At the time he'd calculated the ISC fleet should arrive in the system where Ky was, Rafe found he could not sit still. He left Emil to forward messages and went down to Control, where the feed from ansible Boxtop-zip-figaro-112 was already shunted to a station set up for him. If only this had been a system ansible, with its array of sensors to monitor activity in its area, he could have seen for himself what was going on. But this ansible, intended only to relay messages from other ansibles, lacked such enhancements. The only thing he could tell about it was that it was online. Control had a record of the message he had sent earlier. Rafe could not resist adding another. Do Not Attack Vatta Ships. Do Not Attack Space Defense Force under any circumstances.—Dunbarger, Chairman.

How long would it take them to retrieve their message? Had Ky at least moved away from the jump point, so they would have time to retrieve the message before they had a shot at her? She wasn't stupid, but she was... just as stubborn at you are, something whispered in his head.

"Are you worried about our fleet, sir?" one of the technicians asked. "I'm sure they'll be fine. We've never had any problem with privateers and such, once they recognize the ISC ship beacons."

It would not help his authority to tell her there was always a first time. "No," he said. "Or not the way you think. It's a complicated situation out there."

"Is it, sir? We haven't had any alarms from the ansible." Rafe glanced up. She stood just to one side and behind him, and seemed to have nothing to do but watch over him. Perhaps that was it. Even the Chairman couldn't be left alone with Control equipment—after all, he wasn't supposed to know how to operate it.

"We won't have, from this ansible," he said. "Relays can't do anything but tell us if they're tampered with. If it had the sensor capability of a full-service ansible, we could see exactly what's going on."

"But they might tamper with it again—"

"Who?"

"The people who tampered before—"

"They wouldn't. All they did was fix it when it wasn't working. That means they wanted it to work, so why would they turn it off?" From her puzzled expression, she wasn't used to thinking that way. "If anyone does tamper with it, it'll be someone else." The pirates Ky had worried might come back, for instance. If they did, the ISC fleet—his fleet—would be in trouble. Statistics on that sector fleet were no better than the average—old ships, outdated equipment, inadequate training schedule.

Emil pinged him. "Your guards want to know what to do with Cuthen. He's told them he's going to sue—"

"He can't do that if he can't call out," Rafe said. "But you may notify his family that he's been unavoidably detained. I'll speak to the guards myself." He called down to the cells. "This is Rafe—I understand our friend is threatening?"

"Yeah. Says he's going to have us all thrown in jail for unlawful imprisonment. Demands we let him out of this shielded room so he can use his skullphone."

"Tell him that his family has been informed that he's been unavoidably detained, but that he's perfectly safe," Rafe said. "Tell him that his safety still depends on the outcome of events now taking place, and I will let him know whether he's got a future life when I know what that outcome is."

"He says he needs rest," the guard said.

"So do we all," Rafe said. "He can rest when I'm satisfied. Are you...um...getting anything good out of him?"

"Oh, that pocket com you thought he had was full of data. I squirted it up to your office; Emil has it for you, or I can squirt it to you now."

"No, that's all right," Rafe said. He stared at the screen in front of him, which remained obstinately blank. Time was passing, things were happening—things he could imagine vividly in sixty different varieties of disaster—and he was stuck here, out of contact. He wanted to use his internal ansible—he wanted Ky to use hers—but if she was in the middle of a fight, he couldn't afford to distract her. Someone offered him a mug of something hot; he sipped it without noticing a flavor. His eyes itched and burned with staring at the console so long.

To distract himself, finally, he let himself think about his own family. His mother, his father, Penelope. His father's behavior could be explained by the damage to his implant and to his brain, and the years of insidious conditioning by Lew Parmina. As predicted, his mental status had deteriorated after removal of the damaged implant, and neural regeneration was proceeding very slowly, in part due to his age and partly because the damage was extensive. His attitude toward Vattas had hardened from suspicion to outright paranoia, but his doctors said many brain-injured patients became suspicious and somewhat irrational until they recovered...if they recovered. Brain injury as extensive as his father's often produced permanent changes in personality, one of the neurologists had said.

His mother, arbiter of family standards...she had seemed to come back rapidly after the rescue, but now, to his eye, she was looking more and more brittle. She scarcely ate that he could see, and her energy seemed more frenetic than natural. She called him daily at the office; she hovered over his father, over him, over Penelope.

Penelope...he could not imagine what it was like to lose a husband and a newborn by violence in such a short time. But he had no idea what she had been like before, as a grown woman. His clearest memories were of that night when she had been so frightened and he had been so...so mean. Why had he slapped her? He wouldn't have done that when they were playing together, no matter how annoying she was. He had known better; it was something good children did not do. So why? He had a vague memory of watching a video of some kind—at home, at a friend's house?—in which a man slapped a hysterical woman and she stopped crying. Was that why? Or was it his dark side, as the therapist had said? Even knowing the therapist had been incompetent didn't erase that doubt.

The screen lit suddenly; his attention snapped back to it. "ISC scout ship Beremund. Message received. No Vatta ship located. Blueridge Defense Alli—" The message cut off.

"Did you touch anything, sir?" asked the comtech standing by.

"No," Rafe said. He watched the technician manipulate controls.

"Ansible's still up, but there's no contact. Their equipment must have malfunctioned."

Rafe felt cold inside. "They were blown," he said.

"Blown, sir?" The comtech's expression was utter confusion.

"Attacked. Blown up. Pirates," Rafe said as she continued to look blank. "The Mackensee ship insystem wouldn't have fired on ISC. Neither would Vatta. Whatever this Blueridge Defense whatsis wants people to think, it's our enemy; most likely it's the same pirate force that overthrew Bissonet System. And others."

"But how can you tell that just because the message was cut off?" the technician asked. "Equipment fails for all sorts of reasons."

"When you know you have the potential for hostilities, the safer bet is enemy action," Rafe said. He called Emil. "We have trouble, almost certainly hostile action against ISC. Get me a conference call with all the sector commanders in Enforcement. Then I'll want to contact Mackensee—locate their headquarters system, and if their system ansible isn't working, dispatch a repair crew immediately, fastest route. And get me a list of the most reliable mercenary companies in our files. And—let's see—get hold of our own System Defense, and tell them I want a meeting with whoever's at the top."

"What's happened, sir?" Emil asked.

"I don't yet know, for sure," Rafe said. "But it's bad, and we don't have what it takes to handle it by ourselves."

"What about Cuthen?"

"His life hangs by a thread," Rafe said. "I'll get back to you."

By the time Emil had located the sector commanders and set up the conference call, more data had come in. The Mackensee ship in system, Ky, and the Mackensee relief convoy commander had all squirted data to the ansible, tagged for ISC headquarters, but the varying lightlags meant that data came in out of order in chaotic lumps.

Rafe did not wait for computer analysis to sort things into chronological order; he didn't need to.

"We have a serious situation," he said to the sector commanders, using another of Control's modules. Two techs now hovered over the console, aligning the images for his convenience. "An ISC sector fleet has been nearly destroyed, and the only reason it wasn't was the presence insystem of other ships that assisted our fleet."

"Are you sure?" asked one.

"The data will be squirted to you in code as soon as analysis puts things in order," Rafe said. "We've lost at least five ships—"

"Sorry, sir, new data, it's now six...no, seven...," a third technician murmured.

"Seven ships," Rafe said. "I expect that number to rise as more data come in. Our ships were hit by something calling itself the Blueridge Defense Alliance, but the ships have false IDs. By a lucky chance, the captain of one of the friendly ships recognized a serial number as belonging to a ship from Bissonet System, which as you know—I hope you know—fell to a pirate coalition."

"How many of these enemy ships?" asked one of the other commanders. "Any data on their weaponry?"

"Fifteen," Rafe said. "And the technical data will be in the same squirt." He paused; none of them spoke. "Now: in my short time as acting CEO, I have found that your maintenance, upgrade, and training budgets have been cut, and as a result our ships are markedly less able than those of other organizations, including this enemy. Some of you, I have no doubt, were colluding with Chief of Enforcement Cuthen to divert funds. I don't care, at this point—it's too late to worry about that. What I do care about is that you and your people aren't thrown in the meat grinder to no purpose." Another pause, longer this time. One of them—his implant informed him it was Bian Tarleton—opened his mouth and then shut it again.

"Go ahead, Tarleton," Rafe said.

"Sir, I—there's no way you can upgrade eighty percent of my ships at this point. They're approaching the end of their structural reliability; they'd have to be completely rebuilt."

"I know that. I also know that you have obsolete weaponry and some of you have dangerously old munitions. And your people haven't done live-fire training for an average of six years."

Now the resentment he saw on all the faces was replaced by dawning respect on some.

"How'd you know that?" Tarleton asked.

"I do my homework," Rafe said. "Here's the situation as I see it. All of you have what are essentially paper fleets: they look good on paper, they even look impressive in formation. As long as we had people convinced we were invulnerable, it didn't matter...but there's no way we can hide what happened. The enemy knows we're a soft target, and we're now a soft rich target."

"I told headquarters years ago!" one of them said.

