"I'd be honored to assist, Captain Vatta," Ransome said when Ky asked him. "I told you, we admire you excessively, and anything we can do to help, we are eager to do. You have only to ask."

"It seems very crass, Captain Ransome, to mention so soon after meeting you, but—we are short of missiles, and I've discovered that Adelaide has a supply of outdated missiles and the components to upgrade them. Unfortunately, our recent activities depleted my reserves."

"Your generous aid to desperate refugees," he said, nodding. "I've heard how you ransomed them and asked for no return. It is entirely in keeping with your noble character. Please, allow us to help. My funds are at your disposal."

"Here—" Ky showed him the figures.

"Oh, that's no problem; 'tis a paltry sum." Ky just managed not to gape at that. She had grown up in a wealthy family, but the cost of twelve hundred missiles didn't seem at all paltry to her. "Will you need assistance upgrading the missiles? I'm sure your crew is fully capable, but the task might go quicker with more help."

She could just imagine what her weapons officer and battery crews would say to strangers doing the upgrades. "I appreciate your generosity," Ky said. "But no, I have yet another favor to ask. Adelaide Group has given us permission to do some training in this system. Training exercises can make us vulnerable to...to anything that might show up unexpectedly. What I'd particularly like you to do is keep a close eye on longscan, and assign one of your ships to observe our maneuvers, and at the end of each session give us your observations. I realize that's a boring assignment for you, but as you said, your ships are not suited to mass engagements—"

"That would be delightful," Ransome said. "It will suit our abilities. I'll tell the others. We'll start immediately; you will want us well out into the system, I'm sure. Oh, but wait—I need to transfer those funds. To Captain Vatta, or—"

"Kylara Vatta," Ky said. "My account's at Adelaide Central."

"I'll do it immediately," Ransome said. "Then we're off, flags flying and all that. Don't mind if we move about a bit. The lads get bored just hanging about in one spot. When do you think you'll depart?"

"We'll have to get those missiles loaded," Ky said. "I'm not sure. I'll give you a call."

"I can't tell you how wonderful it is that we're going to be working together," Ransome said. "Thank you!" He bent over her hand and then was away, his cape flaring behind him.

The funds transfer cleared within the hour; Ky put a hold on the missiles and components, and went back to the ship.

"You look smug," Hugh said when she reached the bridge.

"Do you want to send crew to pick up our missiles, or do you want them delivered?"

"You got them all?" he asked.

"Yes. I'm thinking two hundred each to Argelos and Pettygrew—that will bring them up to ninety percent—and the rest for us."

"I'd rather we had them all," Hugh said. "You gave them more at Gretna, and now our percentage is a lot lower than theirs."

"I could be convinced," Ky said. "But I need to keep our fellow captains happy."

"An undersupplied flagship won't keep them happy. Vanguard's the most powerful ship; missile tubes aren't worth diddly if you don't have missiles to put in them," Dannon said.

"All right," Ky said. "We'll be selfish and keep 'em all. How long will it take to reconfigure them, do you think?"

"Won't know until we do one. Somewhere between a half hour and three hours each."

Ky grimaced. "I hope it's nearer a half. Ransome offered help with that, but I thought we shouldn't have unknown hands tinkering with our ordnance. I gave him another task—watching for bogeys while we practice maneuvers, and critiquing us."

"I like the first idea, but not the second. What do any of that bunch know about warship maneuvers?"

"If I told them to sit still and watch, so they could learn, do you think they'd be willing?" Ky asked. "But if they think they're being asked to critique us...they'll pay attention."

"Oh." Hugh looked thoughtful. "You're right. That might work."

The rest of that shift and the next, crew and hired cargo haulers moved the missiles into Vanguard's docking bays. One by one, the missiles were upgraded...an average of forty-five minutes per missile per tech. Six crew had the skills, but there was room for only four to work at one time. Ky let Hugh determine the most efficient use of their time and space; she needed to convince her other captains of the value of Ransome's Raiders.

"I know why you're keeping all those missiles," Argelos said as they sat down to lunch in the Captains' Guild dining area. "I agree—you need them more, and we need you to be fully supplied. But this fellow Ransome and his schoolboy chums—"

"I think they'll be useful," Ky said, dipping a spoon in her soup. "I've told them to go out and keep watch while we do some training, and one of them will be watching us, supposedly to critique, but actually to learn something about multiship maneuvers."

"I suppose that can't hurt," Pettygrew said.

"We're understrength and vulnerable," Ky said. "You know that. Even with the supply ship Adelaide and the refugees gave us, we have only three warships, less than half what we had before. Ransome's three gives us at least three more sets of ears and eyes."

"I just don't see him—or those friends of his—being much use in a real fight."

"I'm not counting on them for that. They might surprise us, but even if they don't, the enemy may waste some time on them. It's an advantage, even if a tiny one. And they paid for the missiles."

Argelos' eyebrows went up. "All of them?"

"Yes. All of them. The one thing we know they have is money, and they're willing to spend it on us. I don't want to overdo it, but right now we are short, as you know. What we really need is system governments to chip in, but until that happens—"

"If it ever does," Pettygrew said.

"It will, though possibly not before we're random space dust. However, in the meantime, we need to make use of every economic opportunity, and it strikes me that this is an economic opportunity. They want to play, and they're willing to pay."

"I see your point," Argelos said. "It's fine with me, then. We still don't have enough munitions to waste any on target practice, though—not until we're somewhere we can resupply."

"I know. But we can work on calibrating our navigation systems, our scans—and using our communications devices. And I don't know about your ships, but my crew can use more drills on everything from inboard emergencies to boarding situations."

"We worked on that on the way here," Pettygrew said. "But yes. What about EVA drills?"

"Certainly," Ky said. "I made a preliminary schedule—preliminary because we're still upgrading and loading missiles, and also because I wanted your input." She handed over the hardcopies.

"This looks good," Argelos said after a moment. "My military adviser wanted to be sure there was practice in precision microjumps...you've got that...and scan calibration...you've got that..."

"We're going to look like idiots at some of this," Pettygrew said. "But I notice you don't have any close-formation practice."

"With so few of us, we can't risk it," Ky said. "You'll find I've suggested close approaches—slowly—for the EVA work. But we can't fight in close formation, where a hull breach of one ship could take out the next. What we need to know is how to position ourselves in open formation to cover one another."

"Makes sense," Pettygrew said.

"And I have a surprise," Ky said.

"What's that?" Argelos asked.

"Remember we'd planned to get ship patches for the new organization at Gretna? And some kind of official-looking seal for the gangways and such? I used some of the money Ransome gave me for that." She signaled a waiter. "Here's the tag for my bag in the cloakroom," she told him. "Please bring it."

When he returned and set the bag beside her chair, Ky opened it and pulled out two patches, handing one to each of the others. "You already have ship patches on your personnel...these can be sewn above them."

"That was Bellinger's design, wasn't it?" Pettygrew asked, eyes alight.

"Yes. All I did was add the lettering for Space Defense Force, Third Fleet. You like them?"

"Impressive," Argelos said, fingering the one she had handed him. "My crew will like it, too."

"There are plaques for the ships, as well," Ky said. "Three for each ship, at this time. One should go at the gangway, one on the bridge, and one wherever you think best."

"Same design?"

"Not exactly. They were too big to bring with me; they're being delivered to your ships. I did tell Ransome about this, by the way."

Over the next few days, as the missile conversion went slowly forward, Ky noticed the new patches on the crews of all three ships as they went about the station. To her eye, they moved more confidently, more purposefully.

"Captain! There's something on the onboard ansible!"

Ky rolled out of bed, her eyes sticky with fatigue. They had finally finished the missile conversions, but she had stayed up to supervise. The other captains knew that; no one should be calling her now.

"It's supposed to be first-shift where you are," Stella said when Ky made it to the console; she looked as beautiful as ever, perfectly groomed, and wide awake. "I checked. And this is a secure connection, by the way."

"I've been up two days," Ky said. "You couldn't have known." Trust Stella to use the onboard ansible to chat, just because Ky had given her the new channel codes. She yawned.

"Trouble?" Stella frowned.

"No. Just some urgent business. You have news?"

"Slotter Key's ansible is back up. Have you noticed?"

"No...when did that happen?"

"Just a couple of days ago. Aunt Grace called me. She's in the government somehow. Defense Department."

"That doesn't surprise me," Ky said. "What did she do, kill off all the traitors?"

Stella looked shocked. "She didn't say that...and if she had, surely she'd be in jail."

Ky snorted. "Not our Aunt Gracie. She could've just fed them fruitcake with rocks in it or something. What else?"

"They've laid the cornerstone for the new Vatta headquarters. She says it won't be ready for occupancy for a standard year or more, and I should just stay where I am. And Ky—she thinks I should be CEO. Permanently."

"So do I," Ky said.

"But I told her I was too young."

