Without goggles -- through her pocket -- it was hardly 
  visible. The comunit she'd taken from the first hunter... blinking a two-three 
  sequence. When she looked at Raffa, asleep against the tree, her pocket too 
  winked, this one in a two-two sequence. She had not thought they might be 
  locators, but now it seemed obvious. If she didn't reply, with some code she 
  could not know, the hunters would know where to look.... They might know 
  anyway. 
  "Raffa!" She kept her voice low, but Raffa woke instantly. 
  "What?" she asked 
  "We have to get rid of them -- if we leave them here, that's too close -- we 
  don't know how long it will take -- " She felt like crying... she was so 
  tired, she hadn't had any sleep, and it was too much. Raffa hugged her. 
  "We'll throw them in the water. Let 'em think we tried to swim for it" 
  "But they might be on the beach!" She could hear the incipient hysteria in her 
  own voice. Raffa's hand tightened on her arm. 
  "We're alive and two of them are dead. Two unarmed, untrained society girls, 
  against trained hunters with night gear, and who has the weapons now? We're 
  going to stay alive, and they're ALL going to be dead, and no you're not going 
  to have hysterics now. Take a deep breath." 
  Bubbles took a deep breath; her ribs ached. "Right. Sorry." 
  "No problem -- I got some sleep, and you didn't. Now... let's get to the 
  shore, and if someone's there we'll blow him away." 
  "I can't even tell if this thing is loaded," Bubbles said softly. "I tried to 
  find out and got something that made a red light and hummed at me." 
  "Really? Sounds like a Maseter range finder to me. Here -- let me check your 
  status." Raffa took the rifle, did something Bubbles couldn't follow in the 
  dimness, and handed it back. "Full clip, round in the chamber. When you pull 
  that trigger, you'll shoot something." 
  "Let's go, then." Bubbles angled left, toward the shore. As she remembered, 
  the big tree had been only a couple of hundred meters from the water. She 
  noticed, after a few minutes, that the blinking lights on the comunits had 
  died. It gave her no comfort.... A missed signal would rouse them to search, 
  she was sure. At least they had thick cover to the very edge of the beach. 
  As they neared the water, the night goggles had more light to work with, and 
  brightened once more. At the same time, the undergrowth increased, as it 
  always had near the forest edge, though it was not so thick that they needed 
  to go out of their way. By the time Bubbles peered through the last screen of 
  bushes and vines, she could see up and down the narrow beach at least a 
  hundred meters in each direction. She saw no one... although someone could 
  have been hidden in the undergrowth, as they were. A gentle swell out to sea 
  produced small lapping waves that slipped up and back like the strokes of a 
  massage, rolling the little pebbles that made up the beach here so that they 
  clicked and whispered. 
  "How deep is it?" Raffa asked. "Any chance the things will be too deep for 
  them to find?" 
  "It's a steep drop-off," Bubbles said. "We used to beach the sailboats on this 
  side of the island sometimes. Give me that one -- " Raffa handed over the 
  comunit and Bubbles took another look up and down the beach. Nothing. She 
  shrugged out of her knapsack and left it with Raffa, then moved slowly out of 
  the cover, expecting any moment to hear another shot. The pebbles crunched 
  under her shoes; she thought of wading in a little way, but remembered the 
  times she'd slipped and fallen here. She didn't need to be sopping wet, not on 
  top of everything else. 
  "Throw it!" muttered Raffa from behind her. Right. As if she were good at 
  throwing. She felt like an idiot as she cocked her arm and threw the first 
  comunit as far into the sea as she could. It wasn't, she thought, all that 
  far; it landed with a juicy splash. With the next she tried harder, and 
  achieved an even noisier splash -- it must have been spinning -- and no more 
  distance. She found the two uphill steps back to the treeline almost 
  impossible... but the impossible, she was discovering, didn't even take 
  longer. It was just harder. 
  "A little farther," Raffa said, "and it's your turn to rest. Just get back 
  from the edge." 
  But they actually walked another half hour, by Raffa's watch, before finding 
  another place Bubbles remembered, where a rib of the central ridge ran all the 
  way to the water. From there around the northern end, the island had no beach, 
  but a vertical wall of stone. 
  When they lay down -- this time neither could stand -- Bubbles fell asleep at 
  once. She had expected to have frightening dreams, but she woke with no memory 
  of them. When she opened her eyes, she could see Raffa curled into a tidy 
  ball, catlike; her rifle lay across her sleeping hand. Bubbles yawned, 
  stretched, and rubbed the hipbone that had been on the bottom. Her back never 
  hurt after sleeping on the ground, but a hipbone always complained. She had 
  tried all the tricks she'd read about, back in her camping days, and none of 
  them worked. She sat up; Raffa opened one eye and said, "Don't tell me it's 
  morning." 
  "It's morning." Unless they'd slept all day, and she didn't feel that rested. 
  Besides, the light was brighter; the leaves overhead began to look green, not 
  black. She stretched again, arching her back, then rolled to her feet Nothing 
  stirred but the leaves overhead, as the dawn breeze strengthened. Her 
  shoulders were stiff and sore from the pack straps. Raffa yawned, and groaned 
  a little, stretching. 
  "I hate morning," Raffa said. Then her eyes came open all the way, and she sat 
  up. "It's real." 
  "What?" Bubbles knew what, but she wasn't sure she believed it yet 
  "Us. Here. Last night." Raffa was staring at her own hands. "Blood." 
  "Yeah." Bubbles had already seen the disgusting mess on her own hands. And 
  she'd eaten something held in them. "I guess we should've washed off when we 
  got to the beach." Her slacks were filthy too, and she could smell her own 
  sour smell. Raffa looked as bad, her dark hair in lank dirty strings and the 
  knees of her slacks black with dried blood and dirt. 
  "They won't have to see us," Raffa said. "They could track us by smell. 
  Without dogs." 
  "Then we'll get clean." Bubbles had no idea how they would get clean. They 
  certainly could not light a fire and boil a pot of water for washing. For that 
  matter, she needed to think where the nearest drinking water might be. She 
  picked up her knapsack and got it on, wincing as her shoulders complained. 
  "Come on," she said. "It won't help us to sit here and wish." 
  Raffa stood, shook herself, brushed at the stains, and finally picked up her 
  knapsack and weapons. "I know, I know. What's the boys' regimental motto? 
  'Onward to glory' or something equally unreasonable?" She got the knapsack 
  onto one shoulder and grunted. "This thing weighs twice what it did yesterday. 
  And don't scold me; I'm getting my complaints out of the way all at once, 
  early, before they can bother you. You notice I didn't complain last night." 
  "Right. You complain in the morning, and I'll complain at midnight or whenever 
  it was I went bonkers, and between us that'll cover the whole day." 
  "And leave us time to survive, evade the hunters, kill them all, and save 
  everyone. Tally-ho." Raffa started off, then looked back. "By the way, where 
  are we going now?" 
  "Water, I thought," Bubbles said. "Water first, then someplace to hide." 
  "Like last time," Raffa said, but with a grin. "A hiding place convenient to a 
  trail so that we can get weapons and supplies from dead hunters." 
  For all the banter, they went warily enough once they started. Without talking 
  about it, they began to move apart, so they could just see each other, and 
  take alternate pauses for listening and looking backwards. Nothing disturbed 
  them but the silence, which the wind in the leaves overhead seemed to 
  emphasize. The sky lightened; Bubbles knew that it was now full day, though 
  they were walking in the shadow of the ridge. The slope began to fall away 
  under their feet, and Bubbles turned right, inland; she remembered that there 
  was another, smaller stream in a ravine between the last hill on the main 
  ridge, and the outlier hill at the north end of the island. It rose from a 
  spring on the ridge, and over the years the children had made a series of 
  wading and splashing pools along its path to the sea. Between them, the stream 
  was no more than ankle-deep except after a rainstorm, but they might find 
  enough water in one of the pools to wash their clothes. Even if all the dams 
  had fallen apart since the last campers, there should be enough loose handy 
  stones to let them build one up again. It wouldn't take long. 
  When she finally saw water, it was one of the larger pools. Someone had 
  repaired the dam -- she assumed it was the prisoners -- and raised it enough 
  so that the pool looked to be waist-deep. Its surface was littered with fallen 
  leaves and twigs. She started towards it, then waved Raffa back to cover. It 
  looked safe and deserted, but... she noticed something glinting at the upper 
  end of the pool. Warily, she worked her way towards it, trying to keep to 
  thicker growth. A foil packet with one end torn off, that's all, discarded by 
  some careless hunter. It could have held rations, candy, a damp wipe to clean 
  with. She relaxed, then saw the first dead amphib, turning slowly in the pool, 
  its legs extended. Another lay by the stream; with a growing sense of horror 
  she realized that the "floating leaves" were in fact a mass of dead amphibs, 
  insects, fish. She backed away, her hands to her mouth. 
  "What?" said Raffa, from behind her. 
  "Poison. They've poisoned the stream." And if this stream, then all the 
  streams -- and if the streams, probably the springs as well. After horror, 
  anger. This was her place, her childhood, and she had spent hours lying 
  belly-down beside one stream or another, watching the brilliant red-and-gold 
  amphibs, the speckled fish, the brilliant blue and green butterflies that came 
  to drink. "The... I can't even find words bad enough...." She had used all the 
  bad words she knew for common things like escorts who got drunk and threw up 
  on her, or girlfriends who told someone else her secrets -- she hadn't known 
  there was something worse to save curses for. "How could they -- ?" How could 
  anyone destroy so carelessly... anyone past childhood, that is. 
  "It would be hard to hide, in an autopsy," Raffa said thoughtfully. Bubbles 
  almost hated her at that moment. Of course it wasn't her island. She had never 
  seen it as Bubbles remembered it. "What I mean is," Raffa went on, "it's 
  probably meant to put us to sleep or something. The... the other things are 
  accidents." 
  "That's what's worst," Bubbles said. "They have a reason to kill us. A bad 
  one, but a reason. To kill all these, just by accident, as a sort of 
  by-product --" 
  "We shouldn't stay here. They'd check this pretty often, I'd guess." 
  "Right. Upstream, then." They might have someone stationed upstream, too, but 
  she had to know if they'd poisoned it all. She had to. She wondered when 
  they'd done it -- the day before, dropping packets from the flitter? Landing 
  at each small stream? Or had someone been walking the forest that night, 
  someone who might have walked past them as they slept, not seeing them? She 
  shivered; it would do no good to think of that. As she walked, what Raffa said 
  began to make sense. The same things had different effects on humans and 
  animals -- she knew that. A drug to make them sleepy might have killed the 
  amphibs by accident, or... didn't the fish need to swim for their gills to 
  work? So if they drowsed and didn't swim, they'd die just from that... but she 
  was still angry. She felt decades older than the day before, than even the 
  night before. 
  Upstream, as anywhere, grew steeper and narrower. They came to another pool, 
  with its scum of dead amphibs and fish; she had seen nothing alive along the 
  banks of the rivulet. Beyond that, the stream forked To the left, poisoned 
  water gurgled pleasantly in its narrow bed. To the right was the waist-high 
  ledge that formed a miniature waterfall in the wet season. A damp patch of mud 
  in the hollow above it was the only sign that a creek had ever flowed there. 
  "That way," Bubbles said, heaving herself up and over the rock ledge. "We 
  can't take any water from that stream, and there might be a spring up here 
  they didn't notice." 
  "You don't know for sure?" Raffa asked, as she sat on the ledge and swung her 
  legs up. 
  "No... my favorite places were the eastern ravine, where I could watch the 
  sunrise, and my bramble. And our camp was on the eastern shore, south of where 
  we crashed. Sometimes we had three or four main camps, depending on how many 
  cousins showed up. Kev and Burlin used to set traps and things up at this end 
  of the ridge -- then they'd sit there and snigger." 
  "Urgh. I wouldn't have wanted to have them along." 
  "Well... Silvia finally told on Burlin, and that was the end of them. But 
  somehow he always made Buttons and me feel like it was our fault. If we'd had 
  a more exciting island, he wouldn't have gotten into mischief." 
  "Like Stanley, my cousin that always blamed his pony for everything. But he 
  brought it back with whip welts once, and my Aunt Katy wouldn't put up with 
  that." 
  They followed the dry creekbed upstream, careful not to step in any drying 
  mud. Bubbles looked for any sign that the hunters had been there, but the few 
  scuffmarks could as well have been those of desperate prisoners. Her breath 
  came short; it was hard to climb the steepening slope, and she realized they 
  were close under the ridge. The creekbed turned suddenly, leading them into a 
  narrow cleft roofed with trees; it closed around them, and Raffa exclaimed 
  over the ferns draping the walls. Ahead, the cleft ended in a sheer wall hung 
  with shaggy ferns and vines. At the foot of it, the ground seemed damp, but 
  there was no spring. 
  "Well," Bubbles said, a little blankly. "That's it. No water here." She sat 
  down; her legs had suddenly given out and her eyes burned, though she could 
  not cry. 
  Raffa crouched beside her. "We're hidden, at least. If we stay quiet, and they 
  don't find our trail. They can't come on us from behind." 
  Bubbles nodded, but could not speak past the lump of misery in her throat. She 
  set her rifle carefully to one side, away from the damp spot and pushed the 
  knapsack straps off her shoulder. 
  "We should eat something," Raffa said. "We never did have breakfast" 
  "Not without water," Bubbles said. "At least, that's what the books say." But 
  at the mention of food, her stomach cramped and rumbled. She felt she could 
  eat three meals at once. 
  "We have some water," Raffa said. "And what about tropical fruits and things? 
  They have water in them." 
  "I... haven't seen any. It's the wrong season, or the prisoners have eaten 
  them, or something...." Bubbles leaned back against the ferny rock, careless 
  of insects. Her eyes sagged shut. 
  "Come on -- you can't give up!" 
  "I can rest," Bubbles said, not opening her eyes. "Just a little while." She 
  wasn't sure what she felt, except exhaustion and hunger, and right now she 
  didn't care if a whole troop of hunters came up the creek. 
  "All right," Raffa said, "but I'm not giving up." Bubbles heard Raffa move 
  around her, and the scrape of Raffa's pack on the pebbles. "Although a soft 
  place to rest my aching back may be a good idea. Aahhh -- " That relaxed sigh 
  ended in a yelp, quickly muffled. Bubbles opened her eyes. Raffa lay on her 
  back, covered with ferns to the waist; she seemed to have fallen into the 
  rock. The mass of ferns and vines had hung over some opening like a shaggy 
  curtain. From the muffled splutters, she was trying to say something. Bubbles 
  grabbed her feet and pulled. 
  "Are you all right? Need help?" 
  Raffa undulated, snakelike, and slithered out on her back, spitting dirt out 
  of her mouth. "It's a wonder I didn't crack my skull." 
  "What is it, a hollow or something?" 
  "A hollow, yes. A cave!" 
  "Cave?" 
  "Yes. And I heard water dripping. Come on...." Raffa grabbed her knapsack and 
  started to shove it through the curtain of ferns. 
  "Wait -- they'd know we went in." Bubbles looked at the broken fronds of fern 
  where she had been resting, the bruised moss. If someone came this way -- and 
  they probably would -- they'd start looking harder. And they wouldn't miss a 
  cave, she was sure. 
  "We'll make it look like we rested here, and then went somewhere else," Raffa 
  said. "Come on -- shove your pack in, and the rifles. It's the best chance 
  we've seen yet." 
  Bubbles shrugged and complied. She didn't have any better idea, and if Raffa 
  had found water inside the cave, surely it hadn't been poisoned. She hoped. 
  Raffa went in with their things, and reported that she'd found plenty of room; 
  they could both hide there, with their gear. She crawled back out, as Bubbles 
  lifted the vines cautiously. 
  "Now for disguise," Raffa said. "A few footprints going in both directions, 
  just in here where we got careless because we figured no one would have 
  tracked us further back. We sat here and rested -- that's the squashed ferns 
  on your side. Actually they may not know there are two of us, so why don't I 
  make all the footprints?" 
  "Because we might both have left them somewhere else," Bubbles said. "If we 
  were going to leave here, which way would we go? Back up the ridge, I think -- 
  we came here looking for water, didn't find any, and started up to find a 
  spring...." Together, they edged back out of the narrow cleft, and cautiously 
  made a few scuffmarks up a steeper slope. Since they had been careful not to 
  make prints on the way in (and didn't see any) they walked back normally. 
  The hanging ferns and vines looked undisturbed, Bubbles noticed, even after 
  Raffa had been through twice. Raffa went first, and then Bubbles slid in 
  backwards. They had left marks, sliding in; it looked like someone had dragged 
  bodies over the ground. She was trying to think what to do about it when she 
  heard a shot, from high overhead, and then another. She didn't try to see who 
  it was, or if they'd seen.... She jerked backwards under the matted vines and 
  tried not to breathe. Raffa's hand closed on her arm, almost as tightly as the 
  night before. Had it been only one night? 
  Although it was near midday, inside the cave she could see very little. The 
  thick vines shut out nearly all the light, and it was cool and damp. She lay 
  on level stone thinly coated with damp mud. She could hear the musical plink 
  and plonk of water dripping into deep water, somewhere behind her in the dark. 
  A cold drop hit the back of her neck, and she jumped. 
  "We should get back from the opening," Raffa said quietly. "Just in case they 
  find it." 
  "Let's try the night goggles." Bubbles fished hers out and put them on. The 
  nearer part of the cave appeared in shadowy blurs, with stabbing brilliance 
  coming from the entrance. Several meters behind them, a black level surface 
  had to be the water they'd heard. To the left, the cave's inner wall dove 
  directly into the water, but on the right, their flat ledge extended around a 
  buttress and out of sight. Overhead, even the night goggles could not define 
  the roof; when Bubbles reached up, she felt nothing. 
  Slowly, Raffa got to her knees and crawled away to the right. Bubbles 
  followed, backing up at first so that she could watch the entrance. She had 
  never been one for caves; she had not expected that the light would fade so 
  fast. She slipped the goggles up; the blackness pressed on her face, as if it 
  would invade her skull. Shuddering, she put the goggles back on, and stared at 
  the faint glow from the entrance as if to remember it forever. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  "They shot somebody!" George grabbed Ronnie's arm. Ronnie shook it off. 
  "They shot at somebody," he said. "You don't know they hit anyone." 
  "But the girls are up there -- you know that." 
  He knew that; he could close his eyes and see Raffa's face, smell her hair. 
  "They're in the ravine. They're in cover somewhere. And the hunters wouldn't 
  shoot the girls right off...." He wished he hadn't said it; that thought was 
  no better. 
  "If Bubbles tried to fight -- she's kind of wild sometimes." 
  "Petris sent one of the preeves up to the high trail, he said. Could have been 
  that. And the hunter might've missed. And we can't even be sure where the shot 
  came from." Although he was sure enough: high on the ridge, south of them. 
  That put it too close to the girls, entirely too close. The hunters were 
  supposed to come this way, and fall into the trap he and George had spent the 
  afternoon constructing. They were just off one of the larger trails, that 
  angled up and over the gap between the main ridge and the outlying northern 
  hill. 
  Time had gone rubbery; he did not want to trust George's watch. His had not 
  survived the crash. George's could have been damaged. He was aware that not 
  trusting a watch was as silly and dangerous as not trusting the instruments in 
  an aircraft; he knew he'd had a concussion. But time felt wrong; the glowing 
  digits seemed to hang forever or race past. A vague irritation seized him: he 
  had had the concussion, he shouldn't be having to calm George. 
  Another shot, more distant. His shoulders twitched. He had thought during 
  Petris's briefing that he understood exactly where everyone would be, at least 
  to start with. Now he found he could not remember who might be southward on 
  the ridge, or on the west side.... He felt sick and sleepy both, and kept 
  wanting to yawn. 
  "We ought to go find out," George said. "That's got to be somewhere near 
  them...." 
  "And if we go crashing up there we'll just lead the hunters to them." Ronnie 
  tried to sound soothing, but even to him his voice seemed lusterless and 
  whiny. "Petris said stay here, and we should stay here." 
  "He's not even an officer," George said, but he didn't move. 
  Ronnie stiffened in the midst of a yawn. A rhythmic noise flicked the edge of 
  his hearing. Like someone walking, but walking with an intentionally odd gait. 
  A few steps, a pause: a few more steps, a pause. The sound of steps -- the 
  swish of leaves, the soft pad of foot -- varied in number but not duration. 
  Despite his fear, Ronnie grinned to himself. They'd been warned about that 
  mistake.... He'd done it himself, counting to himself as he tried to move 
  stealthily, he'd put four or five or three steps into the same interval, thus 
  making the sound as periodic as a pendulum. This person varied his pause 
  intervals, but not the walking ones. Ronnie reached out to touch George in 
  case he hadn't heard. The walker might come within reach, if they were lucky. 
  Ronnie's mind drifted. It had been, he thought, an impossibly bad day, and it 
  had started far too early. Yet he didn't feel as bad as he should; he knew 
  that, and knew, in some distant corner of his mind, that it had something to 
  do with the bump on his head. He wasn't tracking right; he wasn't feeling what 
  he should feel, whatever that was. The long, hot afternoon after the girls 
  left, when Petris tried to figure out what to do with them, where to put them, 
  when the others tested Petris's command, wanting to kill them, wanting to 
  leave them anywhere and get away safely themselves.... It had been hell, but a 
  hell from which he felt somewhat remote. As long as he didn't have to talk, as 
  long as he didn't have to do anything, the others could do what they wanted. 
  Chapter Fifteen 
  "We cannot do this alone." Heris put into that all the command voice she'd 
  ever had. Cecelia merely looked exasperated. 
  "We've been over that. I don't want to bother Bunny." 
  "Lady Cecelia." The formality got through; Cecelia actually focussed on her. 
  "Do you remember why I lost my commission?" 
  "Yes, but what's that --" 
  "This is exactly the same thing. If we go off, the two of us -- you with no 
  military experience whatever -- with no proper intelligence, no backup, no 
  plan -- that is exactly as stupid, in the same way, as what Lepescu proposed. 
  It is frankly suicidal, and I will not cooperate." 
  Cecelia stared at her. "I thought we settled it; I thought you agreed." 
  "In anger, yes. At the thought of getting Lepescu's neck between my hands, 
  yes. But I have no right to risk you and your nephew and the others to serve 
  my vengeance. We don't know what we're facing; we don't know what shape 
  they're in; we won't have backup or medical assistance -- and if we get 
  killed, what about the youngsters?" 
  For a moment, Heris thought Cecelia would explode; she turned red, then pale, 
  then stood rigidly still. And finally shook herself slightly and let out a 
  sharp huff of ear. "I suppose you're right. That's why I came to you; you have 
  the military background. So -- you want me to tell Bunny?" 
  "I think we should both go. He may want confirmation from Sirkin up in Sweet 
  Delight -- and besides, I still want to be part of the row." 
  "Fine." With no more argument, Cecelia called Michaels over. "Michaels, 
  Captain Serrano feels that we should not go alone on this." Heris noticed that 
  Michaels relaxed slightly; he had had more sense than either of them, but not 
  the courage to say so. 
  "Yes, milady?" 
  "I'm going to tell Lord Thornbuckle; this will mean telling him that you knew 
  Bubbles took the flitter." Heris had not thought about that -- how much 
  trouble would he be in? Not much, she hoped. 
  "I don't think you should tell anyone else about this," Lady Cecelia went on, 
  as if Michaels were a child to be lectured. "I'm sure you'll be hearing from 
  his lordship very shortly." 
  "Yes, milady." 
  "All right," Cecelia said. "Now we have to find Bunny before that damned hunt 
  starts. We're lucky Stone Lodge is at this end of the settlement." 
  The others were mounted, ready to set out, the hounds swirling around the 
  horses' legs. Heris was sure that only Cecelia could have gotten Bunny off his 
  horse and into the hall of Stone Lodge so quietly and quickly. 
  "What is it?" he asked, the moment the door had shut out the sound of milling 
  hooves and human chatter. Cecelia explained, giving as clear an account as 
  Heris herself could have done: her discovery that the young people were 
  missing, Michaels's report of where they had gone, and the beacon data and 
  data from Sweet Delight which indicated that they were on an island near 
  Bandon. Then she mentioned the uninvited guests, the intruders that Heris 
  suspected might be hunting illegally. Lord Thornbuckle looked at Heris. 
  "You know this person?" Heris thought she had not heard anyone pronounce 
  "person" with that intonation before; just so did seniors at the Academy refer 
  to incoming cadets. 
  "Yes, I do," she said. "He cost me my commission; he has a bad reputation -- 
  but the relevant point is that he is here without your invitation." 
  "Yes... I see that. Just a moment." He went out the door, leaving Heris and 
  Cecelia staring at one another. In moments, he was back inside. "I told Clem 
  to take over the hunt today; no sense in having them hounding us, as it were. 
  Buttons has already ridden out with the blue hunt; I'll have him brought back 
  -- " As he spoke, his fingers tapped on his personal comunit. Heris had seen 
  him only at the hunt, or at leisure after dinner; he had always seemed 
  friendly enough, but not particularly decisive except when some fool rode too 
  close to the hounds. The nickname Bunny had fit him well enough, the long 
  slightly foolish face, the quick movements of his head at dinner, on the 
  lookout for unpleasantness. Now, though, she saw someone used to command 
  responding to an emergency, someone for whom a title made more sense than a 
  nickname. 
  "Sir, the other thing -- " She interrupted him cautiously; he raised an 
  eyebrow but nodded for her to speak. "There must be someone in this household 
  working with them -- whoever they are. Someone to give warning if you're 
  headed that way, at least." 
  He nodded. "And it can't be Michaels, because he knew about Bubbles and 
  whoever was there didn't." 
  "We hope." Lady Cecelia looked grim. "They haven't called in; their flitter's 
  not at a regular field --" 
  "Which island?" Lord Thornbuckle asked. "Could your ship make that out?" He 
  called up a map which displayed on the hall wall as thin green lines. 
  "That one," Heris said, pointing. 
  "Bubbles's favorite," he said. "The children camped there many summers; she 
  knows every meter of that island. I wonder if she's just camping and hiding 
  out." 
  "If it weren't for the unauthorized shuttle, and the fact that Lepescu is on 
  Bandon -- " Cecelia began. 
  "We hope on Bandon, and not on this island," Heris put in, tapping the map 
  again. 
  "Yes. We must assume he is, and that he's up to no good." His focus shifted to 
  her, completely. "You were formerly an officer in the Regular Space Service, 
  isn't that right, Captain Serrano?" 
  "Yes, sir." 
  "Then please give me the advantage of your professional assessment. What are 
  we facing here, and what is your recommendation?" 
  Heris felt like a junior officer caught out at an admiralty briefing. "We are 
  presently lacking important information," she began. "We know, or rather 
  strongly suspect, that Admiral Lepescu is on Bandon. The shuttlecraft that 
  landed him could have held as many as fifty individuals, but since it came 
  from a chartered yacht, it is reasonable to suppose that it did not. That it 
  was configured for luxury work, with a maximum of perhaps ten. We do not know 
  how many such shuttle flights have been made to and from Bandon, or the number 
  of people on each. However, it's reasonable to assume that an actual invasion 
  force is unlikely." 
  "Why, Captain?" 
  "Both practical reasons and the character of Admiral Lepescu, sir. 
  Practically, invading an inhabited planet is difficult, and one like this 
  would require complicity of too many of your employees. You have four orbiting 
  Stations, additional navigation and communications satellites, and a high-tech 
  population scattered around the planet. An invader would have to gain control 
  of communications to prevent an alarm being sent. Your own militia would have 
  to be suborned or defeated in battle, and from what I've heard of your 
  militia, they're loyal and tough, and very well equipped. Right now, you have 
  thousands of legitimate guests, and their crews and servants -- and it might 
  be easier to sneak onplanet in the confusion, but it certainly would not be 
  easier to deal with so many..." She struggled for a word that expressed what 
  she meant without rudeness. 
  "Difficult individuals?" suggested Lord Thornbuckle, with a smile. 
  "Yes, sir. And as well as practicality, there's the matter of Lepescu. He's 
  not a man to involve himself in something that blatant; his tastes run 
  otherwise." 
  "Ummm. You said he cost you your commission?" 
  "Yes, he did." When Lord Thornbuckle's expression did not change, Heris 
  realized she was going to have to say more. Anger roughened her voice. 
  "He considers war a noble sport, sir. He considers that putting troops in 
  impossible situations is sporting; his expression is 'see what they're made 
  of.' Until recently, the only way he could do this was by risking his own 
  ship, but two years ago he attained flag rank and was given command of a 
  battle group. You are no doubt aware of the Cavinatto action. In that 
  conflict, he ordered my ship, and the ground forces under my command, to make 
  a frontal attack on a strongly defended lunar complex. The defense could have 
  been breached another way -- in fact, several other ways, which I and other 
  captains presented as alternatives. But he insisted that it must be done the 
  one way likely to fail -- even the battlecomps said so -- and certain to cost 
  the most lives." 
  "Is that legal?" asked Lord Thornbuckle. 
  "Perfectly," Heris said. "An admiral's fitness for command is judged 
  afterwards, by results. He is not obliged to take advice from anyone but his 
  own commander, and our group was operating far from anyone more senior. It was 
  something Lepescu had worked towards for years." 
  "Did his order to you risk the whole operation?" 
  "No. Most of the group would attack the main objective, and while his orders 
  for that were not what I'd have given, they weren't as reckless. Our 
  diversionary action was important, but it need not have been suicidal." 
  "Did this admiral have a grudge against you before? It seems he must have...." 