"Years ago isn't our problem," Rafe said. "Placing blame won't get us out of this, though it certainly comes in later. So what I need from you right now is this: bring your fleets to what readiness you can, and start training your people for combat now. Review the data you'll be getting, and revise your plans accordingly. By tomorrow, I want a list from each of you of the most critical needs. We can't meet all of them, but we might meet some. Pick your best ships, however few that is, and get busy improving them. By tomorrow I want your assessment of the battle that cost us those ships; I want your plan for training that will address the weaknesses that made things worse."

"By tomorrow?" asked one.

"Or if you can't do it, I'll find someone who can," Rafe said. "If any of you feels unequal to command, I presume you have someone down the chain of command to whom you can hand over this onerous duty." His voice, he realized, had hardened.

"What about our regular duties?" asked one of the others.

"Your top priority now is getting your command in as good shape as you can. Next is informing all legitimate governments that any entity calling itself Blueridge Defense Alliance is actually a swarm of pirates. Do not waste any time on routine enforcement; if systems want to repair their own ansibles, all the better. We get income from message traffic, and the more complete the communications net, the harder it will be for the pirates to evade detection."

Heads were nodding now, all but two. "If anyone has comments, make 'em now, and then get busy. My assistant will set up another conference call tomorrow." None of them spoke, and he clicked off.

"Another ship gone, sir," said the tech who had spoken before. She looked very pale; glancing around the room, he saw that everyone was tense. And so they should be, but panic wouldn't help, either.

Rafe stood up and raised his voice. "We've lost ships; we've lost people. Some of them may be your friends, or relatives, or just people you contacted regularly. It's a blow, no doubt about it, but it's not the end of ISC. I told our sector commanders to prepare for more trouble. But I'm hoping that we will find allies to help all civilized, legitimate governments and organizations survive and defeat these pirates."

"But...but could they attack here?" came a timid voice from the back.

"They might, but I'm not going to let that happen," Rafe said. "I'm going to meet with our government, warn them of the danger, and assure them that ISC will support system defense to the fullest extent possible. Some of you, I know, are aware of my decision that we will not prosecute or interfere with systems repairing their own ansibles. We need as much communication as we can get; these pirates used the lack of ansible access to hide, organize, and attack."

He looked around. Too many scared faces, too many people looking for a way out. He smiled at them. "We will get through this," he said. "ISC has survived challenges before, and we'll do it this time. You are all intelligent, skilled people...you can help us pull through. There will be changes, yes: we have to meet this challenge, not just sit and let it happen to us. But you're the kind of people who can do that."

Better now; they were listening, they were not as tense, not as frightened.

"The ships that hit our fleet did not escape unscathed, and they are far away—even if they headed directly here, which they won't, they're not going to hit Nexus today or tomorrow. It's not physically possible. We are going on emergency schedules; I want doubled watches posted here, so that every change in ansible function, every bit of data we can gather, will be noticed as soon as possible. If someone is able to locate and identify the pirate fleet...well, that would be an enormous help."

"Who was it that helped us?" someone asked.

"Mackensee Military Assistance Corporation. I'll be contacting their chief, to thank them and ask for some more help. And the new group, Space Defense Force."

"Weren't they the ones who...?"

"Fixed that ansible? Yes. Neither of those two had many ships in the system, but they did assist our fleet and finally drove off the attackers. From what I gather, Space Defense Force figured out where the pirates' commander was and attacked that ship directly. They weren't able to destroy it, but they did chase it out of the system, and the surviving pirate ships followed."

"So they're not really against us?"

"Not at all," Rafe said. "Now. I need to go back up to my office and contact the government and Mackensee. I trust you'll all keep at your stations here, and let me know if there's anything new—"

The chorus of "Yes, sir" and "Of course, sir" sounded firm enough. Rafe waved to them and headed back upstairs. He was tempted to stop off at the Enforcement safe rooms, but Ky was alive and he had no excuse for roughing up Cuthen himself. More urgent matters awaited. He needed to get ansibles onboard all ISC ships, for one thing, not those pitiful booster units.

"You've got a call from home," Emil said as Rafe came past him. "Your mother sounds upset; she wants to know when you'll come home."

Outside, the day had already darkened into night again. A clear night; the glowing cloud of the Arctan Nebula hung over the city. He shouldn't go home; he had too much to do. Those calls to the government, to Mackensee. He could make them from home, but then his parents would want to know what was going on.

"What about the government?" he asked Emil.

"The office was closed by the time I got your message, sir. I didn't know how urgent it was."

"Urgent—but probably not worth interrupting the secretary at dinner." And he himself was tired; he could feel it in his shoulders, in his eyes. When had he last slept? Before the blizzard began? "What about Mackensee?"

"I've contacted their local office; the ansible in their system is still down. I've directed the nearest ISC repair team to go there—it'll be several days."

"Good work," Rafe said. He noticed that Emil, too, had dark circles under his eyes. "Take a shift off at least, Emil. Get a proper meal, somewhere off the premises, and a good night's sleep."

"Are you sure that's all right?"

"You have a skullphone—I can always wake you if I need you. I'll go home tonight; call the car. We can drop you somewhere if you like."

On the drive across the city, Rafe tried to sort out how to tell his father what was going on. He shouldn't; the doctors had said to limit business talk. But every time he came in the door, his father had a hundred mumbled, semi-coherent questions along with a stream of advice. He felt smothered, trapped in his father's expectations, his father's...he hated to say it even to himself...his father's limitations.

How could his father not have seen what Lew Parmina was? How could he have let ISC's fleet slide into obsolescence? He'd always thought of his father as completely competent, all-knowing; even when he was angriest with the man, he'd felt pride in being Garston Dunbarger's son. Now...he felt pity for his father, for what had happened to him, for his struggles in rehab, but his admiration had dimmed as he dug into ISC and found so many things so badly awry.

What he should do was move out, separate himself from the family. At the thought of having his own place, a place without the associations of so much misery, he felt better immediately. If he lived closer to headquarters—even in headquarters; the guest suite could be rearranged for him—he would lose less time traveling back and forth. Weather conditions would matter less.

By the time the car turned into the drive, he had decided that moving out was the best possible solution to the whole family entanglement. The house loomed ahead, the familiar pattern of its façade, the windows, the portico. How, he wondered suddenly, did it seem to his family? Twice this house had been invaded, once successfully. Yet he could not imagine his parents living anywhere else.

He paused outside the door of the house, scraping his feet carefully. This was not going to be easy. He put his hand to the reader, and the lock opened; a chime sounded inside as he pushed it open. He wished he'd been able to persuade his parents that they needed to have someone in the house to answer the door, but he hadn't. At least they hadn't balked when he upgraded the house security system and hired more external guards to patrol the grounds.

"Rafe—I thought you were never coming home—" His mother came from the music room.

"The snow finally stopped," he said.

"You could work from home; your father did sometimes."

"He knew everyone, and everyone knew him," Rafe said, unwrapping his scarf, slipping out of his coat. "I need to be visible, on the job. Parmina had a lot of people confused, and his departure has left...holes...in various departments." He glanced at the door to the library, where his sister Penelope stood, wrapped in a big shawl, her shoulders hunched. "How—"

"Don't ask," Penelope said. His mother drew in her breath; his sister came forward with a quick, angry glance at their mother. "I lost my husband," Penelope said. "I lost my baby. How do you think I'm doing?" Her gaze swept the entrance hall, and in this house carried to him without words. In this house where she'd been the night they were abducted, the night her husband died. Where she'd been the night Rafe had saved her, and terrified her, and the night he had not saved her, and the terror went on too long.

She needed to go somewhere else, too...but would she? Could she?

"What's for dinner?" he asked, retreating from that dilemma. His sister's face twisted a moment into a knowing look that recognized his retreat.

"A well-balanced meal designed by a medical nutritionist," Penelope said. Her voice matched her expression: cold and scornful.

"Dear—" his mother said.

"Well, it is," Penelope said. "It doesn't matter what it is, that's what it tastes like. The right amount of protein, carbohydrates complex and simple, the right amount of fiber and vitamins and minerals...they sent a cook with a list, Rafe. What father should have, how much, and so on."

"It's not that bad," his mother said. "Quite good, really—"

"I've been told it tastes that way to me because I'm depressed," Penelope said. Rafe eyed her. She looked far worse than she had when they first came back.

"It's probably too early," he said, as they went into the living room. "But I was going to ask if you could possibly do a little work for me."

Her expression shifted a little. "Work? What kind?"

"Rafe, she can't possibly; how can you ask?" his mother said.

"Mother, please. I have nothing to do all day around here except...what I do. Mope. Cry. Go to therapy. Mope and cry some more. Have nightmares."

"I'm sorry," Rafe said. "I don't remember what it is you studied, if I ever knew, but you are family, and I know I can trust you. There's a ton of data to go through, trying to untangle Parmina's relationships in the company. I need someone to help me with that. Even a couple of hours a day would help."

"Do you think I could?" she asked.

"Rafe, you can't be serious," his mother said. "After all she's been through, she doesn't need—"

"Mother, please—I need to get out of this house!" Penelope said. She turned to Rafe. "If I just have something to do, something useful...I may not do it well..."

"Be ready to leave when I do in the morning," Rafe said, keeping his tone light. "I'll take you in with me. We'll see how it goes." Clearly, Penelope couldn't be expected to leave tonight, as he had planned to, nor should she make her own way to ISC headquarters...he would have to spend at least another night here, and tell his parents in the morning that he was moving out.