"And she said don't be ridiculous, didn't she? I can just hear her saying that."

"Something like that yes. She thinks I'm doing well so far."

"You're doing far better running the company than I am fighting a war," Ky said. "And much better than I'd do with the company. Are other ansibles coming up? Did ISC say anything?"

"ISC didn't do the repairs on Slotter Key's ansible, Aunt Grace said. Slotter Key Spaceforce did. So far ISC hasn't said anything at all."

"They will," Ky said. She rubbed her forehead with the heel of one hand, trying to wake all the way up. "Especially if there's something seriously wrong in ISC. Speaking of that, have you had any messages from Rafe on Nexus? He was going to ask his father what was wrong."

"Not a word," Stella said. "I haven't tried to contact him myself, either. He was going incognito; I didn't want to arouse any interest."

"Oh...that's right. But ISC must have something dire going on internally. I'm glad we're not dependent on them anymore. If they've really lost control of their people—and Rafe thought they had, at least of some of them—"

"Which brings me to Toby's latest fit of genius," Stella said, looking smug. "He's managed to create an interface between his version of the shipboard ansibles and system ansibles. And as near as he can tell, it's not detected by the system ansibles."

"What? That's...that's impossible."

"I'm beginning to think that with Toby, nothing technical is impossible," Stella said. "I know his talents were supposed to lie in space drives, but seeing what he's done with ansible technology, I wonder if that doesn't mean he's going to invent an instantaneous space drive, like, two days ago or something."

"Good...heavens." Ky realized that Hugh was looking at her oddly; her face must show the astonishment she felt.

"Of course it means his mess is spread over half the apartment as well as a sort of lab at the office here, and I keep telling him that the next time I step on something that crunches or goes sping under my foot I'm going to throw it all out, but he knows I'm not serious. He thinks all this is fun...I have no idea how they contained all his energy back on his apprentice voyage. Scutwork, I suppose. At any rate, it gives us an enormous trading advantage, if we mount this technology on Vatta ships."

"And an economic advantage if we sell the units...how fast can you manufacture them?"

"At the moment, Toby's making each one by hand. I have three—this one in the office, two more at home. I don't have the capital yet to manufacture them in quantity, and if ISC finds out, I expect trouble."

"Rafe knows we have the basic models," Ky said. "He said those conformed to ISC designs, though he was sure they were being made by someone else. If Toby's advanced the technology, the least you should do is get patents on it."

"I'm looking into that. Because the Moscoe Confederation is so close to Nexus, though, they look with some suspicion on anything that might infringe on ISC territory."

"Mmm. Did ISC ever patent the shipboard ansible technology?"

"They must have; they're not stupid. At least the components, if not the final product. And intellectual property lawyers cost an incredible amount. I've got one, but I'm running out of funds to pay him. I'm going to ask Aunt Grace..."

"No—wait. Just let me think." She hadn't yet told Ransome about the shipboard ansibles...and she had enough left to give him one for each of his ships. She'd planned to do so, in fact. But if he bought them...She gave Stella a quick outline of Ransome's Rangers and her agreement with them. "Give me a price," she said finally. "This is the old version, the ISC version, but—"

"But you're the only source except the pirates, Ky. One-of-a-kind items...let's see, I need at least fifty hours of legal representation...divided by three...and a cushion you can bargain down from..." Stella named a sum that made Ky blink.

"That much?"

"If we don't ask, we don't get it. We can try, anyway. It's Vatta trade goods, right? And you're a Vatta captain. So that's the price I authorize you to sell at."

"Actually, at this point I'm the commander of a detachment of Space Defense Force's Third Fleet," Ky said.

"What is Space Defense Force? I never heard of it."

"We have pretty patches," Ky said, grinning. "And big fancy plaques hanging on the bulkheads."

"And if I said I'd bet on the first and second fleets existing only in your fertile imagination?"

"And the imaginations of a few other people," Ky said. "But you'd be right, in principle. Nonetheless, I will sell the ansibles at the price you recommend, boss. We need those patents, and then we need those advanced ansibles. ISC will just have to eat our dust. Since they still haven't fixed all the ansibles they've got, I'm betting they have enough other problems to worry about."

"I hope so," Stella said. "Aunt Grace also mentioned that she's met your Master Sergeant MacRobert and approves of him. She said not to worry about your letter of marque."

"With her in the government, of course not. We'll be on maneuvers here in Adelaide Group for a little while, Stella; I'll let you know how the sale of communications equipment goes."

Ky had consulted with Argelos and Pettygrew, making sure she fully understood the performance characteristics of their ships; now the three set off for the first real training they'd done as a group since that disastrous battle.

Right away, she noticed that the new patches made a big difference in both morale and discipline. Those who really didn't want to be in a space navy had already left, but the remaining civilians—former civilians now—had sewn on their patches eagerly and moved now with more decision. The other captains reported the same thing.

It was three days before they had their scans calibrated to Ky's satisfaction. "I'm being picky for a reason," she said, when Pettygrew complained. "If I take a shot at someone with my beam, telling you the bearing of that beam, and you microjump four light-minutes in front of me and don't microjump out within four minutes because on your scan you think my beam's going to pass you a kilometer away, what will happen?"

"I'll...oh."

"And the same with missiles, to a degree. We're not doing close formation; we're going to be loose. That means we must know exactly —or at least consistently, from one ship to the other—where each ship is. Our navigational computers must be in sync; our targeting computers must be in sync. Errors of thousandths of a degree quickly expand to tens of thousands of kilometers—"

"All right. I understand now. I just—"

"It wouldn't have happened the way Admiral Andreson wanted us to fight," Ky said. "That's an advantage of the formations you were using. The disadvantages, you know."

When the equipment had all been calibrated, Ky had them practice precision maneuvers, first with only one ship at a time. Accelerating on a mark; decelerating on a mark, while the others charted the movements and compared charts. Microjumps to specific coordinates. Repeated microjumps, or "skip-jumping." Sharra's Gift lacked the capability for calibrated and repeated microjumps; Ky and Argelos rewrote tactical plans to allow for the problem. Then the ships maneuvered in pairs, matching velocity, matching course. Meanwhile, she ordered drills for the crews inside, including every emergency she or Hugh or Martin or the other captains could think of. Fires, leaks of all kinds, injuries, illnesses, damage from weapons...

Every day ended with a critique session in which Argelos and Pettygrew came to Vanguard to give their report on the day's training activities, and Teddy Ransome, bright-eyed and eager, appeared on the vidscreen to give his version.

On the fifth day, he said, "I've started my lads on some of those drills, Captain Vatta. We always did have fire drills, of course, but I never thought of leaking coolant fluid. And it sent us all into a tizzy, I don't mind telling you, but we have it sorted out now. Not much you can't handle with gaffer's tape and a bent pin, you know..."

Captain Argelos put his head in his hands.

"I assume you're talking about ingenuity and initiative," Ky said. "Not actually fixing a leak in a high-pressure line with gaffer's tape..."

"Oh...well, yes. Matter of fact, we don't even have any gaffer's tape aboard, and I'm not sure I've ever seen any...it's just an expression. Anyway, I thought you should know we aren't just sitting about with our feet up watching you work."

"Excellent," Ky said. "By the way, I've got something I'd like to talk to you about, not on an open channel. I'm sure your people are looking, but just in case there's a pirate lurking somewhere—"

"Certainly, certainly," he said. "I'll just bring the skimmer over, shall I? Whenever you wish."

"How about tomorrow, after the day's work is done? It won't take long, perhaps an hour or so."

"I'll be there, Captain Vatta. And now, adieu!" He waved as he closed the connection.

"He is a total and complete idiot," Argelos said, looking up. "What are you planning to do, saw off the top of his head and pour in a sack of brains?"

"At least he's started drilling his crew," Pettygrew said. "He may not be entirely lacking in intelligence."

"I want to sell him some shipboard ansibles," Ky said.

"You gave us ours free," Pettygrew said.

"That was you. You had just escaped from an enemy that destroyed your home system. This is different," Ky said. "You weren't bragging about how much money you got away with. Ransome's thrown his around without restraint—I don't see why he shouldn't pay for them. Stella—my cousin, who runs the business—suggested a price."

"Should I know how much I'm beholden to you?" Pettygrew asked, brows raised.

"No. You aren't beholden to me at all, Dan." She rarely used his given name; she noted his reaction—surprise, first, then a subtle relaxation. "You saved my ship as much as I saved yours."

"Thanks," he said, a little gruffly.

"Teddy Ransome's a newcomer, and unknown, and for all I can tell as rich as the entire Vatta family used to be. He hasn't earned any special consideration yet, and Stella needs the money."

"What's ISC going to think of your selling shipboard ansibles?"

Ky shrugged. "I don't care. The ship and its contents were adjudicated to my possession. They certainly haven't advertised any as missing, so I don't think they'll claim they were stolen."

