City Without End by Kay Kenyon

This month sees the release of City Without End, the third book in Kay Kenyon's remarkable quartet of The Entire and the Rose, a series which keeps drawing reader and critical comparisons to Dan Simmon's Hyperion and Larry Niven's Ringworld for its epic world-building and sense of wonder. Even though this is book three of four, Kay doesn't hold anything back. See for yourself. Here is the prologue and first two chapters.

City Without End

Part I: The Little God

Prologue: The Entire

Beside the storm wall, Ahnenhoon, Across the war plains, Ahnenhoon, Over the armies, Ahnenhoon, Around the Repel, Ahnenhoon, Under the grave flags, Ahnenhoon.

—a marching song

HE STILL HAD DIRT UNDER HIS FINGERNAILS FROM HIS GRAVE. His massive hands with their knobby joints sported thick fingers, now grimed with soil. He had hoped for burial in a cloth sack. When he came to con­sciousness in a box with the sounds of shovels and light welling through the slats, he knew he’d have to work quickly. As dirt started hitting the lid, he blessed Wei who had given him a knife for ripping the planks. And rip them he did, enough to get a shoulder free, covering his mouth to protect a pocket of air. With the burial detail eager for their warm beds in the barracks of Ahnenhoon, they’d dug the grave hastily and mercifully shallow. Next to the looming outer walls of the fortress, Mo Ti quickly refilled his grave. In the distance he heard the sounds of the army’s defensive guns. The Paion must be hitting hard, their zeppelins budding out of the sky to rain ichors on the army of the Entire. Good. Death was a fine distraction on a night like this; it might be just the advantage that would save him. Though it was Deep Ebb, the darkest phase of all, the slumbering sky still burned lavender, throwing a bruised light on him. He must seek the hiding places of the hills. With his massive girth and height, he had never been one easily overlooked, nor, with his face like a tree bole, easily forgotten. Even weak from blood loss, Mo Ti could dispatch a soldier or two, but he had little chance against the terrible lords, thin and vicious, or the Paion, lurching through the grass inside their foul machines. Do not look upon me, Miserable God, he silently prayed. King of Woe, I am beneath your notice, a beetle in dung.

Before loping away, he spared a moment to read his grave flag. Monster of the Repel. Mo Ti smiled. Yes, I am a monster to you, high Tarig lords. He bowed his misshapen body in mock obeisance to the Repel, the lords’ inner keep, where it bulked above the concentric defenses of the fortress. You will see me again, gracious lords.

He held much against them, but not burying him alive. That he had arranged himself. Once in the lords’ custody, Mo Ti needed, above all, to escape Tarig questioning. In his cell he had removed the bindings on his wounds from the sword fight. Blood welled up, spilling onto the floor. Then he mixed waters and dyes to create a scene of death. Finding him an obvious suicide in their dungeon, the Chalin servants had given him a proper burial, it not being a custom of the gracious lords to appear unnecessarily cruel.

He drank deep from the water bladder that had been taped to his leg. Wei had done what she could to help him. But she was a stupid girl not to give him food, too.

Moving swiftly away from the fortress, he took what cover he could in the long grasses. In the distance, the storm walls swayed, sending their dark shadows across the field of contest. Three Paion dirigibles hovered over the killing grounds, their sides pulsing with the weird light of their alien home­land. Before disappearing into sphincters in the sky, they would throw down their poisonous gouts on the ranks of soldiers. Mo Ti hoped the sentries would be inattentive to the Repel’s close vicinity. Soldiers often watched the wrong things.

As did the Tarig. For one thing, they were insensible to the dreams. Even if they could not dream, they were insensible to other sentients’ dreams— dreams that might be spoken of if the Tarig cared whose sleep was troubled. The Inyx mounts spoke heart to heart and now turned the Entire’s dreams to excellent propaganda. How delicious that the young girl the Tarig blinded— his beloved Sydney, for whom he would give his life—had been the first one to see their fatal weakness. How fitting she would be the one to sweep the mantis lords from their sky city.

But now that carefully wrought future was in doubt. Because of the new­comer. The spider. A small, fierce human without a shred of pity for the worlds she would set to the torch. Titus Quinn must stop her, though he didn’t know it yet.

The Rose spider, Hel Ese, came to ally with Sydney. To Mo Ti’s alarm, she had succeeded, displacing him with powers and persuasion. Sewn into her clothes and brought from her world was a small god that Mo Ti did not understand and therefore feared. But the spider had made a strategic mistake. She had allowed Mo Ti to overhear her plans. Impressively cruel plans for a woman. For any sentient being.

He bent over in pain from the wound in his side. It was still two days’ walk to the River Nigh where he would seek passage from the navitar. Rising, he looked into the waxing silver sky, the fiery river that warmed the Entire and his bones. The bright give me strength, Mo Ti thought. The bright bring me home.

He drove his body through the crumpled hills edging the plains of Ahnenhoon. He must find this man, Titus Quinn, the man for whom he had sacrificed himself yesterday during the fight. There had been no time then to tell him of the Rose spider who stalked them all. During that brief skirmish Mo Ti and Titus Quinn had fought off the guards who came in the first wave of defenders. When Mo Ti saw that he could fight three at once, he urged Titus Quinn to flee. He granted the man his life for one reason: instead of destroying the Repel and the land around it, Titus Quinn had repudiated his terrible weapon, sparing the land. And therefore Mo Ti spared him. Then the lords arrived, striking Mo Ti senseless. It was his good fortune the high lord’s human captive, Johanna, was suffering a beating from the Tarig, an under­taking that distracted them from his immediate interrogation.

Thus had Titus Quinn escaped. Wei informed Mo Ti of this fact as he lay in his cell deep in the fortress. Wei was a common servant sent by Johanna to help Mo Ti. It was a fine gesture from a dying woman—a woman who, it was rumored, loved her Tarig lord.

He spit in the dust, thinking of it. Far better dead, Mo Ti thought, than in such an embrace.

A shadow fell over him. From nowhere, a zeppelin scudded above the hill, moving breathtakingly close to Mo Ti’s position. He fell into a deep crouch, nearly blacking out from the pain in his gut. The fat­bellied con­veyance motored over the next ridge.

Mo Ti stayed low, listening. Silence. The sounds of the airship motor had bled away. From the plains came distant reports of guns. He was just rising to an upright position when he saw it: silhouetted against the sky, a figure on the near ridge. Standing on two short legs, a Paion mechanical, its two multi­-weaponed arms cocked at the elbow and ready. The machine almost looked like a man, but it was headless, giving it the nightmare look all children feared. In the hump on its back rode the passenger that drove it. A Paion.

He froze in place. But it was too late. The Paion turned to face him. Mo Ti had no cover; he was exposed to the alien’s view.

Mo Ti ran down the length of the gully. Had the airship disgorged its battalions in the next basin behind the hill? If so, he was a dead man. Reaching the near slope, he forced himself to climb, putting distance between himself and the Paion ranks. Looking back, he saw that the Paion was following. It raised a carapaced arm.

Mo Ti flattened himself against the hill, and the beam went high but near. He admired such accuracy from a running soldier.

Another singular fact stood out. The creature was alone. The Paion always fought in masses, their glowing white shells forming tight knots of offense. But so far, this one was alone. It stalked forward, aiming again. Mo Ti twisted away, rolling sideways on the hillside, escaping the blasts even as he groaned from the exertion.

Forcing himself to his feet, he switched directions, loping toward the war plains. There, in the confusion of the larger conflict, he might divert this lone Paion to other targets. He topped the ridge, his inhalations coming hard and fast, each breath a slice of pain. On the grasslands in front of him, cannon smoke drifted, forming a curtain over hot spots from flaming equipment and bodies. Behind him, the foul creature lurched after him.

Mo Ti ran toward the mayhem, toward the flash of war engines spouting fire, toward the rallies and sorties of battle. He had no weapon to meet the Paion in arms, no chance against the streaming fire of its hand armament. Mo Ti cursed the Paion and cursed Titus Quinn, too, for whose sake he was fleeing for his life. It was good to curse, to keep one’s strength up, to fend off the pain each footfall brought him.

Looking behind him, he saw the Paion closing on him.

There was no time to run. Mo Ti turned to fight.

Staggering closer, the Paion raised its arm again. By the creature’s gait, Mo Ti thought it was damaged. He saw the weapon corkscrew out of the carapace, bypassing the robotic hand. Fire spurted. Mo Ti lunged to the side, falling heavily and driving the breath from his lungs. The pain nearly knocked him senseless. He lost precious intervals forcing himself to his knees. He was untouched. Trying to stand, Mo Ti saw that the Paion’s hand armament was smoking, hanging useless. It had backfired along the crea­ture’s arm, which now slapped at its side as the Paion advanced.

Encouraged, Mo Ti rose to his feet.

In its milky white casing, the Paion advanced, wobbling on its jointed legs. In height it came to Mo Ti’s chest. It raised its other arm.

No ichors streamed out. The creature’s hand was a blade. So, it would be a knife fight. That was good news for Mo Ti. He advanced, drawing his blade, a short but infinitely sharp knife. He blessed Wei for the supplies of his coffin.

They fell at each other, striking. Mo Ti parried the Paion’s first jab, but the second slashed his belt, scoring the braided leather instead of Mo Ti’s gut. Having overreached, the Paion staggered forward, giving Mo Ti time to come at the creature from the back. Raising his arm in a last-ditch blow, he struck at the hump, sending the Paion staggering. Moving in, Mo Ti knew his knife would have little effect against armor. Instead of striking, Mo Ti used his one undoubted advantage: his size. He fell on the Paion. In the force of his sheer weight, he split the mechanical’s carapace in a grinding tear. He brought his fist up and hammered at the bulge again and again as the crea­ture lay face down.

When he could raise his arm no more, Mo Ti collapsed, still lying on top of the mechanical. Fumes of the body inside came to his nostrils. The Paion could not endure exposure to Entire air. The biological entity within was dis­integrating, leaking out of the rents in the armor.

Mo Ti rolled off the Paion. He lay panting on his back, fighting to remain conscious. At last he dragged himself to a sitting position. One hand of the mechanical was spinning round the wrist as though trying to sort out which weapon to bring up next.

“It is over,” Mo Ti whispered. “Go to your gods.” He had seen dead Paion mechanicals before, in his soldiering days. Even dead, they were ugly and unnatural. It was said the headless things took their vision from senses spread over the full carapace. And that no one could win against them one on one.

The hand produced another blade, this one long and thin. Then, satisfied it had done its best, the machine let its forearm clink to the ground.

Mo Ti rose to his feet and looked down at his adversary. Yellow blood seeped out of the hump where the Paion had ridden. Mo Ti looked to the ridge to check for further pursuit. The hills were quiet, feeding halfhearted echoes from the battlefield.

He stepped on the Paion’s wrist and hacked his blade at the offered weapon. You never knew when an extra would be needed. He was, he reminded himself, still a long way from the Nigh. The blade separated from the wrist, and Mo Ti slid it into his belt.

He began his painful march once again. Rest was impossible. Once he lay down, he would sleep for days. Somehow, as the hours passed, he managed to keep his purpose before him: The River Nigh. Titus Quinn. Must tell him, and soon. Hel Ese, the spider, coming in for the kill.