Dinner was not as bad as his sister had said, but nothing like the meals he remembered. His father, propped in a float chair, seemed barely able to feed himself; a medical attendant sat beside him, murmuring suggestions. His father's left eyelid drooped almost shut, and his mouth sagged. Rafe felt his stomach tightening. They were all worse than they had been even three days ago, before the storm. Was something wrong with their medical care? Had Parmina somehow arranged to mess with that?

Rafe ate steadily, silently, glancing now and then at his mother. She ate little that he could see, perched like a bird about to take flight on the edge of her chair. His sister ate even less...one or two bites of each offering, that was all.

His father tried to speak, his one good eye fixed on Rafe, but managed only a rough jumble of noises. Supposedly the left side of his brain hadn't been damaged; why was his speech so impaired? Like everything else, it had worsened over the past weeks. Rafe struggled to hide his worry and concentrated on the sounds, trying to parse meaning from them.

"Everything's going well," Rafe said, interpreting this as a request for information, information he was not about to impart. "We've found a few more of Parmina's cronies and we've taken care of them."

"No business worries...," the attendant said to Rafe, with a warning glance.

"Sorry," Rafe said. "I'm glad to see you up and around, Father. That was quite a snowstorm. When the weather is bad, I may spend nights at the office—please don't be concerned if I don't come home." He shot a glance at his mother. "In fact, I was thinking of getting a place near the office—or even bunking in that guest apartment."

His father's hand twitched, sending a spoonful of the steamed greens flying onto the carpet. The attendant bent to wipe it up.

"I want to do a good job," Rafe went on, hoping his face matched the tone he was trying for. "I want to take care of the company—as you asked me—"

"Yuh...duhnuh...dih-wih-vvvvatttah..."

"You'll be better soon," Rafe said. No one else might have understood that, but he knew that You do not deal with Vatta was what his father wanted to say. "If you rest, if you do what they tell you. I know you'll be all right, and I will take care of things for you in the meantime." He finished his own meal, all he could eat, and looked at his mother. "Mother, I need to take a long, hot bath, if you don't mind."

"Of course not," she said, her brow furrowed a little. "Are you coming down later?"

"Not if I fall asleep in the tub," Rafe said, forcing a smile. "Don't wait for me, I beg you."

When he emerged from the bathroom, rubbing his hair dry, his sister was waiting in the hall, shoulder propped into the corner between a case of antique porcelain belt ornaments and the wall.

"Were you serious? About giving me a job?"

"Yes," Rafe said.

"I hate this house," she said with quiet intensity. "I've hated it since...and then what happened made it worse. I can't sleep here. I keep seeing...what happened. Jared's face...when they shot him...and...then it comes back, that night when you saved me. It's always cold; I'm always cold. I tried to tell Mother I wanted to move out, find someplace. She thinks I'm better here, or I should go back to our—to Jared's and my house—and I just can't. And you're getting out, aren't you? I can tell. You don't want to live in that little boy's room; you're not that boy anymore. You'll get your own place, or stay at the office, and I'll be here with...with all this." She waved again at the surroundings.

"It...would be easier to do my job if I lived closer," Rafe said.

She gave him a long look. "Would Father be happy if he knew exactly what you were doing?"

"What kind of a question is that?" Rafe asked. "Why would you think not?"

"Because you're you," she said. "You're not like him...you have that other...that other flavor. What are you doing, Rafe?"

"Come and see," Rafe said, trying to keep it light.

"Is it all going away?" she asked, her eyes shifting now from his face to the hall, to the pictures on the walls, the carpet on the floor. "Is something wrong with ISC?"

"You are in deep grief," Rafe said. "You are seeing all the darkness there is, and that's perfectly normal—"

"But there is something wrong, isn't there—I can feel it—"

This was not a conversation he wanted to have here, in the hall, where anyone might hear. Yes, his father was supposed to be having a final series of exercises before bed, but houses had been bugged before.

"You are upset," Rafe said. "Tomorrow will be different; tomorrow you won't spend all day here. And if you can show me that you have a definite plan in mind, I'll help you move away, if that's what you need."

She stared at him now...was she as irrational as she looked? He didn't know; he had no idea how to interpret her expressions, her quickly changing moods. "But I'm...I'm not like I was...I never will be..."

"Doesn't matter," Rafe said firmly. "Yes, you'll need to stay in therapy—you've had terrible things happen, and everyone needs help after something like that. But I'm here, and I'll help you." She looked as if she might cry again; Rafe was too tired to deal with that, he told himself. "Good night, Tinkabear," he said, softly. For a moment, her face lit up: it had been her nickname as a toddler.

In the morning, she was dressed and ready by the front door, holding a small suitcase, when he came down. He didn't comment; he, too, was carrying a suitcase, packed with two of his new suits and other necessities. The house was silent; his parents, he hoped, were still asleep. Rafe tapped out the security code; the car outside answered. He opened the door for her, nodding as she went past, and called softly into the silent house "We're on our way!" as cheerfully as if they were headed for a picnic.

On the ride into the city, she settled herself warily into the wide backseat; her face was pale and her fingers tightened on her case every time they went around a corner. Finally, in the last stretch up to the entrance, she said, "I'm not going back."

"No one can make you," Rafe said. "Certainly not me."

"No one can—you just said that."

"So I did. Now, what time is your usual therapy appointment, and do you go, or does someone come?"

"The doctor comes. At eleven."

"We'll call, to be sure the doctor comes here...unless you'd rather go to someone's office—and by the way, do you like this therapist?"

"It doesn't matter." Her voice had gone soft.

"Of course it does. You'll get better faster with someone you like and trust."

"Not...really. He's all fatherly and comforting, but I can tell he thinks I'm just a spoiled girl who will always be too weak."

Whether the therapist really thought that or not was not as important as his sister's belief. Rafe felt the family bond tightening around his shoulders, a noose that would hold him here longer, keep him from Ky. And yet—this was Tinkabear, Pretty Penny, Pennyluck...all the silly childhood pet names came back to him. This was the little sister he'd smacked one time, and much good it had done her. She was his only remaining sister, all he had, really. He could not abandon her just because she was so unlike Ky.

"I'm sure that's not the only good therapist in the city," he said. "But first, let's be sure Mother doesn't panic when she finds you gone and the therapist is coming. Then we'll find you a place to stay. Do you want an apartment, or would you feel safer here?"

"I won't feel safe anywhere," Penelope said. "But—I'd like to be near you for a while."

He was not going to have her in his apartment...which meant they should both stay at headquarters for the time being. "Did you visit Father at work much?" he asked.

"No. Not at all since I married, and not much before that."

"Well then: welcome to the executive life." One of his bodyguards preceded them up the steps and through the door; Rafe led her to the security desk and spoke to the middle-aged woman there. "Hi, Sylvie. This is my sister Penelope; you will have her biometrics on file. We'll need an all-shift pass for her. She's going to be helping me out for a while."

"Of course, sir." Sylvie glanced up at Penelope. "If you would, please, put your hand in here and look into the hood. We need a current image for the tag." In less than a minute, the machine spat out a laminated tag; Sylvie punched a hole in it, attached the clip and a lanyard, and handed it over. "There you are."

Penelope clipped the tag to her jacket. Rafe waited as his bodyguard checked the lift and his fellow upstairs, then nodded. Rafe ushered Penelope into the lift with a low bow.

"Stop it," she said, turning pink. "You're being silly...people will look..."

"You used to like it when I played prince to your princess," he said, leaning against the wall. "Don't you remember the time you made me wear Linnet's dance tights and that coronet?"

This time she giggled. "I'd forgotten that. It must have been a scene out of one of the videos. And you kept wrapping Mother's evening cape around you, when it was supposed to trail out behind."

"There are reasons," Rafe said, putting on a scowl, "why I needed that cape...those blasted tights were too big."

The elevator coasted to a stop; Penelope stepped forward, but Rafe blocked her. "Why—" she began, but he caught the nod from his guard and stepped back.

"After you, Princess."

"You aren't going to call me Princess—"

"Only when you deserve it," Rafe said. "Now let's find you a desk—"

"Are you serious? You're really going to put me to work?"

Rafe shrugged. "Sitting around here doing nothing won't help you any more than sitting around home...the house. Emil, this is my sister Penelope. Find her a place to work, will you? On this floor, close to me. She's going to be helping me with some research. In the meantime, Penelope, come into my parlor..."

She gave him a weak, wavering smile.


B y the time Rafe had rescheduled Penelope's appointment with the therapist, Emil had found her a quiet place to work, shifting an assistant one door farther away. Rafe cocked his head at Penelope. "Do you want me to call Mother, or—"

"Please," she said. "And tell her..." Tears spilled over.

Rafe felt helpless. Any of the usual comforting phrases would be an insult. "I'll tell her that you and I are both staying here for the time being. I think we can find a therapist who agrees that's best for you, if yours doesn't."

"Th-thanks," she said, swiping at her eyes. "I'm sorry—" She stood up. "I—I want to find a room—"

"Emil will show you," Rafe said. "If you need a restroom, or something to drink, or anything—"

When she had left his office, Rafe called home. His mother answered. "Rafe—where's Penny? Did she go with you? Is she all right?"

"Yes, she's fine. She's here with me. Her therapist is coming here today. We're going to stay here for a few days at least. She needs to get away for a while."