The others looked at her. "You're becoming devious," Argelos said.

Ky laughed. " Becoming?"

"And she seemed like such a nice girl when I first met her," Argelos said, shaking his head. "So—when do you think we'll be ready to go chase down some pirates and get this war started?" He held up a hand. "Sorry... finished."

"Another few days," Ky said. "You're all shaping well. If we had the resources, I'd want some target practice, but we need every missile in stores. I will want your weapons crews using simulation patterns, though."

"And where do we go next?"

"Talking to Councilor Malroy, I think we're most likely to get support from systems like this—those that don't maintain much in the way of system defense but are beginning to worry about the pirate menace. I'm also planning to send Ransome's ships out as scouts a system or so ahead of us; with shipboard ansibles, they can report if they find any small groups of pirates, something we could reasonably hope to destroy. If we can prove that we can destroy small groups, that will get us some support—and more ships, I'll bet—but we really need a good solid victory the next time out. The more Turek grabs, the more he'll have to spread his forces to maintain control...there will be small groups, I'm sure."

"Sounds good to me," Pettygrew said. He grinned. "This is a bit different from what I'm used to but...I like it."

"I'd like you to go out to a several-light-minute distance, Dan, so I can demonstrate the ship's ansible to Ransome."

Captain Ransome's personal vehicle was as ornate as his ship, and he himself as resplendent as ever. He dove through the docking tube like some fantasy hero, right arm stretched out ahead.

"It's such an honor," he said. "Your ship—" He looked around, then smiled at Ky. "And you have something important to tell me—I am all ears, Captain Vatta."

The general tone of his speech was so absurd that Ky had a momentary vision of a thousand ears all over his uniform. She fought back a snort of laughter. This would never do.

"Let's go to my office, Captain Ransome," she said formally.

"Oh, do call me Teddy. All my friends call me Teddy," he said.

"All right...er...Teddy. This way."

Once settled in her office, he seemed to relax a trifle, looking around the compartment.

"I've been impressed by your performance," Ky said. "You and your friends have been a help to us, and I can see how you will continue to be...but there's additional technology that would make you more effective, and I can supply it."

"What's that?"

"Shipborne ansibles," Ky said.

"That's—that's impossible! They've always said it was impossible!"

"It's not," Ky said. "The pirates have them and are using them; it's one reason their attacks are so well coordinated. We obtained a number of the devices when I captured this ship."

"Do they work just like system ansibles?"

"Not as I understand it," Ky said. "I'm not a specialist in the technology, but I have been told that they will not interface with system ansibles. It's strictly a ship-to-ship tool at this time, but a very effective one. The pirates use it; we must, too, to fight them."

"Do you—is it possible for me to obtain a unit?"

"Teddy, I'm sorry to say that I can't afford to give you one...but I can sell you one. In fact, I can sell you three, one for each ship. Then you can communicate ship-to-ship without a time lag."

"It seems incredible..."

"Come up to the bridge," Ky said. "I'll show you." As she came through from the passage, Hugh called the bridge crew to attention. Ransome looked around, by his expression impressed with the size and complexity of Vanguard's bridge. "Take a look at longscan," she said. "That's Bassoon over there, see? What's the scan range say?"

"Four point two minutes," Ransome said. "So scan lag's actually light-minutes..."

"Yes. Now—" Ky nodded at Hugh. "Let's light up the ansible." To Ransome she said, "We know what channels the pirates are using; we don't use the same ones, even though transmissions are supposed to go only to the designated node." She turned to Hugh. "Hail Bassoon."

"Bassoon from Vanguard —"

"Bassoon here—"

"Testing, Bassoon. Confirm receipt of the following course data—"

"Confirmed receipt, returning—"

Ky glanced at Ransome. His mouth had dropped open; now it snapped shut.

"It—it really works! Ansibles on ships! Fantastic!"

"It really works, and I'm sure you can see the implications for military work—"

"Oh...yes," he said. "We can reach each other instantly, anywhere...well, except nonspace...and—and coordinate maneuvers—it's wonderful!"

"It would be more wonderful if we were the only ones to have it," Ky said. "But at least we do have it; the pirates no longer have a monopoly on ship-to-ship instantaneous communication. Now—you need to know the technical details, how much power it drains, and so forth. That will help you decide whether to purchase—"

"I want it," Ransome said, flushing a little. "I don't care what it costs; if I have to refit my ships entirely, I want it. What fun it will be!"

"Here are the specs," Ky said, handing over the hardcopy she'd prepared. "Do not—understand me, do not —discuss any of this on conventional com, do you hear?"

"Oh—yes. Of course."

"Let your engineers look it over, decide if the ships need any modifications to handle the power drain, and then contact me again without mentioning anything openly. In fact, it might be better if we all went back to Adelaide for a...a final dinner party, say..."

"Of course. Brilliant," Ransome said, glancing at the specs. "I must have this—I must—it will work, I'm sure of it."

Back on Adelaide, with three of the remaining ansibles stuffed into Ransome's ships—a job that had taken two and a half days—Ky transferred almost all the credits to the Vatta account at Cascadia, less the bank's fee for transfer. The small remainder paid for the dinner she hosted for the captains and senior crew. The next day, they would set off for what Ransome insisted was "the adventure of a lifetime" and Ky hoped would be the next step toward victory.


Rafe had not believed he could sleep, but once he lay down on a cot in Gary's underground headquarters to wait for his transport, the relief of the rescue sent him under. Gary woke him only two hours later.

"Sun's coming up. Time to hit the road. You're still a new helper in the business, same ID as what I gave you yesterday. We're going to my workshop—"

"You really do make windows and doors? And why there instead of Balcock?"

"My people need salaries even when we don't have a specialty job. And I have a legitimate small business within two hours of each of my...secure ops command posts, like this. The people at the nearest business don't work that op. And so far, that's worked for me. Enough chatter...you should pretend to sleep in the van. You're lazy. Once we're at the shop, you should have time for a real nap before you shower and change back into your Cascadia persona. We need to have you seen coming back to pick up your ID, which should be free by late afternoon. I'll take you in, then you and I will head for the next transfer point. And don't ask me where."

"How are they? Have you heard?"

"Alive. Signs of maltreatment, but they're not in danger of dying—at least not from that. They're still being assessed. I know you won't relax, but I don't cut corners on medical stuff."

By the end of that day, Rafe felt as confused as he hoped anyone trying to trace him was. Sid had driven the van to Gary's shop—a typical light-industrial shop with ventilation hoods rising from its pitched roof. Everything about it looked completely legitimate, from the sign out front to the fence around the paved yard, where another van with the same logo and a heavier truck with a load of wood were parked. Inside, it smelled of sawdust and machine oil; saws screamed and routers snarled as at least a dozen workers, all in similar coveralls and wearing safety glasses and ear protectors, worked on what Rafe assumed were actual windows and doors.

Gary's office, at the back, had a wide table piled with samples of wood, design displays, and paperwork; through a side door, there was a tiny efficiency apartment—a cot, a cooler, a bathroom with shower and toilet. In the afternoon, Gary appeared—looking rested himself—and Rafe, back in his Genson Ratanvi disguise, got into Gary's car for the drive to the village. They arrived near sunset; Lilyhands met them outside the bar and handed over Rafe's ID with a smile.

"Judicar got back this morning, Ser Ratanvi; she said to apologize to you for the inconvenience. And we all wish you the best."

"You were most gracious hosts," Rafe said. "And I do apologize for the misunderstanding."

"I'll be glad to run you into the city," Gary said.

"That's very kind," Rafe said. Probably everyone in the village was in on the ploy, but it never hurt to be courteous.

From there, Gary drove him through the night as Rafe struggled out of Ratanvi's disguise once more and put on the sweater, slacks, and wool jacket Gary provided. At a private airfield Rafe boarded a small craft, and spent two uncomfortable hours wedged between crates, and a pilot who never spoke. Outside, just before they landed in the early morning, he could see lower hills rising close to a wide brown river they seemed to be flying along. He spent the last leg of the journey locked in the back of a bread truck making deliveries, and obeyed the driver's instruction to walk around from the loading dock and present himself at the front door of the clinic.

It reminded him unpleasantly of the Green Hills Center with its broad green lawns, its exposed public drive to the front, and the concealed drive up which the bread truck had come. On black glass doors etched with a pattern of leaves, the clinic's name and specialty was embossed in ornate gold script: ALARO CLINIC. SUBSTANCE ISSUES.

Inside, behind a dark stone enclosure, a uniformed man gave him a sharp look and then opened the door beyond. "This way, please. You'll want to see Doctor Alaro." Tension knotted Rafe's stomach. He trusted Gary; he had to trust Gary, but this could be a trap.

The hall beyond the door, carpeted in dull olive, appeared to stretch the depth of the building. A man came out of a doorway ahead and turned toward him. "Ser Dunbarger, isn't it?" He was taller than Rafe, trim, with dark hair becomingly streaked silver.