  "I'm not sure." In her own mind she was sure, but she would not condemn even 
  Lepescu on the basis of her personal belief. "I had not anticipated anything 
  like this. But the point is, that in the event I did not obey his very plain 
  orders. My ship and forces attacked the lunar complex, and gained control of 
  it, but I didn't do it his way." At the change in his expression, Heris nodded 
  grimly. "That's right. I deliberately disobeyed the order of a lawful 
  superior, in combat status. Grounds for court-martial; in fact, that's what I 
  expected. I knew exactly how serious it was; my family's been Service for 
  generations, after all. I had evidence, I thought, that would protect my crew 
  at least, and that seemed better to me than losing several thousand of them 
  because Admiral Lepescu enjoyed 'a good fight.' There was even a chance that a 
  court might see it my way -- small, but there it was." 
  "And then what?" 
  "Then I was offered the chance to resign my commission, in exchange for 
  immunity for my officers and crew, or a court-martial for all. The scan data 
  had disappeared; accidents happen in combat. I had some junior officers whose 
  careers would be cut short forever by a court-martial now, even if they won... 
  the stigma never really goes away. And some hotheads in the crew would, I 
  knew, convict themselves if they got before a court; there are always people 
  who can't keep quiet even to save themselves. So I resigned." 
  "You didn't tell me all that," Cecelia said. "Not about what he wanted you to 
  do." 
  "It didn't seem relevant," Heris said. The rest of it boiled up in her mind -- 
  what Lepescu had said to her and about her: Coward. Stupid bitch. Typical 
  woman, only good to lay and lie. And more, that she would never tell anyone. 
  Who could understand? 
  "So I judge from your report," Lord Thornbuckle said, "that Admiral Lepescu is 
  more likely to put someone else in danger than to risk his own hide?" 
  Heris struggled to be fair. "He's not a coward, sir; he had a name for 
  boldness when he commanded his own ship. But he's also ambitious in politics 
  and society. He would enjoy hunting here under your nose, but he would not 
  chance making such a powerful enemy by attempting open invasion." 
  "What about taking hostages?" 
  "Possibly. Especially if he found himself in a trap." 
  "Do you think he's the head of whatever is going on?" 
  "I don't know. He has other hunting friends -- " Quickly, she told him about 
  the club she'd heard of, and the rumors about it. 
  "And you would recommend?" 
  "Taking in enough force to make resistance futile -- and there's the problem 
  of surprise and collusion. If they find out you're coming in, they might get 
  the shuttle off, and the yacht --" 
  "Not if their crew's in the Bay," Lord Thornbuckle said. "That'll be easy 
  enough to find out; it's on a routine report." All this time, he had been 
  tapping out orders on his personal comunit. "There's a Crown Minister here -- 
  Pathin Divisti -- but I hate to involve the Crown if we can avoid it. And he's 
  here for hunting; he brought no staff." 
  Heris hoped her face didn't reveal her reaction. She thought of Crown 
  Ministers as a particularly bloated form of bureaucratic incompetence, whose 
  internal struggles for power resulted in unexpected budget changes for the 
  Services. 
  The door chimed; a servant Heris had hardly noticed opened it to a militia 
  squad, uniformed and armed. Lord Thornbuckle smiled at Heris. 
  "Captain Serrano, if you'd brief my Captain Sigind while I get some more 
  information --" 
  Heris stepped outside; the hunt had ridden off some time before, and she could 
  just hear the hounds giving tongue somewhere in the distance. Captain Sigind 
  was a lean, tough man a decade younger than she, whose expression hardly 
  wavered when he saw he was to be briefed by an older woman in hunting attire. 
  Heris laid out the situation as far as she knew it, and he nodded. 
  "I know Bandon, of course, and something of the other islands. Haven't been 
  there in a couple of years, but here's the layout." He pulled out a map 
  display and flicked through the file. Bandon came up in a standard military 
  format, with topo lines and color-codings for vegetation types. "The landing 
  field's here -- with shuttle extension into these woods. When they expanded 
  the field, they cleared a little place at the lodge itself for small flitters 
  -- right here. It's grass, not paving. It'd be real handy if we knew how many 
  were at the lodge, and how many on this other island --" 
  "All I know about is one shuttle load, and I don't even know if it was 
  troop-fitted or civilian," Heris said. 
  "Ah. You're military?" His pale eyes were shrewd, wary. 
  "I was. Regular Space Service." 
  "Any ground combat experience?" 
  "No, not myself. That's --" 
  "Why you didn't rush into this like a damn fool. Smart." His brisk nod 
  approved. "But you see our problem...." 
  "Of course. You need to know how many they are, what their resources are, and 
  which of Lord Thornbuckle's employees are on their side." 
  "The outrange supervisor, for one," he said "I'm sure of that, because it's 
  his responsibility to know who's on which settlement and when. They'd have 
  needed his codes to get the Bandon beacon functioning for the shuttle." 
  "And someone at that Station," Heris said, "where the charter yacht that 
  launched the shuttle came from, because I understand that the use of private 
  shuttles isn't permitted." 
  "Right. But back to you -- you say this man Lepescu is part of some sporting 
  club? Most sportsmen have self-imposed limits on the weaponry they'll use -- 
  or is he a trophy hunter type?" 
  "I don't know," Heris said. The door opened, and Lord Thornbuckle came out. 
  The bony face she had once considered amiable but weak now looked anything but 
  amiable. 
  "Complete shuttle records for the past thirty days," he said. "The same 
  station where that charter's berthed has launched twice its normal quota of 
  shuttles. Cargo and supplies, most of them were said to be, for Bandon lodge. 
  We don't land supplies for Bandon there very often, not offworld supplies. 
  Certainly not at this season. One of my comsats recorded the same conversation 
  your officer picked up, Captain Serrano -- as well as these -- " He handed 
  over strips of hard copy, which Heris glanced at. She could not read that 
  fast, and he was still talking. 
  "I've relieved the Stationmaster there, and put old Haugan in charge -- I know 
  he's loyal, at least. Suspended all shuttle flights, and all communications, 
  with the explanation of power problems on the Station. If I understand 
  correctly, there are fewer than twenty people who've taken shuttles like the 
  one Lepescu was on. All but one have returned to the Station. You were right, 
  Captain Serrano, that they were fitted for civilian luxury use, with a total 
  capacity of ten passengers -- and carried less. Here are the latest satellite 
  images of Bandon and the adjacent islands -- there's some cloud interference, 
  apparently a storm overnight --" 
  Heris and the militia captain leaned over them. Three Shots of Bandon, five 
  minutes apart, and two of each adjacent island. They looked at the Bandon 
  pictures first One atmospheric shuttle stood on the end of the runway; no 
  other vehicles were near it. Three flitters were parked on an apron off to one 
  side in two pictures, and only two in the third and last. A tiny blob the 
  captain identified as an electric groundcar moved along the narrow driveway 
  between the landing field and the lodge. Comparing the three pictures, they 
  could tell that it had left the lodge for the field -- and then a flitter had 
  taken off. 
  On the islands to the east, south, and west -- four in all -- the captain 
  found nothing remarkable, though heavy clouds still clung to the peaks of the 
  eastern island. But on the island to the north -- "where the children camped" 
  -- Lord Thornbuckle put in -- they saw what they were looking for. A flitter 
  on the east beach, hatch open. A flitter parked on the south end of the island 
  another a few hundred meters offshore, as if approaching. They could see 
  nothing on the visual of the island's center; it, too, was cloaked in cloud 
  "We have continuous loops, of course," Lord Thorn-buckle said. "And we can get 
  infrared and radar images. But it seems to me that's enough to go on." 
  "Right, sir." The militia captain closed his eyes a moment, and then said, 
  "We'll need all the Homestead militia, and those at the Neck. Day 'n night 
  gear both, full armor, and riot weapons -- " He paused, as the clatter of 
  hooves broke upon them. Heris looked up to see Buttons riding breakneck up the 
  avenue on a lathered horse. Servants ran out to take the horse; he flung 
  himself off and ran up the steps to the portico. 
  "What happened? Is Bubbles all right?" 
  His father glared at him. "What do you know about Bubbles?" 
  "She took a flitter with the others to Whitewings for a few days -- she asked 
  me to cover for her -- what's happened?" 
  "We don't know. We know the flitter's down on that small island north of 
  Bandon, the one you youngsters camped on. We haven't been able to contact her, 
  and Cece's Captain Serrano has reason to believe she's in great danger." 
  "And you want me to do what?" 
  "Be my representative with the rescue force. We expect some opposition...." 
  "Opposition?" 
  "Captain Sigind will brief you fully. You'll need your personal gear --" 
  "Liftoff in thirty minutes, sir," the militia captain put in. 
  "Right." Buttons dashed into the hall, as changed as his father from the 
  amiable and rather foolish young man Heris had thought him. Captain Sigind 
  eyed her thoughtfully. 
  "You want to come along?" 
  "Of course we're coming -- " began Lady Cecelia, but the militia captain's 
  eyes never wavered from Heris's. Heris shrugged. 
  "It's your operation; I don't know the terrain, the entire situation, or your 
  troops. If you can find a corner where I won't be in your way, yes -- but I'm 
  not going to step on your toes." 
  "Heris!" Lady Cecelia's bony finger poked her in the back. "We have weapons -- 
  !" 
  "We have weapons, milady," said Heris formally, "but you have no training and 
  I have not been on a groundside operation in years. We are superfluous, and we 
  might even be in the way. Captain Sigind must decide." 
  His earlier indecision came down on the side of respect; she had won that 
  much. "Thank you, Captain Serrano. I'm glad you understand. Now, if you and 
  the lady will agree to act under orders, I'm sure we can fit you in." 
  "We had a supply shuttle almost loaded," Heris said. "Including personal armor 
  for Lady Cecelia and me, and decent weapons." 
  "Good. Then I can send a squad with you -- expand the standard medical unit -- 
  and now if you'll excuse me, I'll be off. Twenty-five minutes, now." 
  Heris set off for the flitter hangars again, Cecelia in tow. They'd have to 
  change there into whatever clothes Cecelia had packed earlier, or go in 
  hunting attire and look like idiots. It shouldn't bother her, she told 
  herself, after that purple uniform. She knew it wasn't really the clothes that 
  made her feel incompetent. She had never been on a mission as an observer; she 
  had always had a place, a duty. Now her duty was to keep out of the way, stay 
  out of trouble, keep Cecelia out of trouble. It felt wrong. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  "I wish we could take the horses," Cecelia grumbled. Heris looked over at her. 
  Cecelia was not used to being rushed; the bustle and scurry of the militia's 
  preparation, the need to scramble out of her clothes and into others in the 
  cramped restroom at the flitter hangars, had ruffled her composure, and she 
  had reacted with a string of complaints. The personal armor Heris had insisted 
  she wear under her jacket made her look, Cecelia had said, ridiculous. 
  Heris didn't agree; nothing looked as ridiculous as holes in one's body. She 
  hadn't said that, since it hadn't been necessary. Heris's own armor felt odd, 
  shaped differently than military issue, but she hoped it would be effective. 
  She hoped even more that they wouldn't need it. The supply flitter's cargo 
  compartment held food, weapons, tools, ammunition, clothes, medical supplies, 
  and flexible plastic tanks of water. With them were four trained medics, two 
  of them full-time militia. A saddle wouldn't have fit aboard, let alone a 
  horse. 
  "Horses? To this island? What good would that do?" 
  "I've always said war wouldn't be as bad if I could ride into it." Cecelia 
  twitched her shoulders. "Not that I could ride with this thing on -- another 
  advantage of riding." 
  "You'd be dead before the first stride," Heris said. She could feel her own 
  breathing tighten.... It always did, until the action began, and here she had 
  no way to work it off. The supply flitter, needing no pilot, stayed in 
  position well behind the troop carriers. The medics talked softly among 
  themselves, eyeing her as if checking her for stress levels. She made herself 
  open her hands, let them rest lightly on her lap as if she were relaxed. 
  "It's on an island, with a forest," Cecelia said. "Horses are faster over the 
  ground than people." 
  "Bigger target," Heris said. She didn't want to talk; she never wanted to talk 
  ahead of time. She wanted to pace, to check over the plans she had not made, 
  to see the faces that were not her people look at her the way her people had. 
  "You're nervous," Cecelia said more quietly. Heris glared at her. 
  "I am not nervous." It came out with more bite than she intended; Cecelia did 
  not flinch, but nodded as if it confirmed her opinion. Heris stretched her 
  hands and shrugged. "Not nervous, exactly... just unsettled. It's not the way 
  I'm used to." 
  "Did it bother you when you had command?" 
  "Bother me? Yes, and no." She knew what Cecelia was doing, trying to keep her 
  focussed intellectually, but she did not mind. It might help both of them. "I 
  worried -- one always does -- about the plan. Was it good enough, had I missed 
  something, would people die because of my stupidity? And that includes 
  preparation -- had I trained them well enough, often enough? Would they make 
  stupid mistakes because I'd been too lenient? But beyond that, it didn't 
  bother me. There's a... a sort of quiet place, between the commitment and the 
  combat itself. In a way you probably felt it, from what you've said of 
  starting a cross-country. Once you're on the course, once the horse is 
  galloping, the time for worry is over. From then on you just deal with it, one 
  fence at a time." 
  Cecelia nodded slowly. "I hadn't thought of it that way -- but that is what I 
  said, and that's what I did. One fence at a time, but remembering all the ones 
  ahead, too." 
  "Oh, yes." Heris sat still a moment, remembering. "You don't quit riding the 
  course until it's over -- the last fence, or the last opponent, can kill you 
  if you're careless at the end. But the commitment is there. The difference 
  here -- I can't begin to explain it." 
  "I was surprised that you backed away from it," Cecelia said, even more 
  quietly. "Bunny would have let you --" 
  Heris shook her head vigorously. "It wouldn't work. These aren't my people; 
  they don't know me, and I don't know the local situation well enough. The 
  person who doesn't fit in, who doesn't know the people or the terrain, is 
  going to get someone killed. Other people killed. I'm old enough to let 
  someone else do the job for which they're trained, and simply chew my nails 
  until it's over." 
  "Umm." Cecelia looked out the canopy, and then back. "A point where riders 
  differ from soldiers, I suppose. I've taken on someone else's mount if they 
  were injured. If you're a good enough --" 
  "That's different. But I'll bet you didn't drag some first-timer off her horse 
  just because you thought you could ride it better." Cecelia turned red. Heris 
  looked at her. "You did?" 
  "I didn't think of it that way, but -- " She shifted in her seat, and looked 
  away. "Money and influence are another way of dragging someone off a horse -- 
  with the coach convinced Ivan would never do for that horse what I could, and 
  the All-Union Challenge coming up in six months --" 
  Heris knew her expression had said what she thought before she could hide it. 
  Cecelia, still red, did not try to excuse her younger self. 
  "I shouldn't have done it -- and even at the time, I felt a bit guilty. It 
  wasn't until much later that I realized how much even the best riders -- even 
  I -- depended on finding an outstanding horse; I thought Ivan's failure to 
  stay in the senior circuit after that reflected his ability. Justified the 
  coach's decision, and my... influence." 
  "Was that your... your best horse?" Heris hoped not. She wanted to think 
  better of Cecelia. 
  "No. It was a horse I thought might replace my best horse. A big piebald from 
  Luminaire, that Ivan found on a farm, and bought literally out of harness. 
  Ivan had done all his early work, but I thought -- we all thought -- the horse 
  was such a natural anyone could have made an eventer out of him. What he 
  needed was a better rider, we thought. After I got him, he slammed his stupid 
  hoof into a stall partition while being shipped to the Challenge, and ripped 
  his leg up. Never jumped sound again. I had another mount qualified, and 
  you'll probably think it justice that she dumped me headfirst in the water -- 
  along with the minicam on my helmet." 
  Heris struggled not to laugh. "A cube they never made, eh?" 
  "Oh, they made it. You can buy my dive into the water along with a number of 
  other embarrassing incidents, and since it was full-sim pickup, you can 
  program your own simulator to take the same bounce and see if you can stay on. 
  Sometimes I can." She sighed. "It was a stupid mistake -- and to be honest, 
  I've never quite forgiven myself for it. It was just the sort of thing I hated 
  to see, and never meant to do. Yet I could never go back and apologize to Ivan 
  -- and a few years later, he was killed in a slideway accident, nothing to do 
  with horses at all." 
  Ahead, Heris saw the lead carriers spread out. She knew -- they had been kind 
  enough to tell her -- that they planned to land two on Bandon proper, to 
  secure the island, and two on the island where the flitter had crashed. The 
  supply flitter would land on Bandon behind the others. She could see the 
  smudges of islands ahead, distorted by the curve of the canopy, but she 
  couldn't recognize them. Cecelia prodded her side, and pointed. Sunlight 
  glinted off something large and shiny on one of the islands. 
  "Shuttle on the field," said one of the medics. Their squad leader spoke into 
  his com, then turned to glance at Heris. 
  "Shuttle's not primed for takeoff; there's nothing on the field with a hot 
  signature. Captain's got the satellite data, and thinks there's fewer than a 
  dozen people on Bandon proper, maybe less." 
  "Thanks." Heris managed that much before her throat closed. She didn't want to 
  sit back here with Cecelia; she wanted to be up there -- not even in this 
  flitter, but the lead one. The flitter droned on; the medics, after a long 
  glance out the canopy, went back to checking their gear, over and over. The 
  squad leader stared ahead, not speaking. Ahead, the islands rose out of the 
  sea, by ones and twos, their forest-clad flanks showing dark against 
  glistening beaches and the glowing blue sea. 
  Chapter Sixteen 
  "We're in luck," Raffa murmured. Even that soft voice woke complex echoes from 
  the water surface, the stone spaces in the cave. Bubbles inched backwards 
  around the corner, fighting her terror of the blackness. 
  "Light," said Raffa. It flared too brightly in the dark goggles; Bubbles tore 
  them away and stared. Raffa had found an old-fashioned candle lantern, and the 
  striker to light it. Without the goggles, it lit the space around them only 
  dimly, yet it felt so much better... that warm flame the color of afternoon 
  sunlight. Bubbles tried to breathe slowly and calmly, and felt her body 
  gradually relax. They were hidden... they had light... they were, after all, 
  alive. 
  "D'you think it's safe?" she asked, hoping for reassurance. 
  "In daylight, certainly -- they can't see a little light like this around the 
  corner, not after being out in real daylight. At night -- they'd still have to 
  put their heads through that vine curtain, and maybe see sparkles on the 
  water." Raffa put the lantern back on the stone shelf it had come from. 
  Bubbles saw there the other evidence of Kell's occupation: his initials, 
  carved into the stone above the ledge, a row of seashells and colored stones, 
  a tangle of wire leaders, coils of fishing line, and some fish hooks, and a 
  pile of wooden blocks, all daubed with white painted numbers, and lengths of 
  twine with lead weights attached 
  "I wonder what that's all about," Bubbles said. "They look like bobbers, for 
  fishing, but why so many? And why numbered?" Raffa meanwhile was exploring the 
  space below. 
  "Look at this -- a sleeping bag or something -- soft, anyway. My aching bones 
  will appreciate that" 
  "I wish I knew if the water was safe," Bubbles said. "We still have some, but 
  --" 
  "We could look for dead fish." Raffa picked up the candle lantern again, and 
  carried it to the water's edge. When she held it low, Bubbles could see how 
  clear the water was, how pale and unappealing the bottom. Something almost 
  colorless fled through the edge of the light. "Fish," said Raffa, as if she 
  were sure. "My aunt's caves had some pools with fish like this. No color, shy 
  of light." 
  "So it's probably not poisoned. If these fish are susceptible to the same 
  poison." 
  Raffa laughed, softly. "So you do pay attention in class sometimes. Maris 
  claimed she had to spoon-feed you all your answers to the exams." 
  Bubbles snorted. "Maris couldn't tell the truth if she were being interrogated 
  under truth serum by the Imperium. I didn't mind learning things, but you know 
  how it is --" 
  Raffa nodded. "Never show how smart you are, dears, or someone will envy you. 
  And then we're supposed to show how rich and prominent our families are, as if 
  no one would envy that." In the faint glow of the lantern, Bubbles could not 
  quite read the expression that Raffa turned to her. "D'you mind if I ask 
  something?" 
  "No... while we're hiding in a cave from people who want to kill us, I think 
  your questions are not going to be that threatening." Nonetheless, Bubbles 
  felt a twinge of anxiety. Surely Raffa wouldn't ask about Cecely's infamous 
  birthday party.... She didn't want any more lies between her and death. 
  "Why do you let them call you Bubbles?" The very unexpectedness of it made 
  Bubbles laugh aloud; the cave's echoes laughed back, hollowly. She choked the 
  laughter down. 
  "That -- I'm sorry -- that's a long story, well suited to this place, I guess. 
  You have brothers and cousins, though -- you'll understand." Raffa gave a 
  soothing murmur that might have been anything. "The fashion for Old-Earth, 
  North-European great names was at its height.... You know we're all stuck with 
  things like Cicely and Marilys and Gwenivere -- your Raffaele is actually 
  pretty, but some of them --" 
  "My cousin Boethea Evangeline," said Raffa. "My brother Archibald Ferdinand." 
  "Right. Well, Mother had finally come over to fashion, after reasonably naming 
  Gari and Tighe; Buttons got stuck with Bertram Harold Scaevola. I really think 
  they made a mistake there: Scaevola doesn't sound British to me, but Mother 
  said it was an important name in history somewhere. Then I came along. You 
  promise you won't tell?" 
  "Tell whom? The hunters? Don't be ridiculous." 
  "All right. Brunnhilde Charlotte." 
  Raffa smothered an obvious bleat of laughter. "What!" Bubbles felt her face go 
  hot. 
  "Brunnhilde Charlotte. You don't have to make a production out of it. Anyway," 
  she hurried on, "Buttons is only two years older, and when they told him he 
  had a baby sister named Brunnhilde, he could only say 'Buh-buh. ' My mother 
  thought it was cute.... She liked the idea of a little girl called Bubbles. 
  Then I turned out blonde, and 'Champagne Bubbles' became the family form of 
  Brunnhilde Charlotte. They all thought it was cute.... I was only a baby, 
  Raffa. I didn't know what they were setting me up for." 
  "So you sort of lived out the Bubbles persona, hmmm? Like Dr. Fisher-Wong in 
  psych class says happens." 
  That cut too near the bone. "Some children are naturally cheerful and... 
  and..." 
  "Bubbly. I know. But you're not the fluffhead you act like sometimes." Raffa 
  softened that with a grin. "And you haven't been acting like a pile of bubbles 
  on this little jaunt." 
  "No. Well... to be honest... I've been getting tired of Bubbles myself. But 
  look at the alternative. Brunnhilde? What kind of name is that?" 
  "Brunn isn't bad, as a short form. Wonder what it meant." 
  "For all I know, Brunnhilde is the Old Earth equivalent of bubblehead. But it 
  sounds better and better the more people snicker at Bubbles. I should've 
  changed years ago, but my cousin Kell -- the one who had this cave -- was just 
  the sort to make nasty jokes. He gave me so much grief about Bubbles I 
  pretended to like it, just to blunt the point." 
  "You could use Charlotte. Chara... that's not bad. Or Brun." 
  "Well." Bubbles shrugged. "That decision won't matter if we don't survive, and 
  we won't survive without water, so I think the next step is to check it out." 
  "With your portable chemistry kit, of course," said Raffa. 
  "With Kell's portable chemistry kit," Bubbles said sweetly. "The one on the 
  shelf that you didn't recognize." But the little bottles and tubes were all 
  empty, their contents no more than a few dried grains of unrecognizable grit. 
  "With our brains," Bubbles said, when she discovered that. "We can think it 
  out. It's safe for the cave fish; they're alive." 
  "Alive now." 
  "Yes. And that's all we can go on. They're swimming normally, not gasping or 
  floating. And that means --" 
  "We still don't know. Look -- whatever it was had to be pretty quick -- not 
  more than a day -- because Petris told us they'd never bothered the water. 
  That flyover could've dropped the poison, or set someone down to do it afoot. 
  So if one of us drinks here... and nothing happens in a day... then this water 
  is safe." 
  "I'll drink. It's my island." Bubbles scooped up a handful of water and sucked 
  it quickly. It tasted of nothing but water. "I won't drink much," she went on, 
  "just in case. Maybe if it's only a little, it'll put me to sleep or 
  something." 
  "Or only make you throw up once. You are a gutsy wench, and you shouldn't be 
  stuck with Bubbles one day longer. Take your pick: Brun or Chara." 
  Bubbles sat back on her heels. "I'm used to the B.... Let's try Brun. If I 
  hate it tomorrow, no one ever needs to know." If she died of poison no one 
  ever would know.... She shoved that thought away. 
  "Good for you, Brun. Now... how can we do the hunters the most harm?" 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Ronnie could not tell whether the pounding in his head was from the concussion 
  or excitement. The too-regular uneven footsteps came nearer, and he could just 
  hear George trying to breathe quietly. Then the footsteps turned back toward 
  the little creek; he heard a rock turn, and splash noisily, and a muffled 
  curse. One of the red-and-yellow amphibians gave a tiny bark, and several more 
  answered. George's breath came hot and wet against his ear. 
  "I told you," George murmured. "We should've put our trap on the creek 
  itself." 
  He wanted to say "Shut up" but the person at the creek might hear. Instead, he 
  touched George's wrist, a sharp tap. He could hear the walker, moving 
  upstream, occasionally tipping a rock, and then the squelch of wet boots on 
  mud. 
  "Let's follow," George said, tickling his ear again. "Maybe we can take him." 
  Maybe we can get killed very easily, Ronnie thought. If the hunter had night 
  goggles, if he had a fully equipped night-hunting rifle, they would be easy 
  prey. "Wait," he breathed, as quietly as he could. "The spring's not that far 
  away.... He may come back and spring the trap." 
  Another splash, some ways upstream, and the sound of something large moving 
  through brittle brush. "He ought to be more careful," George said. 
  "We too," Ronnie said pointedly. George subsided, though his sigh was louder 
  than Ronnie approved. After an interminable period, they heard sounds 
  returning. The same hunter? Another whose planned route had crossed his? One 
  of Petris's men? Ronnie didn't know. His neck prickled; he felt that someone 
  was looking at him, that he was outlined by a spotlight. He blinked, hard.... 
  No spotlight, nothing but darkness. Whoever it was coming downslope stayed in 
  the water, for the most part.... They could hear the rocks grinding and 
  turning under his boots, and occasional splashes. He moved faster, as most 
  people do going downhill, and as if he could see his way. 
  He passed their position, still moving downstream, and did not turn aside 
  along his former path. Apparently he was going to follow the stream all the 
  way down. 
  "This is stupid," George said in Ronnie's ear, all hissing s's. "If we stay 
  here..." 
  Ronnie's control broke; he grabbed George's mouth and dug his fingernails into 
  his lips. "The idea is to stay alive," he muttered. "Be quiet." He let go as 
  quickly as he'd grabbed, and they spent the remaining hours of darkness in icy 
  silence, both furious. An occasional shot rang out at a distance; they heard 
  no cries, nor anything that let them know what was happening. 
  In the first faint light of dawn, when Ronnie realized he could see his hand 
  in front of his face again, the peaceful gurgle of the creek off to their left 
  seemed to mock their fears. Not even the amphibians were making their usual 
  racket... no sound but the faint sigh of a breeze in the leaves far overhead, 
  and the water in the creek, and the sound of waves below, borne on the wind. 
  He had heard no shots for a long time. His head ached dully, an ache he was 
  almost used to now. His eyes burned. He felt stiff, dirty, sore... but alive. 
  He looked at George, who had fallen asleep leaning against a tree. Perhaps he 
  should let George sleep a little longer? But as he thought it, George produced 
  a faint noise that ripened into a snore, and woke up, almost falling. 
  "We survived," Ronnie said, trying for cheerfulness. The sound of his own 
  voice woke painful echoes in his head. 
  "Survived!" George rubbed his eyes, looking disgusted but still dapper. When 
  he brushed at a smudge on his sleeve, it actually vanished. "We should have 
  gone after that fellow.... We haven't done anything useful yet." He gave their 
  trap an angry glance. Even in that early light, the leaves they had cut to 
  conceal it drooped and no longer matched the greenery around them. Ronnie 
  hadn't realized that they'd wilt in only twelve hours or so. "It was a stupid 
  idea, just the sort of thing you might expect from someone like Petris." 
  "All he said was stay up in this area, and perhaps we could trap someone. 
  You're the one who had the idea for the trap itself." 
  George glared, but silently. Ronnie wondered if they should take the now 
  obvious trap apart, or leave it. Moment by moment the light increased, and the 
  trap's outline became clearer. It would take, he thought, a very stupid hunter 
  to step into it now. 
  George stretched. "We'll have to clear that mess up," he said. "It certainly 
  won't fool anyone." 
  "I suppose not." Ronnie wanted to lie down and sleep, preferably for two days 
  straight, and wake up in a clean, comfortable bed. He did not look forward to 
  undoing the trap, particularly when he couldn't remember exactly how the lines 
  ran on this side. "Although... suppose we left it, and they saw it and 
  sniggered, and then we had another trap they didn't see?" 
  "Like what?" George asked. It was a reasonable question for which Ronnie had 
  no answer. "Dig a pit trap with our fingernails and disguise it with more 
  wilting greenery?" Ronnie resented the inherited knack for clever phrasing. 
  "Perhaps a snare sort of thing -- you know, where a rock drops on them." 
  Somewhere, in some class, Ronnie remembered seeing something... a leaning 
  stick or limb, with something heavy balanced above, and when someone went 
  through -- 
  "A rock... and where are we supposed to find more rope and a rock?' Evidently 
  George didn't have the same illustration in mind. Ronnie didn't think his had 
  rope in it 
  "I've... got to sit down," he said, as his head and stomach renewed 
  yesterday's quarrel. George, after all, had slept standing up. George grabbed 
  his arm as he went down, more a fall than a controlled descent. 