"Away? But this is her home; she's safe here."

"She was abducted from that house," Rafe said. "She doesn't feel safe."

"I—I don't—" Her face seemed to melt into grief. "I couldn't stop them...my little Penny."

"She'll be fine here, Mother," Rafe said. "I'll take care of her. There's a lovely apartment...and now, I'm sorry, I must go."

Emil had set up a call with System Defense, whose civilian chief had known his father well. "I was sorry to hear about his condition," Humphrey Isaacs said. "But he is expected to recover fully, isn't he? And return to work?"

"We certainly hope so," Rafe said. "But the damage was severe. The doctors can't tell us how long it will be, or whether any of the problems will remain. In the meantime, I have data vital to our systems security." Isaacs said nothing, and Rafe gave him a brief summary of the situation.

"ISC's fleet isn't more than a match for them?"

"No. It will take the combined forces of several systems to eradicate this threat. They have already overwhelmed several systems. Most of them weak and underpopulated, but one at least—Bissonet—mounted what we all thought was a sizable and effective space defense. Now they have Bissonet's ships as well as their own."

"Well...this is not what I wanted to start my workday with," Isaacs said, scowling. "You know—or at least your father knew—what our system defenses are. We depended heavily on ISC to round out our numbers."

Rafe knew more about Nexus's defense establishment than his father, but it would not be prudent to say so. Officially, here on Nexus, he had never had an identity who was supposed to know anything like that. "I will forward you the data gathered from the recent engagement," he said. "It is clear that the enemy have a variety of advanced technologies that give them an edge, ship for ship. We at ISC will be upgrading our fleet as quickly as possible; I would suggest you do the same."

"You don't think they'd attack Nexus, do you?" Isaacs asked. "We're one of the biggest, most powerful systems—"

"We're the richest target around," Rafe said. "And now that they've found ISC vulnerable, I expect they'll try to amass enough force to do just that. That may have been their aim all along. Capture Nexus and you have a central location already equipped as a communications center for all—or most—human-occupied space. Every system they capture gives them more resources—more ships, more weapons, more wealth. And every capture hurts the legitimate governments and organizations—economically as well as militarily, with the decline of trade. Even if the population resists, there will always be some who see personal profit in joining up."

"That's a frightening prospect." Isaacs looked more thoughtful than frightened, however.

"Yes. I believe it's going to require immediate consultation and cooperation with other systems to prevent serious consequences not just for us but for all civilized and peaceful systems."

"Can't ISC release some of its experimental technology to give us back that edge?"

"I haven't had time yet to look into our research program and see what would be suitable," Rafe said. "I do know there's a technology newly patented over in the Moscoe Confederation that would be of immense benefit. When I'm through talking to you, I'll be talking to the patent holder to find out how fast it can be produced."

"Get a license to make it here," Isaacs said.

"I tried," Rafe said. "The patent holder has a preexisting deal with the Moscoe government for local manufacture. But I'm hoping we can reserve the first production run."

"What is it?" Isaacs asked.

"I'd rather not say until I've locked in an order," Rafe said. "But if you can come by my office tomorrow—"

"I'll be there."

"Good. Talk to you then."

Rafe took a few minutes to check on Penelope. She was ensconced behind a desk, staring into a screen.

"How's it going?" he asked.

"I'm not sure what you want me to look for, Rafe. Emil gave me a stack of financial records...am I looking for embezzlement or...or what?"

"We have several problems, Penny, and I don't know which you'd be best suited to detect." Rafe hitched a hip onto her desk. "Embezzlement is one of them. I started by looking for Parmina's accomplices at the higher levels, the easiest way first: comparing their lifestyles with their known legal income. I figured he had to be paying them, or they had to be stealing from the company. Found one that way. But there are other problems with the company right now, and they're not necessarily the result of illegal actions. What I'd like you to do is analyze the relative amounts we've spent in the main divisions over the past thirty years. I think Research and Enforcement may have been consistently underfunded, but I don't know where the cream has gone."

"You want me to concentrate only on the main divisions?"

"Not if you find something that looks strange. Follow your nose. I need a better idea of where the money went—in all ways—and I need to know if it's fraud or stupidity or just inertia."

"Is ISC really in trouble?" she asked, as she had the night before. "And...is it Father's fault?"

"It's in trouble," Rafe said. "That much is certain; it's what I told the Board. There's new technology loose that has broken our monopoly, though not everyone realizes it yet. We could have had that technology and marketed it ourselves. Instead, we didn't even patent it, and now someone else has the rights to it and has improved it. We're so far behind the curve, it's...it's as if we weren't on the same track. About Father—I don't know. One of the things I need to find out is if he made bad decisions, or if he didn't get the right data to make good decisions, or if his orders weren't followed."

"So this is one giant fishing expedition," Penelope said.

"Yup. And a lot of work. Work that needs to be done by someone I can trust. Right now there's no one in our financial divisions I can be sure of."

"I see," she said. "Well...I'll do my best."

"I'm sure you will," he said. "I've got to get back to the other stuff—we can talk about that later."

"What did Mother say?"

"What you'd expect. Don't worry about it. You're here and she's there. Later on, when I take a break, I'll take you over to the apartment and let you get your things settled. Or I can have someone take them now."

"No. I'd rather do it myself. If you're busy, where can I get something for lunch?"

"Ask Emil. He can order something up, or you can eat in the executive dining room. If you do that, one of my bodyguards will go with you."

She nodded. "It's...it is better here. I'm not seeing...that..."

"Good. Get yourself back to work, then. Your therapist will be here in about two hours; I'll want to talk to him as well."

As he went back to his office, Rafe was aware that one problem was—if not solved—maybe moving toward solution. At least Penny wasn't crying, and she looked more alive than she had at home.

He looked up the temporal conversions. It was evening on Cascadia Station. Stella might be having dinner with someone; she would not want to be interrupted. But he had to talk to her. He placed the call.

"It's Rafe," he said when she answered.

"I didn't think anyone else from Nexus would be calling," she said crisply. "We will announce the successful licensee tomorrow at noon, as previously stated."

"That's not what I called about," he said. "Are you in a secure location?"

Her face paled. "What—is Ky all right?"

"As far as I know, yes. But what I have to say concerns her."

"I believe this facility is secure, yes," Stella said. "Go on."

"The pirates ran into an ISC fleet. Ky was there. Actually, Ky was the reason the ISC fleet was there—not by my orders, by the way. Against them. But anyway—the pirates chewed up our fleet with ridiculous ease."

"And Ky got away?"

"Ky and a small number of Mackensee ships managed to drive the pirates away."

"That idiot!" Stella said. "She should have run for it."

"That's what I told her," Rafe said. "When I was told an ISC fleet was headed her way, I..." He stopped. Stella didn't know about their shared cranial implant. How could he cover that? "Ky's people had repaired a system ansible, a relay. That's what alerted our enforcement division; they sent the fleet, standard procedure, to capture whoever had done the repair. When I found out it was too late to stop the fleet, I contacted her and warned her. It's complicated—she'd already been in one battle, helping some mercenary ships fight off a pirate attack. She wouldn't leave the system because the remaining mercenary ship wouldn't leave. She said a merc relief convoy was on the way to bring supplies and change out trainees, but if the pirates returned in the meantime, the one ship would be helpless."

"So she didn't listen to you," Stella said. "That sounds like Ky."

"A very stubborn woman," Rafe said. "I think it runs in the family."

"You may think that," Stella said. "I prefer to call it perseverance."

"Apparently, everyone showed up in the system within a few hours: the ISC fleet, the merc convoy, and the pirates, who were calling themselves the Blueridge Defense Alliance. And using, according to an after-battle report I got from Ky, captured Bissonet military vessels."

"That's not good."

"No. But the real reason I'm calling you now is to ask if it's possible to preorder onboard ansibles in quantity. I know you haven't awarded any contracts, but how fast do you think you could scale up production, if you had the cash in hand?"

"ISC wants them?"

"Everyone's going to want them, but yes: ISC and also Nexus Defense. I'm sure Moscoe's defense will also want some, but I see Nexus as a prime target. It's clear from the post-battle data that ships without them are nearly helpless against ships that have them."

Stella frowned. "Until we have a test run, I don't know what the real production rate will be. If there's enough demand, we could expand to another factory, I suppose..."

"I spoke to someone high in our System Defense this morning; I believe by tomorrow I can get you a firm commitment. And I'm going to be in contact with a respectable mercenary company as soon as we can get their ansible up and running—"

"Mackensee?"

"Well...yes. They were involved in the incident with Ky, and their commander on the scene says they'll definitely want some."

"Rafe, this is going to shred ISC's monopoly."

"I know that. I've already informed our Board. We've got to find another way to survive—but letting the pirates take over isn't it."

"What does your father say?"

"I...he's still not...capable..."

"So it's up to you?"

"Yeah. That's a joke, isn't it? The exile returns and is supposed to take over and perform a rescue."

"You will," Stella said. "How's the rest of your family?"

Rafe shrugged. "About like you'd expect. My mother's determined to get things back to normal—which is impossible—and my sister's deep in depression." He stopped. "Which reminds me, I need to talk to her therapist and change her appointment for her. I'll call you later."

That was abrupt, but the best he could do, he felt.