"Yes," Rafe said.

"I'm Doctor Alaro. You'll have many questions, but you'll want to see them first, I'm sure." Without waiting for an answer, he turned and led Rafe down the hall to a cross-corridor, then turned again. "We're going down—there's a lift just here—" The sign by the lift said STAFF ONLY, and it required a key. Once in the lift, Alaro kept talking. "There's been no evidence that anyone knows they're here. Apparently there's quite a bit of activity up north, and in the northwest, but nothing to worry about. If you're wondering, this is—most of the time—a private and very expensive clinic for moneyed individuals who habitually poison themselves with undesirable chemicals. We also take in the occasional wealthy psychotic who refuses treatment elsewhere." The lift stopped; he led the way out. "Just down here..."

It looked like every hospital corridor Rafe had seen, very clean and—for something underground—very airy.

"Your mother and sister first; they're conscious. Talk to them first, then come talk to me," Alaro said. "There are decisions to be made. Be gentle; don't try to interrogate them, but let them talk if they want to. When you're through there, Doctor Kinjon will take you to your father. He's assigned as your father's primary physician while he's here."

Rafe's mother and sister both wore thick fleece robes incongruously printed with bright pink flower shapes that looked ugly against the bruises. Following doctors' instructions, Rafe kept his tone light and soft.

"Mother? It's Rafael—"

"Rafe? Oh, my—" She burst into tears and reached toward him. Rafe moved closer and took her hands in his, careful not to dislodge her IV line. "Raffi, why weren't you here? He could never have done it if you'd been here."

"Shhh..." Rafe stroked her hands. Don't ask questions, the doctors had said. Don't disturb her. But she was already disturbed—how could she not be? "I'm here now, Mother," he said. "And you're safe." She clung to him, her eyes still desperate. Rafe fought down the rage she must not see; his anger had frightened her so before.

"Is he...they won't tell me..."

"Father is alive," Rafe said. "He's very weak." How much to tell her? How much did she know, or guess? "He escaped; he tried to get out and find help, but it was too cold."

"They hurt him," his mother said. "They hurt all of us. I can't believe he'd do such a thing—he was going to be CEO anyway—"

"Father?" Rafe asked.

"No, no! I forgot, you don't know. Lew. Lucky Lew, your father called him. A fine young man, we thought. He always seemed like a fine young man...a good family, nice manners, a hard worker...I can't understand it. Why—"

"I never liked him." The voice from the next bed startled him. Rafe turned to look at his sister Penelope. Her dark hair hung lank and stringy beside a pale, gaunt face; she looked nothing like he remembered, or like the formal portraits displayed at home. "You told me how wonderful it was for Father to have such a reliable, competent successor, but his daughter was scared of him." She looked at Rafe. "I knew her at school."

"You never told me that!" Indignation lent a touch of color to his mother's cheeks.

"I tried to. You told me not to meddle, that all children get crosswise with their parents on occasion."

"They do, but—of course you couldn't have realized. But Raffi—why did it take you so long?"

"So long?"

"You didn't get your father's messages?"

"No, nothing. That's one reason I came back to Nexus to visit. I didn't know anything was wrong until I tried to call and didn't get an answer." Best not tell her about the trapped phone connection; she didn't need something else to scare her. "Then I went to the house, and it was obvious—"

"What—what did you find at the house?"

"My room," Rafe said. He hadn't meant to say that. "You kept my room the same."

"Oh, Rafe..." Tears rolled down her cheeks. "You saw..."

"I expected you to clean it out. You told me not to come back."

"I knew you would," she said. "I knew you would someday come to your senses and be our son again. And then you'd come home, and your room would be ready for you just as if...as if it had never happened."

But it had happened, and all his life since, and theirs, had been changed forever that night the invaders tried to kidnap him and his sister, and a young boy had taken a lucky swipe with a display weapon and killed a man twice his age and size.

"I saw it," Rafe said. "You even kept my old models. I wish you'd been there with me. Anyway, I didn't know where you were, or what was wrong—just that something was."

"They told him—your father—that they'd set traps for you, that you couldn't possibly get through. Was it you who got us out? I didn't recognize—"

"I hired the team," Rafe said. "I wasn't on it myself; I'm not trained for that."

"I thought we were going to die," his mother said. Her grip on his hands tightened. "I thought they'd kill us. I thought nobody would find us even if they were looking. He said they wouldn't, that he had convinced the police it was for our safety that we were sequestered."

"He convinced someone," Rafe said.

"How did you know that we needed help?" his sister asked. "Or where we were?"

"The house, for one thing. The plants were dying. I couldn't imagine Mother leaving the house without arranging for their care—in fact, without leaving servants there, if only to guard it from thieves."

"Did you water them?" his mother asked. She had always loved her plants; the big tigis in the living room was her pride, raised from a nub only a finger tall.

"Mother!" his sister said. "Don't be ridiculous!"

"No," Rafe said. "I didn't. I could tell something was wrong; I was afraid if I turned on the water, it might bring...trouble."

"You always were the smart one," his sister said. "If I hadn't been so scared that time—"

"You were only a little kid," Rafe said. "Of course you were scared."

"You were only eleven."

"Eleven-year-olds are big kids," Rafe said. "At least, eleven-year-olds think so. Penny, don't feel guilty, please. None of this is your fault." Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks; he couldn't stand it. "I'm going to check on Father," he said. "I'll be back."

His father would live. They had promised him that. His core temperature had been dangerously low, but the outside temperature hadn't been enough to cause serious frostbite. Rafe stared through the glass panel. His father lay still, IVs dripping into both arms, a warming blanket over his body and other tubes coming out from underneath. Rafe didn't want to think about what had caused those marks on his hands, his feet, his face...his first hot rage had turned cold, colder than the glacier above Aurora Adventure Lodge.

"You shouldn't try to rouse him yet," Dr. Kinjon said, coming up beside Rafe. He was Rafe's height and almost as plump as Rafe's Cascadian persona. He glanced at Rafe's face, took a step back, then turned away. "He's sedated right now; his core temperature has stabilized, but with his other injuries and the drugs he had in his system, we felt mild sedation was a good idea. He was also dehydrated and clearly has been malnourished for some days."

"But he'll recover?"

"Yes. But it will take time."

"Fully?"

"We'll just have to see. The stresses...his age...there is the possibility that complete recovery will be prolonged, or...not entirely complete. When someone's implant has been tampered with...the neuropsych specialist will be here tomorrow. When we know exactly how much damage the implant took—and possibly delivered—we'll know more."

His father had been intelligent—more than intelligent, brilliant in many ways. Intelligent, charming, commanding...and now he lay almost comatose, his body battered, his brain...Rafe shook his head sharply. "He has to recover. It's important—"

"It's always important," Kinjon said.

Before he knew he had moved, Rafe had the doctor's collar in his hands; the man's face went white with the shock of that sudden attack. "You don't understand," Rafe said. "It's not just him; it's not just my father...he was snatched for a reason, and that reason affects not just Nexus but a thousand other systems. Someone's trying to bring down ISC—do you have any idea what that means?"

"Gggghhh..."

"Sorry." Rafe let up the pressure, but didn't let go completely. "Do you know who he is?"

"A hostage that...that Gary rescued. That's all I know; that's all I'm supposed to know."

"And you rightly assume rich and powerful, and you wonder that you haven't heard anything, am I right?" The man nodded; Rafe went on. "That's the CEO of ISC. He was abducted on the orders of the next in succession...who certainly has hooks in the government, judging by their complicity in this. What you may not know is that hundreds, at least, of ansibles are out of service, and ISC personnel are involved in that...I believe on the orders of the man who kidnapped my father. People are dying because my father is here"—he nodded toward the room—"and not in his office. If that man isn't stopped, none of us is safe."

"That still doesn't give you the right to choke me," Kinjon said.

Rafe let go. "You're right. I'm sorry. I've been...distraught."

"I gathered." To his surprise, Kinjon even chuckled. "Gary did warn me about you, but you just don't look like the type. I'm sorry I upset you; we'll be easing up on the sedation over the next twenty-four hours, and you should be able to talk to your father then."

Rafe had been given a room in the staff wing of the clinic; the next day, when he went down to the hospital level, Alaro met him outside his father's room. "Let's go see what the neuropsych says about your father's implant. He's done an initial neural assessment. He's in the lab."

The neuropysch expert, introduced only as Tony, stared at the trace from Rafe's father's implant. "Mmm. Not liking this a bit."

"What?"

"Well...they tried to probe the implant before they removed it. In lay terms, they ran too much power into it, trying to force it to work, and caused damage—and enough power that it heated up part of his brain."

"And that means—"

"It means he has brain damage, possibly permanent but certainly something it's going to take time to repair, and his implant cannot be replaced. Most people depend on an implant for a good part of their knowledge base: he can't."