Although Titus Quinn was a lifetime journey away from Ahnenhoon, Mo Ti did not despair. By the River Nigh, all places were near.

Prologue: The Rose

IN THE MIRROR, LAMAR GELDE LOOKED AT HIMSELF in swimming trunks. At seventy­-seven, a wreck of a man. His white skin hung on a six-­foot frame, muscles trim but stringy, chest thin and leathery despite daily work­outs. His belly button sagged a good two inches from where it should be, and his toenails looked like ancient ivory. Grabbing his pool robe, he pulled it over his body, lashing it at the waist. The face, at least the face, bore a semblance of dignity. The latest max­illofacial outcomes took thirty years off him, beginning with the nasolobial folds (receded) and the platysma bands wattling his neck (gone.) He peered closer: a few hairline cracks around his eyes argued for the next procedure, corrigator muscle update. He reminded himself that there was nothing ghoulish about being good­-looking at his age. Everyone did it. Well, maybe seventy­-seven was pushing it, but if he was going to live a long time, now was no time to start slipping. Caitlin Quinn hailed him with a raise of her poolside drink. He made his way to her, noting that her thirty­-five­-year-­old body still looked fit, though she had the bad taste to complain of it. “What’ll you have?” she asked, pointing her data ring at the house.

“Seltzer and lime.” She stranded the order at the smart wall, her smile wobbling. She’d called him here to talk about something. Anything she needed, he was the man. As Caitlin made her way to the wet bar to retrieve their drinks, Lamar watched Rob and his son horsing around in the pool. He sighed. A nice little family scene on the surface. Underneath, nothing of the sort. Caitlin and Rob were on the outs. No doubt Caitlin was half in love with Titus Quinn, her brother-­in­-law, and Rob was clueless. Since they were living off Titus’s mil­lions, Rob no longer had to worry about being fired for being forty and hope­lessly out of date with savant AIs. Nope. He’d had the money to quit out­right before they fired him, and now he and Caitlin had their own little middie start­up company. They should take their happiness while there was still time.

Thirteen-­year­-old Mateo stood on the diving board, waving at Lamar. “Back dive, uncle Lamar, watch!” He danced on the board, then launched his body, folding in a way only a cat or youngster could manage, smoothing out in time to make a decent plunge.

Lamar clapped, impressed. Mateo waved like crazy and swam the length of the pool. Despite no little envy, Lamar was proud of the kid. Handsome, motivated, respectful. Liked his “uncle.” Well, Lamar had promised to take good care of the family. Rob and Caitlin were Quinn’s only family now—they and their children, Mateo and Emily. Lamar had grown closer to them in the interval of Quinn’s absence. Nice kid, Mateo. It made Lamar wish he’d had a few of his own. But Caitlin, seated again next to him, looked unhappy. She had no idea how unhappy she had a right to be. It made him feel like shit.

She wouldn’t be in on it. How could she be? She was a middie, smart enough to tend lower-­level AI’s, the savants. Same as Rob. But she’d never be a savvy, testing over 160. It wasn’t her fault, but she wasn’t up to dealing with the new world.

Mateo did a flying back somersault, landing on his butt. Rob roared with laughter, and Mateo hauled himself out of the pool, breathless but laughing anyway.

“Good kid,” Lamar said.

“I know.” Caitlin cut him a glance. “Not good enough, maybe.”

He frowned, and the conversation sagged into the waiting silence.

“We got the results. He didn’t ace the test.”

Lamar gaped at her. Didn’t ace the test? The Standard Test. Christ, the kid was the grandson of Donnel Quinn and the nephew of Titus Quinn, and he didn’t slam the Standard? He hung his head, not looking at her. Genetics.

It was genetics. Mateo got his brains from Caitlin and Rob—no shame in that—but he was no savvy. Not like Lamar, or Titus. Christ almighty. A blow.

Caitlin pushed on, falsely cheerful. “He’s bright. IQ 139. He’ll be fine.”

Fine. Yes, depending on your definition. Didn’t Mateo have some big ambitions, though? Something about being a virtual enviro designer . .. well, not likely. Stanford wouldn’t take him, or Cornell. Lamar could pull some strings. But the boy didn’t have the right stuff to make it far; couldn’t do calculus in his head or understand advanced quantum theory. Time was when even the average-­smart could do real science, but that time was gone. The easy stuff had all been done, and now, talking to a middie—much less a dred—was like explaining sunrise to a pigmy.

“I’m sorry, Caitlin.”

“Of course you are.” Her voice didn’t cloak her bitterness. Lamar was a savvy.

He shifted uneasily in the pool chair. He should have been prepared for this. Mateo was thirteen, the age they gave the Standard. What was he sup­posed to say: Brains aren’t everything? Oh, but they were.

Mateo grabbed his towel and made his way to the adults while Rob did his pool laps.

“He doesn’t know yet,” Caitlin whispered.

“Ho, unc,” Mateo chirped.

“Ho, young man.” Lamar pasted on a smile, more rigid these days after his rhinoplasty.

Mateo took a sip of a half­-finished soda, and Lamar watched him with dismay. The boy squinted against the July sun, making him look confused and wary. The spark in his eyes, that look of broad perspective, was missing.

Lamar should have seen it before. The boy was a middie, poor son of a bitch.

“Want to see a double twist?” Mateo asked, jumping up. Assured that every adult within two blocks would want to see Mateo Quinn perform dive platform feats, he raced off, heedless of Caitlin’s call not to run on the cement.

His departure left a vacuum in Lamar’s heart. What a miserable mess. Mateo wasn’t in the club. Bad enough to leave Caitlin and Rob behind, but now Mateo? Quinn would be unhappy. Quinn would carve Lamar a new asshole.

Lamar sank into a dark place, thinking of how his little revolutionary cabal was screwing over his adopted family. Thinking of how he’d have to face Quinn for leaving Mateo behind when the world change came about.

The fact was, even Lamar didn’t want to leave him behind. He liked the boy, liked Caitlin and little Emily. For God’s sake, how could he abandon them?

The topic didn’t bear close scrutiny. It was a monstrous scheme. But if the world had to be abandoned, Lamar and his people couldn’t be blamed. That responsibility fell upon the Tarig. They were intent on using the Rose universe as fuel and had been beta testing the concept for fully two years, if not longer. Lately the tally of vanished stars included Alpha Carinae, a rare yellow­-white super giant, which people who bothered to learn their stars knew as Canopus. Few bothered. The astronomers were in a lather, of course. Particularly since over the last three months Alpha Carinae had been pre­ceded in death by Procyon, the lovely marquee star of Canis Minor, and 40 Eridani­-B, a DA-­class white dwarf. People paying attention, like Lamar and his friends, saw these vanishings as yet another hint the end was near. The stars had simply winked out. Impossible, of course. But not for the Tarig.

Nothing, really, could stop them, not for long. Lamar and company’s little plan—with the very apt name of renaissance—would hasten that act of cannibalism, after first saving a few gifted people who the Tarig might tol­erate in their closed kingdom. We’ll help you burn it. Let a few of us emi­grate, and we’ll show you how.

Grotesque, yes. But who else could fight the monstrous Tarig, if not equally ferocious humans? These were Lamar’s usual ruminations, fore­stalling the guilt that threatened to inundate his days.

But a new thought was forming. Perhaps—just perhaps—he didn’t have to leave the boy behind. Lamar Gelde might, for example, bend the rules a bit. Given his exemplary service to the new renaissance, hadn’t he earned some privileges?

Of course he’d have to face Helice, and she was fierce on the topic. But the hell with Helice, the little rat­-bitch. He’d never liked her, and she wasn’t in charge from across the universe. Furthermore, Quinn would appreciate the out­-of-­the­-box thinking. Quinn would goddamn well owe him big time.

Lamar watched Caitlin as he sipped his drink. By damn, I’m poised to do something good and decent. By damn.

Mateo was going to get his numbers changed. Caitlin was going to re­test, too. Her numbers would come up strong, as well. Rob—well, no one would miss him. He was out of the equation. Lamar would have to pull off a bit of backroom manipulation, and normally such a switch could never escape the scrutiny of the mSap . . . but the thing was, he didn’t need to fool the machine sapient that ran the Standard Test. He only needed to confuse the bureaucrats for a few days. By then, it would be too late.

Lamar murmured into his drink, hardly believing what he was saying to Caitlin: “I can get you in on something. You and your family.” Now that he had said it, it filled him with a vast relief. In the midst of the coming storm, amid the colossal suffering to come, someone would have a reprieve.

Caitlin looked at him, waiting.

“I can’t tell you what it is. Something’s coming. Not a word to Rob or anybody, not even Mateo.” He noted Caitlin’s growing confusion. “It won’t matter about the test. Very soon, it won’t matter at all.”

“What are you talking about? Are they coming up with a new test?”

“No, no tests. That’s behind us now.”

She scrunched her lips in thought. “It might be behind you, Lamar, but it’s not behind us.”

He fixed her with a pointed look as Rob, draped in a towel, ambled over from his swim. “I can’t say more. Don’t push right now. We’ll talk, but privately.”

She started to protest, but he shook his head as Rob joined them.

Poor Rob. He was a dead man. It made him feel like hell to know so much, while simple people enjoyed their barbeques and swims. But he couldn’t let himself worry about Rob. He’s holding the race back. Propa­gating, watering down the neurons. Rob wouldn’t have a place in the future. Not like Lamar. Not like Titus Quinn. Men with the requisite IQ.

It was all based on merit.

And in the case of Mateo and Caitlin, on who you knew.

Chapter One

The most exalted of habitations is the Ascendancy. But the longest is Rim City.

—from The Radiant Way

IN THE NEVERENDING CITY, Ji Anzi and Titus Quinn finally found a mag­istrate willing to marry them. In this city of one hundred billion people, they had few friends. One, to be exact: Zhiya. And she was a despised godder, though appearances could be misleading. Anzi knew that Zhiya’s network of contacts sent tendrils throughout Rim City, throughout the Entire. One of Zhiya’s contacts was this resin­-addicted magistrate who lay before them. He was barely conscious, an impoverished legate who lived on the never-­ending wharf in a hovel almost too small to hold the three-­person wed­ding party. It wouldn’t do to engage a fully conscious magistrate to officiate. The whole city was looking for Titus and Anzi, backed up by legions of Tarig, and perhaps Titus’s enemies in the Rose as well. He was a man well hated, but beloved of Ji Anzi. She held his hand now, ready to join their lives. It must be done quickly. With so many searching for them, they might be discovered at any moment. Titus said that marriage was a thing that would bind them now and forever, no matter what happened next. He was, Anzi knew from profound experi­ence, a man who wanted a family. He’d had one. Now he had her, and it seemed he meant to keep her. The legate had agreed to marry them, but Changjun stunk of resin­laden smoke and was so weak he couldn’t sit up.

Titus turned to the godwoman Zhiya. “He’s half dead.”

Zhiya shrugged. “The less he remembers, the better.”

Anzi looked askance at the magistrate, wondering how she had come to this moment, to marry Titus Quinn in a shack that smelled of drugs and vomit.