"I suppose it's all right for her to move here for a short while," the therapist said, pursing his lips. "But she'll need careful supervision; she's certainly not ready to be on her own. Really, I felt that the nurturing home environment was the best thing for her."

"Nurturing home environment?" Rafe raised his brows. "You've been to our house?"

"I understand that you were removed from the house at an early age," the therapist said. "Perhaps your resentment has blinded you to the qualities such a home has to offer."

Rafe glared. "That house is the same house in which she was snatched up by a kidnapper and saved only because I shot him. That house is the same one in which she saw her husband murdered, as he tried to protect her, and from which she and my parents were abducted, to be held in captivity and tortured. She hates that house; she doesn't feel safe in that house."

"It is important for people like your sister to confront their fears—whatever you think. It's a lovely house—comfortable, beautifully furnished—"

"Did you notice the pale patch in the living room where her husband's blood had stained the floor and the intruders poured bleach on it to clean it up?"

"Er...no. If I may say so, you sound quite hostile and angry. It will not help your sister to be around a hostile person in her present state."

"You're evading the issue," Rafe said. "Penny's suffered severe trauma, physical and emotional. She associates that house with danger; she's told me that she can't sleep, that she relives both abductions over and over in that space where they happened. She needs to be where she feels safe..."

"You, sir, are not a therapist." The man's face had contracted to a knot of distaste. "You are disturbed; you have always been disturbed—"

"Excuse me?"

"Your therapist was my partner until his untimely death. I have seen your records. A born sociopath, a child killing without remorse; your subsequent course in the best possible therapeutic environment was proof of your deep-seated disturbance—"

"Poppycock," Rafe said. He felt the dangerous edge of a magnificent and well-deserved rage, into which all the frustrations and angers of the past two days merged. And yet...this was Penny's therapist. He had to be sure she was taken care of. He took a breath. "I was a child who killed an adult intent on killing or harming him, and intent on killing or harming his sister. The fact you can't get around is that Penny and I would not be alive if I had not acted."

"But you should have felt—"

"Feelings are what they are. It's what you do with them that matters. I should have saved my sister and myself—and I did. I was scared; I was terrified; I used that fear to do what needed to be done. But that's decades in the past. Now it's my sister who needs help. And once again, I'm going to get her the help she needs—which is not being told to 'confront her fears' by staying in the location where the trauma happened. I'll be seeking another therapist for her—"

"You! You aren't qualified!"

"To do the therapy, of course not. To find her a competent therapist, yes. You will of course be reimbursed for today's session and this conference."

"You can't do this!"

"Penny is an adult. She is free to choose whomever she wants for her therapist. She does not want you."

"I'll have to hear that from her."

"Penny?" Rafe turned to the door.

Penelope came in.

"You don't really mean—" her therapist began.

"I don't want to keep seeing you," she said. "I know I need more therapy; Rafe will help me arrange it."

"My dear, you don't know what you're saying...your brother is...is not a safe companion for you."

"My brother rescued me twice," Penny said. "I think I'll take that over your notions of safety."

"Emil, see that this gentleman gets safely to his transportation," Rafe said. When the door had closed behind him, he cocked his head. "Penny...I'm sorry. I didn't realize the family had chosen someone like that for you."

"It's not your fault," Penny said. Her eyes were red and glittered with unshed tears; she blinked them back. "I think Mother just went automatically to the same clinic...it's what she knew, and she wasn't really thinking clearly. Neither was I. I didn't realize he'd been your therapist's partner. How will we find another?"

"By doing what I should've done in the first place," Rafe said. "The team I hired to get you out: they work with victims all the time. I'm sure they know the best in the business. I'll call Gary." He looked at the clock. "After lunch, I'll call Gary. Let's have lunch together. We can have it in the apartment; we can get you settled in there."

The apartment, meant for visiting VIPs, had a curved window overlooking the river and its park in the dining area. "This window...," Penelope said. She didn't look at the trays on the table with their insulated covers.

"One-way glass," Rafe said. "And armored. As well as a full alarm system—look at this strip here, and this. You will set the combination of your bedroom door to whatever you wish—it's unlocked now—but it has a pushbar emergency exit, so you can always get out. And I hope you don't mind—" He opened the bedroom door. "I saw how you seemed cold at home. And you brought only one small case. I ordered in some additional covers..."

Her eyes filled with tears again. "Rafe...thank you."

"I think we need lunch," he said. "Leave your case in there, freshen up."

"Yes..."

She actually ate some of the thick soup and warm bread he'd ordered. "I need to get back to work," Rafe said. "Do you need a nap, or are you good for another round of digging through figures?"

"I'll come," she said. "Unless I'm being too...clingy."

She was, but it wasn't her fault. Nothing was her fault, including his feeling of being trapped. "Not at all, he said. "And you'll want to be there when I talk to Gary about therapists—we need to find you the right one."

Gary had a list, as Rafe had expected. Penny's former therapist wasn't on it; when Rafe mentioned the man's name, Gary snorted. "If you're a socialite having anxiety attacks because your cook got sick two days before a dinner party, he might be of use. But not for anything serious. I've had clients before who went to him because he's the big name that social class knows about. Your sister needs one of the others. Consider the woman; all her trauma's been from men, right?"

"Good point," Rafe said. He glanced at Penny. "How do you feel about a woman therapist, Penny?"

"I...think I'd like that."

"Frieda's solid, sensible...her background's a little unusual, but she's helped all my clients who have gone to her. Want me to give her a heads-up?"

"I was going to call her right away, but—yes." Gary, Rafe knew, had data collected from the site that he had not shared with Rafe, data from the abductors' own files. Penny's therapist should have that.

"Go ahead; tell her we were the extrication team, and that I'll forward the usual background data."

Rafe called the woman's office. When he explained who he was, that his sister had been held hostage, and gave Gary's name, the therapist came online at once. She was a middle-aged woman, with streaks of white in her hair. "Let me speak to her, please," she said to Rafe. "It is her therapy. And if you could give her some privacy...?"

Rafe called Penny over to the console and walked out to Emil's desk, bemused that someone he hadn't actually hired yet was giving him orders.

"How's she doing?" Emil asked in a tone that made Rafe give him a longer look.

"As well as can be expected...Emil, are you falling for her?"

Emil looked startled. "No, sir. I just...she seems like such a nice girl—woman—and she's had such an awful experience."

"You're right, and that's exactly why she shouldn't have even such a paragon as you trying to get too close to her too soon."

"I wouldn't think of it, sir. I just hope...things go well for her from now on."

Rafe looked at Emil's earnest face and thought about saying more, but Emil was so young. And probably had a girl already, or a string of them. "Just be kind to her," he said.

"All right, Rafe, come on back," Penny called. The monitor was blank; she had ended the call. "I don't know if I like her, exactly, but...I feel good about her. I told her that I'd moved out of the house and she said that was a healthy decision." She paused. "I—I hope you don't mind my talking to her without you."

"Not at all," Rafe said. "She's your therapist; there's no reason for me to know everything you say to each other."

The rest of that day passed in a blur; the conference with the sector commanders on readiness, a call to Mackensee's local representative, another conference with the nearest sector commander on tactical analysis of the battle, plus the new Control supervisor wanting authorization for all the overtime doubling shifts would require, and queries from news media about the change in CEO.

He was just wondering whether to have a late supper sent up or go somewhere when his mother called. She looked haggard, and her voice shook. "Rafe! How could you! Firing Doctor Bradon like that—he's one of the most prominent therapists in the city. He called me—he was so upset. He says you're not fit to take charge of Penelope, that your separating her from her family means you want to control her. Rafe, I know you're not as bad as he says, but—"

"Mother, please." Rafe took a deep breath. "Listen—Doctor Bradon was affiliated with the same therapist who caused me so much grief. More important than that, Penny didn't feel comfortable with him. She has a new therapist, someone Gary recommended—"

"Gary—?"

"The man who commanded the team that got you out. He is the system expert on hostage extrication; he has a list of therapists he knows who are particularly skilled in helping people recover from that experience. Penny's already talked to one, and decided to try her for a time."

"Doctor Bradon said you might say something like that, and he said if she got a new therapist it must not be a woman...that she has issues which require a male therapist..."

"I looked this woman up," Rafe said. He didn't need to tell her it was after Penny had already decided. "She has multiple publications in reputable journals on issues relating to the care of survivors of serious trauma. She has taught in two medical schools, and is still on the adjunct faculty of one of them."

"Oh."

"Mother, I am not interested in controlling Penny. I do want her to heal from all this as quickly and as thoroughly as possible...and that wasn't going to happen in the same house where she saw her husband killed."

"I just wanted things to be like they were..." His mother was crying now. "I thought if...and Doctor Bradon says she needed to confront her fear..."

"I'll give you the names of the therapists Gary recommends," Rafe said. "You can see for yourself that they have solid credentials."

"I just want..." Her voice choked off. Rafe squeezed his own eyes shut and waited. What she wanted was impossible, as impossible as his child's wish for that awful night to have been a dream. Or his wish now that the abduction had never happened, that he could have come home to have a cool but nonhostile conversation with his father, perhaps visit the house to have a meal...and then gone back to his own life, far away from Nexus.

"You must think I'm crazy," his mother said finally. "Crying like this. It's over. I should be over it."

