Rafael Dunbarger landed at Nexus Center Port as Genson Ratanvi, a staid, slightly paunchy middle-aged businessman in food service with a Cascadian identity. His tidy gray beard and gray-streaked hair, his padded cheeks and aged skin, his sober business suit with a few lines of Cascadian green through its subtle gray plaid all fit this image. Customs and Immigration passed him through, as his bioassays all matched his identity—as well they should, Rafe thought. Short-acting DNA subs programmed with his alter's bioassays might give him a temporary headache, but that was a price he could pay. He had obtained this first false ID at Cascadia more than a decade before, and he'd used it here several times, on visits his family hadn't known about.

The trip from Cascadia had been no worse than usual; he had spent the twenty-nine days chatting with other business travelers, exercising in the business-class gym, reading in the business-class lounge, avoiding the gawking tourists and the family groups as his persona required, and carefully not thinking about Ky or Stella Vatta. Ky was beyond his reach, probably dead; he could not tease Stella now, not until she reached some equilibrium with her new identity.

Instead, he toyed with ISC's problems. How had so many ansibles gone bad all at once? Surely not chance...who had done it? Why was repair so slow? If he himself could restore function in a few hours, why weren't ISC's repair teams making more headway? How deeply had the pirates infiltrated ISC?

Landing on Nexus II—he carefully did not let himself call it home—Rafe pushed that puzzle aside. Genson Ratanvi needed to find a way to contact Rafe's family, discreetly.

First he headed for the Ambisor, a commercial hotel frequented by business travelers where he had stayed before; his minimal luggage trailed him on a rented hoverpad. Once installed in his room, he first dealt with the hotel's surveillance system and then installed his own unique gear. The hotel's system would now inform the hotel that Genson Ratanvi came in, bathed, slept, and went out, on a reasonable but not too rigid schedule; it would believe anything he sent it, including remotely from his implant. Pseudo-calls would be noted; pseudo-messages would be sent. Then Rafe called up the business directory on the room display, marking the sorts of businesses he should, in this persona, mark, then tapping the key to collapse the rest of the directory.

What he really wanted to know, he had noted in passing: ISC headquarters still had the same public access number. Not that Genson Ratanvi had any reason to call there.

After a mediocre meal at the hotel's café, Rafe headed out into the city. It was autumn in this location, just after midday, local time. He drew a deep breath, anticipating and then enjoying the familiar fragrance, childhood-deep in his memory. His favorite time of year, with apples ripe on the trees and the autumn mushrooms mingling their scent with that of fallen leaves, even here in the city's commercial district. Probably every world had its characteristic scents, but he spent nearly all his time on ships and stations. He felt a strange mix of nostalgia and fear: this was home, and home could be deadly.

The Number 161 tram still ran from the spaceport hotel district out to the northern suburbs; Rafe rode it to the last stop, seeing little change from the last time he'd been here except that the long-delayed northern extension of the freight monorail was finally in place. He got off in the bustling little market, now full of school-children buying treats after school, and women—mostly employees, he knew—buying fresh produce and meat for dinner.

He headed for Luce's, sat down at an outside table, and ordered a slice of honeycake and tea with lime. The lime came partly pared, a curl of peel holding it to the rim of the glass. He stared at it a moment. Where was Ky by now? Off on that idiot attempt to build a fleet out of a bunch of untrained privateers? His shoulders twitched. Dead. She must be dead by now; he was not going to think about her.

Except that she had shipboard ansibles and intended to use them. That, he had to think about, and carefully, before he told his father. ISC must not decide she was an enemy. He owed her that much, just in case she was still alive.

His portable security system informed him that—aside from the general surveillance designed to notice and focus on suspicious activity—he was not observed. Humans were inattentive witnesses anyway, and no one really cared about a middle-aged, slightly paunchy man quietly eating honeycake and drinking tea. Nor would they care if he appeared to be talking to himself; almost everyone had an implant, and most of those had skullphones.

He activated his own skullphone and called his father's private number. His father might be in a meeting, might not answer at once, but—

"This number is no longer available. Please check the number you are calling and try again."

Rafe sat very still, then made himself breathe normally. It had been years; the number was in his implant files, but perhaps he had flicked the wrong one. That could happen. He entered it again.

"This number is no longer..."

He closed the connection and took a bite of honeycake. His father's number was no longer available? Had he changed it for some reason? That could be awkward; Rafe's business persona had no reason and no influence to get access to ISC's chief executive. Surely his father hadn't...died. Someone would have told him. His mother would have, surely...

He activated the table's local information file. His family's home number would not be listed in such a public place, but he remembered a lot of local numbers and he could see if there had been an overall change. No. He did not have his mother's private skullphone number, nor his sister's, and he had not wanted to call the house...all calls were recorded, and why would Genson Ratanvi be calling that number? Call ISC headquarters? Use one of his other names? One of the names known to ISC's internal security? Very dangerous if someone there was crooked.

He found a useful number only two digits off his home—Flasic's Bakery Supplies—and marked it on the table's list. Then he entered his own home's number—a simple mistake, if anyone asked.

"Please state your name and reason for calling." That was not a voice he knew, none of the household he recognized, though his parents could have hired new servants since his last visit home. But the hair rose on his arms. The link was hardbound, so that he could not simply cut off the call.

"This is Genson Ratanvi, just arrived from Cascadia," he said in Genson's voice, a prissy, plummy version of a Cascadian accent. "I'm trying to reach Flasic's Bakery Supplies...you are a purveyor of custom-designed commercial bakery equipment and specialized mixes, are you not?"

"You have the wrong number," the voice informed him. "Where are you calling from?"

It had to be official. Something was very wrong indeed. "From a place...er...Luce's?...they have honeycakes and lime tea."

"And when did you say you arrived?"

"A few hours ago; my ship from Cascadia docked at Nexus Station yesterday."

"Do not attempt to end this call. Just a moment." The connection hummed and hissed. Rafe finished his honeycake and sipped tea while he waited.

The voice came back, a little less strained. "You entered the wrong number, a seven instead of a five. We have confirmed your arrival today. You may end this call now."

"What is this about?" Rafe asked. "Is something wrong?" Genson would ask that.

"It is no affair of yours," the voice said; the connection broke.

"Would you like something else?" Luce's proprietor, whom Rafe had known since childhood, stood by the table, looking at him with suspicion but no recognition.

"It's very good," Rafe said, waving his hand at the crumbs on his plate. "But this is confusing. I need to contact Flasic's Bakery Supplies, and I entered the wrong number and someone was very rude to me."

"We aren't as formal as you Cascadians," Luce said, picking up the plate. "Don't assume we're rude if we're not all flowery."

"No offense intended," Rafe said. So Luce knew he was Cascadian? Who had told him? "I was just surprised. Do you know where Flasic's Bakery Supplies is? Perhaps I should walk there instead of trying to call. I don't want to make more mistakes."

Luce smiled. "I can take you there myself; I was going over to get the estimate on a new oven."

Rafe doubted that, but he was willing to let Luce walk with him the several blocks to Flasic's. Anything to convince the ants' nest he'd kicked that he was harmless and forgettable. On the way, he was able to convince Luce that he knew something about bakeries; Luce didn't seem to realize that it was mostly Luce's own knowledge that Rafe had picked up as a boy, being fed back to him in handy snippets.

Once in the store, he invented a problem with oven manufacturers on Cascadia, and inquired soberly about the possibility of importing high-volume, precise-temperature-control ovens from Nexus. He had shipping costs at his fingertips; he ran over the figures with the enthusiasm and thoroughness of any businessman, and finally shook his head. "I'm afraid not," he said to the sales representative who was talking with him. Luce, he noticed, was still hovering across the room, trying to pretend a serious conversation with another man. "It's simply too expensive, even if we went straight to your manufacturers. Perhaps we can hire some of your experts as consultants instead. I know ovens are supposed to be simple, mature technology, but every time we try to scale up bakery output, we end up with inferior product and unhappy customers." He smiled at his sales representative. "Thank you for your time; you were very helpful, and I'm terribly sorry I can't promise a sale. You will forgive me?"

The man blinked at him. "No need to apologize, sir; it's my job—oh...you're from Cascadia, right?"