The legate reached in the direction of the voices, rasping something unintelligible.

“Certainly,” Zhiya answered him. “Your fee to be paid in resin.” She brought out a small chunk from her pocket, opening her palm to display it. “Yours very soon, honorable Changjun.” Zhiya might serve the God of the Entire, but she was not above drug dealing and treason. Titus trusted the dwarf godwoman with whom he’d forged a friendship on his way to Ahnen­hoon. Anzi took his word for it that Zhiya opposed the lords and supported Titus—a startling betrayal for a high­-ranking Venerable.

A spike of laughter from outside reminded Anzi that amid Rim crowds were many who would gladly hand them over to the Tarig. After Ahnenhoon, she and Titus were notorious. But what, Anzi wondered, did people think had happened at Ahnenhoon to make both her and the famous outlaw fugi­tives? She doubted the realm’s sentients knew the All needed the Rose for burning. She doubted they knew Ahnenhoon was the sight of more than the Long War. Its fortress was the repository for the great engine that was already burning stars, allowing the Tarig to test their plans for further burning.

Looking around the filthy hovel, Anzi wondered if the legate could be roused to conduct the civil ceremony. He was saturated with the drug and had pissed himself. This was not the marriage she had dreamed of. Was it a good idea? They hadn’t had time to think it through. Titus loved her and was taking her for his second wife. Second, if Joanna was still alive. This was doubtful. But for Titus’s sake, she hoped Johanna lived. The burden of her death was something Anzi hoped he would be spared by the God of Misery.

Zhiya checked again at the door—as though she could stop a Tarig from entering. Zhiya was hardly a soldier: barely four feet in height, with a side­ways gamboling walk and a persistent disregard for her service to her reli­gious order.

Zhiya smiled at the reeking legate. “Hurry, Excellency,” she crooned, “Marry them and celebrate with the heavenly smoke.”

The legate roused himself onto one elbow, but it was only to reach for the nugget. Zhiya surged forward and shook him by the shoulders. “By the mucking bright .. .” she began. But the man fell back, eyes rolling up. He had passed out.

From just beyond the walls came the sound of the sea splatting against the breakwater. Changjun’s room had a glorious location next to the largest sea in either universe. But then everyone in Rim City had more or less the same location, the city being many thousand of miles long and a stone’s throw wide.

Titus glanced at Zhiya. “Check the street. We’re leaving.”

Zhiya didn’t budge. “I could perform the ceremony.”

Anzi stifled a gasp of dismay. “No. You’re a godwoman. The Miserable God would curse us.” Anzi cast around for another solution. “Find us a priest of the Red Throne.”

Zhiya kicked at the slumbering legate, muttering. “My dear, it’s a charming thought to be helped by a Red priest. Unfortunately, it would get us all killed. But if you get another idea, be sure to keep it to yourself.”

“But,” Anzi continued, unfazed, “the Society of the Red Throne—”

“Believes in the lords, commerce, and the three vows. No, Anzi, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. Only three can do the job: a legate, a ship keeper, or a godder.” Motioning toward the comatose legate, Zhiya said, “You’re down to two choices. See any ship keepers?”

Titus looked at Anzi, saying softly, “Let her do it, my love. What more can the Miserable God bring on us?”

Anzi raised an eyebrow. What more could He do? What, besides threaten the Rose universe with extinction? What, besides give Titus a weapon to save the Rose, and then, diabolically, make it a weapon he couldn’t bring himself to use? The cirque he’d brought into the Entire, the small silver chain around his ankle, had proven to be a molecular weapon that would erase not just the Tarig threat but the whole of the Entire. At Ahnen­hoon, as Titus was at the very moment of depositing the weapon at the base of the engine, Titus’s first wife told him to make peace with his God. In this way she let slip that Titus was about to die. That everyone in the Entire was about to die, since the weapon would destroy the Entire. He’d asked her what she knew of the cirque and how she could know. He learned that he’d been tricked by Lord Oventroe to bring a doomsday weapon to Ahnenhoon. Oven­troe, who had inspected the cirque and promised it would take down only the engine.

They had fled Ahnenhoon, he and Anzi, with the job undone, the engine still churning. But they were forced to leave Johanna behind. She had no doubt been caught at the foot of the engine, the place she was forbidden to be. No doubt it all came out, eventually, what she was there for.

A saving grace was that Johanna would be forced to reveal that Titus had the overwhelming weapon. That he left with it. It could still destroy the Tarig land. Therefore the lords did not dare to simply cross over to the Rose and kill the Earth to forestall future aggression. The lords would most cer­tainly do so if not restrained by this most useful deterrent: the cirque in Titus’s possession.

But the problem was he had thrown the cirque away.

Titus said again, “Let her do the ceremony, Anzi.”

He looked at her with such longing it nearly stopped her breath. Anzi slid a glance at the godwoman, considering whether she could bear to be married by a godder.

Zhiya blurted, “You think I want to do it? If you ask me, Titus should marry me. I’ve lusted after him from the first day I saw him.” She shrugged apologetically at Titus’s bride­to­be.

Titus was still focused on Anzi. “Marry me, Ji Anzi, and let the Miser­able God do his worst.”

At the blasphemy, she raised two fingers to her left eye. “Beloved, never say it.”

“Someone has to stand up to him.”

Anzi turned to Zhiya. “Yes, then,” she whispered. “You’re not so despised a godder as most.”

Zhiya sighed. “By God’s balls, a fine compliment. But shall we get on with this?”

“Yes, Venerable,” Anzi said, almost inaudible. “Bless us.” She closed her eyes, unable to meet Zhiya’s gaze.

Without preamble, the godwoman muttered the blessing. Anzi heard it in a blur of resin smoke and adrenaline . . .

counterofsins,creatorofmisery... donotlookonthispaltrycouple,donotbringthineeyetotheirsmall,mean,andplod­dinglives...

“Anzi,” Titus said at last, nudging her from a sickening reverie. He drew her into his arms, whispering, “My great love. My wife.”

“Is it over?” she asked.

“Yes,” Zhiya snapped. “Many days of bliss to you both.” She peeked out the door. “We’ll raise a toast at the whorehouse.” She ducked an apology to Anzi. “My side business, but they do know how to have a party.”

“Titus,” Anzi said. He paused, waiting for her to go on. “Have you thought what will happen if they catch us?”

He nodded. “Yes. They won’t catch us.”

“But, if they do?”

Zhiya sighed. “The longer we stay here the more chance there is that they will catch you. Go now. Talk later.”

Anzi fixed Zhiya with her gaze. “No. There is no later.”

Titus grew wary. “What is it?”

“It’s the chain. It’s gone. Lying at the bottom of the Nigh.” The chain as a deterrent was the only chance left for the Rose, and Titus knew that as well as she did. He just didn’t want to admit what it meant. “If we separate, and one of us is caught, we can claim the device is with the other person.” She saw him resisting this idea. “The chain still has power—if they believe we have it. They’ll be afraid to move against the Earth if they think I’ll open the links and let out the plague. Or you will.”

“No, Anzi.”

“Pardon, but I think yes.”

Zhiya rolled her eyes. “What a fine beginning to marital harmony.”

Ignoring her, Titus said, “No. If we’re caught we’ll just say we gave it to someone for safekeeping.”

“But who would that be? Among all the sentients of the Entire, who loves the Rose? Only you and I. The lords would suspect us.”

“Anzi,” he pleaded. “No, I don’t like it.”

“I might choose to go without your agreement.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Titus was processing this.

He had already heard the wisdom of what she said. She thought he’d already decided, but was postponing saying so.

She went to his arms. “My love,” she whispered. They held each other.

Anzi pushed away finally. “Wait for me, Titus.”

He held her at arms’ length. “I hate this. Go, if you think best. But don’t pretend to have the cirque. I can’t ask it of you. I won’t.”

“No. Don’t ask.” He was always wanting to do the right thing. He had done so many awful things that he weighed small things too hard because they were easier to grasp. This was a small thing.

When he saw her resolve, he said, “Come home to me.”

“Yes.”

Zhiya regarded the leave taking with growing impatience. “Where will you go, girl?”

“To a far primacy. Somewhere you can’t guess.”

Zhiya flicked her gaze at Titus. “I’ll put her on a vessel, then.”

He nodded. After a pause he said, “Give us one hour alone.”

The godwoman smirked. “What? Here?” She noted the unconscious legate sprawled on the only bed. “You don’t have the luxury of an hour.”

“Give us some goddamn time, Zhiya.”

Anzi put a hand on his arm, getting his attention. “We’ll have our time.”

It was something she was not quite ready to believe, but she said it anyway, her heart cooling. She lifted her hood and yanked it forward, moving to the door.

Titus intercepted her at the door, pulling the hood back. Cupping her face, he kissed her in a way that instantly heated her.

She pressed him away at last. “The Chalin never say farewell. I won’t say it now.”

“No,” he agreed. “Protect yourself first. Promise me.”

“First before what?”

“Before me.”

“I promise.”

Zhiya took Anzi’s arm. “Pull that hood over your head, and let’s get out of here.” She cut a reassuring look at Titus, but Anzi could not look at him again.

She and Zhiya slipped through the door.

Once out in the street, the godwoman hurried alongside Anzi toward the wharf, where a navitar vessel might be found. “You have no more intention of putting yourself first than I do of going celibate. You are an impressive liar, Ji Anzi.”

Anzi nodded under her hood. “Thank you, Venerable.”

Chapter Two

Lies seek the light like Inyx do the steppes.

—a saying

SYDNEY RAN INTO SLEEP, INTO HER DREAMS eager to share in the carnage.

Dreams were the battlefield, the only arena where the mantis lords were vulnerable. Each night she lay her head down to sleep, to fight. She was no Inyx, could not join the raids of her Deep Ebb army, but her thoughts urged them on. At the head of the Inyx forays was her beloved mount Riod, slicing into the minds of those who slept, sending poison. The worst kind of poison for despots: truth.

The gracious lords have deceived us all. They are not flesh and blood, but way­farers in bodies of their creation, fearing to live, tethered to their ancestral home, far outside of the Entire. The lords are simulacra, fearing carbon-­based life. They do not die or have children. To them, birth is stepping into a form for a time. Until they scurry back to the Heart, where they exist as unholy burning things. Denizens of the Entire, should we venerate such creatures? Should we trust the radiant lords, who can retreat at any time to their true home—the Heart? It is a hellishly burning place where their minds swarm in chaos. Only here in the Entire can a Tarig have a body, a life, and worshippers. Would you be subject to such as that?

The dream took Sydney, as Inyx dreams could, filling her drifting mind with urgent sendings. Then it cast her up, like a wave tosses a shell on a beach. She lay sweating in fear and excitement, sticking to her bedclothes, as the storm moved on. She knew that the same kinds of dreams were harrowing the sleep of sentients throughout the Entire. Each one interpreted the send­ings in their own dream-logic. Lacking perfect coherence, the dreams still suggested truths, sowed anxieties. All part of her plan, of Mo Ti’s plan: to bring the Inyx herds together in one common force, then use their united dream­sendings in an insurgency of the mind.