  "You look awful," he said. Ronnie felt slightly less sick, lying on his back, 
  but his head pounded just the same. George's thumb appeared in front of his 
  face. "Focus on this -- can you?" He could, but he didn't really want to let 
  George assess his eyes' ability to focus -- George wasn't even a medic, let 
  alone a doctor. He let his eyes close. "I'll get water," George said, and 
  Ronnie heard his footsteps heading toward the creek. 
  Silence. Aside from the untalented drummer in his head, lovely dark silence 
  lay around him. No buzzing insects, no barking amphibians -- he remembered how 
  startled he'd been to find how loud a sound those tiny wet bodies could make. 
  The sea sounds lay at the threshold of hearing, below the headache's 
  contribution most of the time. He wiggled his shoulders in the soft leaves, 
  hoping no biting insects would get him, and felt his stiff muscles relax. 
  He did not know he was falling asleep until he woke; the sun had speared 
  through a break in the forest canopy, directly into his eyelid. He squinted, 
  twisted, and bit back a groan. He still hurt, though not as badly. He had 
  slept some hours -- too many hours; it must be near midday. George should not 
  have let him sleep so long. He forced himself up on one arm and looked around. 
  He couldn't see George. 
  Silence lay on the forest, heavy and dangerous. It wouldn't be that still if 
  nothing was wrong. Slowly, carefully, Ronnie sat up, then levered himself to 
  one knee, then to his feet. Nothing stirred. No birds, no insects -- nothing. 
  His own breath sounded loud to him. His mouth tasted foul, and his lips were 
  dry. Where was George? 
  He had gone for water. Ronnie remembered that much, and after a short panic 
  remembered which way the stream was. He glanced at the trap -- the leaves 
  covering it were now a sickly brown -- and eased his way toward the creek, as 
  quietly as possible. 
  It lay in a steep-sided bed, just here; he could see the glint of water 
  trickling down from a pool above before he could see it right below him. Then 
  he saw George. George sprawled gracelessly, as if he'd simply slumped to the 
  ground while climbing back toward Ronnie. Ronnie looked around for the enemy 
  he assumed had shot him... but saw and heard nothing. When he looked again, he 
  saw no blood, no burn mark, no injury at all. Ronnie sank to his heels and 
  tried to think this out. George down, without a cry, but -- he could now see 
  his back move -- breathing. Had he just fallen asleep? And why there? He 
  glanced at the creek, and frowned. From here, he could see something floating, 
  a bit of scum or something. He stood, and moved closer to George. George was 
  definitely breathing, and from the new angle he could see that his eyes were 
  closed. 
  "George," Ronnie said softly. Nothing happened. He reached out and touched 
  George's shoulder. No response. He glanced around again, sure someone was 
  watching, but saw and heard nothing at all. George's slack hand lay atop the 
  water bottle he'd carried to the creek; its cap had come off in the fall, and 
  it held only a scant swallow or two. Ronnie poured it on George's face, hoping 
  to wake him, but aside from a grimace, George did not rouse. Perhaps more 
  would work. With another look around, Ronnie took the bottle to the creek to 
  refill it 
  The scum he had seen lay in drifts against the rock. At first he didn't 
  recognize it... but when he swished it away to put the bottle in, there were 
  the limp legs and tails of the red and gold amphibians, the motionless fins of 
  tiny fish. Dead... beginning to stink.... He stared at them, his hand frozen 
  in place, not quite touching the water, the bottle half immersed. Then he 
  moved his arm back, and let the bottle drip on the ground. Thoughts whirled 
  through his mind in odd fragments. The man they'd heard last night The silence 
  -- nothing croaking or barking after he came back downstream. George asleep. 
  The dead things. The water he hadn't touched.... He hoped the dizziness he 
  felt suddenly came from his concussion, or even from fear, and not from the 
  touch of that contaminated water. 
  That unseen hunter had somehow poisoned the water... killed everything in 
  it... and whatever it was put George to sleep. Or was he dying? Ronnie 
  staggered back to George and felt the pulse at his neck. It beat slowly, but 
  regularly, against his sweaty fingers. He shook George's shoulder. Again no 
  response. A frantic look upstream and down... tree trunks, vines, bushes, 
  rocks. No moving figures, no sounds that shouldn't be there. 
  But if the poison was supposed to put anyone who drank the water to sleep, 
  that meant someone might come to collect them. He couldn't leave George so 
  near the water, out in the open. He grabbed George firmly under the arms and 
  heaved. His headache escalated from dull throbbing to loud rhythmic pounding, 
  and his stiff ribs felt as if someone had dragged sharp knives across them. 
  George, meanwhile, had moved hardly a centimeter, but he did begin to snore, a 
  loud unmistakable snore that Ronnie was sure could be heard a long way. 
  "A... whatchamacallit," Ronnie muttered to himself. "Something to drag him 
  on..." He looked around. An older cousin had gone through a period of 
  enthusiastic camping, but Ronnie spent that long vacation at a music school, 
  honing what his mother fondly believed to be superlative talent. After hearing 
  his cousin's stories, most of them involving borderline criminal assaults on 
  the younger campers, he milked the talent he himself knew to be minor, and 
  managed another session of music school. By then, his older cousin had moved 
  on to other amusements, and Ronnie had escaped even one six-week session at 
  his brother's camp. Right now, he would have accepted a few buffets, tosses 
  into ice-cold ponds, burr-pricked mounts, or stinging crawlers in bunks, for 
  some of the practical knowledge Knut had claimed. Ways to drag heavy loads 
  when you didn't have lifters or flitters, ways to make traps that actually 
  worked. 
  His first version of the travois bound with vines cost Ronnie three blisters, 
  an itchy rash from the vine sap, and most of the hours of afternoon. When he 
  finally rolled George onto the vines and lifted the handles, George's limp 
  body worked quickly through the vines to the ground before Ronnie had, with 
  great difficulty, pulled it ten meters. Cursing softly, Ronnie untangled 
  George and tried to weave the vines into a more stable configuration. That was 
  when he noticed the itching rash. He had never woven so much as a potholder; 
  he knew in theory how weaving worked, but nothing about fishnets or hammocks 
  or anything else that would hold a sixty kilo body safely between two poles as 
  someone dragged them along. 
  He did not let himself notice hunger or thirst, but the darkness creeping out 
  from under the trees finally blurred his vision before he had anything that 
  would support George. He had tried dragging three times, and all he had to 
  show for it were the obvious scars in the forest soil. 
  And now it was almost too dark to see.... His hands were itching, burning, 
  shaking; when he tried to stand, cramps seized his legs and arms; he 
  staggered. Now he was thirsty; his mouth burned. He took several steps toward 
  the creek before he remembered. 
  Don't panic, he told himself. Think. But he could not remember when he had 
  thought last... days ago, it seemed. For a moment it was hard to think where 
  he was, or why.... Then it came clear. They had had supplies, of course they 
  had. Back where the trap was. He could get water there, and food. He started 
  back, in the near dark, hoping he could recognize which dark blur was the 
  right tree. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  The worst thing about being in a cave, Bubbles thought, was how you could lose 
  track of time. They had drunk some of that cool, clean water, eaten a little 
  food, and then, while trying to figure out all the things Kell left, day had 
  turned to night. Even with night goggles on, she could see nothing. If they 
  left the candle burning, anyone who looked in the entrance might see it 
  sparkle on the water... and she didn't want to go outside and make sure no 
  gleam showed through the leaves. 
  Sleep came to them slowly, with many starts and twitches, but they were both 
  still tired from the night before, and finally slept. I'm not Bubbles any 
  more, was her last conscious thought. I'm grown up now -- I'm someone else, 
  named Brun. 
  What woke them was the sound of rock falling someplace. In the echoing 
  darkness, they could not tell how far off it fell, only that it was inside and 
  not outside. Bubbles had slept with the goggles on, and when she woke could 
  just make out a paler smudge beyond the rock buttress. Raffa's hand reaching 
  for hers almost made her squeak, but she managed to stay silent. She squeezed 
  Raffa's hand and then put it aside. She would have to crawl to the edge of the 
  buttress, and look around, to see how near daylight it was. 
  The pool of water tinkled pleasantly, as if it were being rained on, and when 
  she got to the corner of the buttress, she could see light seeping in from the 
  entrance. Not as bright as the day before (if it was the day before -- had 
  they slept the clock around?) but enough to show that no one was in the 
  visible part of the cave. If someone had caused the rockfall, they were now 
  out of sight. She started to creep around the buttress, and realized suddenly 
  that her knees were wet -- the pool was rising. Yesterday there'd been at 
  least two meters between the buttress and the pool, and a meter between the 
  pool and the entrance. Now the gleam of light reflecting from water extended 
  to the entrance... perhaps even outside. She backed up until her feet bumped 
  into Raffa. 
  "I think it's raining," Bubbles said softly. The cave felt slightly less 
  resonant, or perhaps the tinkle and chime of dripping water, and its echoes, 
  covered her voice. "The pool's up." 
  "Can we get out?" Raffa asked. 
  "For now, yes.... It's probably not more than a couple of centimeters at the 
  entrance. And I doubt it goes much higher for long -- that's never a large 
  creek out there." 
  "The creekbed -- yes." Raffa sounded pleased. "If it actually flows, it'll 
  take care of our tracks coming in." 
  "What about our tracks going out? And with water coming out there, it'll be 
  obvious something's inside." 
  "Maybe we won't have to go out.... Let's look." Raffa lighted the 
  candle-lantern again, and they peered at the water, then the cave walls. A 
  pale streak topped by a dark one ran along the wall perhaps knee-high. Farther 
  up, a blurrier mark showed. 
  "That's common -- probably a seasonal flood. And the other is older, and rare. 
  Didn't you say there were seasonal rains?" 
  "Yes -- and this is supposed to be the dry season." 
  "Well, then: I'll bet it won't get that high." Raffa pointed to the lower 
  mark. Bubbles thought she sounded entirely too cheerful. 
  "That's our lives you're betting," Bubbles said 
  "That sounds like Bubbles and not Brun. It's our lives either way -- if we go 
  out now, they'll have nice muddy footsteps to show where we were. How long do 
  the off-season rainstorms last?" 
  "Only a few hours, usually, but they can drop a lot of rain when they hit." 
  Bubbles sighed. "I'm not used to being Brun, you know. It's going to take some 
  getting used to. You're right -- it's not likely to come up even as high as 
  the wet-season floodmark. And even if it does, we can climb -- there are 
  ledges...." They looked big and high enough. In the meantime. "We can use 
  Kell's floaters and weights to mark the pool's edge and see how fast its 
  rising." She took down the pile of floats, and poked the weight tied to one at 
  the edge of the water. Luckily they had a supply of candles for the lantern, 
  and need not sit in the faint light that came from around the buttress. 
  Several hours passed with only the musical tinkling of water falling into the 
  large pool. A bar of concentrate eased the hunger pangs, but Bubbles would 
  have been very glad of a hot breakfast. The cave's damp coolness no longer 
  seemed a comfortable refuge from the heat outside. Slowly, in tiny lapping 
  ripples, the water rose. Each hour, Bubbles put another weight at the edge of 
  the water. The first one now lay two centimeters under; the last, as the third 
  hour came to an end, was hardly covered by a skim of water. 
  "Made it," Raffa said, giving Bubbles an affectionate shove. Then they both 
  heard the voices. Raffa reached out and snuffed the candle in the lantern; 
  darkness closed around them. They dared not move, lest they trip on something 
  and make a noise. Bubbles slipped the dark goggles back on, to find her vision 
  just as black. 
  Then a ray of light flared across.... Someone had flashed a light inside. A 
  man's voice, magnified and distorted by the cave's echoes, boomed from the 
  entrance. "Nothing. There's water right up to the entrance; if anyone had come 
  inside, we'd see the marks." 
  Another voice. " -- got here before the rain?" 
  "Not likely. Nothing -- no sounds, no movement -- nothing on IR scan." Bubbles 
  blessed the thick rock that lay between them and the entrance, and the cold 
  cave water that had covered any mark they'd left. She had thought of the 
  hunters having dark goggles; she'd forgotten the special equipment on the 
  rifles. 
  "-- those weapons?" 
  "Nah. They'll be basic by now -- they don't have any way to revalidate them. 
  C'mon." The light vanished, and the voices faded. Bubbles realized she was 
  shaking, and tried to take deep slow breaths. What had they meant, the weapons 
  would be "basic" by now? She reached out and found Raffa's shoulder; Raffa 
  grabbed her back and they hugged, both of them still trembling. For an 
  unmeasured time they clung together, until they were both breathing normally. 
  "We were stupid," Raffa murmured in Bubbles's ear. "We didn't even have our 
  weapons within reach." 
  "It's so hard to believe," Bubbles said. "I keep remembering the old camping 
  trips: we played at chase and smuggling and capture... but it was just play, 
  though we took it seriously then. Now -- it's real, but it's hard to keep 
  remembering that." 
  "I'm going to check that rifle." Raffa stood up and reached for it. "It can't 
  have a locator, or they'd have known it. Must have been something else." 
  Bubbles heard soft noises, Raffa handling the weapon, and then a grunt. "Ah. I 
  see. That socket in the side must be for a computer link -- probably an ID 
  chip. That's what they meant by validation. None of the good stuff works now 
  -- the range fender, IR scope, all that -- but it'll still fire." 
  "Which means?" 
  "It can't see in the dark. We have to be better. But if we avoid them 
  completely, we won't need them anyway." 
  Bubbles had forgotten the earlier alarm, the sound of falling rocks, but when 
  it came again, an echoing clatter and roar, she remembered. Something was in 
  the cave with them. Her mind pictured all the large predators on the planet, 
  even though she knew none were on the island. 
  "What was that?" asked Raffa. Her voice sounded shaky and breathless. 
  "Rocks," Bubbles said. "I guess." She lifted the rifle, although she had no 
  target at all. "Maybe the water loosened something, and it just fell." 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Ronnie had found the meager cache of food and water, and a couple of swallows 
  restored some of his wits. He couldn't move George alone. Even if he got the 
  vines woven the right way, dragging the travois alone would leave obvious 
  tracks. He would have to find Petris and the others, even though that had been 
  against his orders. He sucked at a ration bar, letting the surface coating of 
  salt and sugar revive him, then took another swig from the safe bottle. He 
  shouldn't eat much, he remembered, if he was short of water. 
  A gust of wind stirred the trees overhead, and its warm moist hand brushed his 
  face. If only it weren't dark -- if only his head didn't hurt -- if only he 
  had someone to help him... but reality settled on his shoulders like a cloak 
  of misery. Dark, hurt, alone; either he figured it out, or no one would. 
  He made his way back to George's unconscious body in the dark, tripping more 
  than once on unseen roots and stones. How long would the drug or poison keep 
  George unconscious? He wished he knew more about drugs. He tried to redo the 
  vines, in the dark, by feel, but his heart wasn't in it. A drop of cold water 
  flicked his hot neck, and he jumped. Then another. Now he could hear the 
  spatter of rain, as well as the rush of wind gusts in the trees. 
  If it rains, he thought, if I can pull George along, the rain will wash out 
  our tracks. He didn't let himself think how much harder it would be to pull 
  the travois through mud. Instead he yanked at the poles, straining, staggering 
  uphill, away from the creek. Suddenly it was easy; he lurched forward, almost 
  jogging, then realized that must mean George had fallen off, or through, the 
  vine webbing. He was almost sobbing as he turned back. It was too much, the 
  pain in his head, the rain, the danger, the uncooperative vines. 
  He had just found George's body when he saw the lights in the sky. A flitter, 
  its searchlight directed into the forest.... He threw himself back, away from 
  George. They had IR sensors, of course, and night-vision goggles. They could 
  see George. They could see him. He crouched, shaking from fear and exertion 
  both, dithering. Above the wind and thickening rain, he could just hear the 
  flitter's drone. Its searchlight flicked among the trees, probing, but the 
  canopy was thick here near the stream, and the light never touched him. It did 
  flick across George, and that garish beltpack he'd refused to bury... and it 
  came back, and centered there. Ronnie bit back the groan he wanted to utter. 
  Why hadn't he taken the thing off? He'd known it was stupid... too late now. 
  The flitter sank into the canopy, its searchlight illuminating slanting lines 
  of rain above, and drips below. He heard the squeal and clunk of a hatch 
  opening. They would have a ladder or line, he realized, for dropping hunters 
  directly into the forest. If he stayed here... 
  He took a deep breath and plunged away, into darkness. Upslope, upstream, into 
  the thicker forest and more broken country. If he could get rock between him 
  and the IR scans, they couldn't see him. He picked his way from tree to tree 
  in the dim radiance of the flitter's light. It would do no good to hurry; he 
  must not fall and make a noise. He had a few seconds perhaps, as someone came 
  down the line from the flitter, someone who surely must be concentrating on a 
  safe descent rather than a possible fugitive. 
  He heard the metallic clatter of someone landing, a weapon (he was sure) 
  rattling against something else, the cable or a ladder. Light brightened 
  behind him; he dared a peek and saw a lightsource at head level. A helmet 
  light, feebler than the flitter's searchlight, but perfectly adequate for 
  close work. It lowered, as if its bearer crouched. Over George, Ronnie was 
  sure; he struggled against the desire to go back and protect his friend. He 
  heard the peculiar squawk of a badly tuned comunit, then another clatter as if 
  someone else had come down. Now two helmet lights glowed back there. The 
  flitter's engine whined -- retracting its cable? -- and then moved off, to the 
  east. He heard voices, muted by wind and rain. 
  He had to leave. He had to go now, while they did whatever they were doing to 
  George, because they must not catch all four of them. That was the only 
  chance. But he had never imagined that he might have to leave a friend behind. 
  He made himself move, one slow step after another, away from the lights. I'm 
  sorry, he let himself say to George in his mind. I'm sorry. 
  He had covered perhaps fifty meters when he heard the shout behind him. Reflex 
  threw him forward, into a wild panicky run. The shout came again, then a shot 
  smacked into a nearby rock. Ronnie fell over another rock, banging both shins, 
  and scrambled up. Too late for silence, for subtlety; only speed would help 
  him now. Lightning flashed overhead, blinding him momentarily. He tried to 
  move faster through his memory of what it revealed and fell again. He was in 
  the creek, now only a meter wide; rain lashed at him as he climbed, stumbled, 
  climbed again. Another shot rang out, but he never heard it hit anything. 
  Surely, the one rational corner of his mind thought, surely the lightning will 
  blind those in night goggles even worse.... 
  Ronnie struggled on, uphill, ignoring everything but the need to get away. His 
  feet slipped on wet rocks, in mud; rain beat in his face, plastering his hair 
  down, dragging at his shirt and trousers. Flash after flash of lightning 
  revealed a grotesque landscape of wind-whipped foliage, ragged rocks, 
  wind-tossed rain. He followed the creek, no longer worried about the poison in 
  its water, until he reached its source. Behind him, he could see flickering 
  lights... the hunters, following what must be an obvious trail. He licked his 
  lips, grateful for the pure rainwater that drenched him. Where now? 
  The next flash of lightning showed him a narrow black cleft, above and to his 
  right. He clambered over the wet rocks, hoping it was deep enough to hide in, 
  hoping it wasn't just a trick of lightning. Thunder shook the ground, trembled 
  in his breath. Behind him, a shout and a stab of light; his shoulder burned. 
  He plunged to the ground, behind a rock, and tried to see where the cleft had 
  been. Lightning again; there, only a jump and stretch. It still looked deep, a 
  black gash in the rocky slope. Rain poured down, even harder now. He forced 
  himself to stand, to take those few steps, to reach up and haul himself into 
  darker darkness. 
  When the next lightning came, he saw it as a blue-white flash against dark 
  walls. Limping, staggering, he tried to work his way further in. Water 
  trickled along between his feet, getting deeper; pebbles rolled and he lurched 
  against the rocks, biting his tongue at the pain in his shoulder. Then the 
  ground fell out from under his feet, and he slid down a crumbling slope into 
  black oblivion. 
  Chapter Seventeen 
  George awoke with a stiff neck and aching head. It was dark. Night, he 
  thought. He tried to stretch, and discovered that his wrists were bound behind 
  his back. This, he thought, will never do. He blinked several times, and drew 
  in a breath that stank of cleaning solution, old wood, and sour water. When he 
  let the breath out in a gusty sigh, the sound seemed small and confined, as if 
  he were in a closet. He felt around with his legs, glad to find that his 
  captors had not tied his ankles. He could sit up, though he felt dizzy. 
  The mind his father always doubted he had began to work. He couldn't remember 
  how he'd gotten into this, but his friends never pulled tricks this 
  unpleasant. He forced his mind back to the last clear memory, then tried to go 
  forward. The flight to the island -- the crash -- Ronnie pale and sick -- the 
  ragged islanders who claimed to be the victims of a manhunt. He and Ronnie, 
  building a trap of leaves and branches -- a sound in the night -- dawn -- then 
  nothing. 
  He had not liked capture the first time, with Petris and Oblo; this time, when 
  he was sure it was their enemies, he liked it less. He had been captured 
  somehow -- that he could not yet remember -- and he was confined in something 
  that sounded and smelled like a closet for cleaning supplies. The others must 
  still be free -- or some of them -- or he would be dead. 
  He brushed that thought aside. He, George Starbridge Mahoney, was not going to 
  die. That would not happen; sordid deaths happened to others, not to young men 
  of good family whose trousers never lost their crease. He was going to escape, 
  and warn Lord Thornbuckle, and then go rescue Ronnie and the others. And the 
  first thing to do was find out more about his prison. 
  With difficulty, he levered himself up to his feet. It was remarkably hard to 
  find his balance in the dark. He backed up slowly, until his hands bumped a 
  wall. His fingers recognized wood, then something papery, then more wood. He 
  edged along, feeling for a corner, and bumped into a shelf that caught him 
  painfully above the elbows. Something landed on the shelf, and he felt a small 
  bump against his back as whatever it was fell over and rolled. 
  It occurred to him then that he should not let that object fall off the shelf. 
  It would make noise, and noise might bring his captors, and his captors might 
  think he knew where the others were hiding. His captors might even be 
  unpleasant. He had not enjoyed the classes on interrogation resistance which 
  even the Royals found necessary; he wanted nothing to do with the real thing. 
  He leaned a little on the shelf, trying to encourage the small item to roll 
  backwards, and the entire shelf fell off its supports. Hard, sharp-edged cans 
  banged against his arms, the backs of his legs, and clattered on the floor, 
  something breakable smashed. Stinging fumes rose, and he choked, then coughed 
  helplessly. His eyes burned, tears rolled down his face; he staggered away 
  from the shelf, tripping over unseen rolling hazards on the floor, and hit his 
  shin on a bucket with a loud clang. He gave a most ungentlemanly curse. 
  Light stabbed his eyes, and the door opened. He lunged toward it, but the 
  shadowy figures there shoved him back so hard that he could not keep his feet. 
  He fell against the bucket -- it hurt just as much on the backs of his legs -- 
  and sat down hard in a puddle of whatever it was with the strong smell. He 
  could feel it oozing through his expensive Guilsamme trousers. 
  "Shut up!" said one off the shadows, before he knew his mouth was open. "Or 
  get another dose." 
  Another dose. That meant he'd been drugged or poisoned -- he had a tiny, 
  shrinking vision of a creek, of a full water flask coming to his lips. With 
  that memory came thirst, worse even than his headache. 
  "I'm thirsty," he said, surprised by the rough weakness of his voice. 
  Someone laughed, unpleasantly. It reminded George of the senior bully, the 
  year he'd started school. "Too bad," someone said; the voice sounded as if it 
  belonged to the laugh. "But not for long." 
  "No, wait... if they autopsy, they'll look for dehydration." The other voice 
  had an undertone of anxiety. 
  "So?" George tried to squint past the lights aimed at him, but still could not 
  see either figure -- or if there were more than two. "Seawater might do that 
  --" 
  "Nah. The old man said take care of 'em until we got the whole bunch --" 
  "He didn't say tell 'em the whole plan!" The door slammed; George could hear 
  raised voices, but not the words. He glanced around the closet. In the light 
  of its single fixture, it was as cramped and unpleasant as his experience in 
  the dark suggested. It was about two by three meters, with the door on the 
  middle of one long side, and shelves on either side of the door. Above the 
  shelf he'd broken, two more supported a collection of brushes, cans, and jugs; 
  on the other side of the door, the shelves held bathroom supplies in neatly 
  labelled boxes. Behind him mops and brooms hung from a rack; he had been lucky 
  not to dislodge any of them when he fell over the mop bucket. 
  It had to be a large house or building, probably on the neighboring island. 
  Bandon, its name was. Bandon where the landing field had signalled that they 
  were unwelcome. Where the hunters, according to Petris, were living in comfort 
  in the lodge, while the victims struggled to survive on the island. 
  George shook his head at the state of his trousers, which the bright light 
  revealed to have suffered from the island even before the noxious green liquid 
  that still filled his nose with stinging vapor. Never in his life had he been 
  this disheveled.... He noticed a rip in one sleeve, and a long greasy stain, 
  as if he'd been thrown in a dirty cargo compartment for the trip here. He 
  probably had. And without the use of his hands, he could not even tidy himself 
  up. 
  But he could get out of the puddle of smelly green stuff, which he was sure 
  would do his trousers more harm than simple grime. For all he knew it would 
  eat its way through his skin, as well. He braced his back against the wall of 
  mops, and stood. There. He could just grasp the handle of a mop.... There 
  ought to be some way of using it as a weapon the next time those persons 
  opened the door. But he couldn't think of one, and the door opened again. 
  "You weren't supposed to get up," said the voice he associated with the nasty 
  laugh. With the two spotlights trained on his face, he still could see nothing 
  of the men holding them. 
  "I couldn't breathe," George said. "That stuff chokes me." 
  He had been right; it was the same laugh. "I wouldn't worry about that," the 
  voice said. "But you said you were thirsty -- come on, then." 
  Was it safe to go out? It wasn't safe to stay here, he knew that much. He 
  tried to step forward with assurance, as if he weren't even worried, but the 
  green liquid was slippery as oil. He staggered, and fell into the door frame. 
  Ungentle hands caught him under the armpits. "What a comedy act you are, 
  aren't you?" He had no time to catch his breath before it was slammed out of 
  him at the end of a hard fist, and he fell back against a wall. Thick cloth 
  muffled his head, blinding him, and he felt hands -- large, strong, and 
  gloved, he thought -- yank him along. 
  He tried to judge from the sounds -- the scrape of shod feet, the sound of 
  breathing -- what sort of space they were in, how far they'd come. A corridor, 
  he thought, but he could not judge distance, not with the hard hands shoving 
  him this way and that, breaking his concentration with slams against the wall 
  or yanks on his bound arms. 
  Finally he heard a door open -- a swing door, he thought -- and a final shove 
  sent him forward through it just as the cloth was pulled away from his face. 
  He staggered, and fell onto a hard, cold floor in the dark, and heard the 
  snick of a lock on the door behind him. 
  For a time he lay there, nursing his new bruises, and wondering what to do 
  now. But thirst drove him to explore. This smelled different, cleaner, colder. 
  Like a bathroom, he decided. He got to his knees, and considered shuffling 
  around like that, but the hard floor hurt his knees after only a few awkward 
  moves, and he realized he would have to stand up. Again. 
  This exploration, however, ended in success. He found the door through which 
  he'd been shoved, and beside it the predictable panel of switches to control 
  light and ventilation. Cool white light showed him a bathroom -- certainly a 
  staff facility, for it had none of the amenities the family rooms would have 
  had. A row of sinks set into a counter, with mirrors above -- he winced away 
  from his image -- and a row of plumbing fixtures. The stack of clean glasses 
  on the counter mocked him. How was he supposed to turn the water on? Or get it 
  in the glass? 
  That struggle occupied him some time. The sinks had watersaving faucets, so 
  that they would not run long without a finger on the control -- and the 
  control was mounted at a convenient height for someone with free hands. George 
  had to hitch himself up onto a sink, almost sitting in it, to reach the 
  control.... He was sure the entire counter-and-sinks arrangement was going to 
  fall off the wall and cause a flood. He could turn the water on, but he could 
  not drink, not while facing away from the sink. And the sinks had no plugs, so 
  he could not fill one and drink from it. Finally he realized that he would 
  have to take a glass from the stack and position it in a sink -- all out of 
  his sight -- and then climb up to start the water and hope the glass was in 
  the right position. Then take the glass out of the sink and set it on the 
  counter, close enough to the edge that he could tip it with his mouth, and 
  finally drink. 
  It took a very long time; he broke two glasses, cut his fingers, and almost 
  decided that thirst was better than this struggle. But his stubbornness forced 
  him on. And the lukewarm water, the half glass of it he managed to drink 
  before the glass tipped over and spilled the rest down his chin and neck, 
  tasted amazingly good. He could almost feel his brain cells soaking it up and 
  going back to work. Now he would think of what to do; now he would get back to 
  his own script for this miserable outing, and come out as he always did: 
  clean, pressed, and in control. 
  It was not so bad, being locked in a bathroom. Basic bodily functions 
  accounted for... he stopped, halfway to the fixture he had planned to use, and 
  realized another problem. How was he supposed to open his trousers with his 
  hands tied behind him? It wouldn't do any good to yank on the waistband from 
  behind, not with these; they were designed to withstand incredible force. 
  He would think about it later; it was not that big a problem. Yet. On the 
  other hand, he would make do with that one half glass of water, and not waste 
  energy trying to get another. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  "You really should consider the legal aspect," George said. His stomach 
  growled; the food the two men were stuffing into their mouths with such 
  indecent haste smelled delicious. He had been given no food, though it was 
  promised for "just before you go swimming." He had, instead, been given the 
  novel experience of cleaning all the plumbing fixtures in the building with a 
  toothbrush held in his teeth. He had not been willing, but the two men had not 
  offered him any alternatives. His bruises throbbed, and his shoulders ached 
  abominably from the strain of his bound arms. 