"Yes. I suppose we do seem overly formal to you—but that's not intended as an insult." Rafe had always enjoyed his Cascadian persona; overblown courtesy could be every bit as deadly as biting sarcasm, an art form with its lethal edges well concealed rather than exposed.

"Not at all," the man said. "We're a bit too direct sometimes, probably. It was a pleasure, sir."

"And to me, as well." Rafe stood up to leave, and was not surprised that Luce was also through, and coming toward him, smiling.

"Success?" he asked.

"Alas not," Rafe said. "Transportation is still too high. But don't let me detain you; you have a business to run."

Luce seemed willing enough, once outside, to turn back toward his own place. Rafe went to an information kiosk and looked up the manufacturers whose names he'd just learned, then called each one to inquire about offworld consultancy contracts. Since he could use the same spiel with each one, the rest of his mind was free to wonder how long it would take to bore the man watching him from the café across the street, and how soon he could evade his watchers.

By now it was late afternoon, time for workers to be coming home. Most people would be thinking of food or entertainment or both, and so might a businessman from offworld. He bustled across the street and interrupted a waiter at the café. "Where can a visitor get some...you know...?"

The waiter glared at him. "Food, drink, or sex?"

"I was thinking, dinner and a show—music, dance, something like that. Anything but my hotel room."

"The Zedaiyah Dinner Theater's about six blocks that way—" The waiter pointed with his elbow. "Please excuse me; I have customers..."

Rafe's watcher was easily close enough to overhear, even if he didn't have a spike-mike. Rafe turned away and headed "that way," stopping several times to ask passersby if he was going in the right direction. He'd been to the dinner theater once as a child, when they'd had a special children's holiday program: something with fairies and unicorns and a wicked witch flying through the air. They'd been given all the candy they could eat, and he had been heartily sick on the way home. The next year, he'd refused to go. He hoped dinner would be better this time.

On the way, he called his hotel on the skullphone and asked the concierge to arrange a ticket for him; it was waiting when he came to the ticket office. He went in, while his follower had to stop and buy a ticket, and looked around. Tables arranged in steeply pitched rows around the playing space, which looked much smaller now. Emergency exits there and there...restrooms male and female...a stairway to the balcony level. The bar to one side, where the early arrivals were gathered at small tables or standing by the polished bar. He headed that way, showed his ticket to the usher, and chose a tiny table in an alcove.

Two hours later, replete with a surprisingly good meal, he was eeling out the emergency exit without tripping its automatic alarm. The business suit and certain other elements of his disguise were stowed in the men's room, behind a ceiling tile over one of the stalls. Handy that Nexus society, founded on communication, still believed in privacy to the extent of having some completely enclosed stalls in every public restroom. He wore a camouflage skinsuit, and in the soft autumn mist that always came up after dark he had no trouble passing unseen through the town streets, then along the private road to his family's home.

He knew every centimeter of the road, every bush, every tree, every place someone could hide, every surveillance device and its range and sensitivity. He was prepared to confuse, to fox the scans, to disable some completely if he must.

He was not prepared to find the place uninhabited and unprotected except by its fence and hedge...and one very obvious police guard at the gate. He got in unnoticed, which he expected, and into the house—the empty house, with only a few dim lights on and all surveillance gear disconnected. The furniture was still there, the gleaming tiles of the kitchen, the long polished floor of the grand salon, though the leaves of the ornamental tigis drooped and the soil beneath it was dry. Tall bookcases in the library still held their books, both modern and antique. The music room still held the priceless grand piano, the concert harp, the cabinets full of music scores and recordings. A pale irregular area perhaps one by two meters marked the floor, visible even in the dim light.

He could not resist going upstairs to his old room, telling himself he might find some useful clue on the second floor. He had suspected his parents would clear it, turn it into a guest room, but instead it seemed unchanged, a wrenching time capsule. A crude model of an ansible platform, a school project for which he had won an award when he was nine, still stood on a shelf, the faded ribbon beside it. Textbooks still jammed the low bookcase. Even his clothes—including the uniform of the hated boarding school—were still in the closet, carefully sealed in preservative packs.

For a moment, he leaned his head on the closet door frame, his breath coming fast and uneven. He could not have said, in that instant, if it was rage or pain that wrenched so powerfully. He had been prepared to have his life erased, removed utterly from his respectable family's awareness, but they had kept...someone had kept...so much. Even—and tears burned his eyes—the fateful display sword that had saved his life and caused him so much grief.

He eased back downstairs and out of the house with his usual skill, while his emotions swirled...he had not known, he had not understood. What he had not understood, he could not say; he wanted desperately to see his father, talk to him. He forced that aside as he moved back across the property toward the road. Whatever had gone wrong, he must not be suspected or captured now.

Reentering the theater at the climax of the second act, he slipped unobtrusively into the men's room, into the stall he had used, retrieved his costume and put it on over the skinsuit, and then—sticking a finger down his throat—vomited into the toilet, noisily. It was easier than he'd thought it would be, and his face was suitably pale when he looked in the mirror. He returned to his table at the intermission; a passing waitress asked him if he felt all right.

"Too much travel," he said, smiling at her. "My stomach—it is delicate, I'm afraid."

"Should I call someone?"

"No...I should be all right now. But tell me—is it possible to get a private car to the port area? I don't know if I feel like riding the tram."

"Of course, sir. Would you like me to arrange that now, or do you want to see the rest of the play? It's quite good—"

"I will try to stay, but—"

"Just press this button, if you need me," she said, reminding him of the call button on his table.

"Thank you," he said.

Through the third act of the romantic comedy, he tried to think rather than feel. He had expected a chilly reconciliation or an angry rejection...not this blank nothingness of absence. Were they dead? Surely he would have heard...but he had not been at his last reported address; he had been in space, much of the time in FTL flight, utterly unreachable, for...more than half a standard year now. Perhaps they had died, and no one could find him. Yet...why then the odd response to his call? And if they weren't dead, where were they?

He clapped with the rest when the show was over, and the waitress came over to check on him and tell him she had arranged a car. He thanked her; he had already left a generous tip. His watcher was outside on the steps, feigning interest in a poster advertising the show. Rafe leaned on one of the pillars until a car drew up and the driver asked for "Gen-son Ra-tan-vi?" with the accent on the wrong syllable in both names.

The watcher stared fixedly at the poster—better than whirling around, but not much, Rafe thought as he got into the car and gave the hotel name and address to the driver. He made no effort to lower his voice, and besides, the watcher could always check with the car hire company. The paunchy foreigner had indeed gone straight back to his hotel after being sick in the men's room.

He lay a long time on the bed, wondering what to do next. The newsfeed in his room, its sound automatically muted this late at night, had nothing about his family, and only the blandest announcement that ISC was making good progress restoring ansible service. The talking head for that announcement was Lew Parmina, his father's closest associate and expected successor. Rafe remembered the man—intelligent, sophisticated, affable—who had been his father's messenger in the most difficult years when his father had virtually disowned him. Parmina had counseled patience, had promised to do what he could to mend the breach; he had sent friendly notes now and then with the remittance payments. He looked much the same, with the well-groomed gloss of the successful man of business.

Rafe turned off the newsfeed. He didn't care about Parmina unless the man had something to do with his family's disappearance. Which surely he did not: he was well up the ladder to the highest position in the most powerful monopoly in human space; what more could he want?

Where was his father—his mother—his family? He felt as if a crevasse had opened up beside him and half his universe had disappeared into it, as if he teetered on the brink of some bottomless pit. He shivered and dragged the bedcovers over himself. It was like something Ky had said—tried to say—about her family's death. He had been so sure he knew how she felt, what it was she had to cope with. An adult, someone who'd been out on her own...how bad could it be?

He had known nothing. As the shiver built into shudders, as he felt himself engulfed in a sorrow colder than death itself, he knew that she had felt this: the last of her family, as he might well be the last of his. Bereft, alone...and so much younger than he was, so much less experienced.

And she had gone on. He let himself hold to that, for the moment. That crazy idiot, that stiffly, stubbornly upright prig of a girl, who shared with him a guilty secret delight in killing: she had not collapsed under this sorrow. She had fought back. She had saved him—humiliating as that was—and Stella and Toby and her ship and her crew, and gone on being who she was.

He was warm again, and able to breathe. She was probably dead by now, or soon would be, and because of that it was safe to admit what he felt. To himself, anyway. And what would she do, in his situation? He almost chuckled, imagining that dark, vivid face, those intense eyes. What he himself would do—would find a way to do—when he'd had some rest.