Mo Ti’s plan, when he’d brought it to her so long ago, had been simple, breathtaking: Discredit the Tarig. Undermine them. Crush them. And though Mo Ti was at present far away, Sydney executed that plan, joined by Riod, greatest of the hoofed and horned magnificent Inyx. She didn’t know how she would crush the mantis lords. That part was yet to unfold. But it began with a dreamtime rebellion that could penetrate Entirean distances. Each night, a new dream swooped into the minds of sleepers, like a bird landing lightly on a branch, waiting to peck at vital parts.

She sat up, too stimulated to sleep. It was Between Ebb, nearly morning, and Riod would return soon. She rose quickly and dressed, thinking of him, but not too strongly. He shouldn’t be distracted from his work in the fields nearby. There, the herds grazed and dozed, looking harmless, while forging their heart­-sight into a sword.

Sydney moved quietly, not wanting to disturb Helice, asleep on the other bed. They shared a tent and compatible ambitions; most ebb­times, they spent hours talking. For the first time in the Entire, Sydney had a woman friend.

As she washed and dressed, she glanced at Helice, thankful for her but also blaming her. Helice had brought word of the cirque. In response, Sydney had no choice but to send Mo Ti to stop her father from using it. To kill him. The decision sickened her. It was an ugly thing, even if her father had aban­doned her and steeped himself in privileges and princedom. How he could have done so, she would never understand. It didn’t matter anymore.

When she drew back the tent flap, she was surprised to find the herd surging from the pastures into camp. Their sendings began to filter to her. Look up. It comes. Her eyes cut to the sky. Nigh­ward, a shadow cut a crease into the curdling lavender folds of the bright. At great speed, the speck grew. It could only be one thing.

A brightship.

The camp was in chaos. Tarig strode across the field—by now empty of the dreaming herd—cutting a swath through the encampment. Only three Tarig debarked from the ship. As they approached they looked cumulatively like a tripart fighting machine, tall, taloned, and glinting in the morning bright. Sydney rushed back into the tent where Helice was hurriedly dressing.

“Leave!” Sydney hissed. If the lords found a Rose woman among them… “Hide!” Sydney could hear footsteps approaching. But there was no time for Helice to leave. The tent flap flew wide. The lords were here.

Helice bowed deeply, like a servant.

The one in front had the slightly leaner physique of a female, and affected half-­gloves that would not impede her in her fight. This one glanced at Helice, then turned to Sydney.

While the two other Tarig stood somewhat back, the gloved Tarig said, “The Rose child, ah?”

She didn’t like this Tarig. “I’m not of the Rose. I’m of Riod’s sway.”

The lord looked down from a height of seven feet. In Sydney’s ten years of captivity she had seen the Tarig so infrequently that their physical aspect could still intimidate.

The lead Tarig said, “You will use proper address, small girl, lest my cousins take offense.” The other Tarig watched Sydney with black eyes.

“Yes, Bright One.”

“You may call us Lady Anuve.”

“Yes, Lady Anuve,” Sydney made herself say. Her mouth gone dry, Sydney forced herself to breathe. Had they discovered the dreamcasts? Her thoughts raced. Was their rebellion over already? Riod, she thought, pre­suming he would be reaching out to her mind, Stay far from the tent. You will hear all that transpires. We can’t change what comes now. Be brave, my heart.

“I will dismiss my servant,” Sydney said, waving Helice out of the tent. The Tarig ignored her as she passed—small, scarred, and bald—hardly a personage.

Lady Anuve flicked out a talon. Snagging a length of Sydney’s hair, she murmured, “Hair the color of soil.” The talon whispered down the side of Sydney’s face. “And eyes to match.” The claw stopped at Sydney’s left eyelid. Once, long ago, a talon like that had blinded her, as this Tarig lady surely knew.

Sydney, despite her defiant stance, started to shake.

Retracting her talon, Anuve shoved Sydney in the shoulder, pushing her through the tent door into the morning air. There the herd had begun to gather in front of Sydney’s pavilion, among them Adikar the healer, Takko the Laroo, Akay­Wat her Captain of Roamlands, and all their mounts.

Riod stood at the forefront, looming as tall as the Tarig. Tell her this is my sway, and she must speak with me, Riod sent.

“Riod is master here,” Sydney told the Tarig lady. “You should speak with him. I’ll tell you what he says.”

“One hears that riders in this place have bonds with Inyx mounts. Is this so?”

“Yes.”

“You will use proper address, or we will kill you.”

“Yes, Bright One.”

Anuve looked at her, calculating. “Do you love this beast, then? So one hears, that the bond is close to love.”

“I have such a bond with Riod, Lady Anuve.”

“Ah.” For the first time Anuve looked at Riod, and then at the mounts behind him. “Send them away, and all their riders.”

“But Riod .. .”

“Riod may stay.”

Riod, beloved, Sydney thought. But he had heard Anuve’s command. He told the gathered Inyx and their riders to move off, out of hearing, out of harm’s way. Akay­Wat, riding Gevka, was among them, looking dismayed. It reminded Sydney that it had been a long while since she’d spoken with her old Hirrin friend. Sydney concentrated on a reassuring thought, trusting that the mounts would hear her and relay it to the riders.

Helice was on foot, refusing as always to ride her designated mount. She turned to leave, first locking glances with Sydney as though to say, don’t betray me.

When Riod and Sydney were alone among the Tarig, Anuve fixed Sydney with a cold, accusatory stare. “Your eyes have been tampered with.”

Relief flooded over her. They’d come because of her sight, only her sight. Sydney released the breath she had been holding. She must take exquisite care. Some lies were needful. Others were useless.

“Yes, Bright One,” she finally said. The Tarig were the first who tam­pered with her sight, and she had tampered back. The mantis lords wanted to spy on the Inyx through her eyes, so they could watch for Titus Quinn. But then Helice had removed the tampering.

“Now we wish to know how this was done. You will tell me now, small girl, how you took back your sight and also how you knew to take back your sight. Hnn? We are curious to learn these things.”

When Sydney didn’t answer, Anuve said, “It was your father, one assumes. Yes?”

“No. My father never came here, Bright One.”

“You will tell me who it was, and how it was, that your sight came to be restored.” Anuve nodded at one of the other Tarig. He took out a tiny flechette and flung it at Riod, where it stuck into his hide at the shoulder.

Riod shied as Sydney rushed to his side. Grabbing at the barb stuck in Riod’s hide, she tried to pull it out, but the protruding end was too sharp. Riod staggered, then collapsed into a sitting position, his legs folded under him. He didn’t respond when she touched him or frantically called to him in her mind.

Anuve nodded. “Now you shall tell, yes?”

Sydney barely controlled her fury. “I knew you had my eyes by the way I felt when you looked out of them, my lady. My body rejected your surgeries.”

Anuve regarded her quietly. “Think of another answer, girl of the Rose.” She flicked a gaze at her two Tarig companions, and they moved away, begin­ning a search of the camp. She went on. “There have been events at Ahnen­hoon. You will not have heard, we suppose you will say, that your father brought a weapon to our great Repel. Lord Inweer stopped him from using it. The darkling fled. Here, ah?”

Fled. Titus fled. Still alive, then. “No, lady, he isn’t here. Search as you like.” Titus wasn’t dead. Somehow, Mo Ti hadn’t killed him.

The Tarig lady put a finger under Sydney’s chin, tilting it up to lock their gazes. “Your eyes did not repair themselves. You will have some time to think over what you are saying. The Tarig are gracious. We understand sentients have bonds with those called father. But if he is not here now, then you have no reason to deny he was once here. Tell us, and we will spare Riod’s life.”

Riod’s life? Sydney was instantly stricken.

Anuve nodded at Riod. “As he is now, so he remains until I release him from the inhibitor. So he remains until my cousins draw their claws across his neck. By the first hour of Prime of Day. Go to the tent and think carefully.”

Sydney looked at Riod, her emotions in turmoil. Nothing, nothing from Riod. His mind was locked in, his body helpless.

Anuve pushed her toward the tent, and Sydney staggered at the casual strength of the Tarig’s arm. She ducked through the tent flap, standing alone, wild with fear. The bright lit up the cloth pavilion roof as though it were a normal day, as though the day had in store a ride with her mount and the usual pleasure of his company. She sat on her cot a long while before she could even begin to think. The questing, fearful thoughts of the mounts reached out to her, and she formed a thought for them to take: Let me think what to do. Wait, my friends.

As the bright waxed overhead, Sydney sat on her cot.

The Tarig didn’t know about the herd sendings. All they knew is that Sydney had foiled their attempt to confiscate her sight. All she had to do was give up Helice, to say: Helice came to me for help, having sneaked into the realm. I gave her sanctuary. She fixed my eyes. She has a little machine .. . But Helice had value, almost infinite value. She had the renaissance plan. Of the herd and its riders only Riod and Akay­Wat knew about this, so Sydney diverted her thoughts from the subject quickly.

Sydney walked to her clothing chest and opened it. She took out her best jacket and riding pants. They were white, or nearly white. She changed into them, taking the one item she needed most. She stepped outside.

One of the Tarig stood there, keeping guard. Anuve was nowhere in sight. “I want to be sure Riod is all right,” she said to the lord. “Let me approach him.”

A nod granted her permission. Coming up to Riod, she knelt and whis­pered to him: “I’ve never been afraid to die, Riod. I love you.” She took out a knife and pressed it to her own throat. She spoke so the Tarig could hear her clearly: “Come near me or my mount, and I will kill myself.”

The Tarig lunged forward. But Lady Anuve shouted out, “Stop. Let her be.”

Anuve came into view, her metal skirt slit to allow her long stride. She approached within ten feet of Sydney and Riod and looked down at them. After a minute she said, “You will tire of holding up the knife.”

“I’ll do the job before then.”

Anuve stood as still as Riod and watched. Apparently, as Sydney had gambled, they didn’t want her dead.

Thoughts from the herd fell on her like rain. Come back, mistress. If Riod’s time has come, he goes bravely. Sydney. Come back. Mistress. And, amid the cacophony of anonymous thoughts, Akay­Wat’s impassioned plea: Give them the Rose woman, Akay­Wat begs you. Stay with us, oh stay…

Sydney found she wasn’t afraid. Once she had decided to die, the rest was—if not easy—at least peaceful. She let her mind go blank, beyond emo­tion or logic.

She waited.

Sometime during this profound calm, the camp stirred around her. Sydney hardly registered the movements. The heart­sendings grew stronger, more difficult to ignore. At last, reluctantly, she came back to full presence.

Insistent thoughts came pulsing to her from the herd: A brightship comes. Another ship.

Sydney moved slightly. Turning toward Riod, she saw him still immo­bile. Where the flechette was stuck into him, a trickle of blood had dried, forming a red crack down his side.

After a time, a new Tarig strode into view. The lord stood next to Anuve, taller, more commanding.

The newcomer and Anuve were speaking, but they kept their voices out of hearing range. The other two Tarig were also joining in, as though there were no difference in standing among them. The conference ended.

The new Tarig approached Sydney. He crouched next to her in that way Tarig had of appearing all knees and elbows, inspiring her expression, mantis lords.