  "Like what?" asked the slender one. "You think this will come up in court or 
  something?" He was the bully, George had discovered, when after some hours of 
  jeering and shoving, they had finally helped him lower his trousers to use the 
  toilet; the stocky one who looked meaner, with that scar across his chin, was 
  only rough, not cruel. In the hours since, the slender man had taken every 
  opportunity to cause pain in ways that would not show on an autopsy. 
  "Probably," said George. It was most inconvenient, having one's hands tied. He 
  had not realized how dependent he was on gesture, a habit learned from his 
  father. "My father gets most things to court, and he will certainly sue 
  someone when I'm dead." He was proud of himself; he said that without a 
  quaver. 
  The men laughed, and looked at each other. "Poor Lord Thornbuckle," the 
  slender one said. "I'm sure he'll be worried." 
  George stared into space above them, the closest he could come to the pose he 
  usually achieved at these moments. "Oh -- I expect my father will represent 
  him, too. A class action suit, I imagine. Damages, negligence --" 
  "Nonsense," the slender man said, and took a bite of toast. Through it, he 
  said, "And don't think you can scare us with your father. I've known better 
  lawyers than your father, in my life." 
  George managed a casual chuckle. "I doubt that. You don't even know who my 
  father is." 
  "He's not in the same class with... oh... Kevil Starbridge Mahoney. Now is 
  he?" 
  George laughed aloud, this time with genuine pleasure. "My dear lads, he is 
  Kevil Starbridge Mahoney, and if you know him, you know how surely he will 
  pursue anyone who harms his family. I'm George Starbridge Mahoney." 
  A pause, during which the slender man chewed steadily, and the stocky one cast 
  nervous glances from George to his companion. Finally the slender man 
  swallowed, and pushed himself away from the table. George felt his heart begin 
  to pound. "I don't believe you," the slender man said. "And I don't like 
  liars." He spoke quietly, but with a studied viciousness that promised pain. 
  George hoped his face didn't show how frightened he was, a sudden burst of 
  fear that made him glad he was in the chair, and not trying to stand up. 
  "Now wait," the stocky man said. "We aren't supposed to mark 'em up, 
  remember?" 
  "I won't." The slender man smiled at George. "Now... what did you say your 
  name was?" 
  "George Starbridge Mahoney," George said. He was going to be hurt anyway, just 
  as the bully at school had twisted ears or arms no matter what you said, but 
  one might as well tell the truth. And if they concentrated on asking him about 
  himself and his past, perhaps they wouldn't ask where the others might be 
  hiding on the island. He braced himself for whatever the slender man might do, 
  but he did nothing. Then he slipped a hand into a pocket, and came out with a 
  glove. 
  "You're sure of that," the man said, putting the glove on, and tapping its 
  fingers on George's head, just hard enough to sting and demonstrate that the 
  fingers were tipped with something hard. "Then I suppose you know all about 
  Viilgas versus Robertson Colony." 
  "It's against ethics to talk about cases outside professional venues," George 
  quoted. A gloved finger probed behind his ear, and he squirmed away. "But... 
  sometimes at home, of course, it did happen." The whole case was over, appeals 
  and all, long ago; what harm could it do to admit that? And, now that he 
  thought about it, there'd been a threat against the family; his father had 
  insisted that none of them go out without an escort. "I remember the threat," 
  he said, as the finger jabbed behind his other ear. "But I was only eight." 
  "Ah. Which would make you now... ?" 
  "Twenty-three." Had it really been fifteen years? He would never forget the 
  bomb in the vegetable shipment that had destroyed the old kitchen and scared 
  the cook so that she went into early retirement. Of course she hadn't been in 
  danger; none of the servants were even in the house for the duration of the 
  threat. His father had insisted on that. 
  "And was the threat ever carried out?" The finger prodded beneath his chin, 
  only slightly painful so for. 
  "A bomb in the vegetables," George said. "It blew all the tiles off the wall." 
  It occurred to him that this man might have been involved, for all that he 
  didn't look old enough. How old did you have to be to send bombs through the 
  food system? Perhaps he'd started young. Perhaps he wanted revenge.... 
  "And what was the outcome -- the real outcome?" 
  That, too, he would not forget, because he had been just old enough to 
  recognize the discrepancy between the public news and what his father said to 
  a colleague in the study. "How did you know about the real outcome?" he asked, 
  and was rewarded by a sharp jab in the neck. It hurt more than he'd have 
  expected. 
  "Answer the question," the slender man said. 
  "The Robertson Colony paid an indemnity," George said sulkily. "Enough to keep 
  them working hard for the next fifty years, my father said, with no offplanet 
  travel until it was paid. Slocumb and DeVries got mindwiped. Viilgas died, but 
  they hushed it up, so his heirs could get the profits." 
  "Mmm. You do know more about it than the average young sprout. Tell me this, 
  then: when your father, assuming he is your father, approaches the bench, what 
  does he do with his hands?" 
  Georges arms strained, trying to reproduce the familiar gesture; he could not 
  say it without doing it. And was it the left hand or the right -- ? Finally he 
  got it out. "His left hand's in his vest pocket, as if he felt a pain, and his 
  right hand is holding down the tail of the frill." 
  The slender man turned away a moment, to look at his companion, then turned 
  back to George. "So... if you're Mahoney's son, why should we care?" 
  "You said already -- you know what he's like. He'll see money somewhere, and 
  go after it." 
  "I'm not rich," the man said, and went back to the table. He served himself 
  another plateful of eggs and sausage, and George's stomach growled again. "Why 
  should I worry? He'll go after the deep pockets." 
  "He'll go after anyone involved," George said. Some tone in the other's voice 
  let him think he'd made an impression. "Deep pockets hire their own 
  lawyers.... Will they hire one for you?" 
  "Don't try to scare me," the slender man said. "It won't work." But he said it 
  without full conviction, and he glanced at his stocky partner a moment too 
  long. George knew what his father must feel, in the courtroom, when some 
  change in his opponent's body or face let him know he had scored. He had 
  always assumed law was dull -- all those racks of data cubes, all those hours 
  under the helmet -- but he had never felt anything like the rush of excitement 
  that now roared through him. 
  Then the slender man's eyes came back to his face, and the triumph chilled.... 
  This man enjoyed pain too much to give it up, even for safety. 
  "If I escaped," George said, quickly, against the lust in those eyes, "I could 
  call Lord Thornbuckle. You'd have time to get away, if you wanted, although I 
  would testify that you helped me. The people who thought this up are the real 
  criminals. My father would be on your side then." 
  "It's a thought," the stocky one said. "I'd rather have Mahoney on my side 
  than cross-examining me." 
  "If it came to that -- " The slender man stared at George in a way that made 
  his insides twitch. "If we can't get it out of this 'un..." 
  George hoped his shrug was casual enough. "I don't know where the others are. 
  You can get me to tell you where I last saw them, but if they were still there 
  they'd have been captured. And I've been here at least a day -- " He was sure 
  it was two; why else would they have shoved him back into the closet for a 
  time, and kept him below ground level except for that one foray of bathroom 
  cleaning in the upstairs suites? He tried very hard not to think about the 
  cave Bubbles had mentioned. He didn't know where it was; he was very glad he 
  didn't know where it was... and they might not be in it anyway. 
  "More," said the stocky one, and hushed at the other's gesture. 
  "Time's going to run out," George said. "Someone will notice that we're gone, 
  and start hunting for us. They can get Michaels to say we went to Whitewings, 
  easily enough, but we aren't at Whitewings, and it'll be obvious we weren't. 
  Besides, that flitter beacon still operates. If anyone checks the satellite 
  logs --" 
  "He's right," the stocky one said, this time with complete conviction. "They 
  should've pulled out as soon as the flitter crashed there. Someone was bound 
  to come looking; it's a wonder they haven't before now. There wasn't really a 
  chance of catching the passengers --" 
  "A sporting chance," the slender man said. "That's what our admiral likes, 
  remember? The more chance, the more challenge. But if we can get out from 
  under, while he takes the blame... then that's a chance I like." He gave 
  George a smile that was anything but benign. "You do understand that we want 
  to be free and clear?" 
  "Of course," George said. His father's son could not miss the undertones. But 
  it was a chance. The slender man nodded at the stocky one. 
  "Go check upstairs," he said. "We don't want to run into the admiral, though 
  he said he wouldn't be back until it was over, or we got something out of this 
  one." 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  George had hoped for a glimpse of the outside world on his way to the 
  communications setup, but the com shack at Bandon Lodge was in the basement. 
  Two long light-gray corridors and a windowed door... he didn't even know if it 
  was day or night outside. The slender men tapped the main board's controls; 
  screens lit and the soft hum of the audio units sharpened. 
  "Satellite bounce to the Main House?" the slender man asked. "Or up to Home 
  Station?" 
  "I'd try for Main House," George said. "That'd be quickest; there're people 
  who know me." 
  "Here, then. You're ready." 
  George had a moment of panic when he couldn't remember the flitter's number, 
  but it came to him. He pressed the button and spoke. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Heris, in the supply flitter with the medical squad only a few minutes from 
  landing, recognized George's voice at once. So did Cecelia. 
  "Why, then there's nothing -- " Cecelia said; Heris grabbed her arm and 
  Cecelia hushed. 
  "-- Captive and in danger," George was saying. "Armed men are hunting them, 
  the condemned criminals and us both. The hunters have poisoned the water. We 
  need assistance; I am at Bandon Lodge; the flitter crashed on... on the island 
  north of Bandon. Be prepared for -- " His voice stopped, suddenly. Heris found 
  she was holding her breath, and let it out. How had that young fool, of all of 
  them, escaped to Bandon? When he spoke again, his voice sounded different: 
  still clearly George, but a George who had changed in the space of a few 
  moments. "And please recognize the assistance of two men formerly in the 
  employ of the hunters... Svaagart Iklind" -- Heris stiffened. Another Iklind? 
  A relative? -- "and Kursa Dahon. Without them, I could not have made this 
  call." 
  A moment's silence. Heris could not tell, over the sound of the flitter itself 
  and the stirs of those around her, if the com stayed live or dropped the 
  signal. She closed her eyes. She wondered what the militia captain -- Sigind 
  -- would do. She knew what she would think of so convenient a signal. Which, 
  of course, Lepescu and his cronies would have heard -- if they hadn't arranged 
  it. Her mind began to replay the words she'd heard, even the ones overlain by 
  Cecelia's voice. "Hunters." What had George meant by hunters, by "condemned 
  criminals"? 
  Hunters... she had expected to find Lepescu hunting some rare animal 
  illegally, with a band of cronies; she had expected him to be dangerous to 
  innocent youngsters out for a spree. But... criminals? People? She shivered 
  suddenly, and Cecelia laid a hand on her arm. 
  "Heris? What is it?" 
  She could not see her own face, but Cecelia's reaction told her what she must 
  look like. The older woman drew back, as if frightened. Heris saw others 
  glance at her; one stared. 
  "That -- !" Words literally failed her; the worst words she knew were not bad 
  enough. She fought to breathe past the knot in her throat, and finally said, 
  "He is hunting people. It's a manhunt; he's not hunting animals at all!" 
  "Who?" 
  "Lepescu." Her mind raced, fitting it all together. "He's gotten convicts from 
  somewhere -- " Could they be R.S.S. convicts? She shivered again, at the 
  thought of shipmates -- not her crew, of course, but someone's shipmates -- 
  being hunted by Lepescu as if they were only wild beasts. Though it was no 
  better if he had raided other prisons; at least military prisoners would know 
  how to defend themselves, might have a chance. She heard others muttering, the 
  same tones of shock and outrage that she heard in her own voice. "It can't 
  be!" someone said, and someone else said, "Must be crazy -- Lord 
  Thornbuckle'll tack his hide up in the kennels." She would have said more, but 
  the flitter swerved, and she lurched against Cecelia's arm. She turned to peer 
  out the forward canopy. Ahead, the first attacking ships had dropped to their 
  final approach. 
  "I can't believe it," Cecelia said. "Hunting people -- he wouldn't do that. I 
  know you hate what he did to you -- what he tried to do to your crew in battle 
  -- but he couldn't be crazy enough to think he'd get away with... with this. 
  Not right under Bunny's nose." 
  Staring ahead, trying to see what she knew she could not see -- how the 
  assault was going -- she did her best to answer. "He would think that made it 
  better. More... sporting. A risk for him, other than the risk from the people 
  he hunted." Had he given them weapons? Had the young people had weapons? "I 
  told you, he once commented that he considered most hunting demeaning, because 
  it wasn't dangerous enough -- that the proper game for a real man was man." 
  Cecelia considered this silently as their flitter dropped steadily towards the 
  Bandon field, now occupied by the two militia flitters. Heris appreciated the 
  silence, but knew it wouldn't last. She knew her employer too well. "I don't 
  think," Cecelia said at last, in the remote and formal tone Heris had not 
  heard for weeks, "that I want to know this person. A disgrace to his uniform." 

  "Yes." Heris braced herself for landing. The militia squads already down had 
  vanished except for a single soul waving them in. Then they were down safely, 
  onto a quiet field with no sign of conflict. Heris did not need the squad 
  leader's warning; she knew that silence was deceptive. 
  The medical squad went through a low-voiced routine of some sort; she supposed 
  they were reminding each other what equipment was in whose pack or something. 
  The air smelled fresh and wet, heavy with fragrances completely different from 
  the woods and fields near the Main House. A comunit squawked, and Heris 
  jumped. She didn't understand; she hated not knowing the local codes, not 
  knowing anything, not having a place in this. The medical squad scrambled back 
  into the supply flitter, and the squad leader said, "They've found the kid; 
  he's hurt," just as the flitter lurched into the air again. Cecelia gasped; 
  Heris grabbed her hand and squeezed until the older woman's color returned. 
  "George," she reminded her. "It has to be George they mean. He's the one on 
  this island." 
  At the lodge proper, the supply flitter crowded the parking area; the medics 
  poured out and Heris and Cecelia followed. No one stopped them; Heris saw no 
  sign of trouble until they came to the room where George lay with a medic 
  already working on him. One dead body sprawled across the control board of the 
  communications shack; someone else gasped noisily from another clump of 
  medics. Cecelia leaned against the wall, but pushed Heris forward. "Find out," 
  she said. "For his father." 
  Heris had no interest in George's father. She picked her way across the floor, 
  blood-spattered and already littered with the detritus of emergency medical 
  care, to a point where she could see George without interfering. He was alive, 
  breathing on his own, with one IV line in. He looked dirty, and pale, and both 
  older and younger than she remembered him. She knew that look, from the 
  youngsters she'd seen in her own ship's sickbay; being flat on their backs in 
  clean pajamas made them look like children, but what they had been through 
  aged them. 
  "What happened to him?" she asked quietly. 
  "Caught in crossfire," one of the medics said, without looking up. "Small 
  caliber in the abdomen, missed the big stuff." Which didn't mean it felt good, 
  or even that he would recover, just that he was likely to make it back to a 
  hospital without dying on the way. Caught in crossfire... maybe, she thought, 
  and maybe not. Perhaps someone wanted to get rid of witnesses. There must be 
  more than one traitor in Bunny's pay. Heris watched the medics, who seemed to 
  go about their business as quickly and competently as any she'd seen, then met 
  Georges gaze. 
  "Captain... where's Ronnie?" 
  "On the other island, I presume. Militia went there; he'll be fine." He might 
  not be, but George needed to hear the best chance, not the worst. 
  "Don't talk," said a medic, and put a warning hand on George's shoulder. "You 
  need to lie still." 
  "Cave," said George, struggling now, his eyes locked on Heris's. "Might be in 
  the cave... Bubbles said..." and then a groan he tried to bite back, as the 
  medics did something that hurt even more. 
  "I understand," Heris said, as much to reassure him as because she did. 
  "Bubbles knew about a cave, and they might be in it. All of them?" 
  "No -- Ronnie -- hurt --" 
  The medic's angry face looked up at Heris. "He shouldn't talk; don't bother 
  him. He's got other injuries, too." Heris glanced down and saw that they'd cut 
  George's shirt away now, revealing the deep bruises along his side; broken 
  ribs, maybe. 
  "He -- shot me," George said, struggling against the medic's hands. "He --" 
  "It's all right, George," she said again. Time enough later to find out which 
  he George meant. From the glazed look in his eyes, they had given him some 
  drug, and he wouldn't be thinking clearly now. She hoped he had been right 
  about the cave. "Everything will be fine." The medics lifted George onto a 
  stretcher, and rolled him away. He lay quiet, eyes already closed. Her mind 
  raced. A cave -- a cave Bubbles knew about. Did Lepescu? Ronnie hurt, and not 
  in the cave. What kind of hurt? If Ronnie was hurt, why hadn't he been 
  captured? And again: did Lepescu know about the cave? Did the others being 
  hunted? Did the militia captain know about that cave, and if so -- 
  She went back to Cecelia, who looked less pale than when she'd come in. 
  "George has a gunshot wound he should survive, assuming Bunny's got a good 
  trauma center in his hospital." 
  "Very good," Cecelia said. "Riding horses at speed is hardly a safe hobby." 
  Her voice was a shade brittle, but under control. 
  "He hasn't lost anything vital yet," Heris said. "Could you hear what he 
  said?" 
  "No -- not really." 
  "There's a cave on the island where the others are; Bubbles knew about it, and 
  George thinks the others might be hiding in it." She waited to make sure 
  Cecelia understood that. Then she went on, "Would the militia captain know 
  about it? Did you ever hear of it?" 
  "A cave... no. I didn't. I don't know if anyone else would, besides the 
  children who camped there. A big cave?" 
  "George didn't know, I suspect. But the militia captain needs to. If there's a 
  cave, anyone might be in it: the youngsters, or the hunters, or whoever 
  they're hunting." Heris looked around. Someone had dragged the corpse away, 
  and the other wounded man, whoever he was, and one medic was stuffing medical 
  trash in a sack. "We can't just comcall the militia commander; Lepescu would 
  overhear it. If that's where the youngsters are hiding --" 
  "We'll go tell him," Cecelia said, and pushed away from the wall. 
  "Yes, but -- " Heris stifled her doubts. They'd been told to stay here, safely 
  out of trouble, and she'd agreed to that. She looked around for the person in 
  charge. 
  The person in charge, busily arranging transport to a hospital for George and 
  the other wounded man, was in no mood to listen. Heris had no idea what the 
  insignia on his collar meant but he was acting like a harried sergeant. 
  The captain said you were to stay here," he said. "And here you'll stay. You 
  don't even know where this cave is, or if the kids are in it, or if anyone 
  else knows about it." 
  "That's why -- " Heris began, but he flapped a hand at her. 
  "The captain's got good maps of the island; if there's a cave worth worrying 
  about, he'll know. He's got a bloody mess over there -- " 
  Then the man shut his mouth and glared at her, as if she had extracted that 
  information unfairly. "Just because you used to be a spaceship commander 
  doesn't give you the right to throw your weight around here. Captain Sigind 
  said to keep you safe here, and that's exactly what I'll do. Now if you'll get 
  out of my way so I can do my job --" 
  Heris swallowed more years of experience than this person had age, and said, 
  "Excuse me," very quietly. No use arguing with this sort; she had seen them 
  before. The problem now was working around him, and that was most easily done 
  out of his sight. 
  Chapter Eighteen 
  It had amused the prince to come hunting with the older men, political cronies 
  of his father. He knew they invited him to curry favor, but still -- it was 
  thrilling. Illegal, but thrilling. He had been on this planet before, of 
  course, at the invitation of Lord Thornbuckle. Everyone who was anyone had, at 
  one time or another, spent interminable hours riding large stinking vicious 
  beasts chasing after small stinking vicious beasts. Silly work, on the whole, 
  and he had heard others -- including this group -- snicker about it privately. 
  Lord Thornbuckle didn't care; he could afford to not care. 
  But this -- this was different. What can be the thrill of chasing a harmless 
  small creature bioengineered to be chased and killed? So the admiral had said, 
  and so he had agreed. Other game -- even other animals, large and dangerous in 
  themselves -- offer more sporting chances. No, my boy, the admiral had said 
  (he had hated the admiral's arm on his shoulder, but he knew he must endure 
  it), there's only one game worth the trouble. Show your stuff, prove yourself, 
  and in the process finish off some useless criminals. And besides, after 
  that... we'll have a party. With lots of girls. 
  He hadn't expected to feel queasy about it. He had felt queasy when he read 
  the reports on the prison colonies, things his tutor had thought he ought to 
  know. That was cruelty, if you liked, confining someone to dirty, dangerous 
  work and mean, ugly surroundings, for years on end. Killing someone cleanly 
  with a bullet in the head was merciful by comparison. He had agreed, in more 
  than one not-so-casual conversation, that this was so; imagining himself a 
  prisoner, he would rather have died in the open like that than slowly of 
  boredom and overwork. And hence, the invitation to this hunt, which had 
  thrilled him as much with its illicit nature as with its prestige. He was born 
  to prestige; he didn't need it... but he found himself craving the respect of 
  Admiral Lepescu and Senator-at-Large Bodin. 
  Still, the first one he killed himself -- that had startled him with his own 
  reaction to it, the nausea and guilt, the feeling of shame for being ashamed, 
  the reluctance of his fingers to touch the tattooed ear which he must hack off 
  and turn in to get credit for his trophy. He had done it, but he had made a 
  private pact with himself to be content with one. That was surely enough to 
  prove his ability, to prove he wasn't just a spoiled wastrel who got into 
  quarrels over opera singers (his father's words). 
  So after that first kill, he found reasons to hang around Bandon lodge the 
  rest of that day. It was easy to play cards too late, drink too much, and 
  sleep heavily when someone knocked on his door. He roused late on the morning 
  after his "blood party" as they called it... and found the lodge quiet and 
  nearly empty. Fine with him; his head ached and the ear, proof of his trophy, 
  looked disgusting in its jar of preservative. He stared at it morosely and 
  rang for medicine and breakfast. After that he went back to bed and slept 
  heavily, having promised himself he would find some way of avoiding more 
  hunting. 
  But now something had gone wrong. He didn't know what. Lepescu had yanked him 
  out of bed in late afternoon, and insisted that he had to come hunt again, 
  right now, whether he wanted to or not. The habit of obedience to older men 
  got him into the flitter before he could organize his mind to protest, and 
  then it was too late. They were on the island, and Lepescu was telling him 
  where to go and what to do in the rough voice he probably used on his 
  subordinates in the Regular Fleet. Before he could argue, Lepescu was gone. 
  The prince stumbled around that night, angry and tired, and found nothing but 
  mudholes in the swamp. He measured his length in one, and only his custom 
  hunting suit kept him dry. He heard some shots in the distance, but nothing 
  close enough to startle him. At dawn, Lepescu reappeared, and handed him a 
  mealpack. "Eat this here," he said. "We have to get them all, fast. None of us 
  are going back until we do." 
  "Why?" the prince asked. The mealpack had a picture of helicberry tarts on it, 
  and he hated helicberries. He wanted puffcakes with sarmony honey, fat 
  sausages, a bone-melon. 
  "Just do it," Lepescu said. He strode off, looking more military, in the 
  dangerous sense, than the prince had seen before. And the prince, tired and 
  hungry, sat down and ate his excellent breakfast. He did not follow Lepescu 
  afterwards; he did not patrol his allotted section of island. It had ceased to 
  be fun, or exciting, or anything but a deadly bore, and he would insist on 
  returning to his comfortable bed on Bandon as soon as someone else showed up. 
  Long after noon, someone else appeared -- one of the servants with vaguely 
  military bearing -- and brought him two more mealpacks, coldpacks of water, 
  and warnings. He was to stay on the island; he was not to drink any local 
  water; he was not to call anyone on his comunit; he was to shoot anything that 
  didn't identify itself instantly. 
  The prince was more than somewhat annoyed. One did not do this to princes. 
  Even powerful political figures -- even admirals -- did not do this to 
  princes. It was supposed to have been an adventure, with girls to follow, and 
  the chance to reminisce for years to come, and the camaraderie of men who had 
  proved themselves real men. It was not an adventure anymore, and no one had 
  said anything about the promised girls for days. He said nothing to the 
  servant, who strode away almost as purposefully as Lepescu, and ate his 
  excellent lunch, then his excellent supper, and finally lay down where he was 
  (protected by his excellent weatherpack) to sleep as long as he liked. If the 
  criminals got him, so much the better: Lepescu would find his head in a noose. 

  He woke to hard rain drumming on the shelter and the smell of wet leaves. 
  Good. No one would be skulking around in this, and Lepescu would have to let 
  him sleep. Lightning crackled, thunder boomed, but the prince slept on, 
  unconcerned. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  The Admiral Lepescu who woke him in the dark dripping aftermath of the storm 
  was someone he had never met. He could now credit the more vivid rumors about 
  the admiral's career, faced with that cold, angry countenance, those still 
  gray eyes with so much hunger in them. The tongue-lashing he got for not 
  having followed orders actually frightened him; the scorn in Lepescu's face 
  shamed him all over again. He wanted to please this man, and only the habits 
  drilled into him from early childhood kept him from cringing apology. 
  "I don't understand the problem," he said stiffly, when Lepescu paused in his 
  tirade. "These are just criminals...." 
  "You don't have to understand," the admiral said. "You have to obey." Then, as 
  if suddenly remembering who the prince was, he added, "Your highness." 
  "But what's the hurry?" the prince asked. "You said we'd be here four or five 
  weeks, and it's only been --" 
  "Someone knows about the hunt," the admiral said. "You wouldn't want to be 
  compromised.... You know what this could do to your future career. And we 
  can't get them all without your help before we're discovered. Someone is bound 
  to recognize Ser Smith." 
  "But surely -- " the prince began, but the expression on Lepescu's face 
  stopped him. "All right," he said, trying to sound decisive rather than 
  scared. "I'll be glad to help out." The moment it was out of his mouth, he 
  realized how silly that sounded; he could feel his ears bum. He still didn't 
  understand why they couldn't just flitter back to Bandon, take the shuttle up 
  to the Station, and find some compliant girls there, but he knew he couldn't 
  ask Lepescu. Not now. 
  Morning had brought an end to the rain, though clouds still clung to the ridge 
  and mist rose from the sodden ground to meet them. Somewhere on the other side 
  of the ridge, the sun might be spearing through that mist, but not here. The 
  prince sighed, punched the button on his breakfast mealpack, and waited for it 
  to heat. He would get his boots muddy again, and they would drag at his 
  feet.... He hated mud. This whole expedition looked more and more like a 
  mistake, rather than high adventure. The invitation had specified that they 
  would be here in the dry season, that it could not possibly be compromised... 
  and now he was going to be wet, muddy, and in trouble with his father. Not so 
  much for blowing away a few criminals (or rather, one criminal) as for getting 
  caught doing it. 
  Nonetheless, he set out to do what he was told, and worked his way up the west 
  side of the island. He left his comunit off; he didn't want to be distracted 
  by whatever might come over it. Twice, he saw something move that wasn't ID'd 
  as hunter, and shot at it. Once, whoever it was shot back. He found two 
  bodies, both criminals, with the ears clipped. Lepescu's plan didn't make 
  sense to him -- herding the criminals into the interior ridge and its rough 
  terrain would make a final cleanup harder -- but he went along. He couldn't 
  think of anything else to do. He followed the stream uphill because it was 
  easier to walk that way. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  The clatter of rocks falling echoed through the cave; Bubbles was sure it was 
  loud enough to be heard outside. Had the hunters found another entrance? Was 
  Petris trying to find them? 
  "We have to move," she said to Raffa. "We might find a better place to hide, 
  and here we're trapped." 
  "Good idea," Raffa said. "We'll have to take the candles, and mark our way --" 

  "We can't mark it; someone could follow." 
  "How could they tell how long ago the marks were made? We can't just go into 
  the cave and not know how to get out --" 
  "Right." Bubbles picked up her pack, and stuffed into it everything of Rev's 
  that would fit; Raffa would have to carry the rest. The night goggles gave her 
  a blurry picture of the inside of the cave, and she could see a ledge 
  extending along the left wall. Black water lay still and smooth at its edge. 
  She fumbled at the rifle she'd taken, making sure it had a round in the 
  chamber, and slung it on her shoulder. This is an adventure, she told herself. 
  Just do it like you used to, and it will come out all right. 
  Raffa followed her lead; Bubbles shuffled along wishing she dared light a 
  candle as her vision dimmed. Even with the goggles, she could see very little 
  by the time she came to the first angle of stone that blocked the entrance. 
  She ducked around it, and leaned against the damp wall. Ahead, all was black, 
  utterly black. Water dripped into the central pool in an unpredictable rhythm. 
  Somewhere in the distance, another rock fell. Raffa touched her arm, and she 
  jumped. 
  "I think it's safe to light the candles now," Raffa said. "We're out of sight 
  of the entrance." 
  "But they could reflect on the water," Bubbles said. "And if we're the light 
  source, then anyone hiding back here would see us first." 
  "Yes, but if we don't have a light, we'll step off a ledge somewhere -- we 
  can't just feel our way along." 
  "I know." She took a long breath. The darkness pressed on her eyes, her face; 
  she could almost feel furry hands clasping her. Ridiculous. She'd never been 
  afraid of the dark before. But then she'd never been in this cave before, 
  either. She pushed the goggles up, so that the sudden flare wouldn't blind 
  her, and scraped the lighter until a spark caught the candle. Dim yellow light 
  flickered around them. She put the candle into its lantern, and four beams 
  made clear the distinction between light and shadow. Raffa's face, underlit, 
  looked strange and dangerous and oddly exciting. Bubbles pushed that thought 
  away -- she had no time for anything but the present crisis. She looked 
  around. They had turned a corner into a rough corridor, low, narrow, and 
  twisting. On the opposite wall, a blurred mark showed, one of Kell's she had 
  no doubt. It looked like a cartoon sailboat; she had no idea why. She moved 
  the lantern about, looking on all the rock surfaces nearby. Another mark, this 
  one somewhat resembling a tree, near what might be a niche or another 
  corridor, a black gash in the rock. The central cavern's water extended into 
  all the dark entrances she could see, as if all drained into or from it. 