"But you can install another one, can't you?"

"Not anymore," Alaro sighed. "Not with the brain damage. If we boost the signal enough to pass the damaged portion, we risk the same damage to something else. For now, we're leaving the damaged implant in: it gives him some function he would not have otherwise. But it has to come out so we can start the repair of the brain itself, and at that point he will seem worse than he is now. How much worse, we won't know until we take out the implant. Basically, he's like a stroke patient, and in his case a serious stroke patient. Luckily, he chose to have his implant on the right side, so his language centers are relatively unaffected, but you're looking at a long, slow, incomplete recovery."

"But he can talk?"

"He can talk now, a few words at a time. He tires quickly; he's still somewhat confused. It's too early to test all his cognitive functions, and with the sedation he's become disoriented. We've changed the setup of his room, which should help. I've tested his facial recognition: that's intact, too. He recognized your face in a picture we showed him. So if you want to go in and talk—keeping it calm and not asking questions and not upsetting him—you can do that."

Rafe entered his father's room with what he hoped was a pleasant expression.

"Rafe..." His father's face, with eyes open and focusing, looked more like his father, and yet unlike: for the first time, he was looking down on his father, and for the first time he had no fear, no anger, and no contempt, only a great sadness.

"Father—you're looking better."

"I can't—I can't sit up by myself." His father's voice sounded weak and querulous. "My left arm—"

"Father, don't worry. You'll get better."

"Rafe, you have to know. It was Lew, Lew Parmina. He's—I don't know why, entirely, but he's gone completely insane. That's the only reason I can think of...he knew he would succeed me; I was going to retire in five years. He's been my friend for years—I thought my friend—"

"Father, don't wear yourself out—"

"But you have to know; you have to help me—"

"Help you how?"

"I told you, in my message—"

"I never got your message. I came back because I hadn't heard from you in too long and I was worried."

"You never got—" His father looked stricken. "But you came anyway...Rafe, I always knew you'd...but he said...but maybe..."

Rafe felt old memories, snatches of overheard conversations, sequences of events, coming together in his mind. "Father, was it Lew who first told you I was dangerous? Was he the one who recommended that therapist?"

His father's gaze wavered again. "I—I can't quite remember...I know later, when you were in trouble at that school, he was sympathetic. Said he knew it must be hard to be disappointed...and I was sure you'd come out of it, you'd been such a sweet child..."

Sweet? Rafe had no memory of being sweet, even before the home invasion. Polite, well mannered, that was expected. But sweet?

"You used to be so affectionate...when I came home you'd climb in my lap and butt your head against my chin..."

His father's expression now was pleading; he clearly wanted Rafe to remember those times, but he didn't. "Mmm," he said, just to make a soothing sound.

"But Lew said it was rare for children who killed to change, that it was usually a sign of deep-seated personality disorders...he had references. The therapist agreed. He said I had to be realistic, be concerned for the welfare of ISC, both employees and those who depended on our services. Then when I was given the job of CEO, and you were...on remittance..." His father's voice trailed off. He looked suddenly grayer.

"I'll come back later," Rafe said. "Just rest."

The next morning, Dr. Alaro spoke to Rafe in the corridor. "I don't know what you're planning, and I don't need to. But if it involves, for instance, transporting this patient and expecting him to...oh, to speak to a group about business, for instance, you had better do it within the next ten days. We can't risk leaving the damaged implant in longer than that."

"Can he survive travel so fast?"

"With the right supports, yes. He's getting a little stronger each day. You can expect that his concentration will vary, however, and your visits should be short."

"I think," Rafe said, "that Lew has had something like this in mind from the beginning."

"He couldn't," his father said. He had said it before. "It's impossible—"

"They never traced the intruders that night," Rafe said. "They never found who hired them, right?"

"Well...no..."

"Lew found that therapist for you, I would bet on it. The therapist and Lew chose the school you sent me to. I know for a fact that Lew set me up with girls when I went to college—"

"I didn't know that!" his father said.

"I thought it was with your approval, since he was your assistant. He gave me money; he gave me names and numbers. When he sent me money later—my remittance—he used to tell me how disappointed you were, and then give me contacts to...elements I found surprising."

"But he was always so nice..."

"To you, I'm sure he was. You were his ladder, to be kicked away when he thought he had his hands firmly on the top of the tree." Rafe shook his head. "And I didn't see it. I was too hurt, too angry, and mostly I was not here. Which I'm sure was his intent."

His father's gaze had sharpened, almost to the intensity Rafe remembered. "I think...you may be right. I can't quite...this blasted implant thing. There's information in there that would help me think clearly about it but I can't...it's not working right. I need a new one."

"You can't," Rafe said. "Not yet, anyway. When they've done the neural repairs to your...head..."

"My brain," his father said with surprising energy. "I know...I can't think. That's why I need your help. And you're as sharp as ever—it didn't take you long to find Lew's trail in our lives. You're going to have to take over—"

"Take over?" Panic swallowed him; Rafe struggled to stay calm. "You can't mean take over ISC?"

"That's exactly what I mean. We can't let Lew have it. I don't know all he's planned, but what they did taunt me with, while I was hostage, was bad enough. He's determined to maintain the monopoly and he's working with some kind of military leader, someone named Gammis Turek. The ansible outages—"

"—are his fault. And I know something about Gammis Turek—"

"You've met him?"

"No. But a bad guy we—uh, more on that later—ran into over in Sector Five had a suicide circuit implanted to keep him from revealing the name. And supposedly it was Turek's people who attacked Bissonet and took over its system government. I suspect something similar almost happened at Slotter Key."

"Lew has friends on Slotter Key," his father said. "The Vatta family—Vatta Transport, Ltd. You must know their ships."

"They're mostly dead," Rafe said. "I've been traveling with a couple of them."

"Probably his spies," his father said. "Fed you any number of lies."

"I don't think so," Rafe said. "I've known Stella for years, and it wasn't through Lew. Her cousin Kylara—very much the straight arrow, Ky."

"I thought Lew was," his father said. "Right now I wouldn't trust anyone Lew called a friend. The Slotter Key ansible's still down, isn't it?"

"As far as I know, yes." No use trying to explain how he was sure that Stella and Ky weren't lying about their families—or that Vatta had been an innocent dupe, not complicit.

"So you can't check what they told you. But that's another problem for another day. Right now, Rafe, you simply must get to the Board and convince them of Lew's perfidy. You can't let him take over. At the least, your life and ours will be in danger."

"But—I don't know anything about running a corporation—let alone one as vast as ISC." Even as he said it, he knew that wasn't quite true. He'd had his own businesses; he understood how business worked. He had grown up in ISC, he had done work for them. "And I can't—why would you trust me? Why would they?"

"Because," his father said, "if I was that wrong about Lew, then I assume I was that wrong about you, too. If I think of the little boy you were, all that intelligence and fire and sweetness—yes, sweetness, don't flinch like that—the way you never did a single underhanded thing other than the usual 'She broke it' when a dish dropped, and that was only the once, then I see the potential in the man to be as intelligent, capable, honest as you were then."

Tears sprang to Rafe's eyes; he blinked them back. "I'm not that little boy anymore, Father."

"No, and a good thing you're not, or we'd all be dead," his father said. "You've had a hard life; you've learned hard lessons, harder than some of mine. It will take someone like you; I'm sure Lew has collaborators on the Board and elsewhere in ISC. I want you to find a secure way to reach the next board meeting—what's the date?"

Rafe told him. "But, Father—I'm just not cut out to be an executive—"

"Nonsense. You're my son. You're also the only weapon I've got. You have to do this, Rafe. Or millions—probably billions—of people will die, and more will be ruined, because of Lew and his allies."

He had never wanted the job. He had told himself that over and over: he was a free lance, a lone wolf, a wild rogue adventurer, able to go and come as he pleased, only partly dependent on that remittance credit once he found he could support himself one way and another. He felt the weight of it pressing on him now, all that responsibility he didn't want. And yet—

"I trust you, Rafe," his father said. "Not just because you saved my life—our lives—just now. Not just because you were a good child. But in part because you killed those intruders, and in part because you have survived on your own and developed skills I never needed—or thought I needed. I am trusting you with this, and you will not let me down."

Whatever his father had lost, he had not lost the ability to inspire loyalty and delegate...Rafe took a long breath, feeling now the full weight of what his father wanted him to do firmly on his shoulders.

"All right," he said. "I'll talk to Gary—and we also need to get the accounts open so I can pay him and his team."

"When you are sure you can get to the meeting without being killed, I will make a shielded video call...I have to show myself to them, to convince the ones Lew hasn't already corrupted. He'll probably try to tell them that you kidnapped me and have pressured me—"

"Thought of that," Rafe said. "I'll bring them here, one at a time, by roundabout routes, to talk to you."