“Do you know this Tarig lord, young girl?” he asked.

She shook her head, unable to summon the spit to speak.

“Lord Inweer. One has come from Ahnenhoon. You know Ahnenhoon?”

She nodded.

“At Ahnenhoon, Johanna was our companion. You have before you that lord. Do you understand?”

Again, she nodded. “Stay back,” she croaked. Though, in truth he was close enough now that he could easily grab the knife. He was also close enough that she could stab him in the eye, the best way to kill a Tarig.

“Your father was here, and he must have had means to return your normal sight. One can forgive you this small treason. Do not lie to us, and this lord will help you.”

“Riod .. .” Sydney whispered. “Remove Riod’s barb, and we can talk, Bright Lord.” She looked into his implacable face and found herself saying, though she hated to say it, “Please.”

Lord Inweer stood up and yanked the barb from Riod’s side. Flecks of blood spun off it as he flung it away.

Riod’s chest expanded, grabbing air.

Sydney whispered, summoning the required lie: “My father fixed my eyes. Then he left, Bright Lord.”

“Ah. That is a good answer. Where did he go?”

“He would not tell me.”

Inweer watched her. Then he did something Tarig never did. He blinked.

It made his face look almost human. “We will tell you of your mother, now. Johanna is dead. One could not save her. She helped her husband when he came against the great engine. My cousin killed her for this crime. We buried her at Ahnenhoon.”

Dead. Sydney felt a pang at the news. Her mother had been dead to her for a long while—but now she was dead in truth. The news hit her with some force. How strange that recently she had sent Sydney a scroll with a moving image of herself. There were times, deep in the ebb, when Sydney looked at that image and wondered about her mother. Now, she would never know more.

Inweer went on, “This lord held her in regard.”

This was the lord she had so despised, the one her mother had been living with as mistress of his household and of his bed. She had hated them both. Now he was going to help her. She felt numb with all that was happening. Riod, she thought passionately. Johanna is dead.

Riod’s awakening mind sent: I am here. Always here, best rider.

Inweer had no part of their private heart­-sendings. He watched them as though he knew they were talking, though. “One has the power to raise you up, small girl. This lord will do so for the sake of Johanna. You will ask no questions, but accept all conditions.”

“And Riod will be safe, my lord?”

“You may keep your beast. One has no interest in his fate.”

She lowered her hand. She couldn’t drop the knife because her fingers were frozen in their grip. Inweer pried her fingers open and took the weapon.

He said, his voice very deep and soft, “She asked for you, pleaded for your safety. This we granted, giving you leave to rise up among the Inyx. Now you will need further protection from cousins who find you distasteful. You will have a position. It will mean you must leave this sway. Do you agree?”

At her side, Riod trembled, coming to full alert. She touched him. My heart.

Shall I kill him? Riod sent.

“No, Riod,” she said aloud. “Lord Inweer can help us.” The lord was waiting for her reply. “Where will I go, Bright Lord?”

“We have considered the idea that the Chalin Sway should be yours. The master of that sway can be dismissed. You may do well there. In return, you will entrap your father the next time he appears before you. That is the con­dition. He cannot be loose in the Entire. We do not discuss this or compro­mise. Ah?”

Well, that was easy to agree to. “Yes, my lord.”

Satisfied, Inweer rose from his crouch and conferred with the other Tarig.

Riod pulled his front legs under him, lumbering up, front first, then back. He dipped his head down to allow Sydney to hold on to his fore horns. Then he lifted his head, and Sydney rose up using his strength.

Someone approached them from the ranks of the riders who had been gathering at a distance. Takko the Laroo brought Riod a pan of water and Sydney a cup. He nodded at her, his face conveying relief. Sydney felt her skin crack at the effort of smiling.

The Tarig group turned to Sydney and Riod at last. Anuve spoke, “We like not the idea of the Chalin sway. It is too much to give, and it has its master, Zai Gan.” Anuve and Inweer exchanged glances like cuts. Surely she could not overrule Lord Inweer, who was, after all, one of the ruling Five. “We have in mind, however, that small girl might go to Rim City. She can be magister of that city.”

Sydney was not dead. No, and she was being given a great prize, instead. Numb, she could only listen.

Anuve regarded her. “It may suit our purposes. She may prove herself a loyal sentient.”

Rim City. At the foot of the Ascendancy. “Wherever you send me, Bright Ones, I have to bring Riod.” Sydney blurted it out, then saw how the Tarig regarded this interruption. They stared at her with expressions that silenced her.

Inweer said, “Take two or three companions, then.” He turned to Anuve. “She will need loyalty around her.”

Inweer went on, “We would have her be mistress of a sway. Thus we will invest Rim City as a sway. It shows the Bright Realm that she has earned our respect. It shows that she is pardoned for her Rose birthing. It is well to pardon from time to time.” He nodded. “One concurs with you, Lady Anuve. She will go to Rim Sway. It is a place no one else could want and no master of a sway need be cast down.”

Anuve fixed Sydney with a black look. “And you will bring Titus Quinn to us?”

Sydney nodded. “Yes. He’ll come, Bright One.”

Anuve growled, “He tends to slip away.”

“I’ll help you, my lady.”

“The daughter helps to snare the father? Even a father who helped her realign her sight?”

“Yes, my lady.” They had no clue what her relationship with Titus was. That when he was a prince of the city, he had left her to her enslavement among the Inyx before she had found Riod to champion her. He had let the lords blind her. And he had lived like a king.

Lord Inweer was eager to be on his way and took his leave. Sydney and Anuve watched him stride back to his ship. He must feel satisfaction, Sydney thought, that he’d done a favor for Johanna. Now she was left with the after­taste of accepting a favor from him. As the brightship slipped silently into its ascent path, Anuve murmured, “We must wonder how the lord gives cre­dence to you.”

“The bright lady must know I do not love my father.”

“Do not all children love their parents?”

“Not all, Lady Anuve.”

“This will favor our purpose, Rose child.”

The phrase grated. “I am not a Rose child, my lady.”

The gloved hand came back and across Sydney’s face, sending her stag­gering backward. “You are what we say you are, ah?”

Sydney regained her footing and nodded, shrugging the pain of the blow away.

Anuve persisted, “We say you are a decoy.”

I am your death. Sydney smiled. The Tarig had learned that humans smiled. They just hadn’t learned all the reasons why.

Already, Sydney’s mind was on Rim City. Oh Mo Ti, she thought. In that far city she would finally take on her new name that Mo Ti had devised for her: Sen Ni, to give her darkling name a Chalin style.

One step closer to raising the kingdom, one without Tarig lords and ladies.

The camp was in a state of watchful brooding. The news spread quickly that Sydney was going to Rim City and that Riod would go with her. The shock of these revelations hit hard. Knots of riders stood talking in low tones, fearful of drawing the attention of the Tarig still in camp.

Helice stood in one of these groups, listening hard, trying to grasp what had happened, though her language skills were still imperfect. The riders didn’t despise her as much as before, since many had accepted her surgery to restore their vision. Blind riders might have been the fashion once; no longer. Helice had ingratiated herself with the riders, but her refusal to bond with a mount kept her an outsider.

That wouldn’t matter anymore. She was going to Rim City. She’d be among that select group Sydney brought with her, no doubt about that. The girl needed her. For renaissance. One couldn’t think about that subject among the horse­-beasts, though. She turned the thought aside.

She looked around her, trying to guess which of the nearby Inyx might be probing her mind. She disciplined herself to not dwell on certain matters. The beasts could pick up thoughts, but only with effort and only if the thoughts were strong and well formed. Helice kept her mind skittering over her plans, touching on them and darting away. But even if the Inyx glimpsed her intentions, what could they do? She had been more or less honest with Sydney. Their goals were compatible, at least for a while.

As plodding as the Inyx were, even they could grasp the significance of Sydney moving to Rim City. There, Riod would be close enough to the Tarig home base to fine­-tune their dream probes to greater effect. There were still pieces of intelligence Sydney and Helice needed. Rim City was a perfect base camp for the final assault. The riders said that the city was under the very shadow of the Ascendancy. Perfect.

Though the day was hot, Helice pulled her scarf up around her neck. She was self-conscious about the infection that had taken hold in her burns. The injuries she’d sustained from the rough passage into the Entire hadn’t healed well. Just when she thought she might be getting better, the burns on her neck and chin began to fester. The mSap’s medical knowledge was equal to any possessed by Earth’s finest physicians, but the tissue sample she’d ana­lyzed yielded a culprit bacterium unknown to Rose medicine. To find a phar­maceutical treatment, she needed a laboratory, test subjects . . . it would mean weeks, even months of painstaking work.

Certainly the camp healer with her local remedies was of no help. Maybe Rim City would have better doctors, although she couldn’t afford close scrutiny. She didn’t know what medical technologies the Entire had, but it was a disturbing possibility that a physician might notice she was a little … different. Chalin were human, or seemed to be. Who knew, though, if their physiologies were exactly the same?

No time to worry. Helice was buoyed by the prospect of being at the center of things. She had always savored being at the locus of events, deci­sions, and power. Not because she wanted power for herself—that was a side benefit—but because it meant working at the top of her game, using all the neurons the gene lottery bestowed. There was no better thing.

She wasn’t without sympathy for those who couldn’t think on her level. She was well aware that most people would view such sympathy as conde­scension. In a culturally correct world, everyone was equal in some cosmic sense. The problem with cosmic sense was its fuzziness. It led to illogical con­clusions such as that people deserved to be kept warm, fed, and entertained by virtue of being human. And if such humans had been able to take a suit­able role in contributing to society, she would have been in favor of tithes for the mentally disadvantaged. However, these days there were so few suitable occupations. Nan bots built and maintained physical structures; AI­powered services of all kinds performed humble tasks. The unfortunate majority, with their average intelligence—hovering within fifteen to twenty points of one hundred and wickedly called dreds by some—led lives stuffed with virtual entertainments. Truly a circus maximus of the latter­day Roman Empire.

Well, they could live as they wished, of course. But the problem was— and here is where it affected Helice and her circle—they were yoking the intellectually gifted to their little cart.

That state of affairs was coming to an end.

Well, there was a bit more coming to an end, but it would be best not to dwell on it in front of the Inyx.

City without End © Kay Kenyon

Cover Illustration © Stephan Martiniere

Kay Kenyon, nominated for the Philip K. Dick and the John W. Campbell awards, began her writing career (in Duluth, Minnesota) as a copywriter for radio and TV. She kept up her interest in writing through careers in marketing and urban planning, and published her first novel, The Seeds of Time, in 1997. She is the author of Bright of the Sky: Book One of The Entire and the Rose, plus numerous short stories, including those in I, Alien; Live Without a Net; and Stars: Stories Based on the Songs of Janis Ian. She lives in Wenatchee, Washington, with her husband.

Starship: Rebel by Mike Resnick

1

Wilson Cole sat alone at his table in the small, cramped mess hall of the Theodore Roosevelt, sipping a cup of coffee, when he received the transmission from the bridge.

“We’re all in position, sir,” said Christine Mboya, the slender black woman whose image suddenly appeared before him.