"No," Rafe said. "I don't think you're crazy." His stomach growled, reminding him that dinner was long overdue. He had been hungrier before, he told himself.

"The house is so...so empty. So...big. And your father..."

Rafe had a moment's terror that she was thinking of moving into headquarters with his father...the thought of all of them here...

"But we have to stay; we have to show we aren't afraid."

"Mother, all you and Father have to do is recover. You don't have to prove anything to me or anyone else. If you need to go to..." He racked his brain. They had had a summer cabin in the mountains, but it was too much like the resort where they'd been held, logs and all. "Why not that place in the islands? The warm water would be good for Father; you know the house is cold and relatively isolated in winter. Some of your friends are probably down there already."

She said nothing for a long moment; he was afraid she'd start crying again. "Rafe, I...you may be right. I'll talk to the doctors...I don't know what Doctor Bradon will say..."

"I'll check with Gary and see if one of the therapists he recommends is in the area. I'm sure we can find someone, and Father's medical team can travel with him. If this is what you decide."

"I—I'll think about it. I really will. I'm just so...so tired all the time these days."

"Of course you are," Rafe said. "But some time in the warmth and sun might help you more than this gloomy cold." She had always loved the tropics.

"My houseplants—"

"We can get a plant service in to take care of them."

She sighed. "Maybe you're right. Maybe...and it's only going to get colder. I'll look up some of the places, see if anything's open."

For the wife of ISC's former CEO, someplace would be open, if he had to bribe someone to cut their own vacation short. "That's what I have a personal assistant for," Rafe said. "Let me take care of it."

"Would you?"

"Yes, but not without checking with you to be sure it's what you want. I'm not trying to force you into anything—" Not much, he told himself. He wanted his parents out of the city, into someplace safe, and out of his hair. Yes, he believed it would be good for them to be out of that house, with all its toxic memories, and into a warmer climate...but he was still manipulating them with all the skill he had used on unsuspecting marks before. And he knew it.

"Thank you, dear," his mother said. "I'll just let you take care of it, then. I know it's the high season, but if you could, something with a view—"

"I'm sure we can find something you like," Rafe said. After his mother clicked off, he put a note in Emil's file. Perhaps he could get through supper without another crisis. A night's sleep was probably too much to hope for.


T hat depressing prediction came true in the middle of the night, when he was woken with the news that the Mackensee home system ansible was now functional.

"I knew you'd want to know right away," the communications tech said.

"What's the time conversion?" Rafe asked, yawning.

"For Mackensee headquarters? It's about midafternoon there..." Rafe heard someone in the background tell the tech to be accurate. "Um...it should be 1430 there, sir, but I don't know if they have seasonal time changes."

"Thank you," Rafe said. It was 0213 here, and his eyes felt gritty. He lay back and closed them, but his mind raced. He was awake. He was far too awake to go back to sleep. Sighing, he sat up. He was in one of the small guest rooms for lower-ranking overnight guests: comfortable enough but dull, all tans and browns with a single landscape print on the wall. The adjoining bath unit was compact; he showered and dressed, adjusting his suit carefully. A CEO should look like a CEO, his father had always said.

In his office, he set up the secure ansible relay and took a moment to review what ISC knew about Mackensee's current chief. A senior executive in Enforcement had been sent as a personal representative, and had completed a detailed assessment of Arlen Becker, the current CEO. He was still listed: Mackensee's CEOs usually served for five local years in that position. Rafe scanned the file. Becker's profile fit what he'd expected; the man looked like the retired general he was. He had kept himself fit; his implant bulges were almost concealed by silvering hair. And Mackensee, proven innocent in the Sabine affair, had retrieved their bond in its entirety.

No more delay. Rafe activated the link. The first face on the screen wasn't Becker's, of course, but the assistant quickly put Rafe through.

"You're not Garston Dunbarger," Becker said.

"No. I'm his son, Rafe. My father is...not competent at present."

"Oh? I'm not sure I like the sound of that." Becker's eyes narrowed. "Family problems?"

"He was abducted and severely injured," Rafe said. "His implant was destroyed, and he's undergoing intensive rehabilitation after neuro-implant surgery. Lew Parmina, whom you may have talked to—my father's chief assistant and intended to be his successor as CEO—was responsible."

"I see. And where were you?"

"Offplanet when it happened," Rafe said. "You may have heard that I was a renegade, a remittance man; unofficially, I was on assignment for ISC, my father's clandestine eyes and ears. When he didn't contact me at the usual interval, I made my way back to Nexus—delayed by such things as that little incident Ky Vatta got us into with Osman Vatta."

"Ah. That. Yes...though my commander didn't report you as being involved..."

"I was using an alias. If you check that report, you'll find mention of a young man named Rafe who was able to fix ansibles and claimed to be an ISC agent."

"You're the one? Yes, I do recall that. And you're Garston's son?"

"Yes. I am acting CEO while he is incapacitated."

"I see. I presume this is about your...encounter with the Blueridge Defense Alliance pirates and some of our ships?"

"Related to that, yes. I presume your commanders on the scene have told you what they've learned about those pirates?"

"Yes. Not all the data have been analyzed yet, but I am aware that pirates invaded and defeated Bissonet System as well as several other less populous systems, and that at least some of the ships in this recent encounter were originally Bissonet ships."

"And I'm sure your commanders told you about the abysmal performance of the ISC fleet," Rafe said. Becker merely grunted his assent, and Rafe went on. "One of the things I did when first taking over here was assess the response capability of our fleet. It wouldn't do any good to try to conceal from you what I found—and what your commanders saw."

"One of your ships blew because its munitions exploded just outside the ship," Becker said. "Did you know that?"

"Yes. Old stuff that had degraded in storage."

"How long have you been in charge?"

"Only a few tendays," Rafe said.

"So...you know that I know what you know...what is it you want?" And what are you willing to pay? said his expression.

"Did your commander tell you about the new technology that the Space Defense Force ships have? Onboard ansibles that can provide real-time communications between ships?"

"He said something like that; I'm dubious. You people have always said it was impossible."

"It's not. I've seen it myself; I know it works—"

"It's ISC tech?"

"No, unfortunately. The patent holder is Vatta Enterprises, associated with the new Vatta Transport headquarters on Cascadia, over in the Moscoe Confederation. We're trying to get a license to manufacture it."

"I see. So you just want to chat about it?"

"No. I assume you're interested in obtaining some of these units..."

"I would be, once I'm convinced they exist and work as described."

"And I assume you'd like to take care of the pirates who mauled your ships—"

"Not as badly as they mauled your ships." Pride stiffened Becker's tone.

"No argument on that. But I see these pirates as a danger to more than your company, or my company, or any one system—I believe they are indeed intent on dominating as much of human space as possible, and that the widespread ansible failure is at least in part their doing. It's allowed them to strike without warning, to gain ships and other matériel, and grow ever more dangerous."

"I'd agree," Becker said. "I believe I can anticipate your next suggestion. You think we should all join together to wipe them out...is that it?"

"Yes. I know that Ky Vatta had a similar idea—which, frankly, I thought was outrageous at the time—"

"A very gifted young commander, my people tell me," Becker said, pursing his lips. "Too young and inexperienced for what she's trying to do, but she did save some of our people in this most recent engagement. You were on her ship—what do you think of her?"

Rafe opened his mouth, then paused. What came into his head was nothing Becker needed to know. "She's...young in years," he said slowly. "But she's been through a lot, and she's not immature. Intelligent, of course. Can be impulsive, but less so than when I first joined her ship...more decisive than impulsive now, I'd say. Ethically—pretty much a straight arrow. I'd say perfectly willing to use deception in combat, but not to lie in ordinary situations."

"One of my commanders, back in the Sabine mess, was concerned that she had a weakness common to many young female commanders...going soft on boys with problems."

"Ky? Well, that's changed, if she ever had it. I'd say she's nearly immune to that kind of thing. Her cousin told me she'd had a bad experience with a first love."

"So you'd trust her in a command setting?"

"I already have," Rafe said. "Remember, I was on her ship when Osman Vatta tried to take it over."

"Do you think she's got a chance with this Space Defense Force she's started?"

Rafe shrugged. "I don't know. To most people, she'll appear just as you said: too young, too inexperienced. But results count more than appearances, in the long run. The last time I saw her, she had one ship but had already found one ally. Now she has—what, five?—and she's survived more than one space battle. If she can convince systems to work with her, and get funding, I'd bet on her."

"But you're talking to me," Becker said with a sly smile.

Rafe grinned. "You're quite right. Ky may have a powerful force in the future, but you have one right now and my concern is immediate. Nexus is a rich, populous system and the communications hub for most of human-occupied space. If that doesn't define target—"

"That's true," Becker said, nodding. "And you've just learned that ISC's famous fleet is a bunch of bright shiny obsolescent window decorations...so you want to hire us, is that it?"

"Nexus government has an interest," Rafe said. "So, I'm sure, does the Moscoe Confederation. Do you have the resources to take another major contract?"

"That is a question," Becker said. "I'll need to check on some things. We can't cheat current contract partners. I'm sure we could contribute something, but right off the top of my head I don't know how much."

Rafe was sure he did, but understood the reluctance to make that commitment too soon.

"It won't come cheap," Becker added.