  "Boat equals water," Bubbles said finally. "Water flows downhill, meets the 
  sea --" 
  "A way out?" asked Raffa. 
  "We know where the trees are," Bubbles said. "On top of this cave, and full of 
  hunters." She turned to continue downward, the way she hoped the boat 
  indicated. 
  A clatter of rock, clearer now, from the tree-marked gash, and then a splash. 
  And a scream. 
  "The light!" Raffa said, but Bubbles had snuffed it already. In the darkness, 
  they clung together again, hearts pounding. Bubbles saw red and yellow 
  blotches floating on the darkness, and told herself they were the afterimage 
  of the candle. Irregular splashes continued, coming nearer; Bubbles thought 
  she could hear rough breathing, something that might be boots scraping on 
  stone. She felt Raffa's warm breath tickling her ear, and Raffa said, "He must 
  have seen the light somehow." 
  They must not move. In the dark, they would make the kind of noise he was 
  making; he would surely hear them; he would have one of the weapons with 
  night-sensing equipment. Bubbles realized she'd left the night-vision goggles 
  hanging around her neck while carrying the candle lantern, and pushed them 
  into place, but there was no ambient light to amplify. Thick darkness pressed 
  in on her again. I hate caves, she thought. 
  "I hate caves!" came a male voice from somewhere in the echoing distance, to 
  the accompaniment of a clatter and splash. 
  She was never sure which word, which intonation, made recognition sure. 
  "Ronnie!" said Raffa, not quite aloud. "It's Ronnie!" 
  Bubbles concentrated on relighting the candle in its lantern. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  He looked like someone who had been at the tail end of a hunt on a muddy day, 
  Bubbles thought. Wet, his clothes streaked heavily with clay, his face haggard 
  with exhaustion, he stared at them, swaying slightly, in the feeble light of 
  the candle lantern. 
  "You're not hunters," he said hoarsely. Stupidly. 
  "Raffa... Bubbles," said Raffa, her voice warming to a gentle hum that left 
  Bubbles in no doubt of her feelings. "Don't you remember?" She had rushed to 
  him; she hovered now as though he were a fragile ornament she might break with 
  her gaze. 
  "Yes..." His voice trailed away; he stood there, his hands trembling, and 
  seemed to be near collapse. One of his eyes had a dark stain around it. 
  Bubbles saw raw scratches and scrapes on his hands and face. 
  "You need to be dry, and you need food," Bubbles said. "Come on, Raffa -- get 
  him to dry ground." He stood in ankle-deep water, with a dry ledge not a 
  stride away -- but of course he'd been in the dark the whole time. 
  It was harder than she had imagined to dry a large, very wet and dirty young 
  man in a damp cave. Once out of the water, he dripped water and mud onto the 
  ledge; she had no dry clothes for him, and nothing to dry him with. Food -- 
  the food she had brought along from the first cache -- he held in his hand as 
  if he couldn't remember its purpose. 
  Finally she and Raffa had to undress him, struggling with the wet fasteners, 
  the uncooperative cloth, and use every scrap of spare clothes to dry him. His 
  skin was cold, as disgusting to touch as a meat from a cold locker. He sat 
  huddled, shivering, hardly seeming aware of them. Bubbles heated the food bar 
  over the candle lantern until it sizzled and gave off an oily, heavy smell, 
  then pinched off a bit with her fingers. 
  "Here," she said firmly. "Eat this." His mouth gaped; she pushed the food in. 
  His jaw moved a little, and he swallowed. 
  "I'll do that," Raffa said. "You keep watch." She pulled off her shirt and 
  laid it around Ronnie's shoulders. He didn't even glance at her slender 
  nakedness; Bubbles looked away as she stood up. 
  Keep watch. Fine idea, but how? They needed the candle lantern; it made them 
  visible. They had to talk; it made them audible. Bubbles moved back to the 
  margin of the main cavern, and peeked around. She could just see, with her 
  goggles on, the smudge of light from the entrance, across the water. 
  An impossible situation. And yet, in the near-silence, with the murmur of 
  Raffa's voice coaxing Ronnie to eat, with the random tinkle and splash of 
  water drops into the lake, in the almost-darkness, she felt secure. Cupped in 
  some great hand, a feeling she remembered from those camping trips, when she 
  had felt the land under her as a benign presence. Silly, her schoolmates would 
  have said. She had said it herself, of younger girls' illusions. 
  Here she felt like herself again. Her real self. Not the mosaic of consensus 
  she was in public, in society. Here she felt connected to the little girl who 
  learned to swim in the waves with the cetes, who learned to scramble up steep 
  rocks, dig holes. The little girl who had been called Bubbles, and had thought 
  of herself as a great hero out of some tale.... She felt her face shifting to 
  a grin, felt the pressure of the goggles change with that grin. Such a tomboy, 
  her mother had said... her brothers had said. But tomboys grow up. 
  Not always, she thought. At least not if it meant changing completely. 
  Ronnie's aunt hadn't. 
  "Bubbles -- he's better. Come --" 
  It had been long enough that she was stiff, but she thought at once that Raffa 
  had forgotten to use her new name, the name she now felt was really hers. This 
  was no time to worry about that -- but she wouldn't forget. She shook herself 
  and retreated to the lantern light, pushing the goggles down. Raffa nestled 
  close to Ronnie; Bubbles thought to herself that he was undoubtedly warm on 
  that side, and suspected that Raffa had done more than lean against him. 
  Ronnie had expression on his face now: misery and worry. 
  "They got George," he said. "He was alive then, but --" 
  "How?" 
  "They poisoned the water -- I don't suppose you know --" 
  "Yes," Bubbles said. "We did. That's how we found the cave, going upstream to 
  look for safe water." Ronnie's voice was still unsteady; she didn't know if 
  they should press him to talk. Whatever had happened to George must be over 
  now. But he pushed aside Raffa's arm, and made himself explain what had 
  happened.... She wasn't at all sure he had it straight. How many times had he 
  lost consciousness or fallen asleep? Where had they been, exactly? He had no 
  idea where he had fallen into the cave, except "upstream" from where he'd left 
  George. 
  "Never mind," Raffa was saying, trying to soothe him. "You couldn't help it, 
  and it'll be all right." 
  It wouldn't, of course. If Raffa thought about it, she'd know. Ronnie surely 
  knew, though he might let himself be comforted by Raffa. Certainly she, 
  Bubbles, knew that everything would not be all right. The hunters might keep 
  George alive, trying to catch the rest, but too many had died already. Too 
  much had happened. However this turned out, things would not be all right, not 
  the way they had been before. 
  "We have to help George," Ronnie said, more loudly. He sounded hoarse, as if 
  he were catching cold. "We have to get out of this cave." He tried to stand 
  up, and Raffa pulled him back down. 
  "Not until the hunters give up," Bubbles said. She knew they wouldn't, but she 
  didn't want Ronnie yelling and charging around making it obvious where they 
  were. 
  "They probably took him to Bandon," Raffa said. "If they didn't kill him right 
  away." From her tone, she could no more imagine George dead on the ground than 
  Bubbles could. George would be at Bandon, tied up like someone from an 
  adventure cube, to be rescued later and reunited with his friends. In the 
  cube, she would be the designated girlfriend, the blonde who gave him a 
  passionate kiss as the end music came up. 
  The problem was that she didn't want George to die, but she didn't want to be 
  the designated blonde, either. She was Brun, not Bubbles, and so far Brun 
  wasn't a designated anything. She put that thought aside to think about later, 
  and with a glance at Raffa set to work to cheer Ronnie up and keep him from 
  doing something rash. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Muddy footprints led to a sheer cliff with water seeping out from under a 
  thick mat of ferns. The prince felt safe, enclosed by the rocky, fern-covered 
  walls, although he realized it could be a trap, too. Someone overhead who 
  happened to see him could shoot him easily. He peered up into the overlapping 
  layers of green, and shivered. He was tired, hungry, and confused. What could 
  have happened? Where were the promised girls? 
  Wet leaves dripped on his head and neck. It made him feel stupid, as well as 
  tired. In the solitude and silence, he had time to track the feeling back and 
  analyze it. Long ago -- it seemed long, anyway -- he had been at school with 
  boys who had known each other for years while he'd been isolated at court. 
  Someone had thought it would be fun to play a joke on the prince, to make him 
  late for roll-call and incidentally make him look stupid. Ethar Krinesl, that 
  had been. He had been lured from his bed on a dark, rainy night by the promise 
  of a rendezvous with girls from the neighboring school.... He had trekked 
  across the campus to crouch in a muddy ditch, while (he learned later) the 
  other boys had sewn his clothes together so that he couldn't possibly dress in 
  the morning. And the shadowy figure that had come in the dark, and with 
  giggles had agreed to kiss him, had been Ethar's older brother Potim. Ethar 
  had had the cube recorder. 
  Painful as the memory was, it made him feel better. Now he understood what was 
  going on. All the other men were older, and they formed a tight clique. This 
  was a joke; they were testing him. After a time, when they thought he had been 
  sufficiently humiliated, they would come out and take him into the group, as 
  Ethar and his crowd had done. It was annoying, but understandable. The prince 
  was proud of having figured it out, and felt a little superior to the 
  childishness of the older men. They should have realized he would not panic; 
  he had already killed someone and proved himself. They would have swept the 
  criminals from in front of him; they weren't really risking his death. Perhaps 
  the criminals had never been armed with anything lethal. Not very sporting, 
  perhaps, but prudent. 
  The girl's voice completed his understanding. Soft, hardly audible, it could 
  still be nothing but a girl -- a girl some distance away chuckling softly at 
  something. That had to mean the original promise held; girls were part of the 
  entertainment here. He looked around carefully. She might be hiding anywhere. 
  The voice came again, from the rock wall in front of him. He stared, then saw 
  that two big, cleated bootprints lay half under the ferns. He felt himself 
  tingling with excitement. A cave. It must be a cave, full of the girls he'd 
  been promised, hidden away in safety until the dangerous part of the hunt was 
  over. And he'd found them without being shown -- perhaps before the other 
  hunters, even. Carefully, he stooped and lifted the mat of ferns, peering into 
  the darkness beyond. Water lapped at his boots; he could see that he stood on 
  the edge of a large pool. He pulled his night goggles out of his pocket and 
  put them on, squinting until he got his head inside where it was darker. A 
  large domed chamber, with smudged reflections off the surface of water as far 
  as he could see. But clearly someone was inside. He smelled cooking food, and 
  again he heard what had to be human voices, distorted by the shape of the cave 
  and the water. 
  Had they marooned the girls in a lake? No, all that rain had probably made the 
  water rise. They were somewhere inside, dry and safe. He imagined nooks and 
  crannies cushioned with colorful pillows and rugs, rock-walled chambers where 
  naked nymphs bathed in clear subterranean pools or streams. In all likelihood 
  there was a way in that wasn't very deep. With his goggles on, he should be 
  able to find his way safely around -- ankle-deep water wouldn't bother him, 
  not in his boots. 
  Now that the hunt was over, or mostly over, he saw no reason to crawl under 
  the hanging mat of ferns; he was dirty enough already. He kicked at it until 
  most of it fell, revealing a hole large enough to get through if he stooped. 
  That let more light into the entrance; even without goggles he could now see 
  the shape of the first chamber... and hear more clearly the distorted murmur 
  of girls' voices. The other hunters would be surprised, he thought, to 
  discover he had found the place himself, ahead of whatever time they planned 
  to start the party. He might even be the first; he could see, now, that the 
  bootprints he'd noticed stopped there, and backed out again. Of course anyone 
  coming after him would know someone had gone in, but he wasn't hiding from 
  anyone -- certainly not unarmed criminals. 
  The light coming from behind him made it hard to see, even with the goggles. 
  Some things were too bright, and others hazed into murky reflections. He had 
  to feel his way along the edge of the cave, so he chose to move to his left, 
  where his right arm was still free to hold his weapon. Not that he'd need it, 
  he was sure. The girls might be startled, but he had the patch that identified 
  him as a hunter, and afterwards... He stumbled over something and bit back a 
  curse. It would be much more fun to sneak up on them. The smell of cooked food 
  grew stronger. 
  The first flicker of light blazed into his vision, and he pulled the goggles 
  off, blinking. Now he could see nothing. Standing still, silent, he heard 
  murmuring voices that might have been nothing more than a trickling stream -- 
  but not that smell. After a few moments, his eyes adjusted, and he saw a faint 
  sparkle ahead, where some light source reflected from moving water. He crept 
  through the darkness, smugly certain of what he would find. The light 
  strengthened; he felt his way around a corner of the rock, and saw them at 
  last 
  His first thought was disappointment; he wasn't the first to find the girls 
  after all. The dark-haired girl had her arm around the lucky first-comer; the 
  prince wondered why he'd preferred her to the more curvaceous blonde. His 
  second thought stumbled over the first in a wave of righteous rage. Ronnie! 
  "You unspeakable cad!" he said. "What are you.,." His voice trailed away as he 
  realized that the two black circles were the bores of hunting rifles like his 
  own. Both girls, blonde and dark, held them steadily. "You're hunters, too?" 
  he asked, with a half-nervous laugh. 
  Ronnie's head came around, and he saw the dark stain of a black eye and 
  bruised face. "My sainted aunt," Ronnie said, in a voice that didn't sound 
  much like his own. "It's the prince." 
  "Gerel?" the blonde girl asked. She peered at him, but the rifle did not 
  waver. Her nod, too, came without a move in the weapon's aim. "It is. And you 
  know what? He's not on the list either." 
  The prince took a deep breath. Whatever was going on here, it had to be 
  irregular. "I demand to know what you're doing here," he said firmly. "I am 
  here at the invitation of -- " But that, he suddenly realized, he couldn't 
  finish. Ronnie might mention it; it could be embarrassing. He interrupted 
  himself with an alternate line of reasoning. "You might introduce me to your 
  -- uh -- young women." 
  Ronnie gave a harsh bark that might have been intended for laughter but 
  sounded more like pain, and the dark young woman touched him with her 
  shoulder, not removing her hand from her rifle. The blonde one laughed louder. 

  "Introduce me? Heavens, Gerel, you've been dancing with me since boarding 
  school." He couldn't think of anyone like this at any dance he'd been to. She 
  was blonde, yes, but hardly stylish in rumpled pants and shirt, with her hair 
  yanked back behind her ears. She looked older by five or ten years than he 
  was, someone serious and even dangerous. "Bubbles," she said finally. "Lord 
  Thornbuckle's daughter -- surely you remember now." 
  Bubbles. Ronnie. None of it made sense. If this was Bubbles -- and he supposed 
  it was, though he did not recognize her in these clothes, with her hair pulled 
  back -- then she could not be one of the girls Lepescu meant. Those girls 
  would be... another kind of girl, from another kind of family. Not Bubbles the 
  wild sister of Buttons, and Ronnie the wild son of a cabinet minister, and... 
  "Raffaele?" he asked uncertainly. 
  "Of course," she said. It sounded like her voice. The prince swallowed, and 
  wished very much to sit down. 
  "I don't understand," he said. 
  "You're wearing an ID tag," Bubbles said. "What is it?" 
  He had forgotten the bright-colored tag on his collar, which transmitted a 
  signal to other hunters. "This? It identifies me to other hunters." 
  "Other... hunters." That was Raffaele again. She sounded grim, nothing like 
  the witty girl with the silvery laugh he remembered from the parties last 
  season. "You'd better put your rifle down," she said, using neither name nor 
  title. That made him nervous, and he couldn't think why. 
  "But if you're one of us..." That didn't make sense either. He knew the 
  others; they had all been at the lodge. No women, certainly not these girls, 
  and no Ronnie. He turned to Ronnie. "I thought you'd been shipped off 
  somewhere for punishment" 
  "Put your rifle down," Bubbles said. When he looked at her, he felt almost 
  assaulted by the anger that radiated from her. "Now," she said, and he felt 
  his arm moving before he thought about it. 
  "But this is ridiculous," he said, not quite obeying. "I'm the prince. You're 
  friends. Why should I --" 
  "Because I have the drop on you," Raffaele said. "And so does Bubbles. And 
  you're standing there with the same ID patch as men who tried to kill us." 
  "Kill you? Why?" 
  "Drop it!" Bubbles yelled suddenly. Her voice rang in the cave, echoing off 
  odd corners and coming back as a confused rumble. Rocks clattered somewhere, 
  as if her voice alone had riven the stone. His hand was empty; he could hear 
  the afterimage of the rifle's thud on the damp floor of the cave. "You idiot, 
  Gerel," she said more quietly. "And I'll bet you've led the rest of them 
  straight here, too." 
  Chapter Nineteen 
  Heris seethed inwardly. Of course she had no right of command, but it should 
  have been obvious that knowing where the young people might be was important 
  enough. She led Cecelia outside the room. There had to be some way -- perhaps 
  she could get hold of a flitter -- 
  "Excuse me, ma'am." A young, earnest-faced militiaman had followed them out. 
  Heris nodded at him. 
  "Yes?" she said through gritted teeth. 
  "You said you might know where the young miss is?" 
  It took her a moment to untangle that: young miss? Bubbles, of course. "I'm 
  not sure," she said. "Why?" 
  "I'd take you over there to tell the captain," the man said. "If you 
  wanted...." 
  Of course that's what she wanted, but why was he being so helpful? "What about 
  your boss?" she asked. He reddened and grinned. 
  "Well, ma'am... that Bortu, he just got promoted, you know. Never been on 
  anything like this before." 
  That could indeed explain it. On the other hand... Heris looked at Cecelia. 
  "What about it? This -- what's your name?" 
  "Dussahral, ma'am." 
  "This man says he'll fly us over to meet the captain -- want to come along?" 
  "Of course," Cecelia said, looking determined. 
  Thanks," Heris said, smiling at him. "Go find us a flitter -- we'll need to 
  stop into the..." She nodded at a door down the hall. 
  "Don't be long," he said. "In case that Bortu figures it out." 
  "Just a moment, promise." Heris watched him go, then led Cecelia to the 
  bathroom. 
  "What's that about? I don't need to --" 
  "Yes, you do. We need a couple of minutes to make plans, and you never go into 
  combat with a full bladder." 
  "We're not going into combat; we're just going over to tell the militia 
  captain where to look for Ronnie." 
  Heris caught her employer by a shoulder and turned her around. "Listen. We're 
  going into an unsecured zone where people are shooting at each other -- 
  possibly three different sets of people all shooting at each other -- and if 
  you can think of a better definition of combat, tell me when we're safely back 
  in our hot tubs. Now. I am taking a very dangerous chance here, because 
  there's no reason to trust Dussahral --" 
  "But he wants to help us." 
  "So he said. Didn't it occur to you that Lepescu might want to know about that 
  cave just as badly as the captain? And if he had an agent in this batch of 
  militia, that person would be eager to tell him?" 
  Cecelia frowned. "Why would he be stupid enough to stick with what is 
  obviously a losing side? Any smart agent would clam up and wait to see what 
  happens." 
  "Not all agents are smart. And Dussahral may be innocent and completely loyal 
  to Bunny. But -- " Heris ducked into a cubicle and continued talking through 
  the closed door. "But if he's not, we need a plan. We take our weapons. He 
  will think I'm the dangerous one; I'll let him jump me, and you shoot him if 
  he does." 
  Cecelia, too, had gone into a cubicle. Heris heard the seat squeak. "Me? I've 
  never shot anyone. Just game --" 
  "New experiences keep you young. You have to; he won't expect it from you. 
  Just have a round in the chamber, in case, and don't shoot me by mistake." 
  Heris came out and washed her hands. Cecelia, when she emerged, had a strange 
  expression on her face. 
  "You're trusting me with your life." 
  Heris shrugged. "You trust me with yours in the ship. Besides, what I'm really 
  doing is taking you into danger. You could get killed too. Remember that, when 
  you're tempted to wonder if you really should shoot." Then she grinned at the 
  older woman. "Now -- cheer up. I'm wearing body armor under my clothes; he 
  doesn't know that, and it will help. And don't stare at him as if you suspect 
  him. He's thinking of you as a helpless old woman in a flutter about her 
  nephew." 
  Cecelia snorted, and the color came back to her cheeks. "I can see," she said, 
  "how you commanded a ship." They walked out side by side, as if they had 
  nothing better to do than sightsee, and the guards now posted in the corridors 
  smiled and nodded at them. 
  Dussahral, when they reached the parking area, had one of the flitters rolled 
  out where the supply flitter had been. He looked tense and excited, but that 
  was reasonable. Heris smiled, and accepted his hand up into the flitter. 
  "Lady Cecelia should be in back," she said. "In case of stray rounds." He 
  nodded, and looked at Heris. 
  "You want to copilot?" There wasn't much copiloting to be done in a flitter, 
  but Heris nodded. 
  "I'll keep a lookout," she said. "Maybe I can spot the captain." Little chance 
  of that, but he relaxed a bit, as if this evidence of her inexperience in 
  ground operations eased his mind 
  The hop across to the other island took only minutes; it looked short enough 
  to swim. Heris noted its narrow spine, higher than Bandon's low rounded hills, 
  the beach along the south and east -- and two flitters parked at the south 
  end. A squad of militia there worked on something -- she could see what looked 
  like bodies. She hoped Cecelia hadn't spotted them. 
  "Is that the captain's flitter?" she asked Dussahral, who shook his head. 
  "Should we land there?" 
  "No... that's the number two... captain must've gone somewhere else. I'll fly 
  up along the beach." They flew north slowly; Heris tried to see into the thick 
  canopy with no success. Then Dussahral touched her arm and pointed, and Heris 
  saw a flitter sitting lopsided on the beach. Not the command flitter: it had 
  the serial number they'd been told was on the one Bubbles checked out. Heris 
  saw the gaping hole along one flank, something else she hoped Cecelia missed. 
  The flitter hadn't landed, or simply crashed -- someone had shot it down. She 
  felt cold. 
  Dussahral swung the flitter inland, and they rose over the central rocky 
  spine, where tufts and wisps of fog still swirled. Down the other side -- and 
  the man waved suddenly. "There -- I see something -- I'll put us down in that 
  clearing." 
  That clearing, to Heris, looked entirely too convenient a place for a trap, 
  but she said nothing. She had seen nothing of the captain's flitter, either. 
  But if there were a cave, surely it had to be in the hills somewhere. 
  Dussahral made a steep approach, dropping the flitter so rapidly that Heris 
  caught her breath. They landed hard; she felt the jolt out the top of her 
  head... and let herself act more stunned than she was. Dussahral, she saw 
  through nearly closed eyes, changed the setting of the flitter's comunit and 
  pushed the transmission switch all the way over. With his other hand, he had 
  shoved the canopy back. 
  "Come on," he urged. "I'm sure I saw the captain's signal over there -- " A 
  wave toward the higher ground. "I'll help you. Do you have any idea where the 
  cave might be?" All this in a voice easily loud enough to carry over the 
  comunit. 
  Heris pushed away his hand, but slowly, as if she almost needed it, and 
  clambered out, intentionally clumsy. She held her rifle loosely. Dussahral 
  waited for Cecelia to clamber out -- Heris hoped the jolting landing hadn't 
  jarred Cecelia's reflexes. She also hoped Dussahral was as stupid as he seemed 
  so far. They could get rid of him quickly, and still have a chance to block 
  Lepescu, now that the cave was no longer a secret 
  Dussahral led them into the forest, away from the flitter. Upslope, Heris 
  noted, across a streambed with a trickle of water in it. Heris wished she 
  dared jump him now, but there was a chance he was leading her to Lepescu -- 
  perhaps he had a real signal to home on -- and in that case it would be stupid 
  to strike too soon. He halted soon enough, and pointed to a rocky bluff. 
  "There -- the captain's probably up there. I'll go back and keep an eye on the 
  flitter." 
  "I can't see," Heris said, trying to sound querulous. She felt querulous; it 
  had just occurred to her that he might have wanted an excuse to bring the 
  flitter for Lepescu's escape. Even now the admiral might be flying away to 
  safety, however temporary. "Where?" She pushed past him, giving him every 
  chance. His sudden grasp on her arm was vindication, even as the feel of his 
  weapon prodding her side made her face the next likely outcome. She wondered 
  if her armor would hold against a point-blank shot, but he slid the muzzle of 
  the weapon up, as if he knew she wore it. Of course -- he had seen Lady 
  Cecelia's, and guessed that she had armor too. Her mind insisted on showing 
  her, in vivid detail, what would happen if he fired now, with the muzzle where 
  it was at the back of her neck. 
  "Stop here, ladies," he said, this time in a voice unlike the deferential, 
  pleasant tone he'd used so far. "I think Admiral Lepescu might have something 
  to say to Captain Serrano." 
  Cecelia let out a terrified squeak, and Heris's heart sank. So much for 
  civilians. Dussahral smirked. 
  "You're not going to give me any trouble, are you?" he asked. "I know you 
  ladies don't go around with loaded weapons, so don't try to pretend you'll 
  shoot me." 
  "I won't," said Cecelia, eyes wide. "I -- I -- don't hurt her." 
  "Drop the gun," Dussahral said. Heris wondered whether she could reach her 
  bootknife and decided she couldn't. Cecelia stood there, gawky and 
  gray-haired, clinging to the rifle as if it were a child. She probably hadn't 
  chambered a round, Heris thought, so it wasn't really dangerous to be standing 
  here with the bore pointing at her.... It shifted a little, and Dussahral 
  sighed. She could feel his disgust; she felt it herself. "Listen, lady," the 
  man said, "you can't shoot me with an unloaded rifle, and I'm not going to be 
  fooled. Either drop it, now, or I'll shoot you, not just your friend." Cecelia 
  said nothing, and looked as if she couldn't; Heris had never seen a better 
  picture of frozen panic. Dussahral shifted his weight; Heris tried to shift 
  her own to take advantage, but his blow to her head came too fast. She didn't 
  quite lose consciousness, but she stumbled, unable to move fast when he let go 
  of her and swung his weapon toward Cecelia. 
  Then the crack of Cecelia's rifle and the ugly sound of a round hitting bone 
  came together, and Dussahral was flung away from her. Heris stared. Her 
  employer stared back. "You said to pick the right moment," Cecelia said. 
  Bright color patched her cheeks. "I think I did." She held the rifle steady, 
  as if she were perfectly calm. 
  "Damn." Heris felt her head. It hurt, but she was alive, not a scratch, and 
  Dussahral lay dead, the back of his skull and its contents splattered for a 
  meter or more on the forest floor. "Yes -- you did. But I thought for a moment 
  -- " 
  "I wanted him away from you -- at least his weapon." Cecelia shivered 
  suddenly. "I never -- did that before. Not a person." 
  "You did it perfectly." Heris picked up her own rifle, and walked back to 
  Cecelia. "You saved my life, is what you did." It occurred to her now just how 
  stupid it had been to give Dussahral a chance. If she made the same mistake 
  with Lepescu... well, she wouldn't. 
  "That's what I meant to do -- but he's so... so ugly." 
  "They are." Heris turned Cecelia away from it, but Cecelia twisted back. 
  "No. If I do it, I should see what I did." She walked deliberately up to the 
  body; already a few tiny flies buzzed near it. "So little time between life 
  and death. We think we have years..." Heris did not tell her how long it often 
  took men to die of wounds. Not now. Now they had other prey. 
  "It's amazing," Cecelia went on, "how young men like this think we old people 
  are frail, emotional, likely to fall apart at any emergency." When her eyes 
  met Heris's, it gave Heris a chill; they were the cold gray of frozen oysters. 
  "Because of course," Cecelia continued, "we've done everything they imagine 
  they might do. One time or another." 
  "But that's crazy," the prince said. He had said it before, and Ronnie thought 
  he would go on saying it until he died. "No one would kill you -- not like 
  this. Let me call Admiral Lepescu and get you back to civilization." After 
  he'd dropped the rifle, the girls had grudgingly lowered theirs, and let him 
  sit down. He had refused to believe they were really in danger, and continued 
  to defend the hunters. 
  Had he listened at all? Ronnie thought not. "What about the others?" he asked. 
  "Serrano's crew." 
  "There's some kind of mistake," the prince said firmly. "Those men are 
  criminals, condemned to life at hard labor; they have this option, risking 
  death against a chance for a lesser sentence on a colony world. This is 
  easier, for some people, than life in prison." 
  It occurred to Ronnie that he himself would have made that argument not long 
  before. The topic of life sentences versus the death penalty had been a 
  favorite debate in the mess. Of course, none of those debating ever expected 
  to face either alternative. 
  "They're not criminals," Raffa said hotly. "They're decent people your admiral 
  has a grudge against." 
  "I know it's fashionable for some people to argue against the justice system," 
  the prince said. "But these people have all been tried and convicted and 
  sentenced; do you think I'd be here if they weren't?" 
  A long silence. Finally Bubbles said, "I am frankly surprised that you're here 
  even though they are. Does your father condone hunting people for sport? The 
  last time I heard, he was scolding my father for hunting foxes." 
  Another long silence. "Well... he doesn't exactly know," the prince said, 
  staring at his boots. He looked younger than Ronnie remembered, more the 
  schoolboy he had known. "I'm supposed to be at the Royal Aero-Space depot on 
  Naverrn. Admiral Lepescu fixed that for me." 
  "Mmm. And do you think he'll approve, even if they are convicted criminals? 
  Which they aren't, but just to argue the point." Bubbles, on the other hand, 
  looked older, tougher. She had laid aside her weapon, as if the prince were no 
  longer a threat. Except for his stubbornness, Ronnie thought, he wasn't. 