What a team they could make, if they didn't kill each other. If they didn't each die before they met again. And on that thought, he fell asleep.

The smell woke him. A chemical knife, it stabbed deep into his awareness; he was sitting bolt upright before he realized he was awake.

That miserable implant. Ky. It must be Ky trying to use the cranial implant. He staggered into the bathroom—the only logical excuse for waking so suddenly if someone had breached his security.

Only the alarm functioned without an external power source. He did not want to link himself into the room's power outlets, and yet—he came out of the bathroom, checked his security devices, and burrowed into his luggage for the special cables. He had checked the quality of the line signal and was about to hook himself up when he had another thought.

What if it wasn't Ky?

Here, of all places, someone knew that he had a cranial ansible. His father knew. The technicians who had built and installed it knew. They were supposed to have been told that it had failed, that it was both useless and dangerous, and all their notes and so on were supposed to have been destroyed, but what if not?

What if whatever had happened to his family had let the enemies know not only that he had a cranial ansible, but also how to contact him?

He would be immobilized, nearly helpless, as long as he was hooked in.

But if he didn't hook in...

The hotel room had not been designed to be impenetrable, but he did the best he could, as silently as possible, with the chair and the ottoman. Then he arranged the cables, took a deep breath, and activated the ansible.

It was not quite like using an ordinary skullphone. Ordinary skullphones didn't smell like gas leaks, skunks, rancid butter, wet dog. The smell associated with being called changed to the one associated with a connection being made. Then a faint sound he associated with an open line, nothing more.

Somewhere, someone's telltales should have gone from standby to connected. Someone had placed the call...someone should be speaking. Rafe said nothing. Ansible-to-ansible was not the same as implant-to-implant; he could not strip data from someone's implant this way even if they had the same setup he did. Which he hoped no one but Ky Vatta did.

His only safety lay in patience—waiting out whomever had called.

Seconds passed. Minutes. A trickle of sweat ran down his back. If it had been someone friendly on the other end, they'd have spoken by now. Ky, certainly. His father, if nothing was wrong with him. Anyone else—would be trying to trace the signal? Would be planning to send some devastating blast right into his brain? At least he knew—hoped he knew—that wouldn't work. The safety interlocks prevented any excessive power surges. Nor should they have been able to trace his location from the ansible's response. But no one who wouldn't speak to him should have been able to initiate the call.

Finally he heard, dimly, voices talking. Not talking to him, but talking somewhere in the pickup range of whatever unit they were using. He boosted the sensitivity, shunting the input to storage for later analysis.

"...the light's green. It has to be connected."

"...not in the index. A private ansible? Would he have had a private off-list ansible?"

"...knows? 'Sposed to be the son's private number, but nobody's there—"

"It's connected."

"Could be in automatic mode. If it's designed for relays or something."

Three voices, Rafe decided. Too far from the pickup to tell much about them, at least without signal analysis.

Then, loudly, "Hey! Answer me!" Male voice, not above middle age, used to having its orders followed.

Rafe said nothing.

"Got to be on auto," the same voice said, this time in a normal tone. "I don't hear a thing."

"So he lied to us. Not his son's number—"

"Or his son has it on auto but with no pickup message."

"We should leave him a message," a more distant voice said.

"Not until we know where he is," the closest voice said.

The connection closed with a snap; Rafe sat a long moment without moving before he unplugged the cable and re-coiled it into its place in his bag.

Two and two in this case made a very unsavory four. The most likely he to have told them the number was his father. He would not have given that number except at great need, probably under duress. That and the trap on the house number, the immediate tail put on what should have passed as an innocent businessman, the empty house...all that suggested an organization with enormous resources, if not the government itself, operating with the government's consent if not approval. Remembering what Ky and Stella had told him about the attacks on Vatta on Slotter Key, he wondered if the pirates had somehow intimidated the Nexus government into letting them kidnap the head of ISC. Or if they had infiltrated some group within ISC.

Not likely, he decided. The men had not sounded like expert ISC communications technicians; they'd used none of the jargon peculiar to the trade. That meant they might not be able to trace the ansible relay beyond Nexus and thus could not find him. On the other hand, they might have a skilled technician in their organization, or even captive.

Either way, Genson Ratanvi and his food processing needed to disappear in a way that would not alert anyone to anything. He would have to leave the planet, or appear to, on his way back to Cascadia. It was almost dawn...an energetic businessman with a digestive upset might well be up and making calls, hoping to find a place on a ship home. Then again—he'd been here only a day. Would he give up so easily? No. Nexus had other cities, other suppliers. Surely the man would travel around, unhappy stomach and all.

Rafe logged on to the hotel's travel information site and soon had an itinerary that gave him a reason to be in every major city over the next four weeks. He declined the hotel's booking agency and made the reservations himself, choosing to change carriers here and there. With excellent communications links, Nexus travelers were spontaneous in their schedules; no one would notice particularly if someone on a scheduled ferry or flight didn't show up, especially if the passenger called in.

By the time Rafe came down to breakfast in his business persona, he had determined that the contact attempt had originated here on Nexus; his illicit and—he hoped—undetectable probes of the Nexus ansible had gotten him that far. The origination code for the call was not his father's, and he didn't recognize it. He would have to hack into the main database to find a name, and it might not be the right one. The call had relayed through a communications satellite then covering an area two time zones away; beyond that, he had been able to find one relay, a surface installation near a town named, with no originality at all, Pittville, presumably for the nearby pit mine.

He ate a moderate breakfast, explaining to his waiter, in his persona's stuffy way, that something he'd eaten the day before had disagreed with him. After checking out, he went directly to the regional airport. Someone, he was sure, would be checking on Genson Ratanvi's movements. Let them. Genson would be boringly predictable for a day or so at least.

While waiting for his flight, he used the databoards as any other business traveler might do. All bore the ISC logo and—here on ISC's home planet—came with ads extolling ISC's technological and marketing genius. Rafe spent a moment downloading the public information to his implant, then went on searching for food processing specialists' current contact numbers at his next stop, and began calling them as he thought about the ISC listing.

Interesting...his father was listed as an ex officio member of the board, and Lew Parmina was now listed as CEO. Not surprising that he was the new CEO if something had happened to Rafe's father, but that didn't explain the empty house, the traps on communications, that call on his cranial ansible.


"Cousin Stella?" Toby's voice and the skitter of his dog's claws on the floor brought Stella Vatta out of another dismal reverie.

She glanced at the security escort, annoyed with herself for having missed the warning tone of the entry, and nodded to him. He nodded back and sketched a salute before leaving the apartment; she checked to make sure the exit warning came on. Then she forced a smile and turned to greet him. "Yes, Toby?"

"They moved me up another class," he said as he came in. "The test results are in...and can I have a snack?"

"Of course," Stella said, waving a hand toward the kitchen. "Go right ahead. But then I want you to clean up this mess—" Spread across the apartment's living room were boxes of what Stella dismissed as "tech stuff," whatever didn't fit in Toby's own small room. Stella had quit looking in there; the visual chaos gave her a headache.

"It's not just a mess," Toby said through a mouthful of sandwich. "It's all organized—ouch!" He had stepped on something. Stella hoped it was as sharp as the little knob with a sharp prong that she had stepped on earlier.

"I'm tired of walking on it," Stella said. "At least stack it all by the wall, can't you?"

"It takes longer to find things," he said.

Stella looked at him. If he had ever been impressed by her beauty—a weapon she'd wielded skillfully since childhood—he was over it now, and she recognized the tone as one she herself had used on her parents. But Toby was more malleable than she had been; after a moment, he flushed and mumbled "Sorry, Cousin Stella," and—the other half of the sandwich in his mouth—began moving the boxes.

In the several tendays since Ky had gone off on her insane quest, as Stella thought of it, and Rafe had left for Nexus, she had had more than enough time to examine her life in light of the revelation about her parentage. Her real parentage. Biometric data proved she was Osman Vatta's daughter, some stranger-mother's daughter, not the daughter of Stavros and Helen Stamarkos Vatta, as she'd always believed. Her blonde hair, her violet eyes, her beauty came not from the Stamarkos family, but from...someone else. Someone she'd never known, probably would never know. Ky had said it didn't make any difference, but she knew better.