“Has Mr. Briggs analyzed their capabilities yet?” asked Cole.

“Level 2 pulse cannons, Level 3 lasers.”

“Okay, nothing to worry about. Let me speak to the Valkyrie.”

An instant later the face of his Third Officer, an exceptionally tall redheaded woman, appeared above Cole’s table.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Pass the word, Val. I want all of our ships except this one to stay out of firing range.”

“Why?” she demanded. “Are we here to engage the enemy or aren’t we?”

“They can’t do the Teddy R any damage, but they can pierce most of the smaller ships’ defenses.”

“Not if we destroy them first.”

“Just do what I tell you to do,” said Cole. “With a little luck we won’t have to destroy anyone.”

“Some war!” she snorted, and broke the transmission.

“Christine?”

“Sir?”

“Is Four Eyes down in the Gunnery section?”

“Commander Forrice is on his way there,” she answered. “One moment, sir.” Pause. “He’s arrived.”

“Let me speak to him.”

The image of a burly member of the tripodal Molarian race appeared, surrounded by computerized controls for the ship’s ­armaments.

“Everything’s ready,” said Forrice. “Just say the word.”

“How big a crew have you got down there?”

“Four, counting myself.”

“That’ll be enough if we need it,” said Cole. “No one fires except on my express order.”

“Even if we’re under fire ourselves?”

“Even so. They don’t have anything that can damage us.”

“You’re the Captain,” said Forrice.

“Thanks for remembering,” said Cole dryly, ending the ­transmission.

He finished his coffee, considered going to the bridge, decided there was nothing he could do there that he couldn’t do where he was, and contacted Christine Mboya again.

“Sir?” she said.

“Have we pinpointed Machtel’s headquarters yet?”

“No, sir. They’re maintaining radio and video silence.”

“Can’t say that I blame them,” said Cole. “If it was me, I wouldn’t want to let a superior force know where I was holed up either.” He shrugged. “Okay, negotiating in private would have been easier, but it’s time to get this show on the road. Put me on audio and video, broadest possible bandwidth.”

“Done,” she announced. “Start whenever you’re ready.”

He chose one of the cameras that monitored the mess hall and stared into it. “This is Wilson Cole, Captain of the Theodore Roosevelt. This message is for Machtel, or, if he is no longer in charge, whoever is running his organization. My fleet has been commissioned by the government of the Pirelli Cluster to rid it of the warlords who have taken it over. I’m sure you are aware that we have already deposed the Cluster’s two other warlords—the human Chester Braithwaite and the Canphorite Grabius. You are all that remains.”

He paused for almost half a minute, long enough for them to start getting nervous wondering if he was going to speak again or if he’d said his piece and was about to start firing on them.

“You have nine ships on the ground and three more docked in orbit. I’m sure you have analyzed our strength, but just in case you haven’t, let me inform you that you are facing a fleet of forty-three ships, many of them with greater firepower than any of your own.”

He broke the connection and poured himself another cup of coffee.

“That’s it?” demanded Val, whose image popped into view again. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

“Of course not,” replied Cole. “But let them worry about it for a few minutes.”

“Right now they’re probably getting us in the sights of every weapon they own.”

“Right now they’re counting our ships and analyzing our de­fenses,” answered Cole calmly. “In another minute they’ll realize I wasn’t lying, and then we’ll continue the conversation.”

“It’s been a pretty one-sided conversation so far,” noted Val.

“I haven’t asked them to say anything so far.”

Suddenly Malcolm Briggs’s voice came over the ship’s intercom, though not his image. “Incoming! Pulse and laser fire!”

“Solely at us?” asked Cole.

“No, sir. They’re also targeting Mr. Sokolov and Mr. Perez.”

“I trust they’re out of range?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. Tell Christine to wait thirty seconds and then put me on again.”

“I’ve pinpointed the source of the pulse fire,” announced Forrice from his post in the Gunnery section. “You want me to take it out?”

“I want you to do nothing without an express order from me,” said Cole.

“That’s what I was requesting—an express order.”

“No.”

“You’re on in five seconds, sir,” said Christine.

Cole cleared his throat, counted to five, and began speaking.

“This is Wilson Cole again. I trust you’ve convinced yourself that you’re not about to inflict any damage on us. The corollary is that we can annihilate you in less than a minute.”

A brief pause.

“However, we have no desire to cause you any damage or loss of life. We are not conquerors, we are not warlords, and we are not criminals. We are a mercenary force, hired by the authorities of the Pirelli Cluster to put an end to your aggressive and illegal domination of the local star systems. And I should note that in this instance we are an overwhelming mercenary force.

“We have now reached the point where decisions must be made,” he continued. “We are confiscating the three docked ships. Any of you on the planet can surrender and pledge your allegiance to my fleet. If you do so, you will not be harmed—but you will not be left in control of your ship. Two of my men will be installed as Captain and First Officer until such time as you have proven your trustworthiness, and any disloyalty will be punishable by death. Those of you who choose this option should take off immediately and put your ships in orbit around the fifth planet in the system. If you do not wish to meet us in combat or join us as an ally, fly your equivalent of the white flag and leave the cluster immediately, via the Landrigan Wormhole, and you will not be fired upon . . . but you will never be allowed to return. Your third and final alternative is to remain where you are and meet us in combat. You have ten Standard minutes to make your decisions, after which combat will commence.”

He broke the transmission, considered having yet another cup of coffee, decided not to, and took an airlift up to the bridge, where Christine Mboya, Malcolm Briggs, Val, and the alien Domak were manning their stations.

“Any response yet?” he asked as he arrived.

“Five ships have signaled that they want to join us,” answered Christine, “and are heading to the fifth planet.”

“Tell Jacovic to monitor them, and take out any ship that heads that way and doesn’t go into orbit.”

“Two white flags, sir,” announced Briggs.

“Tell Sokolov to take a couple of ships, follow them to the wormhole, and make sure they enter it,” said Cole. “What’s left?”

“Two ships, sir,” said Domak, a warrior-caste Polonoi, her muscular body covered with natural armor. “I’ve identified one as belonging to Machtel.”

“Got him in my sights,” said Forrice’s voice.

“Forget it,” said Cole. “He’s not going to stand his ground.”

“He hasn’t moved yet,” said Forrice.

“He’s just proving how tough he is. He’s got a couple of minutes left.”

“The other ship is heading to the fifth planet, sir,” said Briggs. “That leaves just Machtel.”

“He’s probably not the type to take orders,” said Cole. “I’ll give plenty of ten-to-one that he heads for the wormhole rather than the fifth planet.”

“He’s not heading anywhere,” said Forrice.

“He will,” said Cole. “This isn’t his planet. Every other ship has already left. He won’t prove anything by dying. We’re just doing to him what he did to whoever was here before him, and we’re doing it a lot more humanely.”

“A humane war!” snorted the Molarian.

“Whose life do you want me to trade for Machtel’s?” asked Cole. “Yours? Val’s? Mine?”

“You don’t have to trade anyone’s life,” said Forrice. “We can kill him. He can’t harm us.”

“Whether we kill him or let him escape, we accomplish our mission,” replied Cole. “And by doing it this way, word will spread to future opponents that they don’t have to fight to the last man, that we’re not in the punishment or retribution business, that we’re just as happy to achieve a bloodless victory.”

“Sir?” said Briggs.

“Yes?”

“Machtel just took off. He’s heading for the wormhole.”

“Good. Tell Jacovic to take eighteen ships out to the fifth planet, put our new members in a tight formation, englobe them, and escort them back to base. That ought to discourage any foolhardy heroes among our new recruits.”

Val looked up from her control panel. “You really want to give this asshole a free pass?”

“Machtel? I promised him one.”

“He’s just going to be more trouble in the future,” she said. “The other ships have already entered the wormhole. We could take him out and no one would be any the wiser.”

“And when he didn’t show up at the other end, you think the others won’t know what happened?”

“So what if they do?” she persisted.

“Then before long far more powerful forces than his would know they could never trust our word again.”

She shrugged. “All right—but if you change your mind, we’ve got thirty seconds before he reaches the wormhole.”

“How the hell did I manage to assemble such a bloodthirsty crew?” Cole said wryly. “I feel a need to speak to someone who’s glad that we didn’t blow nine ships to hell and gone.” He walked over to a bulkhead and tapped his fingers against it. “Come on out, David.”

The bulkhead slid open, and an odd-looking creature of vaguely human proportions, but dressed like a Victorian dandy, stepped out onto the bridge. His eyes were set at the sides of his elongated head, his large triangular ears were capable of independent movement, his mouth was absolutely circular and had no lips at all, and his neck was long and incredibly flexible. His torso was broad and half again as long as a man’s, and his short, stubby legs had an extra joint in them. His skin may have possessed a greenish tint, but his bearing and manner were properly upper-class British at all times.

“Is it over?” he asked.

“It was a nonevent,” said Cole.

“The bigger our fleet becomes, the more nonevents we can expect to have,” said the alien approvingly.

“We just added eight more ships,” Cole informed him. “Five from the planet, three that were docked in orbit.”

“So we’re up to fifty-one?”

Cole nodded. “If they all work.”

“You’re going to make it harder and harder for me to solicit contracts that will cover all our expenses.”

“The burdens of success,” replied Cole. “I suppose we could attack a Republic convoy. That ought to put a huge dent in our expenses by the time we escaped.”

“It’s unkind of you to make fun of me, Steerforth,” said the alien.

“I’m open to suggestions,” replied Cole. “Who would you like me to make fun of?”

“Why are you being like this?” asked the alien.

“I apologize, David,” said Cole. “It’s just that we should all be celebrating a victory where we didn’t have to fire a shot—but I get the distinct impression that most of my senior officers would rather engage in armed conflict.”

“Well, you are a military ship and crew,” noted the alien. “War is what most of you have trained for all your adult lives.”

“No sane man wants to go to war,” said Cole. “These aren’t expendable chess pieces under my command. They’re living beings, and it’s my job to keep them alive.”

“I agree,” said the dapper alien. “You have to be quite insane to face the possibility of losing a battle.”

“Which is why you sit them out hiding inside a bulkhead,” noted Cole.

“Resting, not hiding,” shot back the alien. “I’m the Teddy R’s business agent, not one of its lieutenants—and as a rational and foresightful business agent let me predict that there will be no more pitched battles in our future. Our fleet is growing larger and more powerful almost by the week.”

“Yeah,” agreed Cole sardonically. “Eight or ten million more ships and we can meet the Republic on even terms.”

“Make fun of me if you wish,” said the alien, “but I’m telling you that you will not see another armed conflict or my name isn’t David Copperfield.”

“I hate to point it out,” said Cole, “but your name isn’t David Copperfield.”

“How can you say such a thing, Steerforth?” demanded David.

“Possibly because my name isn’t Steerforth.”

“Details, details,” said Copperfield. “People take the names they want on the Inner Frontier. I took David.”

“I didn’t take Steerforth,” said Cole.

“It is my gift to you, courtesy of the immortal Charles.”

“You and Mr. Dickens can have it back,” said Cole. “I just hope you’re more accurate about your military predictions than your name.”