  The prince scuffed his boot along the wall. "Probably not. But he doesn't need 
  to know everything I do, and he certainly approved of my association with 
  people like the other men in the club. Men of stature, men with... with..." 
  "Influence," Bubbles said. She made the word sound like something with little 
  legs scuttling along the floor. 
  "The thing is," Ronnie said, "we've got to get out of here and rescue George." 

  "George? The odious George Starbridge Mahoney is here too? How fitting." The 
  prince chuckled, leaning back against the stone. "Don't worry -- no one will 
  hurt George once they realize who his father is." 
  "They know who my father is, and they've tried to shoot me," Bubbles said. 
  Ronnie glanced at her. She had changed as much as any of them, he realized, 
  and in away he could not have predicted. She looked like someone it would be 
  dangerous to cross. 
  "Of course," the prince went on, ignoring that, "as soon as we do get back to 
  civilization, I've a bone to pick with you, Ronnie. We simply can't ignore it; 
  we must duel." 
  Ronnie stared at him. "A duel? You mean -- formally?" 
  "Yes, of course, formally. It wouldn't have been necessary had we not met, but 
  we did. And I had told them, if I saw you again anytime in the next twelve 
  months, I would insist on it. It's a matter of honor." The prince drew himself 
  up, glanced around at the two girls, and posed. Bubbles burst into giggles; 
  Raffa merely looked scornful. Ronnie could not decide whether to laugh or 
  scream. 
  "Look," he said, trying for reasonableness, "that whole thing is over. Past. 
  Gone. She's all yours, and I'm sorry I said anything, and I'll never bother 
  you again, but --" 
  "You're not going to back out of a duel, are you? That's --" 
  Ronnie felt anger roll up from his gut to the top of his head in one 
  refreshing wave. "I am not going to pretend to stick holes in you with a 
  holographic sword because of a stupid quarrel over a stupid opera singer who 
  is probably sleeping with both our younger brothers right this moment! Can you 
  get it through your skull that we are being hunted, by people with real 
  weapons who want to kill us really dead? We are -- Bubbles and Raffa and 
  George and I -- and I am not playing your silly games any more." 
  "Honor," the prince said, "is not a game." 
  "No," said Ronnie more quietly. "You're right; it's not a game. But my honor 
  doesn't depend any more on the kind of things we got into in the regiment. I 
  have other claims on it now." 
  "But what will I tell them when I get home?" the prince asked. 
  "If you get home," Bubbles said, "tell them you grew up. If you did." 
  The prince shook that off and stroked his moustaches. "Well -- if we're to 
  rescue George, we'd better get on our way. If you're convinced Lepescu is 
  dangerous to you, how do you propose to get to Bandon?" 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  "Now what?" Cecelia asked. "We don't know where the captain is, we don't know 
  where the cave is, and we don't have a flitter any more." 
  "Now... we think." Heris rubbed the knot on her head. She felt stupid, and she 
  didn't like feeling stupid. "We can be reasonably sure Dussahral didn't put us 
  down near the captain, but he might have put us down near Lepescu, if Lepescu 
  needed a flitter to escape in." 
  "Fine." Cecelia looked thoroughly annoyed. "So now we've provided the villain 
  a machina for his deus to come out of." 
  "Not if we get back to it and use it ourselves," Heris said. "Of course, 
  explaining how all this happened might be tricky later -- but we can worry 
  about that when the time comes. Nemesis, as well as helpful gods, arrived by 
  air." 
  She led the way back downslope. The streambed, she noted this time, had a lot 
  of boot tracks in it or alongside. Some went upstream, and some -- not as 
  many, she thought -- went down. She wasn't enough of a tracker to know when 
  they had been made, though they looked fresh. 
  Cecelia stopped, and looked more closely. "Expensive boots," she commented. 
  "Look -- that pair's Y and R." That meant nothing to Heris, who let her 
  expression speak for her. "Custom, high quality, and even higher prices," 
  Cecelia said. "These won't be the designated victims, nor even Ronnie's. I saw 
  most of his things, and his boots are Fierce-Simons. Also expensive, but not 
  quite as exclusive. Might be George's, but the tracks are too fresh." 
  "You can tell?" Heris asked. 
  "I hunt," Cecelia said, not looking up. Her fingers hovered above first one 
  print, then another. "Not the girls' boots, and not Ronnie's -- that means a 
  hunter's up there somewhere." 
  "The way Dussahral was leading us," Heris said. "Lepescu, I would bet." 
  "You've noticed that two matching sets go that way and back -- " Cecelia 
  pointed. Heris hadn't noticed that, exactly, but she didn't explain her own 
  ignorance. "Expensive, from hunting outfitters, but not as unusual as the Y 
  and R pair. One pair of Y and Rs going up, and not coming back, and an even 
  fresher set of Dolstims going up... two hunters, but not together. Not long 
  ago, either -- within an hour." 
  "So we go upstream?" 
  Cecelia pursed her lips. "I'd say so. Assuming that the men who went 
  downstream wanted our flitter, they'd have it before we could get back. And 
  upstream... I'm really curious. I thought Y and R put this symbol" -- she 
  pointed at what looked to Heris like a squashed bug -- "only on boots they 
  made for the royal family. Does your Admiral Lepescu have a habit of stealing 
  shoes from princes? Or does he pretend to be one?" 
  "It wouldn't surprise me," Heris said. She was past being surprised, she 
  thought; who would have expected someone like Lady Cecelia to know much about 
  tracking? "Let's go find out." 
  She led the way upstream, weapon ready, all senses alert. Was this another 
  stupid idea, following the tracks so openly? What they should be finding was 
  the cave Ronnie and Bubbles might be in, or the militia captain. But she went 
  on, because after all the hunters were the danger here. Anticipation shivered 
  in her stomach. Hunters all, she thought. We're all dangerous. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  All the hunters but two were safely dead: no threat. He touched the canisters 
  in his pocket lightly, careful not to depress the switches. One only still 
  menaced him, and that the most difficult to kill without reprisal. But it had 
  to be done, unless the man could somehow be made to kill the others; after 
  that, blackmail would be easy. It would be easiest to kill, and not attempt 
  that -- but he had always found the most difficult hunts the greatest 
  pleasure. Worth a try, anyway, and if he had to kill even that one, he would 
  have no witnesses. 
  That broadcast from Bandon had startled him -- shaken him, he would even admit 
  to himself. He wondered if the guards he'd left with the boy had turned 
  against him. One of them could be difficult. At least his name had not been 
  mentioned. Perhaps the prisoner didn't know about him. Soon no one would. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  The prince led the way back to the cave entrance. They hadn't been able to 
  talk him out of it, although they had tried. The argument had gone on longer 
  than he'd expected. The girls seemed to think their opinion should weigh 
  equally with his own. Bubbles had even threatened to shoot him, but when he 
  pointed out that shooting a member of the royal family could be a serious 
  offense, she had looked at Raffa and shrugged. Of course she would not shoot 
  him, now that she knew who he was, any more than he would have shot her. One 
  did not prey on one's own class. And he was the right one to decide what to 
  do; he was the prince, after all. He felt only slightly nervous with the girls 
  behind him carrying their weapons; he had insisted that they not carry loaded 
  weapons, in case they stumbled. He didn't want them to get in trouble for 
  shooting him by accident, either. Once they were outside, in the light, they 
  could reload -- though he hoped to dissuade them. If Ronnie hadn't been so 
  shaken (he felt sure that he, in a similar situation, would not have been a 
  wet, shivering mess) he'd have had Ronnie carry one of the rifles, but as it 
  was the girls were actually less dangerous than Ronnie. As for any danger -- 
  he was sure there wouldn't be any real danger, not once he told Lepescu who 
  they were -- he could protect them himself. 
  Light shimmered and bounced from the surface of the pool; already it had gone 
  down a few centimeters. He squinted against what now seemed like glare, and 
  never saw the figure that waited until it stepped out of the shadows to 
  confront him. He stared. Who could that be, in a protective suit almost like a 
  spacesuit, with a hunting rifle in the crook of the right arm, and something 
  clasped in the gloved left hand? 
  "Ah..." a voice said. The prince shivered. Lepescu? "You found them. 
  Congratulations. Very good... now shoot them." 
  "What?" He had misunderstood. He could not have heard the words his memory now 
  replayed to him. Behind him, he heard the girls' indrawn breath, Ronnie's 
  muttered curse. 
  "Shoot them, I said." When he hesitated, Lepescu gestured with his rifle. 
  "Either you shoot them," Lepescu said, his voice only slightly distorted by 
  his suit's filters, "or I will have to kill you, too. Surely you see the 
  necessity." 
  "But they're ours," the prince said. His voice trembled slightly. "Can't you 
  see? This is Lord Thornbuckle's daughter -- you can't kill her. And Raffaele, 
  and Ronnie Carruthers --" 
  "I thought you hated Ronnie," Lepescu said. "Isn't he the one who dishonored 
  you with your --" 
  "I do, of course, but -- but I can't kill them. Not just... just shoot them." 
  Silently, he begged someone to shoot Lepescu... but he had insisted on 
  unloaded weapons. The girls could not reload now. If they tried, Lepescu would 
  shoot... and he was in the middle. Sweat rolled down his sides, sudden and 
  cold. 
  "We should never have let him talk us into this -- " Bubbles muttered. "We 
  knew better. He can see me -- can you -- ?" 
  "Too late smart, too soon dead," Raffa said Neither of them had sounded as 
  frightened as the prince felt. He wished he could see them. He wished he could 
  see any help at all. 
  Lepescu's hand turned, showing a slick gray canister. "It would be a more 
  merciful death," he said. "If you care about that." The prince realized that 
  fear had layers he had never imagined.... That had to be a gas canister. Riot 
  gas? Nerve gas? He struggled to stay calm; he had to convince Lepescu. 
  "But they're my friends," the prince said. "You can't expect me to do it; 
  there has to be another way." This could not be happening; it must be some 
  kind of joke or test. He had to find the right thing to say. "We could agree 
  to keep your secret." 
  "I doubt it," Lepescu said. Even through the gleaming curve of his face mask, 
  his eyes looked distinctly from face to face. "Lord Thornbuckle's daughter is 
  not likely to keep such secrets from her father." 
  "You're right about that," came Bubbles's voice from behind the prince. "Not 
  that killing us will do any good in the long run. He'll find out, and then 
  he'll find you." 
  Lepescu lifted the canister in a mock salute. "To your courage, my dear. You 
  may stop that shuffling you're doing; you cannot screen your friend as she 
  reloads; I can shoot the prince, and you, before you shoot me... and I'm 
  wearing protection." With a change in tone, he addressed the prince again. "As 
  for your friend Ronnie, a young man who cannot keep from boasting about his 
  amatorial conquests is hardly likely to hold his tongue about this, the next 
  time he gets drunk. The dark girl -- well, it's a pity, but many have died 
  already, and so it goes. You choose: kill them, and I know you will not talk. 
  It would not be in your own best interests. I have a flitter; we can escape 
  somehow. I always do. But if you cannot kill them... then I'm afraid you, too, 
  must die." After a moment he went on, "Go ahead -- it won't be easier for 
  waiting." 
  -=o=-***-=o=- 
  Heris followed the bootprints up the narrowing cleft. Suddenly one pair 
  stopped; whoever it was had shifted around, trampling his own prints, and then 
  completely new prints -- larger, with a different tread -- set off again. She 
  frowned at them, trying to remember where she'd seen that tread pattern, then 
  shrugged. It really didn't matter. 
  "He put on overshoes," Cecelia murmured, from behind her. "Why?" Heris waved a 
  hand to hush her. They had to be close; she could tell the slope was closing 
  in ahead of them. 
  If she hadn't been following the tracks, she might have missed the angle to 
  the cave entrance... but the tracks led directly to it. A mat of wilting ferns 
  and moss, a gaping hole into darkness, and a voice -- no, more than one voice. 
  She was sure one of the voices was Lepescu's. 
  She pulled Cecelia close and murmured into her ear. "He's there -- ahead of us 
  -- and I think it's the youngsters. Stay back; be ready to shoot if I go down. 
  And watch for anyone behind us." Cecelia nodded, eyes hard again. Heris crept 
  nearer to the cave entrance, fighting down a surge of excitement that 
  threatened to send her charging straight at Lepescu, no matter what 
  Now she could hear his voice clearly. She knelt in the mud, and peered around 
  the edge of the hole into the dimness. Nothing but water, a pool almost 
  lapping the entrance. She would have to go in. Voices came from her left, 
  around an angle of stone. She gave Cecelia a last look and ducked inside. 
  Her eyes adjusted quickly; more light came in the entrance than she'd have 
  thought from outside. She flattened herself against the damp stone to her left 
  and edged around it. There. A big, bulky shape in a protective suit, its back 
  to her, and four faces beyond, pale against the black behind them. The suit 
  had to be Lepescu. Could she get him without hitting them? Was he wearing 
  armor under the suit? And why the suit, in this weather? What contamination 
  did he fear? Then she saw the clenched left hand, and caught her breath. If 
  that was a gas grenade -- 
  She edged nearer, hoping none of the youngsters would notice her, although she 
  knew she must be a very visible dark blot against the bright entrance. Lepescu 
  was still talking.... 
  "Go ahead," he was saying. "It won't be easier for waiting." 
  What did he mean? And why four people? Heris stared, just able to make out 
  Ronnie, Bubbles, and Raffa... but who was that fourth young man with the 
  extravagant moustache and a gleam of earring? A friend of Lepescu's? She bit 
  her lip; she could not possibly get both of them before someone else got shot. 
  She wondered if Lepescu was wearing armor under the suit; she reset her weapon 
  for the alternate clip of ammunition. This should penetrate personal armor. 
  More danger to bystanders, but not as much danger as a live Lepescu. 
  But as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw the mysterious young man 
  shift his weight, his expression changing from bewilderment and disbelief to 
  mulish stubbornness. "I won't do it," he said, and dropped his weapon. "And I 
  think you'll find it impossible to explain my disappearance." Heris aligned 
  her sights, and shifted a little to clear Ronnie. It was at best a tricky 
  shot.... The ricochets would be wicked.... 
  "Not really," Lepescu said. "An inconvenience, yes -- but not nearly an 
  impossibility. It's a pity, and I'm sorry -- this is not a sporting 
  proposition, but -- " He rocked forward, blood spraying out the front of his 
  protective suit. Echoes of the shot and the impacts on him and on stone roared 
  through the cave, deafening, confusing. Lepescu dropped his rifle; the 
  canister dropped from his left hand, bounced, and rolled along the stone 
  toward the water. Heris flinched; she was too far away to do anything more. If 
  its seal broke, they were all dead. Ronnie and the prince leaped together and 
  landed on it like two eager players trying to recover a fumbled ball. 
  "Run!" Ronnie yelled to Raffa and Bubbles; Heris knew it would have been 
  useless. The girls didn't run; after their first startled jerk, both of them 
  seemed to be calmly reloading their weapons. Heris stared at them. They must 
  have known they were in danger; why hadn't they had a round in the chamber? 
  Then the echoes died away... and the canister had not fired.... It lay under 
  the young men, inert and deadly only in anticipation. They were alive; they 
  were going to stay alive. 
  Heris rose from her careful crouch, and walked light-footed across the cave to 
  Lepescu's body... not body yet, for he was alive though mortally wounded. She 
  looked down at him warily. He might have other weapons. 
  "You..." he began, but pain caught at him, and he could not go on. His 
  breathing sounded loud, now that the echoes of the shot had faded; she could 
  hear the ominous snoring rattle that meant his lungs were filling. 
  She could not think what to say. All the clever retorts she remembered from 
  history crumbled and blew away in the wind of her anger. "Yes," she said, and 
  it came to her that she did not need to say much, under the circumstances. 
  "Commander Serrano, with all due respect." 
  Even dying, even in pain, he had a courage she could not deny. Scorn dragged 
  his face into a mask of contempt "Wait -- " he breathed. "Haven't won -- yet 
  --" 
  She wanted to throttle him, finish it with her fingers on his throat, but she 
  could not do that. Instead, she removed, with such control that she felt 
  herself almost a machine, his other weapons; she paid no attention to the 
  bubbling breaths that faded to nothing. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Cecelia could not have stayed out of the cave after the gunshot if someone had 
  chained her to the rock. She scrambled into the darkness, stumbled into the 
  pool and back out, and came up, panting, against the stone buttress that had 
  blocked Heris's vision. Now, shocked and fascinated by her captain's behavior, 
  she had let her attention wander from the cave entrance. When she thought to 
  look around, there was another stranger, this one dirty and ragged, as well as 
  armed. Another stood behind him. He glared at her, his weapon aimed where it 
  could menace all of them. 
  "What... are you doing here?" The pause, Cecelia was sure, held a dozen 
  suppressed curses. The man looked dangerous and probably was. He must be one 
  of those the hunters had chased. 
  "I'm Lady Cecelia -- " she began. Then she realized he wasn't even looking at 
  her. He was looking past her, at Heris. 
  "Petris..." Heris said. Her voice wavered. 
  "Captain Serrano. Heris." His didn't, nor did the muzzle of his weapon. 
  "You're with Admiral Lepescu?" Quiet though it was, that question held a vast 
  pain; it got through to Cecelia, who stared at her captain. 
  "You know this man? Who is he?" 
  Heris shook her head; for that instant she could not speak. Petris with 
  Lepescu? Had he always been Lepescu's agent? Was this what Lepescu's dying 
  words had meant? 
  Cecelia started to reach for her ID packet, but the shift of his weapon 
  stopped her hand. Not her tongue. "I'm Lady Cecelia de Marktos, as I said; we 
  came looking for my nephew Ronnie and his friends. With the militia." 
  "Ah." Petris still looked past her, to Heris. "The rescue arrives." He glanced 
  briefly at Cecelia. "Tell me what you know about Admiral Lepescu." 
  Cecelia thought of objecting, but the weapon suggested caution, even 
  cooperation. She had not realized before just how large the bore could look, 
  seen from this angle. "I don't know him," she said. 
  "She didn't tell you?" he asked, jerking his chin at Heris. 
  Cecelia's patience snapped. "Whatever she told me is no concern of yours, 
  young man." He laughed, a short ugly sound with little humor in it. 
  "You're not the best judge of that," he said. Then, to Heris, "And you think 
  I'm working with the admiral?" 
  Cecelia glanced at her, and recognized Heris's expression for what it was, 
  sorrow and despair, a great wound. Even when telling the story of her 
  resignation, she had never looked this shattered.. "I know he organized the 
  hunt, here," Heris said. Her voice had no vigor, as if the words lay dead in 
  her mouth. 
  "And why else would military personnel be here with him -- ?" 
  "With him." Petris's voice was no louder, but the passion in it would have 
  fuelled a scream. "You -- of all people -- can believe I might work with that 
  -- that -- and does it look like I'm with him? Is this a uniform?" His voice 
  had risen then, chopped off by a gesture from the other man. "No," he said 
  savagely. "I am not with Lepescu." He turned away, still pale around the 
  mouth. Cecelia stopped him. 
  "Excuse me, young man, but although you and my captain may be perfectly clear 
  about what is going on, I am not. Heris has told me the admiral is an old 
  enemy she would rather not meet save over a weapon. When my nephew and his 
  friends disappeared, and we found that Lepescu was expected, she became 
  convinced he had something to do with it." 
  Finally, the man seemed to focus, really focus, on Cecelia. "Your captain? 
  You're her... uh... employer?" 
  "That's right. Captain Serrano signed a contract with me only two days after 
  resigning her commission." 
  "And then?" He matched her gaze, as if he could pull answers out through her 
  eyes. 
  "And then she took command of my yacht, and we came here. Now --" 
  "Directly?" 
  Cecelia drew herself up, annoyed. She had questions of her own, and he kept 
  interrupting her. "No," she said, not caring if he realized she was miffed. 
  "No -- although I don't quite see what business it is of yours. My former 
  captain had been negligent, if not actually criminal, in maintaining systems, 
  and we had to detour for emergency repair of the environmental system." 
  The man turned to Heris, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You didn't check 
  things yourself before you started?" 
  "The inspection sheets had been faked," Heris said dully. "Lady Cecelia's 
  schedule had already been set back; she wanted a quick departure, and I -- " 
  Her voice trailed off. 
  "You couldn't wait to escape," Petris said. Sarcasm edged his voice. "You took 
  your bribe and ran off --" 
  "Bribe!" This time it was Heris's voice that got the silencing gesture from 
  the other man. At least, Cecelia thought, the insult had broken through and 
  forced a live reaction. "Is that what he told you?" 
  "He told us nothing, except the list of charges." 
  "Charges? But I resigned so they wouldn't prosecute any of you --" 
  "Wait." Petris lowered his weapon suddenly. "Then it's true what this 
  youngster heard?" He nodded at Ronnie. "Will you tell me you resigned? To save 
  us, without any... any reward?" 
  "Yes. That was the choice. Resignation, and no trouble for you, or courts for 
  all. It wasn't fair to put all of you through that; it had been my decision. 
  What do you mean about charges?" 
  "That... motherless son," Petris said. Cecelia remembered hearing once that on 
  some planets that was still an insult, although most people were now decanted 
  and not birthed. "He got you out of the way, brought us to trial, and then had 
  us here, to play his little games with." 
  Heris stared, the whites of her eyes showing clearly in the dimness. "You -- 
  it was you he was hunting?" Petris nodded. Heris shook her head, like someone 
  who has just taken a hard blow, and turned to Lepescu's body with such 
  violence that Cecelia was afraid she would attack it bare-handed. "Damn you! I 
  killed you too soon! If only I could -- " She was shaking now, starting to 
  cry. Cecelia gaped; she had never imagined Heris losing control. 
  Petris strode past Cecelia and grabbed Heris by the shoulders, dragging her 
  away. "He's dead -- don't... you can't change it now --" 
  "I'd have -- have done something -- it's not fair -- !" She turned a 
  tear-streaked face back to Cecelia. "He took my ship -- my career -- and then 
  to kill them this way -- " And then to Petris, suddenly dry-eyed again, a 
  sorrow too deep for tears. "I'm sorry, Petris. I didn't -- imagine this. I 
  couldn't. I believed they'd hold to the agreement." 
  "No," he said soberly. "You couldn't. I'm sorry I misunderstood what you'd 
  done." 
  "How many -- how many died?" Heris asked. Cecelia could hear the fragile 
  control, the tremor in her voice. 
  "Too many," Petris said. "But it's over now." 
  "It's not over," Heris said. "It will never be over." But she stood straight, 
  motionless, and Cecelia watched her usual control return, layer by layer. 
  "Well, it's mostly over," said a cheerful voice from the cave entrance. Petris 
  and the other men whirled, startled, but relaxed when they saw the distinctive 
  uniform of Bunny's militia. The militia captain was grinning at them. "Unless 
  one of you is the wicked Admiral Lepescu?" 
  "Admiral Lepescu is dead," Heris said. Her voice seemed to hold no emotion at 
  all; it was the simple statement of fact. 
  Captain Sigind came nearer, glanced at Lepescu's body, and nodded. "You shot 
  him?" 
  "Yes; he was threatening them -- " Heris nodded at the young people. Ronnie 
  and the prince had untangled themselves from each other, the floor, and the 
  quiescent grenade, and now stood more or less at attention. Raffa had gone to 
  Ronnie, Cecelia noticed, as if he were her responsibility. Bubbles stood a 
  little apart from the group, rifle in hand, watching Heris intently. Cecelia 
  had time to wonder why, when both girls were armed, neither had shot the 
  admiral. 
  Captain Sigind looked them over. 
  "And here's Lord Thornbuckle's daughter, and I presume that's your nephew, 
  ma'am, and the other young lady, and who's this -- ?" The militia captain 
  looked at the prince, and the prince looked confused. 
  "Mr. Smith," said Ronnie firmly. "A friend of the family." 
  "Ah." Captain Sigind allowed a dubious expression on his face, and then 
  shrugged it away. "Mr. Smith, indeed. An invited guest? Pardon, but I'm 
  required to ask." 
  Bubbles spoke up. "Mr. Smith has often been an invited guest here; my father 
  will confirm it." 
  "I... see." The captain looked as if he would like to pursue that, but again 
  chose discretion. Well trained, Cecelia thought; a quick glance at Heris's 
  face, and she caught another well trained expression. Heris, however, would 
  certainly pursue the matter later. The captain did not quite shrug before 
  going on. "Well, if everyone will come along, we can get you back to Bandon 
  this evening, and fly you back to the Main House by morning -- or you could 
  spend the night on Bandon, and fly back tomorrow, whichever you prefer." He 
  spoke into his comunit; Cecelia heard something about "retrieve the bodies" 
  and "forensics" and then realized she was very, very tired indeed and wanted 
  to sit down. 
  "What about George?" she heard Ronnie ask. Then she heard nothing. 
  Chapter Twenty 
  Cecelia awoke only moments later, thoroughly ashamed of herself, to find 
  Ronnie kneeling beside her. He looked, she thought, far worse than she 
  possibly could, with that colorful pattern of bruises on his head and face, 
  his muddy, still-wet clothes, and the pallor of exhaustion and hunger. She 
  glanced around for Heris. Her captain was talking to the militia captain, who 
  nodded as he keyed information into a wristcomp. Other militia had appeared; 
  Lepescu's body had already been put into a black bag and lifted onto a 
  stretcher.... She saw it being carried out. 
  "Are you all right, Aunt Cecelia?" He sounded genuinely concerned, not annoyed 
  by an aunt who had fainted. 
  "I'm fine," she said, and pushed herself up on her elbows. She was too old to 
  faint; at her age people took it seriously and talked about medical causes. 
  "Just hungry," she said, which was now true. She was ravenous, and remembered 
  that she had not had breakfast or lunch. Ronnie looked around frantically, as 
  if he thought she expected him to pull a good meal from the rock. "Don't 
  worry," she said, more tartly than she intended. "I forgot to eat, that's 
  all." When she glanced around again, she saw that the two young women were 
  sitting together, doing something to each other's faces, and the other young 
  man stood awkwardly alone. "What's the --" 
  "Mr. Smith," Ronnie said softly but firmly. "He's Mr. Smith -- I don't know if 
  you've met." 
  "Oh, we've met." She eyed him, then glanced at the prince. "Mr. Smith, is it? 
  Did you two arrange to meet here and continue your disagreement?" 
  "No!" Ronnie hushed himself with a shrug. "He was here on... other business. 
  Finished business, now." 
  Cecelia looked at the prince, who seemed to feel her gaze and returned it. In 
  the cave's uncertain light, she could not be sure of his expression, but he 
  approached them. 
  "Excuse me," he said. "Ronnie, I really do need to talk to you. About the duel 
  --" 
  "Mr. Smith," said Cecelia, in the voice that had not failed her in forty years 
  or more. "You do not need to talk to anyone. Under the circumstances, Mr. 
  Smith" -- she emphasized the name slightly -- "the less you talk to anyone the 
  better. I very much doubt your father knows where you are." 
  "Well, no, he doesn't, but still --" 
  "You would be wise, Mr. Smith, to wait until your father explains your 
  situation more fully. There is no question of a duel. Is that quite clear?" 
  Cecelia put her eye upon him, the eye that had quelled many a brash young man 
  even when she herself was young. He subsided; even the stubborn knot along his 
  jaw went away, and the jaunty curl at the tips of his moustache seemed to 
  droop. His voice lowered to a hesitant growl. 
  "What I was going to say, ma'am, was that your nephew's courage in landing on 
  the gas grenade cancelled out any previous disagreement we might have had." 
  "You did, too," Ronnie said quickly. 
  "Wise of both of you," Cecelia said, allowing them to see her smile. "Now if 
  someone can find me something to eat --" 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Cecelia had never thought about how long it could take to move a few people 
  across a short stretch of ocean. She had always been, she realized, the one 
  who didn't have to wait. This time, she waited, and heard from both militia 
  and the young people what had happened. Even with her wits restored by hot 
  broth and half a survival bar from Bubbles's pack, it didn't make sense to 
  her. "Lepescu killed the other hunters? Why?" Heris rubbed her nose. "My guess 
  would be that he thought he could get away alone. No witnesses on his side, 
  convicted criminals -- if any survived -- on the other.... If he'd killed the 
  young people, gotten into that flitter, and made it away --" 
  "But he couldn't possibly --" 
  "I'm not sure. Suppose we had still been on the mainland when George's 
  transmission went out. He'd have had hours, not minutes, to complete his 
  plans. Kill the witnesses, gas the remaining victims from the flitter. Fly 
  back to Bandon, take the shuttle up. A wild gamble, but he liked wild gambles. 
  Better than surrendering tamely to be tried himself." 
  "But why not get the others to help him?" 
  "Likely they wouldn't. That Mr. Smith -- and by the way, are you and the 
  others going to tell me who Mr. Smith is?" 
  "Someone who shouldn't be here," Cecelia said. "Later, perhaps -- " She 
  glanced around at the militia who might be within earshot. 
  "Ah. Like someone's son, perhaps? Yes." Heris's eyes twinkled. "Anyway, Mr. 
  Smith explained that there had been a lot of confusion after the flitter 
  crashed here, and the admiral had insisted on continuing the hunt. He might 
  well fear that his allies would turn on him. If he had gotten away -- well 
  away -- we would have found an island full of dead people and no witnesses to 
  convict him. He would not necessarily know that I was here at all, or that I 
  knew he was onplanet." Heris cocked her head. "A bold plan, typical of him, 
  but as usual wasteful of resources." 
  "And Raffa told me about what happened after they crashed -- although she 
  doesn't know all of Ronnie's story, or George's, or the others'. Were they all 
  your crew?" 