She had tried to shake off the waves of anger, grief, and depression that washed over her several times a day, but except for Toby she was alone, absolutely alone, as she had never been before. How could she concentrate on trade, on finding cargo for the ship that had been Furman's, when she felt so empty? She had forced herself to do the obvious things—hire security for herself and Toby and the Vatta dockspace, talk to Captain Orem of Gary Tobai about what security clearances new crew should have, but it was so hard to focus on all that. If only she'd had one other adult Vatta to talk to...Aunt Grace, for instance.

"You know," Toby said, breaking into her reverie, "I really think I can make another one."

"Another one what?" Stella asked.

"Ansible," Toby said. "Like the one Captain—Cousin Ky left with you. Small enough to fit on a ship, I mean."

"That's—" She started to say "impossible," then stopped. Toby had already modified the appliances that had come with the apartment—giving them more sophisticated control systems—and upgraded the apartment's security system. She remembered Quincy and Rafe both mentioning the boy's knack for technical subjects and tasks. An idea tickled her, the first positive one she'd had in a long time. "If you could make another one...a few of them...we could put them on Vatta ships—"

"That's what I thought," Toby said, grinning. He stopped where he was, a box of components in either hand. "If you could get reports from our ships right away, even in systems where the ansibles didn't work, that would give us an edge—"

"Do you really think you can?" She could not imagine anyone cobbling together something that intricate in an apartment bedroom. "Don't you need a special lab or something?"

"Not really," Toby said, answering her second question first. "I'd love to have a lab of my own, but it's mature tech, really; it's not as finicky as it used to be." That sounded like a quote from Quincy. "I'm really close now," Toby went on. "Just another few days, I think. There's this part I don't understand...it seems like a backwards way of designing it, but there has to be a reason..."

"What made you think of copying one?" Stella asked. "Where did you learn—?"

"We need them," Toby said. "Captain—Cousin Ky could use more. Every ship, really, could use one, except it's not our design so we can't sell it. Anyway, Rafe talked to me a lot, you know. He's nice, even if he did scare me at first."

Stella blinked at the notion of Rafe, with his many aliases and his unquestionably shady past, being labeled "nice" by anyone.

"I kept asking him, when he was fixing those broken ansibles, and finally he said he'd explain if I promised not to tell anyone else about the ansible repair stuff he taught me, because it was an ISC secret. I understood some of it on my own," Toby went on. "I always thought it must be like FTL drives, but it's not, really. Well, sort of, in the basic theory of n-dimensions, but not in the practical application, or space travel would be instantaneous, too." He paused; he seemed to stare into the distance, and then he shook his head. "No...I haven't figured that part out yet."

"No rush," Stella said, her head whirling. Her own abilities—assuming she had any—lay very far from the things Toby talked about. "You can stick to ansibles for a while, can't you?"

"Oh, sure. I just need to figure out why there's a lockout circuit, what it's protecting the rest of it from."

"Or what it's protecting," Stella said.

Toby looked thoughtful again. "I hadn't thought of it that way. I thought it must be something to protect the ansible...but that's not necessarily—thanks, Cousin Stella." He wandered off to his room, followed by Rascal, without picking up any more of the mess.

Stella sighed and went back to her work. Standard Vatta trade routes made interconnecting rings rather than emanating from a few hubs; a Vatta ship from the Orleans–Vishwa–Darien–Moscoe route should arrive insystem in the next few days. Ordinarily, Katrine Lamont's captain—now Balthazar Orem, transferred from Gary Tobai because Stella knew him better—would have offloaded cargo consigned here, sequestered cargo that would be transferred directly to the incoming ship, acquired more cargo to take on from here, and left room for any cargo the incoming ship needed to transfer. But now, with trade down and Vatta's reputation almost as ruined as its headquarters and coffers, nothing was that simple.

Still, there was always someone who wanted to ship something somewhere. Stella had put off hiring new crew for Gary Tobai, and Katrine Lamont was still undercrewed, but at least the ship was in perfect shape. Stella had sold off all the cargo that wasn't consigned elsewhere—about 30 percent was, and of that, a little less than half would need to be shifted to Marcus Selene, the ship due in. The sale of cargo, plus the company share of profits from Toby's dog's breeding fees, had kept her balance on the right side of the ledger, and in another thirty-five days she would have access to the late Captain Furman's accounts. And if Toby could actually build shipboard ansibles...maybe it was Osman's genes, and not Stavros', that presented her with an inkling of how profitable that could be, but maybe that didn't matter. In her imagination, a new corporation rose from the ashes of the old: Vatta once more, trade and profit; for the first time it seemed real, herself in a proper office, giving orders. In the meantime, her business office was the dining room table in the apartment.

"Cousin Stella! I found it!" Toby burst out of his room a few days later, Rascal scampering around in him in frantic circles.

"What, Toby?" Stella had just been running the figures again. Marcus Selene had arrived insystem and was making its way in from the jump point. She might afford a real office within the next week.

"What it was protecting...that thing I told you about. Not the ansible—or not this ansible—it's what keeps these from interfacing with system ansibles." He grinned, eyes sparkling. For an instant, Stella saw a ghost of the depressed, scared boy she had found in protective custody at Allray. Whatever else she had done wrong in her life, however vicious her biological father had been, she had changed Toby's life for the better. Then her brain caught up with his words.

"You mean they could interface—?"

"Yes. It's quite simple, really. Rafe said they couldn't, they were built so they couldn't, but he didn't tell me what they'd done. Maybe he didn't know; he said he didn't understand it all. Anyway, it's this circuit here—" He pushed a printout of a circuit diagram at her; to Stella, it was all lines and symbols, as meaningless as straws in the wind. "If I leave that part out, and change this bit here"—he pointed at something on the diagram—"then it could."

"That would be...very useful indeed," Stella said. Her mind filled instantly with the possibilities for profit—a lot of profit—but surely ISC had all the relevant patents. How could they come up with something on their own, something ISC couldn't interfere with, using Toby's ideas? "Brilliant, Toby. And do you think you can build a working model?"

"I could do it faster if I didn't have to go to school," he said, eyeing her sidelong.

Stella laughed. "Not that, my boy. You're going to school, and that's final. Besides, you've been enjoying the company; you said so."

"Well, yes. Some of the other kids are all right, especially since they moved me up a level. But I want to get this done. It would help us so much...and if ships went out with these, they could relay information from systems where the ansibles aren't working, until ISC had time to fix them."

"I can see that," Stella said. "But you have to go to school anyway. You can work on this in your spare time."

"Can I bring some friends over to help me?" Toby asked. "Some of them are really smart."

"No," Stella said; it came out harsher than she intended, and his expression changed. She tried to soften her tone. "Toby, right now this has to be a secret. You know the original technology belonged to ISC. We have to be sure it's legal for us to do this, or—"

"It can't be illegal to build one for ourselves—if we don't sell it—"

"Yes, it could be illegal," Stella said. "I have to find that out, and in the meantime don't talk about it. Not to your friends, not to your teachers—"

"But I don't see why," Toby said, with all the persistence of enthusiasm. "If it's just for us, why would they care?"

"Profit," Stella said. "If they own the rights and we make one instead of buying theirs—"

"But they're not selling them," Toby pointed out. "It's not costing them anything because they're not selling them."

"Just let me talk to someone who knows more about the law than either of us before you talk to anyone else," Stella said. He frowned, but finally nodded. "And Toby—thanks for all your work. If you've really solved that problem, ISC may be paying us. In any event, you're a real contributor to Vatta's recovery." A recovery that she now believed could happen, with or without the input of the Slotter Key Vattas.

Thirteen days later, Stella looked around Vatta Transport's new offices, redecorated in Vatta colors and fully furnished. Crown & Spears had been willing to advance the money on the expectation of her receiving Furman's accounts within fifteen days and the arrival of Marcus Selene. The offices were in an unfashionable quarter of Cascadia Station, toward the tip of one branch, but the rent per square meter was only 65 percent of that near the trunk. Besides, their business was shipping, and dockside was across the way.

"This is where you'll be," she said to the receptionist she'd hired for the front office. "We're just moving in—it's a little rough, but I assure you the security measures are first-rate."