"I think most of ISC's loyal," his father said. "I just don't know who."

"Where are your implant backups?" Rafe asked. "Did you have them?"

"I did. He got them. But although they might contain information to convict him, they wouldn't tell him anything he didn't know."

"My...er...cranial ansible," Rafe said. "The access code for it?"

His father's eyes closed briefly. "I'm sorry, Rafe. They got that out of me when they threatened to kill the baby...and then they did anyway."

"What about Linnet and Deri?" His older sisters, who had never married as far as he knew. The night of the attack, they had been off at boarding school.

"Dead," his father said. "Supposedly both accidental, though now of course I wonder about that. Linnet had gone on a ski trip with her boyfriend...Lew's cousin, now I think of it. She was a good skier, but there was an avalanche...no one's that good."

"The cousin?"

"Also died, along with fifteen others who were on that slope. Deri—Deri had taken a commerical flight with several friends to go to a wedding; it crashed with no survivors. Pilot error, the safety board ruled: a night landing and the pilot undershot the runway—altimeter wasn't set properly, and there was a little hill, hardly a hundred meters high..." His eyes sagged shut, then opened again. "I see now...either one could have been arranged, if you didn't mind killing a lot of other people."

"So there was just Penelope left. And me. What about Penelope's husband?"

"He died when we were taken. Tried to defend her. Nice boy. Lew hadn't thought much of him; he wasn't ISC at all. His father was a wholesale grocer, decent fellow, very down-to-earth. We got along fine. Penelope adored Jared; they were so excited about the pregnancy—" Tears rolled down his face.

Rafe let him cry a moment, turning aside to look at the cheery picture of a woman cradling a child by a window that overlooked a pleasant green field.

"All right," his father said, a few moments later. "Let's get to work."

Lew's tentacles had reached far into the government as well as ISC's power structure, as Rafe's discreet inquiries proved, but Vaclav Hewitt Box, one of his father's oldest friends, was clean of that taint.

"Garston!" he said the moment Rafe's father called. "Where in thunder are you? Lew's been telling us you're in safekeeping for fear your demon son will kill you, but he won't tell us where."

"I'm at a secure clinic, recovering from the treatment Lew Parmina's goons gave me. Ardath is alive, and so is Penelope, but Jared and the baby are both dead."

"What!"

"Listen. I don't think any communication on this planet is truly secure, Vaclav, so I don't know how long we can talk without the call being traced. If it is, your life is in danger, too. I believe that Lew engineered the deaths of my other daughters as well. Rafe saved our lives—"

"That sounds like hogwash, Garston. He went bad; bad boys stay bad."

"Poppycock," his father said. "He didn't go bad without help, and he's not bad now. He saved our lives; he got us out of the hellhole where Lew put us with his goons. Vaclav, remember Christine?"

"Ah, yes, Christine of the flowers..."

"Christine of the owls, you nitwit."

Vaclav's expression changed. "All right. What do you want me to do?"

"I want Rafe to take over for me, for now. I've got serious injuries, and my implant's fried."

"You sound sane enough."

"Right-sided installation. No speech damage, and yes, I can think. But my left side is involved, and I can't change implants until they've done some repairs."

"Good—grief. You really were—"

"That close to death, yes. I don't know who on the board are Lew's plants...Termanian, probably, Oster, maybe Wickins? But Lew's the real danger. I need to meet you in person—you'll know then that I'm not some zombie plant of Rafe's."

"Where is Rafe? Do you know?"

"He's here, with me. Like I said, he got us out."

"By himself?"

"No. But this is going on too long, Vaclav. Will you come? Quietly?"

"Yes. Anywhere. Tell me."

"I can't. But I can tell you what to say."

Rafe had never been in the Boardroom. As a small child, he'd been taken to headquarters, shown the office his father had then, had seen assistants and secretaries scurrying to do anything his father asked. One of them had given him candy. Now, armed with ID and credentials Vaclav had provided, wearing a new suit altered overnight to his measurements by one of Gary's contacts, he pushed the float chair with his father up to the entry. They were flanked by four of Gary's people.

"Ser Dunbarger!" the guard said. "The rest of the Board are all here. Ser Parmina said you wouldn't be in today again—he said—"

"As you see, I'm here," his father said. "Only a little the worse for wear. You won't remember my son, Rafael—and these are my security—"

"They're not ISC," the guard said.

"No," his father said. "For the moment, I'm using a private service."

"I don't know if I should—"

"You should," his father said. "I vouch for them—can't come from higher than that, can it?" He managed a grin; the guard finally smiled back.

"All right, Ser Dunbarger, if you're sure. They'll need tags once they're inside."

"Waiting for us," his father said. He looked past the guard. "Vaclav—over here." Vaclav Box, taller than Rafe by a head, waved and came forward.

"You said four tags...here they are."

"Go ahead," the guard said. Rafe pushed the float chair forward. The guard would no doubt report this to someone—possibly someone in Lew Parmina's pay—when they were past, but that shouldn't matter. The executive elevator was just ahead, its doors already open. They all crowded in.

Vaclav gave him a sardonic look. "You've changed, Rafe."

"Time does that," Rafe said. The edge in his voice would have sliced a ship hull; he tried to soften it. "I believe the last time I saw you, I was fourteen or fifteen, wasn't it? Not my best year."

"No, it wasn't," Vaclav said. He looked away. "This is going to be interesting. Are you ready for any...surprises?"

"Surprises surprise because one is not ready," Rafe said. "I expect trouble, if that's what you mean. He's had years to set this up; we've had only a short time to unravel it. We're bound to have missed something." His hand wanted to slide into the suit, be sure of his weapons, but he made himself stand relaxed.

"You always were a confident so-and-so," Vaclav said.

"He got that from me," his father said. "Only in his case, the overconfidence was beaten out of him early."

The elevator rose smoothly past floor after floor, coming to rest at last. The doors opened onto a carpeted space with a receptionist's desk angled to give a view into the elevator. The man there was scribbling something on the desktop; he looked up, and his brows raised.

"Ser Box...the meeting started several minutes ago; didn't you hear your page? And—" His face changed as he looked at the man in the float chair. "Ser Dunbarger! I had no idea you were coming! Ser Parmina said—"

"I know what Ser Parmina said," his father said. "But I'm feeling better, and I decided to come in. Vaclav waited for me downstairs. No, don't bother to announce us. We'll just go on in."

One of Gary's people had stepped to the desk and had the receptionist's hand in a grip that, Rafe knew, could tighten in an instant to excruciating pain. He nodded at Rafe.

The Boardroom double doors were not locked during meetings; there had never been need. Now two of Gary's people pulled them open and stepped inside while Rafe pushed his father through. Vaclav walked beside him.

Lew Parmina, at the head of the table, had been pointing at a display hovering over the group. Rafe tipped his head; one of the guards stepped that way. Lew had gone white, but he recovered quickly.

"Ser Dunbarger—Garston—we didn't expect you today. What a pleasant surprise!"

"Is it?" his father asked. Rafe didn't look down at his father; he was watching Parmina's hands. "It wasn't a pleasant surprise when your goons abducted me and my family from our home, killed my son-in-law, and spent the next several tendays torturing us."

"My goons? What do you mean? You're confused; you—"

A stocky redheaded woman on the far side of the table spoke up. "You said Garston had to go into hiding for fear of his life, Lew. You said you knew where but couldn't tell us, for security reasons..." Rafe's implant informed him that this was Madeleine Pronst, senior vice president for human resources. Headhunter, hatchet woman, and yet not universally hated. Madeleine, his father had said, was ruthless with the incompetent, as willing to chop off a VP or division head as a terrified new hire, but oddly compassionate with those who had real problems, and fair-minded with everyone.

"He—I thought—that's what I was told." Rafe could just about see the gears whirling in Parmina's head, trying to cover himself.

"Interesting," his father said. "The men who killed my grandson—my daughter was forced into induced labor while captive, and the men then murdered the infant in front of me and my wife—told me with great pleasure that you had ordered it. And what you planned to do with the power you would gain as CEO of ISC."

"I— he did it!" Parmina pointed at Rafe. "He's been bad from the first; he's jealous of me; he wants the power himself. He came back; he had you abducted; he had his hirelings tell me you were in hiding, told them he was acting on my behalf, and then he fooled you by pretending to rescue you—"

"It wasn't pretense," Rafe's father said. "I would have been dead in a few hours if he hadn't come. And I think I know my son better than you do. A lot of things make more sense now, Lew."

Rafe watched Lew's hand slide under the table. That would be the panel for the emergency response, his father had told him. "It won't work," he said, surprising himself by his own tone of voice: light, relaxed. "You have no communication with the outside world, Lew. No, not even your skullphone, as you've no doubt been noticing while you tried to buy time."