Cole had the uneasy feeling that some nameless god of the spaceways grinned sardonically and silently mouthed the words: Well, you can hope.

2

It wasn’t home—that was the Teddy R—but it was headquarters.

It was Singapore Station, perhaps the most remarkable structure on the Inner Frontier. Its genesis went back some eleven centuries, to the 883rd year of the Galactic Era, when two small space stations, built midway between the Genoa and the Kalatina systems, were splitting the business in a sector that could support only one station. In desperation their owners decided to form not just an economic partnership, but a physical one as well. The two stations were moved to a midpoint between the systems by space tugs. Workmen and robots labored for three Standard months, joining them physically—and when they reopened they found that business was booming.

Others saw and learned and copied, and by the fourteenth century G.E. there were dozens of such super-stations across the Frontier. They found that the bigger they were, the more services they could provide—and the more services they could provide, the more clientele they could attract, so they kept combining and growing.

By the time Cole and his crew first docked at it, almost two hundred such stations had combined into one super-station—Singapore Station—that was as heavily populated as any colony world, and measured some seven miles in diameter. It consisted of nine levels, with docking facilities that could handle almost ten thousand ships, from huge military and passenger vessels to the little one- and two-man jobs that were commonplace on the Frontier.

Singapore Station was well named and well located. An interstellar gathering place reminiscent of the fabled international city back on old Earth, it was halfway between the Republic and the huge black hole at the galactic core. Warring parties—and there were always wars going on in the galaxy—needed a Switzerland, a neutral territory where all sides could meet in safety and secrecy, where currencies could be exchanged, where men and aliens could come and go regardless of their political and military affiliation, and Singapore Station filled that need.

It was also a wide-open venue. Whorehouses, catering to all sexes and species, abounded. So did bars, drug dens, casinos, and huge open “gray markets.” (By definition no item was illegal or contraband on Singapore Station, so there couldn’t be any black markets.) There were elegant hotels, comparable to the finest on Deluros VIII. There were gourmet restaurants, side-by-side with slop houses, as well as alien restaurants catering to more than one hundred non-human species.

Four of the nine levels possessed what had come to be known as Standard gravity and atmosphere, though no one knew if that was Earth Standard or Deluros VIII Standard (and since they were almost identical, no one really cared). There was a level for chlorine breathers, one for methane breathers, another for ammonia breathers, and one small section with no atmosphere at all, where space-suited men and space-suited aliens could meet as uncomfortable equals. A middle level provided automatic transport for all.

Cole had chosen Singapore Station as the headquarters for his rapidly growing fleet of ships the first time he set foot on it a year earlier. It was the one place on the Inner Frontier where he trusted the security, where he could replenish his supplies, and where he could make contact with those who might be interested in hiring the services of the Teddy R and its sister ships. Though David Copperfield still negotiated Cole’s end of the contracts, he didn’t have enough contacts to solicit sufficient work to keep Cole’s small but growing navy busy—but there was one man who did, and that was the man who ran Singapore Station. Known as the Platinum Duke for his multitude of platinum prosthetics—not much of the original man remained on the exterior except his tongue, lips, and sexual organ—he had formed a partnership with Cole that had proved profitable to both parties.

The Duke also owned a large casino known simply as Duke’s Place, and it was the unofficial hangout of the Teddy R’s crew. The Duke himself kept a large table at the back of the casino where Cole and his officers were always welcome, and where there was no tab for food or drink.

Cole entered the casino and walked past the human and alien games to the Duke’s table, accompanied by his Chief of Security, Sharon Blacksmith, and David Copperfield. Val had accompanied them as far as the entrance, but made a beeline for the gaming tables the moment she entered. The Duke’s security system alerted him to their presence, and he emerged from his private office, looking far more robotic than human, to greet them as they reached the table.

“I hear you took care of Machtel without firing a shot,” said the Duke. “That’s, what, three in a row?”

“It makes more sense to assimilate the ships and crew than destroy them,” said Cole, pulling a chair out for Sharon and then seating himself. A robot approached, and he ordered drinks for himself and Sharon. “You want anything, David?”

“A bottle of Cygnian cognac,” replied the dapper little alien.

“Come on, David,” said Cole. “Your metabolism can’t handle our stimulants.”

“I know,” replied Copperfield. “But I don’t have to open it. I’ll just let it sit here on the table in front of me for atmosphere.”

“Fine,” said the Duke. “If you don’t open it, I can sell it later.”

“You’ll have to forgive him,” said Cole. “He gets a little more obsessed every day. I can’t believe he hasn’t visited one of the whorehouses here.”

“David Copperfield would never frequent a brothel!” said the alien heatedly.

“I stand corrected,” said Cole.

“How many of Machtel’s ships and crew did you confiscate?” asked the Duke.

“Eight ships, fifty-seven Men and aliens,” answered Cole.

“That’s quite a fleet you’re accumulating,” said the Duke. “You’re going to run out of challenges before too long.”

“We’ve faced challenges,” replied Cole. “Trust me, they’re overrated.”

“Besides, we can’t go getting him shot up now that I’ve finally got him trained,” said Sharon.

“Decorum forbids me from asking what you’d got him trained to do,” said the Duke, his human lips smiling in his platinum face. He looked over at the Valkyrie. “You’d think she’d stop by and say hello.”

“She will, after she’s beaten your table or blown all her money,” said Cole. “You know her.”

“I still wish she’d hire on right here. I never saw anyone who could spot a cheater quicker, and I’ve never seen the human or alien who could beat her in a fight.”

“She’s quite remarkable,” agreed Copperfield.

“I need her right where she is,” said Cole.

“You wouldn’t be happy with her anyway,” added Sharon. “Wilson’s the only person she’ll listen to.”

“Why is that?” asked the Duke.

“Because he’s never wrong,” said Copperfield. “Except when he disagrees with me.”

“Funny,” added Sharon with a smile. “I was about to say the same thing.”

“Ah!” said the Duke, looking across the room. “I see Commander Jacovic has joined us.”

“He was a little late getting in,” replied Cole. “I had him escort the new ships back, just in case one of the them tried to pull anything funny.” He waved his hand to catch Jacovic’s attention, and the tall, thin Teroni walked across the room and joined them.

“Welcome back, Commander Jacovic,” said the Duke.

“I am just Jacovic now,” replied the Teroni. “I am no longer an officer in the Teroni Navy.”

“Commander of the Fifth Fleet, to be exact,” said Cole.

“That’s in the past. We are no longer enemies, and neither of us is a member of any Navy.”

“Except our own,” said Sharon. “The only difference between you and Wilson is that the Teronis haven’t offered a ten-million-credit reward for you, dead or alive,” said Sharon. “The Republic’s Navy is somewhat less enamoured of our Captain.”

“Out here that’s a badge of honor,” remarked the Duke. “In fact, it makes you a hero. The fact that you were justified, that you actually saved millions of Republic lives by forcibly replacing your captain, doesn’t quite detract from the fact that you are the most wanted criminal in the galaxy.”

“How comforting,” said Cole dryly.

“And by the way, the reward is now up to twelve million,” added the Duke.

“Whoopie,” said Cole unenthusiastically.

The Duke studied Cole’s face. “Our hero looks neither pleased nor proud. Why not?”

“We both know the Navy’s not going to send a major fleet to the Frontier after the Teddy R as long as they’re in a war with the Teroni Federation,” answered Copperfield. “But if they keep making the reward bigger and bigger, then sooner or later, despite your security, Singapore Station is going to be crawling with bounty hunters.”

“It won’t happen here,” the Duke assured him. “Whoever accepts the contract will want to live long enough to spend it.”

“You can stop one killer,” continued Sharon. “But what if twenty of them form a partnership? That’s still better than half a million a man.”

“Enough,” said Cole. “The risks go with the job.”

Sharon was about to reply when they heard a cry of triumph from across the room.

“She beat your jabob game,” noted Cole, referring to the alien gaming table where Val was holding up a fistful of cash.

“It would be so much cheaper to have her work for the house than play against it,” muttered the Duke.

A robot delivered a bottle of whiskey to Val.

“Not to worry,” said Cole. “She’ll chug-a-lug a couple of bottles of booze and probably wind up losing it all back to you.”

“Remarkable lady,” said the Duke.

“She’s got her share of rough edges,” agreed Cole. “But when the chips are down, she’s the one I want protecting my back.”

“Just so long as she leaves your front alone,” said Sharon.

Suddenly the Duke summoned a robot. “Where are my manners?” he said. “What will you have to drink, Commander?”

“Just Jacovic,” the Teroni corrected him. “And if it’s all right with you, I think I would prefer to eat.”

“My kitchen is at your disposal.”

“Meaning no disrespect, but there is a restaurant three levels down that specializes in Teroni food,” said Jacovic. “I just stopped in to tell Captain Cole that we returned without incident, and to say hello to you.” He got to his feet.

“You’ll be back later?” asked the Duke.

“Yes.”

“Give me the name of the restaurant and I’ll see to it that there’s no charge.”

“Thank you,” said Jacovic, “but I prefer to pay.”

He turned and headed to the door.

“A little anti-Man sentiment there?” asked the Duke.

“No,” answered Cole. “A little pride.” He shrugged. “Besides, out here he’s got nothing to spend it on.”

“We have that in common,” said a familiar voice.

Cole turned and saw Forrice, his First Officer, spinning toward the table with his remarkably graceful three-legged gait. The burly Molarian, whose tripodal structure made sitting on chairs crafted for humans all but impossible, waited until a robot brought him a seat that had been made especially for him.

“I thought you were busy spending all your money, Four Eyes,” remarked Cole when Forrice finally seated himself.

The Molarian’s reply was a guttural growl.

“What happened?”

“Guess,” muttered Forrice.

Suddenly Cole grinned in amusement. “Wrong time of year?”

“It’s not funny!” snapped Forrice. “You and Sharon have sex whenever you want, which is altogether too often if you want my opinion, but Molarians are different. Our females are seasonal.”

“And the Molarian whorehouse didn’t have any in season?”

“Not one!”

“Poor baby,” said Sharon sympathetically, and neither Cole nor Forrice could tell if she was sincere or teasing him.

“So what do you do now?” asked Copperfield.

“It all depends,” said the Molarian. “Have you and the Duke gotten us another assignment yet?”

“No,” said Copperfield. “Steerforth wanted to give the crew a week’s shore leave. Well, Singapore Station leave, anyway.”

“Then maybe I’ll borrow one of the shuttles,” said Forrice. “There’s supposed to be a Molarian whorehouse over on Braccio II. I could be there and back in three days’ time.”

The Duke shook his head. “You don’t want to go anywhere near there, Forrice,” he said.

“Oh? Why not?”

“There are a couple of hundred Navy ships in the vicinity,” said the Duke. “At least, they were there two days ago.”

“What the hell are they doing out here?”

“The usual,” answered the Duke. “Forcibly recruiting cannon fodder. Plundering agricultural planets for supplies. Appropriating fissionable materials from a trio of mining worlds. Pacifying a couple of worlds that have somehow annoyed them. And then explaining that they were doing it all for our own good. You know the Navy.”

“We all know the Navy,” said Sharon. “We were in it. That’s why we can never go back to the Republic.”