"It looks lovely," the girl—young woman—said. Gillian Astin, Stella reminded herself. Native of Cascadia, just out of business school, up on the station for the first time. She looked too young, but her voice was brisk and she seemed to have confidence. "I look forward to serving you...I'm sorry, but I don't know what terms of address are correct for someone from Slotter Key."

"I'm living here now," Stella said. "Whatever's appropriate here— Sera, isn't it?"

"Yes, Sera Vatta." Gillian grinned. "This is so exciting. Mum and Dad never thought I'd get a job offplanet; they kidded me when I signed with the agency."

"Well, here's your desk. Let me know if there's anything else you need," Stella said. "I'll be in back—I've got a ship on approach and I need to talk with the captain."

"Thank you, Sera," Gillian said. The comunit on her desk buzzed. Stella paused in the door to see how she handled it. Gillian slipped the earbug in and said, "Good morning, Vatta Transport, Ltd. How may I help you?" She didn't sound like a child then. Stella slipped through into her own office.

Her father's office had been huge in comparison, furnished with antiques and artwork. Hers barely had room for a simple desk, a chair for a visitor, a credenza holding her comunit, cube reader, and—hidden inside—some supplies. The other door led to a narrow corridor, off which were the supply room and the toilets. Across that, a larger room where Toby could work. It had been the workshop of the small electronics repair firm and still had workbenches and shelving.

"Sera Vatta?" Gillian was at the door. "General Sales' local supervisor, Ser Sagata, would like to speak with you regarding the cargo coming in on Marcus Selene. May I tell him you will take his call?"

"Yes, thank you, Gillian," Stella said. Her stomach tightened. Now it began. Silly of her—it had begun long before—but now, in a real office, she felt a difference.

"Ser Sagata," she said, flicking on her comunit. "How may I help you?"

They exchanged the elaborate courtesies Cascadian custom dictated, and Stella assured him that the ship on its way in did indeed carry cargo consigned to General Sales. She gave him the invoice numbers as well.

"And our next departure will be three days after Marcus Selene arrives—the route is up on our site. If you have outbound cargo—"

"You will keep the same schedule?" He sounded surprised, and almost immediately apologized. "I'm sorry, Sera Vatta; that sounds as if I did not trust you, and I intended no insult..."

"No offense taken," Stella said. "I quite understand. But yes, I intend to keep the same schedule, and in fact expand it as other Vatta ships come in. Cascadia has ample resources of trained ship crews; it will make a fine hub."

"I see." A long pause, then, "Yes, I believe we will have cargo ready for shipping by then. I'll get back with you shortly. Thank you for your service, Sera."

"Thank you for your custom, Ser Sagata." That had gone well. Stella let out a breath then went back to the front office. "Gillian, we're going to have an order for outgoing cargo. I may not be here when it comes in; please route it to my deskcomp, sorted by destination."

"Yes, Sera Vatta," Gillian said. "I was just thinking...do you want me to contact the other recipients of inbound cargo that their shipments are onboard?"

"Good idea," Stella said. "I'll send that file to your deskcomp, with the invoice numbers. Don't tell them the cargo contents, though. Just the numbers. And let them know that the departure schedule and route are up on our site, for their convenience. Maybe we'll get some more orders."

By the time Toby arrived that afternoon with a float pallet of his supplies, Vatta Transport had contracts pending with five different shippers for Katrine Lamont's departure. Stella called Captain Orem.

"We have shippers," she said. "Do you think we should put up the available cubage on our site?"

"Absolutely," Orem said. "The Captains' Guild will display it for us, as well as the Shipping Combine. I can do that for you, with an automatic update as new cargo comes in." He paused. "Uh...I haven't thanked you, really, for the chance you've given me...you know, after I lost my own ship, I never thought I'd have a command again. And here I am on one of Vatta's top ships—better than anything I ever had before—"

"Please," Stella said. "Don't. I needed a captain; you needed a ship. It worked for both of us. I'm sure you can handle the Kat and the trade responsibilities."

"I had to say it," he said. He looked ten years younger now. "But for the moment—trade and profit."

"Trade and profit," Stella agreed.

From across the corridor, she heard thumps and bangs as Toby settled his things into the shelves. She went to look. "I brought it here, Cousin Stella," he said. "Under all the other boxes, so no one would see." In one corner, the plain gray box that Ky had given her, the portable ansible. Next to it, something roughly the same size and shape, but without the gray skin.

"That's the..."

"Yeah. What I'm working on. Not finished yet, though. It's still going to draw a fair bit of power—can we afford it?"

"Yes," Stella said, hoping "a fair bit of power" would fit into the budget. They had to try; this project was too important to fail because of a few credits.

"Can I sleep here?" Toby asked. "It'd save time going back and forth. And I wouldn't need a security escort as many hours."

"There's no food here," Stella pointed out. "And I want you in bed at a decent hour. For school. Don't worry about the escort charges."

"Excuse me, Sera, but there's an urgent message for you," Gillian said. Her gaze slid past Stella to linger on Toby.

That could be a complication. "From whom?" Stella asked.

"Sorry, Sera. From Crown & Spears."

"Your account has been credited with the sums formerly credited to the late Captain Furman," the Crown & Spears manager said when Stella picked up the call. "Would you prefer to have these funds in hand or pay off the advance at this time? Crown & Spears has no problem with continuing the advance on the same terms." Exorbitant terms, to Stella.

"I think not," she said. "It was an unsecured loan before; now I could secure it, if I chose."

"Well, I'm sure something could be arranged," the manager said. "For a valued customer such as Vatta Transport..."

After the first few hectic weeks, as she dealt with Marcus Selene's arrival, the departure of Katrine Lamont, the departure of Marcus Selene, customer inquiries, the sale of unconsigned cargo, and all the other minutiae of running a transport and trade company, Stella realized she had not thought about her own parentage, or Ky's adventures, for days. Whether Ky was alive or not, she herself was finding her identity as Vatta CEO more comfortable with every passing day. Vatta ships carried full loads of cargo, even Gary Tobai, for which she'd won a contract to carry cargo between Moscoe Confederation orbital stations. Vatta customers stopped by the office to chat and inquire when she would have more frequent departures. Another Vatta ship had reported in via ansible; its captain accepted her authority. Income still lagged behind expenses—not counting the contributions of Toby's dog Rascal, whose breeding fees kept them solvent—but it trended upward.

She had found an intellectual property lawyer who agreed to take up a patent search to see how much of the portable ansible technology was already controlled by ISC. Toby's school had called once, to congratulate her on his behavior ("We usually have much more trouble with students not from our system; he is an exceptionally polite boy, and we are delighted that you chose to have him attend classes instead of home tutoring"), and his marks in the first reporting period had been superb.

Startling, amusing even, that her family identity as "that idiot Stella" had concealed such abilities, even from her. Nobody here knew about the gardener's son or the family codes. Nobody here knew that Jo was—had been—the brains of the family, and her brothers had been brilliant in their way, while she was only a pretty face, "that idiot Stella." Nobody here seemed to care about her parentage, though as the result of a court case, it was in the public records. All that mattered to the Cascadians was her demeanor and her competence. Courtesy had always come easily for her; she found their social rules easy to follow. She'd never fully believed in that competence, but now she saw the proof of it every day, in the respect others gave her, in the contracts and the income. Trade and profit indeed.

She wished she could tell Aunt Grace, but the Slotter Key ansible remained stubbornly out of order, like so many others. Someday Vatta ships would carry Vatta ansibles, and she could send one back to Slotter Key—she surprised herself again by thinking of the name, and not "home."

"Sera Vatta?" Gillian tapped on her door.

"Yes?" Stella pushed all other thoughts aside. Business first, reveries later. Or never. She felt ready for whatever came through the door.


Once, a routine transition into FTL space had meant safety to Ky Vatta. That mysterious and undefined continuum in which the ship now existed had meant time to think, time to plan, time to interact with her crew in an untouchable capsule. She could not be interrupted from outside; she did not have to cope with outside.

What she'd known of earlier civilizations—pre-space and early-expansion—and their obsession with the vastness of space, the smallness of planets, had always amused her. She had grown up in a spacefaring civilization, embedded in a family whose fortunes came from traveling the spaceways; she had been in deep space herself at thirteen. Space was no bigger than the ship you were in. So many days in FTL from here to there, so many days or weeks from a jump point to a station...the rest of it didn't matter, really.