"This is ridiculous!" That was Oster; Termanian and Wickins hadn't yet moved, though they were sweating more than the innocent would. "Lew is a respected member of this corporation; he has been handling things since you disappeared. You can't just walk in here and expect us to fall in line—" His hands, below table level, jerked up suddenly.

Rafe felt a surge of glee, drawing and firing his pocket needler before Oster's weapon was clear of the table. Oster slumped forward, his face thudding onto the table's polished surface. He had hardly taken his eyes off Parmina; he had felt Oster's move as much as seen it.

"You!" Parmina said. All pretense gone now; teeth bared, he glared at Rafe. "You disgusting little leech! Why didn't you die?"

Rafe pretended to blow smoke off the end of his needler and slid it back into its holster. "Only the good die young," he said. "And you're older than I am, Lew. Feeling lucky today? By all means, go for that pocket blaster. It's a messy way to commit suicide, and it will make things hard for your family, if they care. I understand your daughter's not fond of you...so my sister says. But you might be able to set it off before one of us drilled you." He let his smile widen. The directors nearest Lew at that end of the table leaned away, ashen-faced.

"If I surrender," Lew said, hands wide.

"Oh, I don't think you'll surrender," Rafe said pleasantly. "I think you'll do something stupid, and we'll have to kill you."

"That's murder!"

"Is it? Wasn't what you did to seventeen skiers murder, when you set off that avalanche to kill my sister and her boyfriend and it also took fifteen others? Wasn't what you did to the passengers in that plane murder, when you tampered with the instruments so the pilot flew into a hill and killed another of my sisters? I think it was."

"You can't take the law into your own hands!" Lew shouted. "It's illegal—it's—"

"Scared now, are you?" Rafe asked. He pulled out his needler again and pretended to polish it with his handkerchief, all without taking his eyes off Lew.

"You have to let me explain," Lew said, standing awkwardly, trying to back away from the table. "You have to listen."

Rafe cocked his head. He could feel everyone's attention, including his father's. The rush of anticipation merged with the rush of pleasure from shooting Oster.

"No," he said, pretending to sigh, thumbing the selector over. "I don't have to listen," and he fired.


"M urderer!" screamed Termanian as Parmina stiffened and slid down the ornate cabinet at that end of the room.

"Not yet," Rafe said. "I merely use more efficient knockout drugs than most. You, on the other hand—" He thumbed the load selector again. Termanian threw himself back in his chair, hands over his face.

"He made me do it...he said if I didn't..."

"Oh, be quiet." Rafe nodded to the guard nearest Termanian. "Secure him, would you?" He looked down. "Father?"

"I think we might adjourn to the room next door while someone picks up the fallen," his father said. The rest of the Board turned to look at him. "Now," his father said. Rafe waited until the near side of the table was clear before moving his father down the room toward that door. Their last firm suspect lingered, looking around uneasily.

"I do know about you," Rafe said. "But it's up to you whether you want to cooperate or cause trouble."

"I...I should've said something," he said. "When Lew first came to me, I should've...but it seemed to make sense in a way—and he promised—and suddenly all my pet birds died, and he said how easy it was for pet birds to catch something, and I knew what he meant..."

"Did you know his plans for me, Wickins? For my family?"

"No," the man said. "I swear I didn't. I wouldn't have—even scared, I'd have told someone. It was just Vote like this or Let this project run or Terminate that one."

"I see," his father said. "You will forgive me if I must delve a little deeper than that...I had not suspected Lew myself, and it makes me suspicious of others."

"I understand. I'm sorry, I really am. I had no idea he was capable of anything like...like..."

"Torturing people and killing babies? Neither did I. But he did, and those who helped him in any way, knowing or unknowing, are going to be held accountable."

"I will resign from the Board at once..."

"Of course you will, but I commend you for saying so quickly. I'm afraid you'll have several unpleasant days, but I assure you they will not be as unpleasant as mine were. If you will go with these gentlemen—" His father nodded at the two of Gary's people who stood ready.

"Y-yes. I'm sorry..."

"I'm sure you are. Rafe, let's go in."

The room looked more like a lounge, with couches and chairs arranged around the room and a bar at the end. The faces turned toward his father were all, as far as Rafe could tell, full of honest concern and shock.

"I want you all to know," his father began, "that I had begun an internal investigation into some irregularities about two years ago. At no point in that investigation did I suspect that Lew Parmina had anything to do with the irregularities. I had known Lew for years, as all of us have. He was my protégé; I brought him into management myself, when he was an eager young intern. When we were abducted, I could not believe, at first, what we were told—that he was behind it. However, I was wrong. He was acting against the intent of this Board, and against me. In the days since Rafe rescued us, he and I have been able to crack some of Parmina's files and see what he had in mind. This evidence—where it does not compromise our internal security—will be turned over to law enforcement. I wish to apologize to the Board for having brought Lew into our confidence, for not having realized what he was. I hope you will agree that I have been sufficiently punished..."

"Of course, Garston," Vaclav said; others nodded. "None of us spotted it. He must have had incredibly good luck, or an accomplice within the firm, to keep it all so quiet."

"He's very intelligent," Rafe's father said. "My own guess is that his first goal was simply to rise in the company and end up as CEO; I'm not sure when his other goals became involved. But it was not recent. I'm now convinced that he was behind the attempted abduction of Rafe and his sister Penelope—the incident in which Rafe killed the invaders and saved himself and his sister. And behind the advice to send Rafe away. He wanted to eliminate the competition, as he saw it."

"So...I'm assuming Oster was one of his people," Madeleine Pronst said. "Termanian? Wickins?"

"Yes," Rafe's father said. "We have some of the other names, but not by any means all. However, more immediately, there's the matter of the running of the company. As you can see, I am physically impaired. Doctors are unsure if I will regain all function. I am also mentally impaired due to damage to my implant, which propagated into the brain. It does not affect my language functions, and I have passed a competency test, but I am not at full capacity and in this crisis ISC needs someone who is. They tell me that for full recovery—if it's possible—I must have my damaged implant removed, and I will be much more impaired then for some considerable time. No new implant can be installed until the brain damage has healed."

"And we are all suspect," Madeleine said, glancing around. "Perhaps not in your mind, Garston, but everyone on the Board must be, at least for a while."

"Yes," Rafe's father said. "And that's why I want you to agree to my next request." He paused, glanced around, and went on. "I want you to approve Rafe as my successor, at least on a temporary basis."

"Rafe! But he's not...he has no background!"

"We need someone who knows the business—"

"He can't possibly understand the complexity—"

Rafe's father raised his hand, and the hubbub died down. "Hear me out," he said. "Rafe was brought up in the business; his university studies, to the point at which he left, covered business topics—and ISC was the model used in classes. I know, because I checked at the time. He has done work for us as an undercover agent from time to time, especially in the last five years, investigating situations important to ISC in a number of systems. This has required him to live under an assumed name. Some of which—fortunately—Lew Parmina did not know."

"Was he on the payroll?" Madeleine asked. "I don't recall—"

"No. As some of you know, he received a remittance on condition of staying away from Nexus except for brief visits, not more than once every year. In part to protect his cover, I did not put him on the payroll. I found his data to be accurate, and there was no indication that he had ever breached our confidence."

"I see. Well..." She gave Rafe a challenging look. "Do you think you're up to this, young man? You'll have your father's advice, but—"

"In many ways, I'm not up to it," Rafe said. "As several of you pointed out, I haven't been working openly in the company, I don't know all the right people and procedures. Any one of you—any division head, for that matter—knows more about how things work here at headquarters than I do. In other ways, I agree with my father that I am the only person for the job right now. I know things about ISC and its employees—out in the systems where our income originates—that none of you can. I can untangle the mess Lew Parmina left faster than you can, because I have not only the background but also offworld contacts you lack. ISC is in crisis, not only because of Lew Parmina. You don't know this yet, but shipboard ansibles are now being used both by a hostile force intent on domination of systems, and by the force that opposes it. I saw the ansibles myself; I know they work. I know that they are being manufactured somewhere off Nexus II, though not yet where. Once technology like that gets loose, as I'm sure you appreciate, it can't be stuffed back in the closet. We are in a fair way to lose our monopoly, to be seen as an obsolete, inferior system of communication, useful only for those systems too poor to afford better."

The shock he saw on their faces now was economic; all of them could see the implications of that.

"We have ruled the universe within hundreds of light-years by virtue of controlling communications," he said. "We wisely did not bother with planetary governments—we simply maintained open communications and insisted on our monopoly. It was a great idea, and it worked brilliantly...until technology advanced. When every ship carries its own ansible—"

"But they don't link with ours," someone said.

"They didn't link with ours," Rafe said. "The ones we manufactured didn't. But there was no technical reason why they couldn't...it was ISC's decision to limit connectivity to maintain control of the technology. We've lost that. At present, I haven't personally seen a shipborne ansible with the capability to connect directly to our net, but if you believe it won't happen, you believe in fairy tales."