"Of course not," Rafe said. "You're one of the top mercenary companies, if not the best. I might just suggest that payment in kind—say, some of those onboard ansibles—could be arranged as part of your fee."

"I'll get back to you," Becker said. "Let's see, it's—good heavens, man, it's the middle of the night for you."

"It's been one of those days," Rafe said, shrugging. "I'll catch some sleep later."

[ Slotter Key ]

"The news from Cascadia is not good," Grace Lane Vatta said. The new President raised his eyebrows.

"What's wrong with Cascadia?"

"Nothing yet. But the following systems are known to have fallen to pirate hordes—" She handed over a list. "And there is evidence that they are led by the same person who attacked Slotter Key civilians from space."

"You mean, who attacked your family."

"It was my family, yes, but the important point to me as Rector of Defense, and you, as President, is that they attacked Slotter Key. Attacked the planet itself, killing and injuring thousands of Slotter Key citizens. Including many Vatta employees who were not members of my family."

Erran Kostanyan sighed. "I suspect you're about to suggest an official action that you want me to approve."

"Slotter Key maintains a privateer system," Grace said. "A system that has been reasonably successful in keeping the general level of piracy—the one or two ships attacking our trade—to a minimum. As the data show piracy was increasing in several sectors prior to the attack on Vatta interests; concern had been expressed, and the previous administration had even authorized an increase in the number of letters of marque some months before the attack. That was later rescinded, only about forty-five days before."

"Yes, yes, I know that. There's evidence the former president was complicit in the attack...cases are in court now."

"My point is, if the purpose of having privateers is to attack pirates, and the pirates are now coalescing into larger groups that no privateer alone can possibly handle, isn't it time to have our privateers join forces with others? With Slotter Key Spaceforce, after we authorize their activity outside this system, or with the space forces of governments we know and trust?"

"You mean, make privateers into a regular military force?" His brows went up again.

"We already have military advisers on nearly all our privateers. This is a natural next step."

"It doesn't seem natural to me. You're talking about having them operate outside the system...we certainly can't release Spaceforce ships for that. We have barely enough to guard our own system. If anything, we should call our privateers in—"

"You have heard of forward scouts," Grace said. "Early warning...that sort of thing? Let our privateers take on that role, only now operating in groups large enough to be effective against this new enemy. And if we call them in, we not only lose that, we gain the expense. The privateers have always been self-sufficient, though we gave them a cut rate on munitions if they resupplied here."

"You never cease to surprise me," Kostanyan said. "You're new in government and already you know what levers to lean on..."

"When it comes to accounting, an interstellar business isn't that far from a government," Grace said. "Except that our bottom line always has to come out on the profit side of the ledger."

"So what, precisely, do you propose?"

"Assuming you're sure we can't send Spaceforce along—"

He shook his head. She could tell he meant it.

"—then consider only the privateers," Grace said. "Contact them. Tell them to assemble...I would suggest at Cascadia Station, since that's where they can be fitted with onboard ansibles—"

"We'll need to find a commander for them. And staff, and support services—"

"You already have a commander," Grace said. "Ky Vatta's already engaged this enemy, more than once, and she's familiar with the tactical differences arising from the new communications technology."

"But she's not even an Academy graduate," Kostanyan said. "Even if she were, she'd be only an ensign, maybe a junior lieutenant."

"She has the experience," Grace said. "And she holds a letter of marque from Slotter Key."

"And she's a Vatta and you're a Vatta and you're telling me that Vatta is the only source of this new technology, which I've never heard of before. Without intending insult, I have to say that this smacks of...of..." He searched for a word.

"Favoritism?" Grace suggested. "Nepotism, even? I agree. It could be interpreted that way, or it could be interpreted as the inverse of the hostility that led to most of my family being killed and our livelihood destroyed." She smiled at him, letting her teeth show.

"Your appointment was supposed to do that," Kostanyan said.

"My appointment was supposed to give me the access to do what needed to be done," Grace said. "If that turns out to be good for both Slotter Key and Vatta...so be it." She stared him in the face; he looked away first.

"I have to be convinced it is good for everyone," he said.

"I have no wish to harm Slotter Key," Grace said. "Nor does the Vatta family, the surviving remnants. This is my home. I want this system to survive; I want the people here to survive. No one should be targeted as we were; I take my duties as Rector very seriously. But the fact is that Vatta family members have done more than anyone else, up to this point." She smiled, showing her teeth. He knew exactly what she meant, and she knew that he knew.

"Well...I suppose Spaceforce is in agreement?"

"I have not spoken with Spaceforce," Grace said, raising her eyebrows. "It's an executive decision; it would be inappropriate without your approval, and actually you should be the one to initiate the discussion."

"I'll do that today," he said. "At least this proposal doesn't take our ships out of the system..."

"You're pushing very hard," MacRobert said that night over dinner when she told him what she'd done. "You're making some people nervous."

"Some people," Grace said, with emphasis. "Some people would get nervous if you said boo above a whisper. You and I both know that there's serious trouble out there, and the best way to keep it away from us is to go meet it."

"It's all the Vatta connections," MacRobert said. "Someone's been snooping around the old stuff, looking for dirt."

Grace shrugged. "Big family, big money, big business. There's dirt, if they know where to look, but no more dirt than anybody else."

"This Osman fellow..."

"He's dead now," Grace said. "And a Vatta killed him."

"To silence him, some would say."

"Some would say anything," Grace said. "So they've uncovered the family skeleton, have they?"

"Not all of it, but some. Maybe enough to cause us trouble. I don't suppose you could persuade your niece to allow the new tech to be sold under another name...?"

Grace finished her fish. "I don't know," she said. "I'd think Slotter Key would like to have the credit. It's Vatta family, yes, but Vatta has always been based on Slotter Key, so it's a system thing as well."

"But your niece isn't here, and another system's getting the profits."

"She'd probably license manufacture here," Grace said. "I hadn't thought of that. Would it butter the right side of the bread if units were manufactured here as well?"

"It would lessen the concern I'm hearing that Vatta is abandoning Slotter Key for Moscoe Confederation."

"I'll talk to Stella," Grace said. "And I'll have to see what I can scare up in manufacturing."

Stella agreed to license manufacture on Slotter Key, but insisted on safeguards so any pirate agents could not get the tech. "You'll need to find a facility able to tool up quickly and still maintain quality control," she said. Grace thought of grandmothers and eggs and sucking, but forbore to say so. "And security," Stella went on. "These new units will give us an edge, but only if the pirates don't get them."

"I've done that," Grace said, practicing patience.

"I'll send you the specs," Stella said. "But not the full package yet. I'll want information on the facility and their estimate, after they've seen the specs, on time to production. And I control pricing."

That stung. "Stella, this is your home world—"

"It's the world that let outsiders kill my family and destroy our lives," Stella said. "I know, the old government's out and there's a new government and you're part of it. But that doesn't bring my father, brothers, and sister back, or Ky's parents, or any of our employees. It doesn't change my responsibility as CEO of Vatta Enterprises and Vatta Transport, Ltd. Slotter Key is getting a special deal—I'm going to license manufacture there. That's it."

Grace looked at that beautiful face, still breathtaking in its perfection. Of course Stella had changed; she had expected Stella to change. But this Stella had changed in a direction Grace had not anticipated. Was it Osman's side of her, or something else?

"Send me the information," Grace said. "I'll forward it, and we'll get back to you very quickly. Has production started there?"

"Not quite," Stella said. "They're retooling from another job."

"What would you sell units to Slotter Key privateers for?"

"Same as anyone else, but for now we're limiting initial sales to established military organizations. The first production run here is completely committed."

"Our privateers are being activated as an arm of Spaceforce," Grace said. "The idea is to have them get together and act as one or two fleets. That should make them military enough for you."

"Have you talked to Ky about this?" Stella asked. "If you want her to command—"

"No...I suppose I should. How can I get in touch with her?"

"You'll have to relay through me for now, and even I can't contact her at the moment; she's in FTL as far as I know, and I'm not sure when she'll be back down, or if her destination has a working ansible. Once she's out of FTL, I can contact her onboard ansible. If she lets me know she's available, that is."

"Won't she contact you right away?"

Stella laughed. "Ky? In a way, she's like you—she doesn't call just to chat. She'll call when she has something to say—or ask. She likes being off the leash."

[ Mackensee Military ]

[ Assistance Corporation HQ ]

The headquarters of MMAC looked much like any corporate headquarters: a typical office building, its lobby all shiny surfaces. Somewhat to Ky's surprise, the young man who met her at the security gate was not in uniform, though from his bearing he could have been.

"So glad you could come, Captain Vatta," he said. "Chairman Becker is looking forward to meeting you." He ushered her past the guards and into the express elevator. "I just wanted to express my own thanks for your actions at Boxtop. My brother was there; one of your ships took him in and gave him medical attention."

"Thank you," Ky said. "Do you know which of our ships?"

"Sharra's Gift, ma'am. I know that's not your flagship, but you're the one in charge and...and you're here."

"You're more than welcome," Ky said. "I wish we'd been able to save them all."

The elevator slowed, the display showing 31.

Becker's office, as well as the rest of the building, could have been any civilian executive's, even her father's. For an instant a wave of grief and nostalgia swept over her. She knew how offices like this worked; she could almost predict where to find the inevitable person in Admin who knew how to find anything at all, the person who kept the pipes operating, the whiz in Accounting who could fix any glitch.