Now, for the first time, she felt it, that old awe at the size of the universe. Not days from system to system, but years of light burrowing through endless darkness. Though the ship's systems held the temperature at a steady setting, varying it slightly, intentionally, as the shifts changed, she herself felt cold, chilled by unwelcome knowledge.

Out there somewhere, beyond her knowledge as beyond her reach, were the pirates—the more-than-pirates now—who wanted to destroy all the comfortable assumptions of her life. Her life and the lives of everyone she'd known. The lives of billions of men and women and children who went to work, ate meals, went to school, played games, made plans based on the certainty that tomorrow would be like today.

She felt glued to the certainty—this unwelcome certainty—that they were wrong, pinned to that knowledge of imminent disruption, unable to think or move. She knew—she told herself repeatedly—that this FTL flight gave her respite in which to think, in which to prove that the bold boast she'd made a few days before came from some hidden core of ability, of moral strength. Her crew kept looking at her, giving her little grins and nods.

But for now she was paralyzed, mentally and almost physically, going through the motions of being the bold brave captain she knew they needed.

She had come on the bridge as usual, to take the first-shift report, and now she frowned at the data scrolling past on the screen as if she could do more than stare at the words and numbers. What did it all mean, anyway? This ship, the two others, even the pirates in their hordes, were just grains of dust in a vast universe that didn't care...

She glanced up as someone moved suddenly and saw Lee, her senior pilot, turn to Hugh Pritang, her executive officer. Lee's voice was strained, completely unlike his usual casual drawl. "Please—I have to go now—"

"What's the problem?" Hugh asked. He was facing away from Lee, entering something in the log. Ky glanced at Lee, whose face was a strange shade of gray-green.

Lee doubled over and spewed onto the deck, noisily. Hugh looked over, stiffened, and then caught sight of Ky. "Captain—" Then, "Mr. Quidlen—what's wrong?"

"He's sick," Ky said. She realized how unnecessary that was. She pulled a towel out of the dispenser by the hatch and stepped forward. "Lee? Can you talk?"

He shook his head and heaved again; the sour stench almost turned Ky's stomach. Hugh took the towel from her and bent down.

"I—I feel sick, too," her weapons officer, Theo Dannon, said.

"Leave the bridge," Ky said. It was probably just the smell, she thought, but Dannon also had an unhealthy greenish look around the mouth. She bent down to look more closely at Lee; his eyes were closed and his breathing was harsh. "We've been isolated on this ship too long for it to be any communicable illness," she said over her shoulder. "It's got to be food poisoning or something." She felt a stab of guilt; she hadn't inspected the galley the day before.

"I—feel really bad," Lee muttered, eyes still closed.

"Help me get him to a medbox," Ky said. Did medboxes deal with food poisoning? She had no idea. She felt stupid suddenly; she was planning to fight a war and she hadn't hired any medical personnel...it would take more than medboxes. She remembered the vast medical bay on the Mackensee ship that had treated her. Her mind seemed to wake suddenly from the daze of the past shifts. Later she could think how to increase their medical capability. Now...

"I can do that," Hugh said. He looked around the bridge. "One of us needs to be here."

Ky nodded. In FTL flight, nothing ever happened, but still a senior officer should be on the bridge. Especially if this was more than some random virus.

"And I'll send one of the techs up to clean up, in case it's infectious. Don't get contaminated. Captain." Ky nodded as Hugh hauled Lee up and got a shoulder under his arm. Lee was just able to shamble along as Hugh moved aft.

Ky turned up the bridge ventilation and queried the food storage units. All the readouts were in range—coolers and freezers all at the correct temperature. She had come through the galley already, without formally inspecting it; it had looked clean and tidy, as usual. Surely no one had cooked for the others without washing hands; everyone had that much sense. In minutes one of the environmental techs—not Twigg, but Bannin—showed up in protective gear with a wet vac. "There's another two sick, Captain," he said to Ky. "That's four so far. We don't know what it is yet, but we'll run it through the analyzers and see."

Four down within a half hour...not just some isolated bug Lee'd been harboring since their last time on a station. Possibilities sprang up like weeds: something they'd missed when clearing the ship of Osman's traps, something planted by the agent who'd joined the ship as a cargo handler and then died, sabotage by someone now in the crew. "Anything odd in the environmental cultures?"

"No, ma'am. At least, all the readouts are nominal, though we'll run a check of them. And we're not consuming anything ship-made anyway."

She'd known that. She'd spent the money to purchase high-quality rations, and they still had some of Osman's left as well. Osman's. Had he sabotaged random packs of his own rations for some reason? "Take samples of all the surfaces in the galley, any opened ration containers, everything in the cooler—"

"Yes, Captain. Mr. Pritang's told us that; Mr. Gulandar has people on it, and Mr. Pritang is asking everyone what they ate or drank in the last two days."

Bannin finished sucking up the mess, then sprayed with cleanser and vacuumed again, finally applying a decontaminating spray. "Just let that dry, Captain. It'll stay there twelve hours or more, and then we'll come give it another spray and vacuum. After that, it'll be safe for normal cleaning."

"Thanks," Ky said. "You will let me know what it is..."

"Of course, ma'am. As soon as we know."

Four so far. If it was something in the food, was it something in Osman's food supply? In what she'd bought? And was it intentional or accidental? And why weren't they all sick? They were all eating out of the same food supply; they rotated cooking duties, but—she called up the roster for galley work. If it was unclean pots or dishes, she would have someone's guts for garters.

Within a few hours, as Ky paced the bridge deck and thought of more and more items to test—from shampoo to cough lozenges—another five had come down with whatever it was: vomiting, abdominal pain, diarrhea, weakness that might be from the symptoms or from the cause. The cooking utensils and dishes showed nothing; there was nothing harmful in the water supply.

"Nothing shows up on the chem scan," Environmental Tech Twigg told her. "It's not any contact or residual poison in our database. It's got to be contaminated food—if it were the water, everyone would be down with it."

Ky went herself, when Hugh took over the bridge again, to inspect the latrines, the showers, the galley, the cutlery and dishes. She remembered that she had brought aboard dishes touched—if only briefly—by someone who wanted to send a coded message, a microdot, to someone on her ship. Both men had died...had they also left a persistent toxin on the dishes? She and her crew had eaten dozens of meals off those dishes since, with no harmful effects, and the dishes had been washed repeatedly. Why now?

Nine sick...but as hours passed and no one else came down with the mysterious disease, Ky concentrated on finding out what those nine had eaten or drunk that no one else had consumed. She had no qualified epidemiologist in the crew, not even a medic, but the environmental department, none of whom had gotten sick, dug through the trash that hadn't yet gone to the recycler, testing everything.

Meanwhile, Hugh and Gordon went through the crew list asking questions: who ate what at which meal, between meals, who had seen someone else eating, and so on. Even though no more crew came down with the mysterious illness, Ky pressed them to keep asking, keep searching for a cause.

Finally, Lee came out of a medbox able to answer questions. Ky went down immediately to find out what he knew.

"We had a little celebration the other night," Lee said. "Nothing big...just a box of sweet-snacks from stores, and some—" He paused.

"What?" Ky said.

"I'm trying to remember. Oh, yes...there was this jar somebody had in his personals. Stuff his grandmother made, he said. It had gotten knocked around somehow, and leaked a bit, so he offered it to the party; he didn't want to let it sit around unsealed in case it spoiled—" He frowned. "You don't suppose that could have been what did it? How could it spoil in just a few days?"

"What was it?" Ky asked, trying for patience. "Animal, vegetable, mineral? Liquid, solid?"

"I don't really know," Lee said. "I guess it did...sort of have a kind of...well...it smelled a bit alcoholic, but it also had a strong smell of fruit, and then kind of a fishy smell, too. But it was really good spread on those crackers. I can't believe that's what made us sick, though. He said they stored it in crocks back home."

"Who?" Ky said, suppressing an urge to shake the answer out of him.

"Uh...Jemison, starboard aft battery."

Jemison was still in a medbox; the readout said he would be out in another four hours.

"Not everyone in starboard aft is sick," Ky said. "Who else was at this party? Did everybody eat some?"

The party, it turned out, had involved much of the crew, who dropped in and out as they had time. Lee wasn't sure who had been there, or not, before he came and after he left. Jemison's contribution was only that single small jar of the stuff—whatever it had been—and only a few of the crew had had a chance at it.