Stunned silence. One of the men—Bennett D'Argent, his implant informed him—raised his hand. "You talked about a hostile force. Do you know anything about that?"

"Quite a bit, but that's not the first order of business. The first order of business is whether or not you'll confirm me to my father's role. I certainly can't do what needs to be done without your support, and I believe I can if I have it."

"You have mine," Vaclav Box said. "But you knew that."

"And mine," Madeleine said. "I can see we've got a crisis; we need all of Garston's input we can get, and Rafe seems to have skills none of us have."

The rest fell in line with almost no more resistance; when they moved back into the main boardroom, all its messes cleared away, Rafe sat at the head of the table, with his father's float chair at his left hand, and called the meeting to order.

The next morning, Rafe woke in his own room, on a bed that he had not realized his body remembered. This would not do, he realized. He wasn't that young boy. He had been moved to tears that they'd saved his room, kept it for him, but he was no longer the person for whom these mementos had meaning. He ignored the robe his mother had put out for him—obviously his father's—and padded down the hall to the bathroom. A quick shower...into the suit... A suit, he muttered to himself. It felt more like a costume.

The car would be waiting...he glanced outside. It was. He tapped out the code Gary had given him, and the lights flared and died. So it was the right car. He was sure it would be. Gary had been paid his fee, with a bonus, and he was using Gary's people for the house security as well as his own.

"You're not leaving already—" That was his sister. Her bruises had gone an even uglier yellow and green, with a few magenta marks where the injuries had been bone-deep; in the hall light, she looked fragile and ill.

"I have to," Rafe said. "I have to be at the office on time." He made himself grin at her. "Can you believe it? Your bad-boy brother getting all dressed up to go to the office on time?"

"Don't," she said. She put out her arms, and he pulled her into a quick, fierce hug. "You're not bad," she said, against his shoulder. "You were never bad. I shouldn't have cried, that night—"

"It's not your fault," he said. "You were young; you were scared; I killed our pet—"

"But if I hadn't—"

"This would still have happened," he said. "It wasn't you. It was him." That charming, intelligent, clever snake of a man. That monster, now locked in a cell deep within ISC headquarters. Rafe pushed her gently back. "I have to go; I have to take over. Father said so."

"Will he ever be the same?"

"I don't know, but I know we'll do all we can for him."

In the car, in the darkness of an autumn morning with cold rain drizzling down, Rafe turned on the light and looked at the data chips, glittering blue-violet, that his father had given him. Backups to the implant his father had had...or, if Lew Parmina had found them first, traps for anyone who used them. He needed the data...Lew would have known he'd need the data. Be careful, his father had said. He put the chips back in his inner pocket.

ISC's headquarters building was lit top-to-bottom two hours before most employees were due at work. At the main entrance, Rafe's bodyguard—still one of Gary's people—stepped out first, looked around, and then opened his door. "You did remember the body armor, sir?"

"I never leave home without it," Rafe said. "But I'm hoping that the snake had only one head."

At the door, the security guard recognized him and would have passed him through, but Rafe stopped him. "Son, I've had more faces than you have years." That wasn't true, but it got attention. "Don't you ever skimp on validating ID, not with me, not with anyone. Now check my bioscans properly."

"Yes, sir..."

He chose the lift for ordinary employees, transferring at the seventh floor to the stairs. He needed the exercise, he told himself. Later, he would have to find some way to work exercise into his daily schedule, not only the executive gym but also someone to spar with, someone to shoot against. His bodyguards, one a flight ahead and one a flight behind, would probably be ideal.

At the eleventh floor, the stairway door opened around the corner from the elevators. Rafe's forward guard stopped before turning and produced a small flat screen connected to a fiber-optic wand with a lens in the end. Rafe peered over his shoulder as he extended it around the corner. Someone was waiting, positioned to watch the elevator...someone suited, but with an ominous bulge under his jacket. A receptionist, pale and immobile, sat perched on the edge of her chair to one side. The bodyguard glanced back at Rafe and cocked his head. Rafe shrugged and ran a finger along his own throat.

A moment later he heard a soft phut!, then the sound of a body hitting the floor, and a cry, quickly cut off. The guard extended the wand again. The man was down, not yet dead but clearly dying; the receptionist had both hands to her mouth and looked about to faint.

The bodyguards both went ahead. No one else was in sight; no one popped out from behind one of the ornamental plants. Rafe followed, smiling at the receptionist.

"Sera Contado? Most upsetting for you; I'm so sorry. You'll want some time off to recover—"

"Please—I don't want to look—"

"Of course not. Come over here." He took hold of her chair and swung it around so she faced the striped curtains at the windows. "Was he here when you got here?"

She nodded, her mouth trembling. "He—he must have been hiding...around the corner...I was in early; I always come in early, and I knew...I thought...you're new...I wanted to be here..."

"That was very thoughtful of you," Rafe said, in his gentlest voice.

"And I was sitting here, sorting the calls that had come in, just as I always do...did...for your father. I mean, I'm not his assistant or anything, but the calls do come to me first, and I do my best..."

"I'm sure you do. So you were sitting here sorting calls..."

"Yes. By urgency, you understand. Things you'd need to know about immediately. And...and then...I just saw a sort of shadow and he was beside me, and he had a weapon...he said he'd kill me if I moved, and I didn't move; I couldn't move; I was so scared..."

"Of course," Rafe murmured. Whatever his guards were doing, the sound of harsh rattling breath had stopped. "And you're still frightened, of course you are. I'm going to call down for some tea—"

"Don't leave me!" Her eyes, as well as her voice, begged him.

"I'm not leaving."

"There's...there's hot beverage service here always...I could make..."

She would fall over if she tried to stand; she was trembling.

"Just tell me where it is," Rafe said. "I can make tea."

"Not you! You're—you're the Chairman!"

Rafe grinned at her, keeping it friendly. "Even chairmen can boil water. Is it there? In that cabinet?" He had spotted the concealed doors. She nodded. "Then you sit right there—I'll just be a few meters away—and we'll start this day over with a nice cup of tea." Into which, if he was lucky, he could pour the something stronger he expected would be in the same cabinet.

He glanced at his bodyguards; one was still kneeling beside the corpse; the other was watching him. When he opened the doors, he saw immediately where the man had hidden. The cabinet was intended to house not only a hot drinks service, but cleaning supplies for the reception area as well. The marks of a vacuum and bucket were clear on the floor, but that side was empty. The hot drinks service was in working order, and in less than a minute Rafe handed Sera Contado a fat gray mug with the ISC logo in blue and gold. The intruder had emptied the bottle of brandy he'd hoped to use, but the sugar he'd poured into her tea should help.

"We'll need to get this to forensics," one of the bodyguards said.

"We should give law enforcement a chance," Rafe said. "They're probably not all bent."

"Whatever you say, sir."

"One of you come with me. I want to get Sera Contado out of here before you...move anything."

His father's office looked the way Rafe had always imagined it, the way vid shows depicted the offices of senior executives in major corporations. The outer office, with two desks for the assistants and a small seating area for those waiting a meeting with the CEO. The inner office, a large carpeted space with a desk that seemed, at first glance, as big as some of the ship cabins Rafe had traveled in. The seating area, with its small couches arranged around a low table...the vase of fresh flowers there...the bookcases...the windows, with their curtains. A door led into a small passage with a bathroom—a full bath, he noticed—on one side, and a compact kitchen on the other. Beyond was a meeting room, smaller than the Boardroom but still big enough for ten people to sit around the oval table.

And now it was his space. His domain. The domain he had never wanted...or the domain he had not let himself want, knowing it was impossible. It felt too big and too limited at the same time. He handed Sera Contado to one of the soft couches, putting her mug down on the table for her, and crossed to the desk. The top was bare, a smooth expanse of flame-grain wood with smoked-glass inserts for the desk displays.

"I'm going to call down to the infirmary," he said to her. "They can send up a nurse...and of course you'll take the day off."

"Oh, but I can't," she said. "I can't afford—" Her cheeks turned red.

"It won't count against you," Rafe said. "Think of it as...as a reward for your bravery. You should be proud of yourself. You didn't scream; you didn't faint."

Her mouth dropped open. "I—I didn't, did I? I thought I would. I thought, I can't stand this, and then...I'm still here."

"I think you should at least rest in the infirmary for a while," Rafe said. "We need to check the building, and make sure you will be safe when you leave. Is that all right with you?"

"I'm feeling much better...I don't think I need to rest." But her breath still came too fast; her color came and went.

"Just for a little while," Rafe said. "You don't have to lie down, if you don't want. Just give us a chance to check things out."

By the time the nurse arrived, Rafe was already engulfed in the day's crises. The police were on the way; nothing should be moved. The building security staff, with rough guidance from Gary's people, were moving through every space—every space they knew about, Rafe thought—with speed that he hoped wouldn't let them miss something important. No other intruders had been found yet.