  "Apparently not. This wasn't the first such hunt, and Petris said some who 
  survived a few weeks of a hunt were kept to seed the next, to keep it 
  'interesting'." Her voice flattened on the word. "Too many were, though. I 
  never thought -- I swear I never imagined any such thing --" 
  "Of course not." Cecelia leaned against the rock, and smiled at the younger 
  woman. So much older than the younglings, Ronnie and his friends, but still so 
  vulnerable.... She clearly needed someone to reassure her. Yet, in Cecelia's 
  experience, no reassurance made up for bad results... and this had to be a bad 
  result, no matter how selfless the original decision. She looked away from 
  Heris, and thought about what she could do. Did she know anyone in the 
  admiralty? 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  By the time Heris and Cecelia landed on Bandon again, the young people -- 
  except for Buttons, who remained the family's representative on Bandon -- had 
  been taken to the mainland along with two wounded militia and three wounded 
  victims. Ronnie needed medical observation; the girls had wanted to check on 
  George themselves, and Bubbles had an appointment with her father. Cecelia 
  relaxed in the luxury of Bandon Lodge -- a full set of servants had been flown 
  out as soon as the island was secured -- and left Heris to her own devices. 
  Heris, after a bath and change of clothes, gathered her courage and went to 
  see if her former crew would even speak to her. They were scattered through 
  the guest rooms, according to the information in the deskcomp. She found door 
  after door with its privacy locks engaged, and didn't try to intrude. Finally 
  she found one door ajar, and tapped lightly. 
  Petris looked out at her. "Ah. Captain Serrano." The formality went to her 
  heart. "I was just about to bathe." 
  "I'm sorry. I'll -- " Wait, she would have said, but she had no right to force 
  him to speak to her if he didn't want to. 
  "I'm sorry I yelled at you, back there," he said. "It was just hard to believe 
  --" 
  "I'm sorry I thought you could have been with... with Lepescu." 
  "Look -- I'm still stinking filthy -- I was checking on Oblo, and he's fine. 
  Let me get clean, and why don't we go walk somewhere?" 
  At least he was willing to talk to her. Heris nodded, silently, and turned 
  away. Back in her room she tried to relax, but her eyes kept moving to the 
  window, with its striking view of the beach and the other island across the 
  water. The sun slid lower; the colors of sea and sky changed minute by minute. 
  Flitters came and went; they were, she supposed, picking up the bodies and 
  taking them away, bringing more investigators to look for more clues.... Her 
  head ached. She had fallen into a restless doze in her chair when the tap on 
  her door woke her. 
  Bathed and dressed in clean clothes, Petris looked more like the man she 
  remembered -- and less. He was not in uniform, the only clothes she'd seen him 
  wear except for the rags of the island. He was not in the mental uniform that 
  had kept them both from acknowledging what they could feel if they allowed it. 
  His eyes challenged her. "If you need a rest, we could hold this until 
  morning." 
  A night with issues unsettled would be no rest. "No. I'm ready." 
  To her surprise, he smiled at her. "My favorite captain. Always ready." He 
  held up a basket. "I've had my first free meal, but thought we should bring 
  something. There are enough cooks here to feed two cruisers. And the young 
  lord, whats-his-name --" 
  "Buttons," Heris said. "They call him Buttons." 
  "The staff don't. Anyway, he gave me a map, and suggested something called the 
  'seabreeze trail'." 
  She started to object -- she had no idea where such a place might be -- but 
  didn't. After what had happened, she had no right to quibble. "How is... 
  everyone?" 
  Petris shrugged. "Most of 'em are asleep, I think. Oblo said to tell you 
  thumbs-up on coming to the rescue, and I said I would. He said there's a nurse 
  in the clinic, there on the mainland, that almost makes the whole thing 
  worthwhile. Remember the time we had to get him out of that rathole on 
  Sekkis?" 
  Heris grinned, genuinely amused for the first time. "Oh, yes. Purple dyed skin 
  and all." 
  Petris led the way down the carpeted hall, hung with soft-toned pictures of 
  flowers and birds, and out to the parking area. "The young man said we could 
  take a flitter or walk -- which would you rather?" 
  It was nearly dark -- though why that should matter, she couldn't think. 
  "Let's walk," she said. "If it's not too far." 
  "Nope. Just down this way." In the gathering dusk, he led the way to a trail 
  edged with white stones. It wound around one wing of the Lodge, skirted a 
  clump of very tall trees, then dipped to the shore. Far off the sun hung in a 
  glowing net of haze; the sea held the light and threw it back at them. The 
  island across the strait showed a pale edge of beach, and a dark hump, but no 
  details. 
  They walked on, along the beach, to an outcrop of gray rock very like the rock 
  on the other island. It lay across the end of the beach, and beyond it Heris 
  could see a rougher, stony shore where the sea nibbled and sucked hungrily. 
  Here they stopped, as if the rock were a real barrier, although its blunt 
  steps could have been climbed by a child. 
  Petris set down his basket. "While we still have light, we should see what the 
  cooks came up with. Ah... real food." He spread the serving containers out. 
  Heris sat down abruptly. It couldn't be this easy. Something had to happen, 
  some further punishment for her mistake. It would be fair, she thought 
  dismally, if he had put poison in the food, if he leapt on her and strangled 
  her. She hadn't meant bad to come of it, but it had -- and when had intention 
  ever been justification for causing the deaths of innocents? 
  He looked at her and shook his head. "Captain -- Heris -- " It was the first 
  time he had used her first name except to yell at her. "You're about as 
  relaxed as a novice gunner before the first battle. What do you think, I'm 
  going to scold you?" 
  "You'd have a right," she said. 
  "Well... yes. In one way, I do. In another, I don't." He looked into her eyes. 
  "I think you want your scolding, is that it?" 
  Tears burned her eyes. "I -- don't know. I want -- what happened to be 
  different. For it to have worked the way it was supposed to. You safe --" 
  Anger roughened his voice. "By the gods, Heris, do you think we'd have joined 
  the Regs if we'd wanted to be safe? And safe at the cost of the best commander 
  we ever had? Keep us from being butchered by that fool and his stupid tactics, 
  yes -- but not ruin yourself, and us, into the bargain." 
  "You're right," she said. No use denying it. "I was wrong." The rest of the 
  pain she had put off feeling stabbed her, the thought of her crew, from that 
  scrawny new kid in Power Systems, who had burst into tears with the first mail 
  from home, to the wizened old senior medical mate, finishing out her last tour 
  before retirement. What had happened to them? Tears spilled over; she could 
  feel the wind chilling them as they ran down her cheeks; she struggled to 
  control her breathing. 
  Petris moved close, and put his arm around her, a firm but gentle hold. 
  "You should have trusted us," he said, his breath stirring her hair. "Did you 
  think we'd fail you?" She could hear in that the pain she had dealt them -- 
  worse for some than the pain of court-martial and public dishonor. 
  "I had failed you," Heris said. "The scan data were all lost -- they told me 
  you'd all be court-martialed along with me, risk discharge at least and 
  probably time in prison." 
  "So you resigned. Walked out." 
  "Yes." It all came back, the nightmare she'd relived so often these past 
  months. The Board behind their polished table, the familiar faces as strange 
  as masks, the feel of her dress uniform collar tabs on her throat, a blade no 
  less dangerous for being fabric and not steel. "I was told," she went on, 
  careful to withhold all emotion, "that if I resigned immediately, they would 
  take no action against you -- the crew. They would hush it up; it would not 
  have happened. Sorkangh -- my father's friend, one I'd counted on to help me 
  argue my case -- he said that. And if Sorkangh was against me -- " She shook 
  her head. She had said this already, it made no difference. She had had her 
  reasons, she had fought herself to make that decision, and none of her reasons 
  mattered. It had been wrong, as wrong as not anticipating any enemy's position 
  and fire-power. 
  "Well," he said, squeezing her shoulders, "if it helps, not all your crew was 
  as loyal as they should have been. Lepescu had a ringer in, and that's what 
  happened to the scan data." 
  "How'd you find that out?" She had wondered, but could not have proven her 
  suspicions. 
  "First transit brig. Friend of a friend of a friend -- couldn't do much for 
  us, but did tell us who did it and on whose orders. We took care of him." 
  Heris shuddered; she didn't want to understand, although she did. "How many... 
  ?" 
  "I'm not sure. They split us up, early on -- we were tried in different 
  groups, supposedly determined by our level of responsibility. Some weren't 
  formally charged, I heard -- but I couldn't tell you what happened to them. Of 
  those brought to court, the scuttlebutt is that all but three were convicted. 
  Some were discharged, and some had the usual loss of rank, or pay, but no brig 
  time. They decided to make an example of about fifty of us, the senior NCOs 
  and officers, and from that about thirty were brought here. The others are in 
  the prison system somewhere." 
  "I'll have to do something about that," Heris muttered. 
  Petris shifted beside her. "I don't see how you can, now," he said. "Maybe if 
  this comes out, their cases can be reevaluated, but whatever Lepescu was up 
  to, the original charges are still there." 
  "I'll think of something," she said. "Maybe Lady Cecelia --" 
  "Maybe." He didn't sound convinced. "But I had something else to say to you." 
  She braced herself, but he didn't go on for a long time. Then he sighed. "I 
  wish it was darker. Thing is... you're not my commander now, right?" 
  "Right." Heris picked up something -- it was dark enough she could hardly see 
  the food -- and stuffed it in her mouth. Cheese and pastry and something; she 
  nearly choked. 
  "You were always professional... you know... but I used to wonder if you felt 
  something... something like I did." He wasn't looking at her, but at the last 
  fading purple glow in the west Then up at the stars. Heris had time to 
  remember times she had not wanted to be professional; she choked down the food 
  in her mouth. 
  "Mmm. Yes. Something..." How could she have known it was a mutual feeling? 
  They had both understood professional etiquette; nothing must come of any 
  feelings, and thus better to leave them unfelt -- or at least unsaid. 
  "So?" The flat, gray light, all that was left of sunset, caught in his eyes. 
  Heris opened her mouth to say how impossible it was, then realized it wasn't. 
  Not any more. 
  "So..." She still could not say it. She moved, instead, into the arc of his 
  arm. 
  "You should have trusted me," he said again, but without heat. "It hurt, when 
  you went away like that, without a word." 
  "Yes. It did." She leaned against him; his arm felt good against her back. 
  Better than good. "It hurt a lot. But I'm here now, and I'm trusting you." 
  "About time." Then his grip tightened. She had never allowed herself to 
  imagine -- really imagine -- what embracing him would be like. It would have 
  been too difficult to go through everyday shipboard life, if she had. Now she 
  was glad of her former discipline. She had no nagging comparisons to make, 
  just the experience to savor. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  "I fixed it," Cecelia said. She sounded smug. Bright morning light gilded her 
  hair, and she looked crisp and refreshed by ample sleep and good food. 
  "Fixed what?" Heris had bathed and changed, when she and Petris got back to 
  the Lodge shortly before dawn, but inside her clothes her body felt lush and 
  relaxed. She wondered if Cecelia could tell. She had her own list of things 
  for Cecelia to fix, and hoped her employer hadn't used up her energy on 
  something minor. 
  "Your resignation," Cecelia said, as if continuing a conversation in progress. 
  "I hate to lose you, but I know how you've grieved. And the evidence is clear. 
  So I just argued my way along, and they've agreed to take you back. Quite 
  willingly, in fact. Everyone knows that George's father will sue Lepescu and 
  his cronies, and the Regular Space Service is anxious to dissociate themselves 
  from any of that." 
  Heris stared, her brain racing. Cecelia had fixed that, in a few hours, from 
  an obscure planet with no real-time communications beyond its own system? 
  Then: Go back? Retrieve her command, her career? She felt her heart begin to 
  hammer, the racing pulse pounding her body, making her hands shake. Exultation 
  flooded her; she could see the look on her father's face, on her mothers.... 
  She could imagine how her younger brother, still in the Academy, would react. 
  Yes, she thought. Yes. 
  "How?" got out of her mouth first. 
  Cecelia beamed, clearly glad to be asked. "I'd been afraid it would take 
  weeks, but you remember Bunny said a Crown Minister was here hunting? Bunny 
  asked me to speak to him about Mr. Smith, and of course I told him about you. 
  I pointed out that going through the usual channels would require your 
  complete explanation, and you, as an honest person, could hardly fail to 
  mention Mr. Smith when you justified the killing of Admiral Lepescu." 
  "Mr. Smith," said Heris blankly. She had almost forgotten that mysterious 
  young man. Then her brain snapped back into focus. "A... royal, you said, 
  about the boots." Which, given his age, meant... "Not the one Ronnie was in 
  trouble for --" 
  Cecelia grinned. "Quite so. The Minister saw my point, of course, and assured 
  me that no statement from you would be required, under the circumstances. 
  Enough evidence of Lepescu's unfitness existed to overturn the judgment 
  without recalling whatever court or board it was. You can trust him," Cecelia 
  went on, as if anticipating Heris's doubts. "With Mr. Smith's reputation at 
  stake, he would do more than this. Luckily for us, the Minister requires a 
  special communications link -- I don't know what you call it, but it's almost 
  instantaneous through some kind of relay back to Court He was able to contact 
  the necessary officials, and --" 
  "And the surviving crew?" Heris asked. She felt already like a Spacefleet 
  officer, the purple uniform forgotten along with the past several hours. 
  Cecelia nodded briskly. "Oh, yes. All rehabilitated, as they called it. I knew 
  you would want that, so I insisted. Wherever they are, if some of them were 
  not on that abominable island." When Heris didn't answer at once she went on. 
  "I do understand, you know. We are both aristocrats, even if we aren't in the 
  same aristocracy." 
  "I -- thank you, milady." Only that formality would serve, could possibly 
  express her gratitude. 
  "I will hate losing you," Cecelia said, more softly. "Not only as a captain, 
  and student of equitation, but as a friend. I like you, and I don't like many 
  people." Then her voice firmed again. "Will it be difficult, for you and 
  Petris?" 
  Heris stared at her, disoriented by the double-change of direction. Petris... 
  ? "Oh." So Cecelia had noticed. At once the exaltation left her, as quickly as 
  if someone had pulled a plug in her heart. She could go back, and he could go 
  back, and they might serve on the same ship... but they could not go back to 
  the past hours. Not ever. She tried to imagine him as a civilian... husband... 
  but that would destroy him. "Oh, my," she said, hardly hearing her own voice. 
  "I didn't think." 
  "Most people don't, in your position," Cecelia said. "That's why I mentioned 
  it, before you go and tell the others. You can go back... but you don't have 
  to." 
  Didn't she? She could hardly breathe for a moment, in the alternation of 
  possibility and impossibility. She could not give up her chance in the R. S. 
  S. again -- she could not give up Petris. She could not ask him to give up his 
  career, as miraculously restored as her own, but if either of them... 
  "Damn," she said. It was all she could say. She sat down suddenly, and Cecelia 
  made a show of turning away, preparing something to drink, offering her a 
  steaming cup of some brown liquid.... She should know what it was, but she 
  couldn't recognize anything. 
  "As a classical maiden aunt," Cecelia said, not looking at her, "I am 
  qualified to give useless advice, which you are free to ignore. You love that 
  man, and he loves you; that was obvious when I first saw you two together. You 
  can't be together in the Service, and neither of you will be happy as a 
  civilian partnering the one who stays in. If you do go back, Heris, be sure 
  you're never on the same ship.... You know that." 
  "I know that." Her lips felt numb -- was it the drink? Was she going to faint? 
  She never fainted; it was ridiculous. But her skin remembered his touch; her 
  ears remembered his voice, the sound of his breathing, the beat of his heart 
  when her head lay on his chest. She wanted that, wanted it more than 
  anything... except her commission, her ship, her crew... which she couldn't 
  have, if it meant him. 
  "I still need a captain," Cecelia went on. "I need new crew members -- you 
  told me that. If you chose not to reenter the Service, you would have a place 
  with me." 
  And Petris would become just a crew member on a rich old lady's yacht -- she 
  could not see him being happy with that. He had taken as much pride in his 
  career as she in hers. He would not settle for less. 
  "You ought to ask him," Cecelia said, as if reading her face. "You didn't ask 
  before, and look where that got you. Give him the chance, now, while you have 
  the chance... while you are, for the moment, free." 
  It was true. She had not thought she had a chance, before; she had taken the 
  commander's way, the solitary way, and had not asked anyone, and because of 
  that Lepescu had been able to ruin her and her crew. This time she could ask 
  him. She stood up, nodding to Cecelia without saying a word -- she could not 
  have said a word -- and went to find Petris. 
  He was staring out to sea, staring at the island on which he had been hunted. 
  "Looks pretty from here," he said as she came up. 
  "Yes," she said. Her throat closed on more. He looked at her closely. 
  "What's happened?" 
  She couldn't answer; tears flooded her eyes. He reached for her, hugged her 
  close, his lips in her hair. "Heris... Heris..." he breathed. She gulped, 
  tried to calm herself, and finally choked the lump down. 
  "Lady Cecelia has intervened," she said finally. Her voice came out thin, 
  unlike herself. "With the Service." 
  "You're getting your commission? Good." His arms loosened, and she heard the 
  effort in his voice. "I hoped you would -- they ought to have that much 
  sense." 
  "They're reversing all the disciplinary actions," she said. "All the survivors 
  will be reinstated, with all records cleared. It would probably have happened 
  anyway, but Lady Cecelia --" 
  "Has connections. I'm glad she cares that much -- you must have impressed 
  her." His arms dropped from her shoulders, and he stretched. "Well. Back into 
  harness for us, eh? And --" 
  Heris stared at the sand. "We don't have to go." 
  "Eh? Of course you'll go -- you're not meant to be a yacht captain." 
  "She said I should give you the chance. The chance I didn't give you before." 
  He stared at her; when she looked up, his gaze was fixed on her face. "What do 
  you mean? Are you saying -- ?" 
  "Petris -- " She used his first name deliberately. "Petris, there is a choice. 
  If we go back, you know -- you know it would be best if we never serve 
  together. But if we don't go back --" 
  "You love it," he said. "Your family -- the Serrano Admiralty -- " She had 
  heard that phrase before; it was inevitable for a family that had produced 
  admiral after admiral through many generations. She had never considered how 
  they might look from underneath -- from out to sea, like a great cliff wall 
  made of stars and flags, with no safe beach to land on. She felt herself a 
  rock loosed from that cliff, now rolling in the surf, being broken into 
  fragments the cliff would no longer recognize. 
  "My family," she said slowly, "have already endured the worst: a Serrano 
  resigning under a cloud rather than face a court. They will abide my decision, 
  one way or the other... or they will not, and I will abide their decision. I 
  don't know what they'll do, but I don't fear it. Your family?" 
  "Mine." He stared past her now, at the island again. "Farmers and small 
  merchants on Vonnegar's World; I was the outlaw there, too. Ran off to join 
  the military, like kids have always done.... Wouldn't walk behind a plow or 
  pull onions if I could see stars. They wouldn't mind -- they gave me up for 
  lost when I told my uncle Eth what I thought of farming. I couldn't go back 
  and ask for land, that's sure. But away -- I can do what I want." A quick 
  glance to her, then away again. "I liked my work." 
  "I know that. You can have it back; that's what Cecelia told me. She's got you 
  all cleared." 
  "Ah... yes, but it can't be the same. Not just us, the whole thing. Some of 
  'em died, through this; I can't forget that." 
  Heris felt cold. They had died because of her, because she had left; she 
  already knew that. If he couldn't forget, he probably couldn't forgive either, 
  and last night had been... last night. 
  But he was looking at her again, this time steadily, eye to eye. "But what did 
  you offer as an alternative? You said if we don't go back --" 
  "We could both work for Lady Cecelia. On her yacht." Of course he had already 
  said she wasn't meant to be a yacht captain, and of course he wasn't meant to 
  be on a yacht's crew either, but she had to ask. 
  "You must like her a lot," he said, "even to consider it. What do you... do?" 
  She could tell he was avoiding the familiar terms, like "mission." "Lady 
  Cecelia travels," she said. "From the existing records of past voyages, she 
  travels widely, and from the events of the first weeks I worked for her, her 
  yacht has harbored smugglers... without her knowledge, of course." 
  "You're sure of that." It was not quite a question. 
  "Yes. She's stubborn, opinionated, and all the other things you expect from a 
  rich old lady, but she's honest." 
  "Like you," Petris said, without a smile. "No wonder you get along. So -- 
  you'll continue?" 
  "It depends." Even as she said it she wondered if it did depend on his 
  decision. Oddly, she now thought of going back to the Service as a kind of 
  defeat. Someone else had fought her battle for her; someone else had bought 
  her commission back. She hated that. Bad as Lepescu was, some would always 
  mistrust her loyalty; she would never be the unflawed Serrano in clear line of 
  succession to an admiralty. Even her family would have reservations. She did 
  not realize she had said some of this aloud until the end... " -- and I would 
  rather take an honest salary from her than a commission restored with her 
  influence. So... it's either stay with her, or look for something else, and I 
  have no reason now to leave her. At least not until I've straightened out that 
  crew." 
  Petris chuckled "I know that tone. All right, then -- I think all of us will 
  have the same problems. Those who don't think so are welcome to go back, but 
  as for me... no. D'you think your Lady Cecelia will hire more than one of us, 
  and will we have to bow as she sweeps by?" 
  "Are you saying yes?" 
  "No... I'm saying 'yes, ma'am' ... since I believe that's the correct civilian 
  usage." The end of that was smothered in a hug, out of which he said finally, 
  "I gather the restriction on fraternization doesn't apply either?" 
  "No," Heris said firmly. "Not off the bridge." Her thoughts raced, crashing 
  into each other like fox hunters of two hunts in collision. What came out, at 
  last, was the professional ship's officer. "I've got to check in with Sirkin 
  -- the standing watch -- and let her know there's a sealed weapons cargo 
  coming up to the ship. It's a good thing we had a complete refitting at 
  Takomin Roads. Did you know the sulfur cycle was off by two sigs?" 
  He released her with a roar of laughter. "Dear heart -- Heris -- Captain -- 
  your owner had better pull up her bloomers or whatever they call them on 
  aristocrats. Weapons? Does she know?" 
  "Of course she knows; I used her credit line." That had been -- how long ago? 
  And would Cecelia still authorize those weapons? Better get them aboard before 
  she changed her mind. Somewhere the smugglers that had put that contraband 
  aboard had to be wondering what had happened to it. The rich were no safer, if 
  they didn't bother to defend themselves, than someone on the docks. In the 
  depths of her mind, the final door to her past shut, and she faced the future 
  as a civilian without the old pain. It would return, she knew, as old pains 
  always did, in the dark hours everyone faced... but the worst was over. 
  Chapter Twenty-one 
  Discretion must be served. Two by two, the former prey, Heris's former crew 
  members, left for the mainland hospital, where (Heris was assured) Bunny's 
  excellent medical staff would check them out, and where they would live in 
  privacy and luxury until they decided what they wanted to do. She had spoken 
  to each one, but they were too dazed to talk much. She understood; she felt 
  that way herself. Too many emotions, too much turmoil. Finally, with the lodge 
  empty, it was her turn. She and Cecelia and Petris had a luxurious flitter, 
  with Michaels himself at the controls, for the flight back. No more clouds.... 
  The wrinkled ocean lay blank and blue under a clear sky until they reached the 
  mainland. Heris stared at it until she felt the pattern was imprinted forever 
  on her retinas. She wondered why Petris was travelling with them, then 
  wondered why she wondered. And why couldn't they talk? After that first night, 
  she had not expected the awkwardness of the days and nights since, when they 
  could cling together... but not complete a sentence. 
  The flitter delivered them to the wide courtyard before the Main House rather 
  than the flitter hangars. Here it was cold, with low clouds racing across the 
  sky before a sharp wind. Heris sealed the jacket she had not needed on the 
  island and shivered. She was glad she wouldn't have to walk up the hill from 
  the other end of the village. Inside, Petris looked up the great staircase 
  that first time with an odd expression that mingled delight and apprehension. 
  "This is exactly how I thought a great lord's house would look, and I don't 
  trust it," he said finally. "It's too perfectly what it is, like an 
  entertainment-cube version of a fleet cruiser." 
  "It's intimidating," said Heris. Now she could admit that. "I couldn't believe 
  anyone actually lived in it. But they do." She wondered where the servants 
  were; usually two or three at least were in the hall at this hour. But the one 
  who had opened the door had vanished, leaving it to Cecelia to lead the way 
  upstairs. 
  Petris, she found, had the room next to hers, where she remembered someone 
  else having been, but she did not raise her brows to Cecelia, who already 
  looked entirely too smug. How had Cecelia known that? 
  "Don't forget," Cecelia said, "that Petris will need to check in with Neil. 
  I'll let him know you're coming, shall I?" 
  Heris looked at Petris. He had not had the benefit of Cecelia's riding 
  simulator. But he grinned. "I can hardly wait to see Heris on horseback, 
  chasing a fox," he said. "Although I'm not looking forward to those early 
  starts." 
  "Nonetheless. And of course I needn't warn either of you about discussing all 
  this --" 
  "Not at all." Petris raised and lowered his brows at her, a clear dismissal. 
  "Dinner at eight," Cecelia said. She strode off down the corridor. 
  "Your employer -- " Petris began. 
  "Our employer," Heris said. "Unless you change your mind." 
  "I never change my mind," Petris said. "Come in here -- " He led her into his 
  room, a twin of her own. "I don't believe this, either!" He was staring at the 
  furniture, the gleaming expanse of the bathroom and its glittering toys. He 
  walked around the room, opening and closing the doors of wardrobes, looking 
  into drawers in tall polished chests. Heris could see the racks of clothes, 
  and wondered. "I'm sure these all fit -- Lady Cecelia would have seen to it. I 
  always knew there was a good reason to leave the onion farm." Then he looked 
  into the bathroom again. "Plenty of room, and warm towels. Shall I scrub your 
  back, my love, or will you scrub mine?" 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Ronnie was sure they were all making too much fuss about his condition. George 
  had been shot; George might die. He still had that nagging headache, and a 
  collection of bruises and scrapes, but after a night in the hospital he was 
  ready to go back to hunting. Or at least, back to living in the far more 
  comfortable quarters he had enjoyed before. 
  "Time enough," the nurse said. "You're not leaving until the doctor agrees, 
  and your scans aren't normal yet." It wasn't the same nurse as before, he 
  thought, and wondered how often their shifts changed. 
  "Nothing's broken," Ronnie said. "You let that fellow in the other bed leave 
  just twenty-four hours after a broken leg --" 
  "Bones aren't brains," the nurse said. Ronnie closed his eyes, feigning sleep, 
  and was surprised to find dark outside his windows when he opened them again. 
  The next morning (which morning?) he woke without a trace of the headache, and 
  the awareness that he had not been clearheaded before. 
  "And you're not yet," the doctor said, when she arrived to talk to him before 
  he left. "You think you are, but it's like climbing out of a hole: it's 
  lighter where you are, but you're still in shadow. I know this will disappoint 
  you, but I've already notified Lord Thornbuckle's head groom: you are not to 
  ride for at least ten days, and you'll have to be reevaluated then." 
  "But I didn't -- " Ronnie began, but the doctor smiled and patted his knee as 
  if he were a child. Considering her white hair and wrinkles, she probably 
  thought of him that way. I didn't want to ride, he said silently. And now I 
  don't have to. "What about George?" he asked. They had told him nothing so far 
  except soothing murmurs. He braced himself to hear that George had died. 
  "That young man," the doctor said. "Do I understand that everyone calls him 
  the odious George?" 
  "Yes," Ronnie said. 
  "I can see why," she said. "He can have visitors -- in fact, he has visitors 
  all day, now. So if you want to know, just take the lift up one, and it's the 
  third door on the left. He's still on the surgical floor, though really -- " 
  She shook her head without finishing that and left. Ronnie pulled on his 
  clothes, hardly wondering where they'd come from, and went to see George. 
  George lay propped up in bed, looking like an advertisement for a hospital 
  company: dark hair perfectly in place, fading bruises on his face suggesting 
  courage without diminishing his good looks. Ronnie knew that on anyone else 
  the yellow and green and dull purple would have looked hideous, but George's 
  luck seemed to hold. 
  "Ronnie!" His voice sounded the same, if not quite as loud as usual. "I 
  wondered when you'd make it up here. You missed all the excitement." 
  Ronnie stared at him. Missed all the excitement? Had no one told George about 
  the admiral and the gas grenade, or the prince, or -- 
  "My father's on the way," George said. He looked exactly as he had always 
  looked, smug. Odious. Ronnie wanted to hit him, but you couldn't hit someone 
  in bed with a gunshot wound. He went in, nonetheless, holding a vague grudge 
  but not sure how to let it go. Should he tell George about the prince? He 
  thought he remembered it was supposed to be a secret. 
  George's face changed, and his voice softened. "I -- was really scared. You 
  passed out on me, then they caught me, and those two --" 
  "Who?" 
  "The guards back on Bandon. I never saw the hunters at all, just these two 
  men." 
  "They're the ones who shot you?" 
  "Oh, no. One of Bunny's militia shot me, and it wasn't an accident, either. I 
  tried to tell Captain Serrano, but couldn't get it across.... He was standing 
  there, eyeing your aunt as if he'd like to kill her right then." 
  "Did you tell Bunny? When you got back here?" Ronnie had an urge to leap up 
  himself, right then, and go find his aunt. 
  "It's all right. That's part of what you missed. That's the same man who tried 
  to kill your aunt and Captain Serrano when they went to find you in the cave." 

  "Oh." Ronnie tried to remember if he'd heard about that man before. He 
  remembered some things vividly: finding George unconscious, trying to build a 
  litter, the storm, Raffa's warmth against him in the cold, dark cave, that 
  moment of sheer terror when he jumped for the gas grenade. But he had no clear 
  mental map of the time... how long they'd been on the island, or whether 
  they'd stayed on Bandon overnight or flown straight back. 