Unfortunately, the jar and any remnants of its contents had gone into the recycler, and Environmental had no way to tell which of the stomach contents vacuumed up were responsible.

"The only bacterial and viral signatures we have on file relate to our own cultures," Bannin told Ky. "I'm sorry, Captain..."

"Not your fault," Ky said. "We need to get a medical database that goes beyond the medboxes." Whatever its cause and despite the guilt she felt over having insufficient medical resources aboard, her earlier lassitude had vanished. She put those needs on her list for the next station. How much did it cost to maintain a medical team? No matter—they needed one, and she'd have to fund it somehow.

At the start of the next shift, most of the sick were out of the medboxes and clearly recovering. Her spirits rose further; when Hugh came up to her on the bridge, she felt capable of dealing with whatever was coming next.

"Captain, could I speak to you privately?" Hugh looked more serious than usual.

"Of course," Ky said. She led the way off the bridge to her quarters.

"I'm concerned about some of the crew," Hugh said. "I know they've been with you a long time..."

"You're talking about the crew from my old ship?"

"Yes. Although there's also a potential problem with some of the crew you hired later. I don't know if you're aware of it, but you've created a situation in which the ship crew is entirely civilian in background and attitude—except for me as your exec—and the fighting crew is entirely military."

Ky scowled. "I'm not sure I follow—why is this a problem?"

"Attitude, mostly. This latest incident is an example of what can go wrong."

"The probable cause came in with one of the fighting crew," Ky said. "And he wasn't immune to it."

"True. The problem spreads...look, just let me explain." Ky nodded, and he went on. "Take your pilots, for instance. Lee, your senior pilot, is a highly skilled technician in his field, and you have used him as one of your personal guards at times. I know he has adequate weapons skills, and he takes pride in that assignment."

"So? He and the others performed well in that fight with Osman—"

"Yes. But in fact it required nothing of him but acting the part of a traitor, if I understood you rightly. He has never had military training. He is an amateur, at both security functions and at combat. He follows your orders—you are the captain and he's known you for some time—but I sense a certain resentment to orders I've given. Not disobedience—he's too good a man for that—but he always wants an explanation, or even just to discuss what should get simple obedience."

Ky thought back to her experiences aboard Spaceforce training ships. Of course everyone had been military, and military discipline had prevailed. Only the cadets asked questions, for the most part, and they were expected to obey orders without such questions at the time. But was that necessary here, for people without military training?

"My concern," Hugh went on, "is that when we're in combat again, your civilian crewmembers may be slow to respond to orders they don't understand, or—for those with more initiative—may do something unexpected, and either of these could put themselves or the ship in peril."

"You're really worried about this?" Ky said. "After we've been in combat and nothing like that has happened?"

"Captain, the last post-battle analysis, from the most recent engagement, shows that twenty percent of the crew with civilian background either questioned orders, delayed response, or engaged in unordered activity. Now, as it happens, none of those things was critical in the event—but that's not something we can depend on. And this latest incident—bringing aboard uninspected food items, failing to enter them on the ship's stores list, distributing them at a party neither you nor I knew about—shows that a casual attitude toward standard rules has spread even to some of the military crew. You're going to have to decide what to do about it."

Ky frowned. She had not made any connection between the crew's performance during combat and the food poisoning incident, and for that matter she hadn't thought of the crew's behavior as below standard. If Hugh was right... "You have a recommendation?"

"You're not going to like it." Hugh rubbed his nose. "We would be better off with an all-military crew. Retraining this one is going to be difficult, partly because the original crewmembers are in some way associated with your family—with your civilian identity—and partly because you have two distinct groups: the old crew, who have one kind of loyalty to you and your family, and the new crew, who haven't."

"Um." Ky steepled her hands to give herself time to think. "I hadn't realized there was this problem—"

"You haven't really had time," Hugh said. "You've been dealing with other crises. But it's something you need to consider."

"I don't want to get rid of people who've served with me through the whole thing," Ky said. "Loyalty cuts both ways."

"I thought you'd say that," Hugh said. "That's fine: that's laudable. But you're going to have to explain the reality of a warship to them. That's what we are, now. I know you were thinking privateer at one time, but it's clear your entire focus now is on fighting a hostile force. We cannot afford to have any gaps in discipline."

"I see that," Ky said. "I suppose—the ones who can't make the transition would still be useful to Stella, as civilian crew on other Vatta ships, if they're willing."

"Quite so," Hugh said, nodding. "You don't have to throw anyone out in the cold; you can transfer them to jobs for which they're more suited. I'd recommend acting on this as quickly as possible."

"But that means hiring new crew," Ky said. "I'm not sure how easily we can find what you're looking for. Or how quickly they'll bond into a crew—"

"The sooner we look, the sooner we can find," Hugh said. "And if I may, I'm not at all sure Ciudad's the best place to look, not with you—any woman, I mean—in command."

"I've been thinking about that," Ky said. "There's no reason they'd join up with us just to avenge the loss of their ship; they're more likely to blame us. But I can't tell the other captains that until we come out of FTL."

"In the meantime," Hugh said, "you could consider retraining those of your civilian crew who are willing. We have enough experienced veterans aboard to do that."

"I'll talk to my—the old crew," Ky said.

The remaining crew from Gary Tobai filed into Ky's office. She could not help but notice how casual they were compared to the ex-military personnel she'd hired. Respectful, but in their own individual ways.

"We have a problem to solve," she said, aware that this was not how she'd have started out with the Gannetts, or even Hugh or Martin. "You all know that Vanguard is now acting as a military ship—"

"Yes, I just want to know why we can't at least carry some personal cargo for trading," said Mehar. "Privateers still carry cargo, don't they?"

"Privateers do," Ky said. "And yes, when you signed on, that's what this ship was. But as things are now, operating as independent privateers will just get us killed when we run into a superior force of pirates. That's why we're teamed up with Sharra's Gift and Bassoon. We're forming as an interstellar defense force, a real space navy." From their expressions, some of them found this very bad news.

"I know some of you won't like this," Ky said. "And you're not being shanghaied—you'll be able to leave the ship at the next port, with pay due in your accounts, and a bonus for hazardous duty." She paused a moment; some of them shifted their weight but no one said anything. "Or if you'd rather, I can transfer you to Vatta Transport—the real Vatta Transport—and send you to work on the civilian traders Vatta is once again operating."

"I'll take that," someone said from the back; others turned to look, and Ky saw the number two engineer, Foxeham. "I'm really—I'm not—"

"That's all right," Ky said. "No need to explain. It's not what you signed up for. My cousin Stella, who's running Vatta Transport now, can always use more crewmembers as she acquires more ships. We'll pay your passage to Cascadia, where she is now."

Foxeham nodded, looking shamefaced but relieved. Well, not everyone was cut out for the military life, and she could run the ship with a short crew of engineers if she had to.

"The rest of you," Ky said. "If you want out of your contracts, or to have them transferred to Vatta Transport, let me or the exec know. We're due to drop out of FTL in another two days; I'll want a list by then. Those who know you want to stay, please remain behind; the rest of you are excused."

Those leaving began to mutter among themselves even before they cleared the cabin; to Ky's relief, the tone was more satisfied than worried. Facing her still were a half dozen, all those who had been on the Gary, including Lee.

"I gather you want to be in this," she said.

"We've been with you from the beginning," Lee said. "And some of it's been the best time of my life. You bet I want to stay."

"Me, too," muttered the others.

"It's not going to be easy," Ky said. "And here's why." Quickly, she outlined the differences in discipline that Hugh had named most critical. "The thing is, if you continue to act like civilians, that could get you killed—or, at worse, the whole ship lost. Yes, even just one of you," she said to the disbelief in their faces. "Let me outline just one scenario. Say we're boarded. You'll say, Been there, done that, right? But I'm talking about actual penetration of the crew compartments, which didn't happen last time. If you don't do exactly what you've been told—what you're supposed to—without thinking up any heroic bits that backfire—"

"Why would they backfire?" Lee interrupted.

"And there's another problem," Ky said. She sighed and shook her head. "Lee, you and the others are used to talking to me as the captain, yes, but also as Gerry Vatta's little girl who needs taking care of." His eyes widened, and she nodded. "Yes, you are. That's understandable. But it has to stop. This is now a military ship; we will be maintaining military discipline. For some of you—including some of the best of you—that's going to be a considerable strain. You weren't trained for it; you're not used to it; you still have that history with me when we had a nonmilitary relationship."