Her father had only limited information on MMAC in the implant she wore, all recent gleanings from that short period when she'd been in Mackensee hands. She knew—because they had briefed her—that MMAC's CEO was one Arlen Becker, formerly a general. She had seen his image, so when the door to his private office opened and he came out, she knew at once who it was.

What surprised her was how little she felt intimidated by him. He reminded her of the Commandant of Spaceforce Academy, but she was no longer the cadet who had feared the twitch of an eyelid.

"You've done us an immense service, Captain Vatta," he said, leading her into his office. "And a great courtesy in leaving your ship to come meet me here. We have much to discuss." He waved her to a seat in the cluster of chairs around a small table.

"I'm glad we could help," Ky said.

"Would you like something to drink? We have hot and cold—" The service module on the table lit with a selection.

"Tea, please. Hot."

He tapped the module and then handed her a cup and saucer in porcelain that bore no signs of a corporate logo: small blue flowers alternated with red-and-gold butterflies. A plate in the same pattern held thin gold-edged rounds that looked like cookies.

"One of my indulgences," he said, nodding at her cup. "My wife inherited four generations of fine china, and this is a pattern she's never liked and I always did, so I brought it here."

Ky wondered how long this would go on, but sipped her tea. It was his office, and his initiative for now.

"We owe you a lot," he said, setting his cup down. "We would certainly have lost both of the ships in the training exercise, and quite possibly those of the relief convoy as well, if you had not shown up and helped us out. I've read the detailed reports of our people on the scene. And of course I'm familiar with our earlier encounters with you, from that unfortunate business at Sabine to the contract at Lastway."

Ky nodded.

"My people tell me that you have some novel technology for sale, and some proposition you'd like to lay before us. But first, if you don't mind—our ansible has been out for almost a planetary cycle, until a few days ago, and we're still behind on events. You've been out and around: I'd like to have your assessment of what's going on, as far as you're willing to give it."

Ky took another swallow of tea, looked at the cookies, and decided not to risk choking on crumbs while talking. "There's a lot I don't know," she said. "But this is what we've put together." She laid out all she knew of the attacks on systems, citing the three she knew for sure.

"That's a very organized report," Becker said, pursing his lips. "I can see you learned something in the Academy. So—do you think the ansible system's breakup is the result of the same people?"

"I don't know for sure," Ky said, "but it must have made their plan easier to execute. They have communications and others don't—"

"Ah...these shipboard ansibles or whatever they are?"

"Yes. That's what they are: small ansibles that give the pirates real-time communications with one another."

"Even between systems?"

"Yes. They don't work in FTL flight, of course, but in real space they're the same as system ansibles. Better, in a way, because there's no lightlag from ship to ship due to the distance from a ship to the system ansible."

"And you have some? You're selling them?"

"They were on the ship I—we—captured. The one Osman stole from the Vatta family. He must have been working with the pirates."

"Colonel Bandes described the way you used that capability in this recent battle—I can certainly see that ships not so equipped would be easy meat for those that are." He took another sip of his tea. "We would be interested in purchasing such units from you, subject to approval by our Technology Assessment group. In fact, if you wanted to sell all your remaining units, we'd be delighted. But let me, for the moment, go back to your own actions. The last direct report we had of you, you had an older, small ship—the tradeship with which you started—and the ship you had taken from Osman, a larger ship originally built as a tradeship, is that right?"

"Yes," Ky said. She explained how she and Gary Tobai had separated and how they finally came back together. He didn't need to know about her problems with Stella or the trial of identity, but he did need to know about her first experience with a multisystem force. He listened intently, not interrupting, until she finished.

"Why do you call yourself part of a third fleet when there's nothing but you?" he asked then.

"Misdirection," Ky said.

"I see. But you really have only three ships of any size, two of them originally trading vessels, only one purpose-built for combat. What can you possibly hope to achieve with such a unit?"

"With all due respect, sir, Ransome's Rangers have considerably more value when fitted with onboard ansibles than conventional tables of organization would suggest. As you know, we were able to take on four of the pirate ships and sustain no damage. If we had not been short of munitions, we could have been much more help in the larger battle."

"Your communications ability was invaluable there, I agree. But I cannot see that your Space Defense Force is any more than—forgive me—a forlorn hope. You have no contract for financial support from any government, no resources for resupply of ships, munitions, or basic supplies."

"I believe we can get such support," Ky said.

"Perhaps...though allow me to say that my experience in dealing with governments is greater than yours, and I think it highly unlikely. Effective as your small force may be—out of proportion to its size—it will still look puny to those used to thinking in terms of dozens of ships purpose-built for war." He cleared his throat. "Now...as you know...we are grateful for your assistance; it is due to you that we lost only one ship, that casualties were less than they might have been, and that the relief convoy didn't run straight into disaster. We have authorized replacement of munitions and a small amount of financial bonus beyond that."

"Thank you, sir."

"We are not prepared, however, to release any of our ships to join you, which I believe is what you hoped for, and part of the proposition you wanted to lay before me."

"I did, yes, sir."

"If we saw support from governments, commitment of sufficient resources, we might indeed cooperate and join such an effort. We would be amenable to a contract with such governments. If your assessment of the enemy strength is accurate—and I have no reason to doubt it—then this is what must happen in future. But it will be done by governments reaching agreement with one another, not by an individual, however courageous and talented."

Ky had to admit that made sense—it was the argument others had made—but she didn't like it.

"There's another problem," he said. "Your ships are all converted merchanters, aren't they?"

"More or less," Ky said. She wondered what Teddy Ransome would think of his decorative little vessels being called merchanters.

"I don't know how far you got into engineering, at your military academy," Becker said. "But there are problems involved in converting ships built to haul cargo into fighting ships."

Ky scowled. "Privateers have been doing it for a long time—"

"Right," Becker said. "But they're lightly armed, and they don't fight very often. Most of the time, privateers fire off a few missiles or scorch someone with a beam, the pirate surrenders or runs off, and the whole thing lasts maybe a half hour. Even so, ships used as privateers have a shorter life span—and less time between refits—than ships purpose-built for combat. Two things go wrong with conversions—one involving the more powerful engines you put in, and the other involving the way the ship is used."

Ky wanted to argue, but she didn't have any data.

"I gather you weren't aware of this," Becker said.

"No, sir," Ky said.

"And you're probably wondering if it's true. Here's how we know: Old John started out with converted cargo ships, just like the ones you have. The shorter interval for refit and the shorter overall life span comes straight out of our files. Sooner or later—and with jury-rigged repairs like those you have on the air locks the Gretnans damaged, it will be much sooner—you're going to start having structural failures."

"Structural...?"

"Yes. Most conversions overpower the original structure—the increased g-forces in rapid maneuver and in repeated, frequent microjumps put more strain on the frame than it was designed for. Repeated rapid missile launches during combat do the same thing. And the waste heat from a beam on full power eventually causes problems with the mount." His look was sympathetic, but Ky felt as if she'd been hit with a length of pipe. She had worried about money, endlessly, daily, but she had never worried about the structural integrity of the ships, as long as they weren't damaged in combat. "I can have our engineers check over your ships—no charge—and give you an estimate of the damage so far," he said. "We'd be glad to do that for you."

"I suppose—" Before she killed someone with ignorance? No, she had to agree. "Thank you," she said. "That's very kind of you."

"Not entirely," he said. "We'd hate to see a gifted and honorable commander killed by a preventable failure. In addition, we'd like to offer you and your other captains commissions in Mackensee Military Assistance Corporation. We understand that you have not had the benefit of our training programs, and the war we both see coming may give no time for that. So it's our idea to use you together as a unit within our existing command structure. I believe our government will be negotiating with others soon, now that our ansible is back up." Becker sat back. Obviously he thought this was an attractive offer.

Ky could think of nothing to say. She had clung to the hope that Mackensee would assign ships to the effort, though she didn't expect they'd let her command their people. From their point of view, they were being generous; she had talked to enough of their officers in the past few days to know this offer was unprecedented.

"Thank you," she said finally. "I do appreciate your offer, but...I need to think about it, and talk it over with my people."

"The offer is open," Becker said, with a slight shrug. "I'm not trying to rush you. You're an unusual young officer; I understand your ambition and your desire for independent command. But you're still inexperienced in many areas that senior commanders need; you could gain that experience with us."

"Thank you," Ky said again.

"And on another topic...our founder, John Mackensee—we call him Old John behind his back, but I wouldn't advise it to his face—would like to meet you. Would you be free for dinner, say day after tomorrow? I would be present, along with several of our more senior commanders. Your captains are invited as well, though I expect you'll want to leave someone on duty topside. Civilian dress, casual."

Ky grinned. "I'd be delighted, and I'm sure my captains will be, too. Only—what is casual here? On my home planet, casual means recreational clothes—anything from a swimsuit with a towel over one shoulder to hunting camouflage."

Becker laughed. "We'd call that undress. Our casual might be what you'd call business attire, I suppose. Not uniforms, not evening dress...daytime professional?"

"The good gray suit," Ky said, nodding. "We can certainly manage that. Day after tomorrow? What time, local?"

"1930 for drinks. We'll send transport for you at the shuttleport, 1900."