  "Your aunt plugged him," George said, with relish. "He had the captain 
  covered." 
  "She would," Ronnie said vaguely. He hated not remembering; it was like being 
  very old, he thought. He had probably said things, and done things, without 
  really knowing it What if he had said something stupid? What if he had said 
  something stupid to Raffa? Was that why he couldn't remember seeing her in the 
  hospital? 
  George sobered again. "It's not that easy, being a hero. At least, it wasn't 
  for me. You --" 
  "Not for me, either. There's a lot I can't remember." 
  "There's a lot I wish I couldn't remember." George scowled. "I have never been 
  so scared, so humiliated, in my life -- not even that first term at school." 
  He sounded far more human than usual. "At least you didn't have to scrub any 
  toilets." 
  "Not that again!" Raffa's voice; Ronnie turned to look. She might never have 
  been off the mainland; she looked like all the other polished young women who 
  had come for the hunting party, and she looked like no one else in the 
  universe. Bubbles, beside her, leaned against the door and grinned broadly. 
  "Now I can quit holding Raffa's hand every night. You had us all scared, 
  Ronnie." 
  "Me? George is the one who got shot." 
  "All George needed was a good surgeon, a day in the regen tank, and a 
  personality transplant; my father could supply the first two, but not the 
  last." 
  "You'll regret that, Bubbles -- " George said, but it had no bite. "My 
  reputation depends on being odious. And wrinkle-free." 
  "Your reputation depends on your father," Bubbles said. "Or someone would have 
  beaten the odiousness out of you long before." 
  "Unfair," George said. Then he grinned. "Well -- partly unfair. And I do 
  resent the damage to my good trousers." 
  "I assure you," Bubbles said, in the same dry tone, "that you'll be 
  wrinkle-free and out of here in time for the Hunt Ball. If you promise to keep 
  your mouth shut and cause no trouble about Mr. Smith." 
  George made an innocent face that would not have fooled anyone. It certainly 
  did not fool Ronnie or the girls. 
  "If you don't promise -- and keep that promise," Bubbles went on, "I'll make 
  sure that someone slips the wrong stuff in the regen tank for your next 
  treatment, and you'll have wrinkles in places you don't think wrinkles can 
  form. Permanent wrinkles. Then you can stay in this room until you die of 
  genuine old age." 
  "And I," Raffa said, coming over to take Ronnie's hand, "will personally ruin 
  every garment you own and send your tailor a certified letter giving your new 
  measurements. Interesting new measurements." She mimed the anguish of someone 
  in trousers with a short rise, the problems of skimpy sleeves and a baggy, 
  short jacket. 
  George rolled his eyes dramatically. "You might have trusted me. Lawyers' sons 
  learn some discretion." The others snorted. He went on. "All right. I promise. 
  No leading questions, no suggestive remarks, nothing about Mr. Smith or his... 
  mmm... other identity. But how am I supposed to explain my disappearance from 
  the noble sport of fox hunting?" 
  "We took the flitter to go picnicking, and we crashed, and you and Ronnie were 
  hurt saving us. Very simple, very --" 
  "What about Lady Cecelia and Captain Serrano?" 
  "Unrelated, except that Lady Cecelia is the one who let Bunny know we were 
  missing -- just as it happened. We're hoping to get past the Hunt Ball without 
  the whole story coming out." 
  Neil had pronounced Petris's seat "untidy but effective," and passed him into 
  the blue hunt at once. Heris had little interest in riding to hounds any more, 
  but also little choice; if she stayed home, it would be noticed, and tongues 
  were already wagging. Cecelia, pleading age, could go out only twice a week; 
  Heris had to ride five days out of seven. She knew Cecelia was up to something 
  again -- or still -- because the Crown Minister stayed in the same days as 
  Cecelia. 
  "I might just as well go back to the ship," she argued with Cecelia one 
  afternoon. Her horse had stumbled on landing from a wall, fallen heavily, and 
  come up lame; Heris herself had bruised her shoulder. The fox -- if there was 
  a fox -- had got clean away. She wanted to be back on a decent ship, where 
  large heavy animals didn't dump her off and then roll on her. Her leg wasn't 
  broken, but it felt reshaped. 
  "You should go by the hospital and spend a few hours in the tank," Cecelia 
  said. "You've had a hard fall, and you're sore. It'll heal." 
  "We'll have crew changes --" 
  "You can't go until after the Hunt Dinner and Ball. We have to finish out this 
  much of the season, or it will be suspicious. You notice that no one comments 
  on what happened?" 
  "But --" 
  "But Mr. Smith is safely contained; I've offered to take him home since we 
  already officially know. We'll stay until the Hunt Dinner, and leave the next 
  day. I always stay for the first Hunt Dinner." Heris found this confusing, 
  since in the books she'd read there was only one official Hunt Dinner per hunt 
  club, but presumably Bunny did things his own way. And with such a long 
  season, perhaps most people didn't stay for the whole thing. Cecelia patted 
  her shoulder; Heris tried not to wince. "Now go spend a few hours in the tank, 
  and ask Sari to give you a good rub-down. Petris will be in the green hunt, 
  Neil says, by the day after tomorrow, and you'll feel much better by then." 
  Heris didn't want a rubdown from Sari; she wanted a pleasant night with 
  Petris. But with her bruises, it wouldn't be pleasant. "When is this Hunt 
  Dinner?" she asked, resigned to a trip to the hospital. She would remember to 
  look in on everyone. 
  "End of next week." Cecelia took a few twirling steps that startled Heris. She 
  flushed. "I may be old, and plain, but there's no law that says I can't 
  dance." 
  Dance. Heris thought of dancing with Petris, and felt her bones begin to melt. 
  She would manage not to hunt in the next week; she didn't want to risk missing 
  that. It might even be worth the hours in the regen tank. She was in the tank, 
  trying to relax as the technicians fussed over her bruised arm and leg, when 
  one of the things Cecelia had said brought her bolt upright, splashing. 
  "Sorry," she said, to the technician who had contained his own curse but not 
  the expression on his face. "Bad memory." The prince. Cecelia had said they 
  were going to transport the prince home. That meant... she squeezed her eyes 
  shut, and thought about it. Would Ronnie stay here? Surely she wouldn't have 
  that pair on her ship at the same time! 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  The last week passed in a flurry... cold blue days, icy nights, glorious rides 
  across the open land the green hunt favored. Heris had come out of the tank 
  with more than her bruises healed, and suspected Cecelia of telling someone to 
  load her IV with mood elevators. Either that, or the old books were right when 
  they described the glow of lovers riding stirrup to stirrup at a gallop. 
  "Gallop by day, and... other gaits by night," Petris said, his arm under her 
  head again. Heris didn't answer, as the gait in question required 
  concentration. They could talk again, she had discovered, but this was not the 
  time. Later, he asked, "And what are you wearing to the ball tomorrow?" 
  "A dress," Heris said. She could feel herself starting to chuckle in 
  anticipation, a quiver that Petris must surely recognize. He tapped her nose 
  with his finger. 
  "A dress. Amazing. I thought fox hunters wore skins and furs to a ball. Or 
  horse hides or something equally barbaric. What are you laughing about? Are 
  you wearing a fur dress?" 
  "No... but I won't tell you. You'll have to see it." An extravagance, which 
  she had not intended, but it had made an excuse to miss one day's hunt. It 
  made a sizeable hole in the salary Cecelia had yet to pay her. She could 
  hardly wait to see Petris's face when he saw her in it. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  Heris had not meant to wait until the day of the Hunt Dinner to tackle Cecelia 
  about the changes needed in the ship, but there never seemed to be time. But 
  she had made promises to Petris and the others; she had to make sure Cecelia 
  understood before they actually boarded. The argument (she was sure it would 
  be an argument) must be private. She slithered into her own gown, and shook 
  her head at the image in the mirror. The beaded bodice shifted color with 
  every movement, shimmering; the soft pleats of the midnight-blue skirt were 
  spangled with random beads, as if the bodice had dripped fire onto it. And she 
  looked... very unmilitary, she decided. Very unmilitary. 
  She found Cecelia almost dressed, and fiddling with the amber necklace she 
  favored. A flounce of ivory lace refused to lie properly beneath it. 
  "I need to talk to you about the ship," Heris said. 
  "What's wrong?" 
  "Nothing's wrong...." 
  "So what is it now?" 
  "Some changes will have to be made." Heris watched Cecelia as she said it. The 
  older woman had looked tired for the last week, and claimed it had nothing to 
  do with the ship. The Minister? Mr. Smith? The Service? 
  "Such as?" Cecelia's voice was tart. "Oh -- I suppose we'll have to have 
  another environmental system, to take care of the extra people?" 
  "Not really." Heris ignored the tartness, and went on. "You have four crew who 
  have asked for separation. Three want to stay here, and have applied for 
  employment with Lord Thornbuckle's personnel. The other wants to leave at the 
  next major Roads. Then there's a member of your house staff who got pregnant 
  in Hospitality Bay -- Bates says he is sure of intent, in this case, because 
  she had pursued even him. And one of your undergardeners -- so you see, we 
  won't be overloaded." 
  "What changes then?" 
  Heris met the problem head-on. "Weapons," she said. And as Cecelia stared, her 
  mouth opening, she talked on. "You are a very wealthy woman in a very 
  luxurious and capable ship. Remember that you've already been used by 
  smugglers. What if they want their cargo? What if they want the whole ship? 
  What if they want you? The places you like to travel are not exactly the 
  safest corners of the universe. We need proper armament --" 
  "Now that you have gunners, you have to have guns." So, Cecelia had understood 
  -- or found someone to translate -- the military specialty codes her new crew 
  members carried. Heris cocked her head; Cecelia could hardly claim to be a 
  philosophical pacifist, not after having shot someone herself. 
  "What's the matter, milady? Do you think I'll deliberately lead you into 
  danger?" Of course, she had done just that, but it was for a good reason. 
  "No. I don't know." Cecelia moved restlessly, her long ringers tangled 
  together. "Things have changed. Before, I knew what I was doing -- yes, I was 
  just cruising around having fun, but I knew that was it. Now... when I think 
  of leaving here and going off to Roledre for the qualifying trials, or on to 
  Kabrice for the finals, it's -- it's not that interesting." 
  Heris smothered a grin. Better than she'd hoped for. "If it's bothering you, 
  milady, I'm sure we can find something to do with this ship." 
  Cecelia's eyes narrowed. "Something? You mean you still consider me an idle 
  old lady?" 
  "You said it; I didn't. But think; you are healthy and tough, and yet you had 
  smugglers using your ship. Don't you have friends, equally old and wealthy --" 

  "Not really," muttered Cecelia. Heris ignored that 
  "-- who might have worse parasites aboard than even your Captain Olin? There 
  are," Heris said, thinking of it in that moment, "other things to hunt besides 
  foxes, and other mounts besides horses." 
  "Which prey is beneath the notice of the Regular Fleet?" 
  "Or too elusive for the less agile. Consider --" 
  "How many guns, Heris? What size? And do I get to mention cost?" 
  "No more than we need, no bigger than we need, and I will respect your 
  resources only less than your life." She didn't remind Cecelia about the 
  weapons already purchased. 
  "As you did at Takomin Roads -- no, don't defend yourself; I knew what you 
  were doing and agreed. But from now on, I want to be a member of the hunt 
  staff, not just the owner who pays the fees. You'll have to keep teaching me 
  about my ship, and let me be part of your plans." 
  "You have earned that, and more," Heris said, and meant it. Cecelia grinned 
  back at her. 
  "Then let us go down and dazzle the Hunt Dinner, and dance the night away," 
  she said. "And as for the future... a hunting we shall go...." And she grabbed 
  Heris's arm and led her down the corridor to the main staircase, where Petris, 
  correct in formal dinner attire, waited below. Heris saw his expression shift 
  from surprise through amusement to admiration as she and Cecelia came down arm 
  in arm, singing. "Tan-tivvy, tan-tivvy, tan-tivvy -- a hunting we shall go..." 

  "Ladies, ladies! Such unseemly levity!" But his lips twitched. He offered an 
  arm to each, and cocked an eyebrow at Heris. "You settled it, I gather?" 
  "She was never a military officer, Petris," Cecelia said with a sweet smile. 
  "She was born to be a pirate. Look at her." 
  "I'll do more than look," Petris said into Heris's ear. "Later..." 
  But the tumult of the others interrupted whatever Heris might have said. 
  Already the tall rooms rang with many voices, and more and more men and women 
  in their formal best came down the stairs. Bunny, looking as foolish tonight 
  as he had at first, chatted with one group after another. Then he caught sight 
  of Cecelia, and came over without obvious haste. 
  "So glad you could stay for the Ball," he said, including Petris in the 
  greeting with a nod. "We may have a slight inconvenience...." 
  "Oh?" Cecelia's brows raised 
  "Mr. Smith. He's eluded the Minister's manservant again." 
  Again? Heris stared; she hadn't realized Mr. Smith had been loose before. 
  "Declared he wasn't going to be sent home like a naughty schoolboy, in an old 
  lady's yacht with a battleaxe for a captain." Bunny's mouth smiled, as if they 
  discussed the day's run, but his eyes were cold and angry. "As you know, the 
  Minister had refused to let me place him under a proper guard... but as the 
  Minister does not know, I put a tracer-tag on him. He dashed off to the woods, 
  silly twit. Captain Sigind will bring him in, but I'd like to sedate him and 
  send him up in a shuttle right away, if you don't mind. I can isolate him in 
  the Station sickbay --" 
  Cecelia's expression hardened. "You've got every right to lock him in your 
  local jail. On bread and water. Stupid boy!" 
  "Since there's a standing watch aboard, milady," Heris said, "we can have him 
  aboard your yacht straight from the shuttle. Fewer eyes to see, fewer mouths 
  to talk." 
  "Fine. Do it." Cecelia looked angrier than before; Heris couldn't understand 
  why. Then she changed expression, to astonishment and relief. Heris looked 
  over and saw Ronnie, George, Bubbles, and Raffa. With them was a heavier man 
  whose resemblance to George lay more in manner than in feature. Bunny turned, 
  and waved them over. 
  "Good to see you up and about," he said. And to the older man, "And you, of 
  course, Ser Mahoney." 
  "I have no quarrel with you, Bunny," the older man said. "Don't go formal on 
  me, or I'll have to start wondering if I should." 
  "All right, Kevil. Just so you know I took this very seriously indeed." 
  "I can see George, and I know what happened; that tells me you took it 
  seriously. Your lovely daughter was in it too, I understand." He patted 
  Bubbles on the shoulder, Heris was surprised at the expression on the girl's 
  face. She had changed, Heris thought, in some way that none of them yet knew 
  -- perhaps not even the girl herself. "And of course Cece's nephew. Those two 
  have never been in trouble alone, or out of it together." Kevil Mahoney had a 
  trained voice that could carry conflicting messages with ease; Heris watched 
  both George and Ronnie flush, then subside without saying a word. He leaned 
  closer to Bunny, and let that voice carry another weight of meaning with 
  little volume. "And Mr. Smith? How is that estimable young man?" 
  "He will go home shortly," Bunny said. His eyelids lowered. "Transportation 
  has already been arranged." 
  "Ah. Well, to be honest, Mr. Smith's travel arrangements do not concern me, at 
  least not this evening. I'm simply delighted to be here for the festive 
  occasion, with both lads out of the hospital and able to enjoy it." Kevil 
  Mahoney smiled, bowed slightly, and walked off, leaving the young people 
  behind. They heard him call out to someone he knew, and then he had 
  disappeared in the crowd 
  "I promised," George said, looking anxious, "but did my father?" 
  "Enough," Bunny said. "It's almost time for the dinner, and I will not have it 
  ruined by speculation. Captain Serrano, if I might have the honor of your 
  company?" 
  Heris had not expected this. She glanced at Cecelia, who after all ranked her 
  in every conceivable way these people calculated rank, but Cecelia now looked 
  more relaxed, and simply smiled and nodded. Petris, after one startled look, 
  offered his arm to Cecelia, who accepted it with another smile. 
  Heris took Bunny's arm and hoped she did not look as confused as she felt. He 
  led her through the crowd, and she could hear the subdued murmurs that must be 
  comments on this unusual occurrence. Just as they reached the entrance to the 
  dining room, a fanfare rang out. Heris jumped, and Bunny chuckled. Under cover 
  of the music, he murmured, "Didn't mean to alarm you, Captain, but this is 
  traditional." 
  His wife, Heris noted, was standing with Buttons. As they made their way into 
  the dining room, she realized that the participants in the recent adventures 
  had been provided with partners that justified their being seated at the head 
  table. Bunny's wife with Buttons, and George with Bubbles, and Ronnie with an 
  elderly lady, and Raffa with an elderly man of the same vintage. 
  "That's my aunt Trema," Bunny said, "and my wife's uncle. They're both quite 
  deaf," Bunny said, "and they've refused implants. They love coming to a couple 
  of Hunt Dinners a year; they sit together at the ball afterwards and write 
  each other saucy notes on their compads. Eccentric, but harmless." Petris, 
  with Lady Cecelia, certainly had a place at the family table. George's father 
  sat at the far end, with another elderly relation on one side, and one of the 
  gawky cousins on the other. 
  "You see the advantages," Bunny went on, with a slight smile, "of a reputation 
  for eccentricity and archaicisms?" 
  "Indeed yes," Heris said. She looked down the long dining hall, to the 
  trumpeters in their beribboned tunics who were ready to lead in the feast. 
  Most of the guests had found their places, but Bunny waited until even the 
  clumsy soul who overturned his chair had safely reseated himself. Then he 
  nodded at the trumpeters, who lifted their instruments once more. 
  To the blare of trumpets and the shrill wailing of pipes, the feast came in. 
  Cecelia reached around Petris to say, "It's about as authentic as the foxes, 
  but it's fun." Bunny winked at her, and Heris began to relax. It could be 
  worse... would have been worse, if Cecelia hadn't told her, if they hadn't 
  told Bunny, if she and Cecelia both had not been good shots. They could all 
  have been dead. 
  She pulled her mind away from that with an effort, and made herself enjoy the 
  spectacle. Serving trays loaded with exotic foods whose origin she couldn't 
  even guess. Servants in colorful livery. And the music. The food, when she 
  tasted it, drove the last grim thought from her mind. 
  "I hadn't had a chance to thank you," Bunny said, somewhere between the soup 
  and fish. "It's been hectic since you got back." 
  "I didn't realize Mr. Smith had been giving trouble," Heris said 
  "Mmm. Although that's not the reason I asked you to come in with me, it may 
  prove convenient to have you here when he's found. If you're sure the transfer 
  to Lady Cecelia's yacht poses no problem." 
  "Not if I have a direct line up." 
  "Of course. My debt to you continues to grow. I don't know if you actually 
  enjoyed the sport, but please consider yourself welcome here anytime." Under 
  the pleasant tone, the calm expression, Heris sensed tension and even 
  savagery. They ate in silence for some minutes, as the fish course came and 
  went, and slices of roast appeared. Bunny sighed, and resumed as if he had not 
  paused. "Bubbles -- says she wants to talk to you." 
  "To me?" 
  "An experience like that would change anyone; I understand. But she's been the 
  youngest, the wildest -- so of course her change had to be greater." 
  Heris eyed her host. "Did she tell you about it?" 
  "Some. Not all. She thinks you -- because you were military -- will understand 
  her better." 
  Heris could think of nothing socially acceptable to say. She could imagine the 
  sort of thing Bubbles would think she could understand -- and she did 
  understand, but not in the way Bubbles would want. Nor did she wish to 
  interfere in this family, especially not now. "She's almost certainly wrong 
  about that," Heris said. "But of course I'll listen to her." 
  "I must admit," he went on, cutting a slice of roast into matching slivers, 
  "that before I knew you better, you would not have been my choice of 
  confidante for my daughter." 
  "The military woman?" Heris asked, lightly. 
  "Not exactly. The Serrano Admiralty is well known..." His voice trailed away, 
  and his gaze slid sideways to meet hers. Heris was surprised, and probably 
  looked it 
  "My family? They think I'm the disgrace -- why should you object to them?" 
  "I prefer you," Bunny said and did not answer the rest of the question. He 
  pushed the slivers of meat aside. Something bleeped, beside his plate, and he 
  picked up a silvery button and clipped it to his ear. Moments later, his jaw 
  bunched. Heris tried not to stare, and made inroads on her dinner. Beside her, 
  Petris was chatting with Cecelia, almost pointedly ignoring her. Cecelia 
  winked past him -- so she had explained. Or so Heris hoped. 
  Bunny touched her wrist lightly, and she turned back to him. "We may have a 
  problem," he said. "Mr. Smith divested himself of the tagger. Captain Sigind 
  found it, but not the... Mr. Smith. He's already sealed the flitter hangars 
  and other sources of transport, but Mr. Smith is a skilled rider." 
  Heris spoke before her tact caught up with her tongue: "We are not going out 
  looking for that scamp on horseback in the dark!" 
  "No. You're right, we aren't. The militia are, and if he founders that mare he 
  stole, I will have his hide on my wall. I don't know how a Registered Embryo 
  could end up this stupid." 
  "He'll come here," Heris said softly, thinking it through. "He wants in on the 
  fun, that's all. There's a party; he wants to play. He's like Ronnie was 
  before. He'll think of a disguise, or something from --" 
  A crash from outside the hall interrupted, followed by the obvious clattering 
  of hoofs on a hard floor. Before anyone could get up to investigate, someone 
  outside flung the doors open. There stood a masked man in a costume more 
  bizarre than any in the room. Puffed breeches under a loud tartan kilt, white 
  hose, buckled shoes, a doublet, a wide-sleeved shirt, a short cape, and a 
  curious pile of velvet and feathers on his head: it looked as if he had 
  ransacked a costume shop. He held the reins of a skittish horse, and 
  brandished a sword. Someone whooped nervously; Bunny sat rigid. From the far 
  end of the table, the elderly lady Ronnie had partnered stood up abruptly. 
  "Now this is ridiculous. Disgraceful mixing of periods. Not one of these young 
  people has any respect for historical reproduction. Imagine wearing a kilt 
  over breeches! Just what century does he think he is, anyway?" She had the 
  loud, off-pitch voice of someone who has not heard herself speak for years. 
  She glared at Bunny. "If this is your surprise, young Branthcome, it is 
  singularly unamusing." 
  For once Bunny had nothing to say. Heris stared at the masked man with instant 
  certainty. No one else on the planet would do something like this. Were those 
  moustaches sticking out from behind the mask? And what should she do? They had 
  to capture him, but also conceal him. Some of the people here must have met 
  the prince face to face. Could she and Petris subdue him without displacing 
  his mask? She caught a glimpse of a servant behind the horse, trying to edge 
  nearer, but the frightened animal plunged and kicked, and the servant 
  retreated. 
  "It is traditional, I believe, to have a masked stranger make away with a 
  beautiful woman at affairs like this...." The man's voice certainly matched 
  that of Mr. Smith. Heris looked around the room. The Crown Minister had turned 
  white, but most people were amused, interested... already the hum of 
  conversation had returned. The servant Heris had first seen came in sight 
  again; the masked man turned and handed him the reins. "Here -- hold my mount, 
  please." Wide-eyed, the servant did so. Then the masked man strode into the 
  dining hall, up the length to the family's table, and grabbed Raffaele firmly 
  by one wrist. With a bow to Ronnie, he said, "You stole a singer from me; I 
  but return the compliment --" 
  "Imposter!" Ronnie leapt to his feet and yanked the mask from the man's face 
  and the sword from his hand. Heris heard the startled gasps. Mr. Smith, 
  without a doubt. But Ronnie's furious stare down the table denied it. "You 
  would have us think you're the prince, because everyone knows I quarrelled 
  with the prince... but you're only a common mechanic." 
  "Let go of my arm," Raffaele said, in the tone she would have used to a social 
  inferior. Mr. Smith complied, looking confused. 
  "But I am the prince --" 
  "You're a... a mole," Ronnie said. Raffaele rubbed her wrist and looked away, 
  pointedly ignoring the intruder. Heris suddenly realized where Ronnie was 
  going with this, and could hardly believe he had thought so fast. She waited 
  for the cue she was sure he would give. "Don't think I didn't see you ogling 
  Raffa on my aunt's yacht. Just because you're fair-haired and tall, just 
  because you know how to use makeup, you thought you could pass yourself off as 
  the prince." He shook the man's shoulder. "Look at you! You're in a roomful of 
  people who know the prince -- didn't you think of that? Did you really expect 
  to fool people by covering your face? Did you hear what Lord Thornbuckle's 
  aunt said? We know how to dress in period costumes -- this mess you have on is 
  a -- a travesty. Pitiful." He looked down the table at Heris. "I must 
  complain, Captain Serrano, about the actions of your crewman." 
  Heris stood smoothly. "You're quite right. I regret that I didn't recognize 
  him in his disguise, but he is only the junior environmental tech, and I've 
  never seen him in anything but a shipsuit. I take full responsibility. Petris 
  -- " Petris stood, as well. "We'll make sure this -- individual -- " She could 
  not think of a name to give him. Mr. Smith was too dangerous now. "--doesn't 
  intrude again, and I daresay his working papers will be cancelled 
  permanently." 
  "But I am -- and this was all I could find --" 
  "Silence." Bunny had found his voice at last; when he chose to be loud, he 
  could be heard across an open field in a blowing wind. Here it silenced 
  everyone, even the furtive whisperers in the corners. "I insist that my 
  militia escort this individual to the shuttleport, and all the way into the 
  custody of your yacht, Lady Cecelia. I believe I am correct in saying there 
  may be charges beyond my jurisdiction, involving impersonation of a member of 
  the Royal Family?" He inclined his head to Kevil Mahoney, who nodded. "Then I 
  would not have him on this planet one hour longer than necessary. Captain 
  Serrano, if you will inform your standing watch?" 
  "With pleasure." 
  Still protesting, but uselessly, Mr. Smith found himself overpowered and 
  dragged away by militia, while Heris called the yacht and arranged for his 
  confinement. Ronnie still stood at the end of the table, and when the room 
  quieted, he looked to Bunny for permission to speak. Bunny nodded. 
  Ronnie rubbed his nose a moment, until he had everyone's attention. "Most of 
  you know that I was exiled for a year after the prince and I had a dispute. 
  Some of you know more. But what you may not know is how I could be so sure the 
  prince had not come here in some disguise or other. When I knew where my aunt 
  was bringing me, I worried about that myself, and looked it up. The prince was 
  posted to the Royal Aero-Space Service depot on Naverrn -- " Ronnie was 
  looking at the Crown Minister, who, Heris noted, suddenly looked very alert. 
  "I'm sure any of you can check that posting, and confirm it. And this man -- I 
  don't even know his name -- caught my eye on the yacht because he did somewhat 
  resemble the prince, and he was sneaking around Raffaele." 
  "But are you sure it wasn't the prince pretending to be an environmental 
  tech?" asked a woman near one corner. 
  "Of course it wasn't," Ronnie said. "We had both sworn an oath to duel if we 
  saw each other within the next year -- do you think both of us would be coward 
  enough to ignore that? That -- that person didn't even know how to use a 
  sword." He looked angry; Raffa patted his hand, and he sat down again. 
  Heris could almost hear the collective lurch with which everyone tried to 
  return to the mood of a Hunt Dinner and Ball and ignore the interruption, as 
  Bunny signalled and the servants brought in another course. 
  -=O=-***-=O=- 
  George leaned against the mirrored wall of the ballroom feeling sulky again. 
  Ronnie and Raffa hardly seemed to notice the music, but flowed with it like 
  leaves on a stream. Captain Serrano and Petris... he would like to have made a 
  jest of them, but could not. They had gone through so much; they deserved 
  their obvious happiness. If only Bubbles had not turned against him... they 
  could have made another good match, he was sure. He liked her well enough, now 
  that Raffa had turned to Ronnie. Blondes set off his own dark handsomeness. 
  It was unfair. He and the prince alone, out of all that crowd, could not enjoy 
  the party. And while he was luckier than the prince, in being here and not 
  under guard somewhere, he had no one to share his evening. He watched the 
  whirling dancers idly for awhile, then stared. His father. His father and 
  Ronnie's aunt. Talking, laughing, obviously enjoying each other.... They 
  danced by, and Lady Cecelia winked at him. His father, and that old... 
  although she wasn't all that bad, really. She danced remarkably well, in fact. 
  He just didn't want her as a stepmother, or aunt, or whatever she and his 
  father might have in mind. The two of them together were definitely too smart 
  for him; he and Ronnie would never enjoy more pranks. He turned away, ready to 
  take a long walk somewhere, and almost fell over the girl coming his way. Her 
  eyes widened. "You're -- you're George Starbridge Mahoney, aren't you? Kevil 
  Mahoney's son?" He knew what to do with that kind of look, and drew himself 
  up. 
  "Yes," he said. "I am." 
  "Somebody told me your nickname was Odious, but I don't believe it. I think 
  you're nice." She had hazel eyes and fluffy hair of a red-brown shade he 
  couldn't have put a name to. Something about her made him feel protective, 
  something more than the slender wrists and hands, he was sure, or the somewhat 
  pointy face. "You don't know me," she said, almost timidly. "I'm just one of 
  the cousins; you've seen me out hunting, but usually covered with mud." 
  "I should have seen beneath it," he said gallantly. He liked being gallant. 
  "Would you care to dance?" He led her onto the floor. 
  "I love Hunt Balls," the girl said. They whirled around; she danced as lightly 
  as a fox over a fence on its way to take a chicken from the coop. George drew 
  back a moment, wondering. Was he the hunter, or was she? It didn't matter, he 
  decided; she couldn't be that certain herself. 
  "So do I," he said, and took her past his father and Ronnie's aunt, enjoying 
  their reaction. "So do I." 
  THE END 