Lee opened his mouth and shut it; Mehar raised her hand. Ky nodded at her.

"I don't understand why it all has to be military, Captain. I mean, why does it have to be that way for us as well as them?"

"Because a ship's crew has to be all one piece, bonded," Ky said. "You have to trust the military—the present military—and they have to trust you. Everyone has to know that everyone else will follow orders quickly, precisely, without questioning, in any crisis. And the newer crew have to know that they are equal with you, that you're all on the same footing." She paused again; they were listening intently—not rejecting it, but not yet completely convinced.

"Look," she said. "You are my oldest crew; we've been through a lot. I can never forget that, I trust you and respect you at a level the others still have to earn. But I can't treat you differently and be fair to them."

Lee nodded, as did Mehar. Lee raised his hand this time before blurting out anything; Ky nodded.

"I understand that," he said. "And—I guess—I understand the need to change. But...I'm not sure I can change, and I sure don't know how fast."

"Good points," Ky said. "Here's what I want to do. I've spoken to some of the military side about what might help you transition with as little difficulty as possible. You'll all need to do some physical training and some cross-training in other specialties. You'll all need to start learning, if you haven't, the correct procedures, in the military sense. The parameters have narrowed; I'll be pickier about precision; I'll be pickier about discipline. I want you to get to know the fighting crew, not stay aloof from them. Lee, I know you've partied with them—" Chuckles broke out, relaxing some of the tension. "You don't have to like them all, but you need to know them."

"Er...what if they...," Mehar started. Ky looked at her. "Sorry," Mehar said. "Captain, if I may?" Ky nodded. "Some of them...they've made remarks...personal..."

"That will stop. I've told them. No hazing, none of that. It happens in basic training, but this isn't standard basic training and we don't have time for it. I've made up a cube with some of the procedural stuff for you—for instance, if someone makes an unwanted sexual advance, there's a procedure for reporting it. There will be consequences." Mehar had stood beside her in that corridor when she and Mehar together had killed the mutineer leaders; when Gary Tobai died. She was not about to tolerate anyone hassling Mehar.

"Another thing. No questioning orders, at least not without first asking permission, and never in action. That's going to be hard for some of you in particular." She gave Lee a grin; he smiled back, sheepishly. "But there are reasons, among them gaining the trust of the military bridge crew. They have to know that you do what you're told first, and ask questions later. And yes, before you ask, there's room for initiative and all that—but not now. Clear?"

Nods, murmured combination of "Yes, ma'am," and "Yes, Captain."

"Here's the cube," Ky said, handing them out. "Take it and look at it, first thing. If any of you change your mind and want out, either after looking at it or after trying the training, just let me know. I will always respect you and the service you've already given me—and Vatta—no matter what you decide."

More nods.

"Dismissed," Ky said. They all looked startled, but began moving out. "Lee, just wait a moment, would you?" Lee, Hugh had pointed out, was a critical person; he had been operating in a semi-military role for a long time now, and his cooperation and leadership would help with the crew transition—if he could stand the discipline.

"Sure, Captain," Lee said. Then he pulled himself into an exaggerated version of "attention" and said, "Am I supposed to stand like this when I talk to you?"

Part willing, part resenting. Ky shook her head. "No, certainly not all the time. Lee, when my father sent you out as second pilot under Riel, you were starting to get bored, weren't you?" He had told her that once.

"Yes, Captain," he said, relaxing slightly but still more formal than usual for him. His hand twitched; she knew he wanted to run it through his hair, as he often did while they talked.

"And you told me you actually enjoyed the excitement, that being with a privateer didn't bother you at all, right?"

"Right, Captain."

"Lee, you have a lot of potential. I think so, and Hugh thinks so. You already know how to use small arms; you've already shown yourself to be brave and resourceful. But I can't tell how much the tighter discipline will bother you. Some very brave and resourceful people just don't handle it well. Give me a clue."

Lee's stiff posture relaxed still more. "Honestly—I don't know, Captain. I always kind of hankered after the hero-stuff I saw in entertainment vids, imagined myself as a space ranger type, but I knew it wasn't realistic. And the villains were usually the ones hyped on discipline, all that standing in stiff rows and saluting and barking yes sir, no sir, immediately sir like trained animals."

"Um. And if you keep thinking of military discipline in those terms, it will be harder for you and you will resent it. Tell me, do you think my Exec is competent?"

"Hugh? He's brilliant!"

"So, if he tells you to do something, how likely is he to be right?"

"Hasn't been wrong yet," Lee said. Then he blinked. "Oh. But I always ask, don't I? Or nearly always?"

"Yes," Ky said, grinning. "You do. And I know, and he knows, that it's not really insubordination, that desire to understand his reasoning...I suspect you're picking his brain, actually, storing away how he thinks so you can use it if you ever need it. But what do you think it looks like to the military crew? Like, for instance, my weapons officer?"

Lee grimaced. "Like I'm a snotty civilian who won't take orders without a lengthy explanation, I'm guessing."

"Something like that, yes," Ky said. She said nothing more, waiting. If he could reason it out on his own...

"So...what you want me to do is just...follow orders, and if I want to know why and wherefore...ask him later, if he's not busy?"

"That would be perfect," Ky said.

Lee thought that over; she could practically see the gears meshing. "And you think," he said finally, "that if I adapt without an argument, the others will fall in line?"

"I think it would be easier for them," Ky said. "You've got a lot of influence, and rightly so. If you had gone in the military, they'd have recognized your leadership potential."

"Do pilots have a rank, in the military?"

"Why? Is there someone you want to pull rank on?"

"No," Lee said. This time he did run his hand through his hair. "I just...if I'm going to have to learn all that military stuff, procedures and whatnot, I don't want to be just that civvie pilot who's finally gotten some sense."

"Lee, you could never be that, not in my eyes," Ky said firmly. "But yes, military pilots have rank, and I'll tell you what—you get through a training period, and I'll pin those—" Her mind raced. They still didn't have uniforms, or rank insignia. "—those whatever we decide on, when we buy them, on your shoulders myself, at a formal ceremony. You and all the rest. Deal?"

He grinned. "Captain, I don't think military commanders make deals. I thought only traders made deals."

"As Vatta and as your captain, I make deals if I want to," Ky said. "And that's a promise."

"Deal," Lee said, nodding. "Er...yes, ma'am, Captain."

After some thought and discussion with Hugh, Ky assigned Gordon Martin as the civilian crew's trainer. "You did a good job with Jim," she told him.

"I've barely got Jim up to decent civ," Martin grumbled. "And now I'm supposed to get him to actual soldiering?"

"You've done better than that, and you know it. Thing is, the civilian crew know you from way back; they trust you. They'll take things from you that they might not from, say, Jon Gannett. At least it'll be an easier beginning."

"This has the potential to be a rolling doughnut," Martin said.

"I know. But it's worth a try."

"So am I working with all of them, or just the ones who want to stay?"

"All of them for now. Just in case we run into something when we drop out of FTL."

"Right. Makes sense. How many hours a day? You know, in real training—"

"You'd have them clock-round. Yes. But they're still ship crew, with real duties. Let's start with four hours and see where that gets us."

Nothing more was said for a few days, and Ky got no hints from the crew as she made her rounds through the ship. On the bridge, Lee seemed to be working well with Hugh, giving crisp "Yes, sir" and "No, sir" to orders. Gordon's first five-day report, a brief one-page summary, indicated no significant problems.

The very next day, Ky was walking the ship as she did every first-shift, just passing the portside aft battery, when she heard a comment from someone in the aft environmental chamber, inboard. "—didn't sign up for this," the voice was saying. "If I'd known I was getting shanghaied—"

"They told you it was a privateer, didn't they? They told me—"

"Yeah, but a privateer's like a pirate—no rules, no saluting, none of this military stuff—just, you know, adventure and a share of the loot—"

"You've never been on a privateer before, have you?"

"Uh—no, but I thought—"

"You thought! You should've asked somebody who had—"

Ky decided to let them work it out for themselves, but she made a note to herself that Environmental Technician Twigg should be herded into Stella's end of things as soon as possible.