“Anyway, I hate to put a damper on your love life, Forrice,” continued the Duke, “but I’d stay away from there until we get definite word that the Navy has left.”

“It’s a damned lucky thing Molarians don’t believe in God,” muttered Forrice. “Because if we did, I’d be sure He hated me.”

“He’s probably just having a little fun at your expense,” said Cole. He put an arm around the Molarian’s shoulders. “Come on, Four Eyes. It’s just another week. You’ve waited half a Standard year, you can wait a few more days.”

“I know, I know,” said Forrice glumly. He got to his feet. “I’m going to wander the streets feeling sorry for myself. If I’m lucky, maybe some mugger will attack me. I’ve got a lot of extra aggression tonight.”

He turned and headed out of the casino.

“Poor bastard,” remarked Cole. “Nature played a hell of a trick on the Molarians. The females are seasonal, but the males are always ready.”

“You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?” asked the Duke.

“He’s been my closest friend for, I don’t know, twelve or thirteen years.”

“I find that surprising.”

“Why?” said Cole. “Molarians are the only race besides Man with a sense of humor. He’s smart, he’s witty, he’s brave, he’s loyal, and”—Cole smiled—“he leaves Sharon alone, even at times like this.”

“Well,” said the Duke, “how about dinner?”

“Yeah, we could use some real food after all those damned soya products on the ship,” said Cole. “What have you got tonight?”

The Duke recited the day’s menu, Cole and Sharon made their choices, David Copperfield ordered a steak that they all knew he wasn’t going to touch, and a few minutes later the meal was served.

And five minutes after that, Val walked over and sat down with them.

“Ah, the lovely and remarkable Valkyrie!” said the Duke by way of greeting.

“Can it,” she said. “I’m not in the mood.”

“You lost it that fast?”

“Shut up and give me something to eat.”

“She lost it that fast,” Cole confirmed with a smile.

Val glared at him, and Sharon decided he was the only living entity in the galaxy who could have said that without being decapitated two seconds later.

3

Cole made his way to the Teddy R’s security section, where he found Luthor Chadwick, Sharon Blacksmith’s second-in-command, sitting in front of a bank of monitors, keeping a watchful eye on all crew members who remained onboard the ship.

Chadwick snapped him a salute. “Hello, sir,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

Cole resisted the urge to tell him to stop saluting. “Is your boss in her office?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alone, or still interviewing our new recruits from Machtel’s crew?”

“I believe she’s alone, sir.” He checked a monitor. “Yes, sir. She’s finished the last of them a few minutes ago.”

“Good. That’s what I want to talk to her about.”

Cole approached the door to Sharon’s office, which instantly read his retina and bone structure, and irised to allow him to step through.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

Sharon leaned back on her chair. “I’d call them a mixed lot.”

“You want to expand on that?”

“They’re outlaws and cutthroats, Wilson.”

“So are we, except for the cutthroat part,” replied Cole. “How many can we work with?”

“Well, you’ve got three who are borderline psychopaths and one who crossed that border years ago. I suppose we can fit the rest in.”

“Okay,” said Cole. “That’s still fifty-three more crew members. Give me the names of the four crazies.”

She ordered her computer to print out the four names.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it from her. “The sooner we get the bad eggs off the ships, the less contamination we risk.”

“I’d be very careful handling them, Wilson,” she said. “You’ve got a couple of real killer-dillers there.”

“Well, if you’re going to keep a few systems under your thumb the way Machtel did, I suppose you need some real killer-dillers.”

“What do you plan to do with them?” asked Sharon. “We can’t just turn them loose on Singapore Station.”

“I know,” said Cole. “I suppose I could just have Val beat the shit out of them twice a day until she’s broken their spirits.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously? We’ll confiscate their weapons and dump them on some world that’s got a competent police force. If I can’t turn them loose in Singapore Station, and I agree that I can’t, I sure as hell can’t turn them loose on some little pastoral farming world. They’d rob and kill the first family they came upon and swipe their ship.”

“Well, when you decide exactly where you’re placing them, let me know so I can notify the authorities.”

“Will do,” said Cole. “In fact, I suppose I’d better get the ball rolling. Lunch later?”

“Here or the station?”

“The station has real food, the Teddy R has soya products. Which do you think?”

She smiled. “I’ll meet you at Duke’s Place in a couple of hours.”

“Fine.”

He turned and left her office, walked out of the security section to a nearby airlift, took it down two levels, got off, and approached the smallish room that had been turned into a very undersized gymnasium. He entered it and found himself facing Eric Pampas, a muscular young man, and the Valkyrie. Both were lifting weights, weights Cole was sure no one else on the ship, even some of the sturdier aliens, could budge.

“Good morning, sir,” said Pampas, putting his barbell on the floor and saluting.

“Good morning, Bull,” replied Cole. “Are you two just about done?”

“Another five minutes,” said Val. “What’s up?”

“Sharon’s interviewed the new crew, had the computer run psych tests on them, and she tells me we’ve got four serious nutcases.”

“Only four?” said Val, lifting her weight again. “That’s better than last time.”

“I’ve got a list of their names. Jacovic is keeping an eye on all the new crew members aboard the Silent Dart until they receive their ship assignments. I want you to pull these four out and—”

“—beat a little obedience into them?” concluded Val. “Good. Bull needs the exercise. I’ll lend a hand if he needs it.”

“Try not to understand me so fast,” said Cole. “I want you and Bull to load them into the Red Sphinx. Stay with them until you land, make sure they’re not in the middle of a desert or a wilderness, give them back any weaponry they’ll need to defend themselves but nothing powerful enough to cause any serious problems to the local constabulary—I’ll leave it to your judgment—and then have Perez bring you back to Singapore Station.”

“We could kill them right now and save a lot of trouble,” said Val. “You set ’em loose on some third-rate world and they’re likely to feel betrayed and resentful.”

“Why?” said Cole. “We could have destroyed them back in the Pirelli Cluster, but we let them live.”

“If they were sane enough to take that into account, you wouldn’t be dumping them, would you?” replied Val.

“Val, we’re not cold-blooded killers,” said Cole. “Well, some of us aren’t,” he amended. “Just do what I tell you to do.”

“I hope they decide they don’t want to go,” she said.

“Bull,” said Cole, turning to the young man, “if that’s the case, make sure it was their decision and not hers.”

Pampas, finding himself between the Captain and the Third Officer, nodded an agreement but didn’t salute, which seemed to satisfy both of them.

“Okay,” said Cole. “Finish up, shower, and get over to the Silent Dart in an hour. By the time you transfer them to the Red Sphinx, Perez will know where you’re going.”

Cole left the room and took a different airlift up to the bridge, where he found young blonde Rachel Marcos sitting at the computer complex.

“Good morning, sir,” she said, standing and saluting.

“Good morning. I’ve lost track of the time. When is Christine back on duty?”

“It’s still red shift for another two hours, sir. She’ll come on when it’s white shift.”

“I need some information sooner than that,” said Cole, frowning. “Hunt up the three nearest nonagricultural oxygen worlds possessing organized law enforcement and reliable medical and transportation facilities.”

She spoke a code that he didn’t understand, and a moment later the computer threw up a holograph of the sector, with Singapore Station and three reasonably close worlds brilliantly highlighted.

“Any immigration restrictions on any of them?”

Another coded statement. “Yes, sir. Niarchos IV is currently closed to human immigration.”

“Which of the other two has the larger police force?”

She asked the computer, and suddenly only one planet was flashing. “Mirbeau III, sir.”

“Thanks. That should do it.”

Cole walked over to stand beneath the half-sling half-cocoon that held Wxakgini, the Bdxeni pilot whose race never slept and whose neural circuits were wired into the ship’s navigational system.

“Pilot,” said Cole, who had long since given up trying to pronounce Wxakgini’s name, “are there any wormholes between our present location and Mirbeau III? You can get its coordinates from the computer.”

“Yes,” answered Wxakgini, whose response to Cole’s inability to learn his name was to never call Cole “sir.” “The Yoriba Wormhole will let a ship out near the fourth planet of the Mirbeau system.”

“Transit time from Singapore Station?”

“Utilizing the wormhole, four hours and seventeen minutes,” replied the pilot. “Through normal space at light speeds, just under four days.”

“Okay, thanks,” said Cole. He turned back to Rachel. “Contact Mr. Perez. Tell him he’s about to be visited by Val, Bull, and four of Machtel’s men. Have him warn his crew that the men are highly dangerous, and to keep clear of them. He’s to utilize the Yoriba Wormhole and drop them off on Mirbeau III.”

“Should I clear it with the planetary authorities first, sir?” asked Rachel.

Cole shook his head. “What if they say no? Tell Sharon to alert them after Perez has dropped off his cargo and is heading back to Singapore Station.”

“Yes, sir.”

“By the way, has Four Eyes returned to the ship yet?”

“I believe he’s in the mess hall, sir.”

“Thanks,” said Cole, heading off to an airlift. He descended to the mess hall, entered it, saw Forrice sitting alone at a table, and joined him.

“Up to a little work this afternoon?”

“We don’t have afternoons in space,” replied the Molarian.

“I know, but it’s easier to say than ‘Up to a little work this white shift?’”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Val and Bull Pampas are about to separate the psychos and put them down on an innocent, unsuspecting planet,” said Cole. “I’d like you, Jacovic, Domak, and Sokolov to take the remaining recruits and their ships out and put them through some more exercises and see what they can do. We know they can terrorize innocent planet-dwellers; let’s see if they can take orders and execute military maneuvers.”

“I suppose it makes sense,” agreed Forrice. “If there are anymore washouts, we might as well find out now.”

“I want you aboard that class-K ship, the one called Hummer.”

“Any reason why?”

Cole nodded. “It has an all-human crew. I want to make sure they’ll take orders from a member of another race.”

“What they do now and what they’ll do when they’re under fire may not be the same thing,” noted Forrice.

Cole shrugged. “Perhaps not, but we’ve got to start somewhere.”

“All right,” replied the Molarian. “I’ll let Jacovic devise the exercises. He’s got a command of military maneuvers that even impresses me.”

“That’s why he was in charge of the Fifth Teroni Fleet. At one time I think he had over ten thousand ships under his command.” Cole paused. “We haven’t needed him yet, knock wood, but when we finally do, we’re going to be damned glad we’ve got him.”

“We fought against each other for years,” remarked Forrice. “I’m surprised he doesn’t feel any animosity toward us.”

“Do you feel any toward him?”

“No,” admitted the Molarian. “The way I view it, we were all just soldiers doing our job.”

“There’s your answer,” said Cole.

“Also, the one time we confronted him, he had us dead in his sights, and he behaved like an honorable being,” continued Forrice. “There aren’t a lot of those in any race.”

“You never know where an honorable being will crop up,” agreed Cole. “Or even a competent one.”

“Maybe we can spot one during the exercises this afternoon,” offered Forrice.

“I doubt it,” said Cole. “If he was honorable, he wouldn’t have been working for Machtel, and if he was competent, he’d have deposed Machtel and taken over his operation by now.”

The Molarian stared at his old friend for a long moment. “You know,” he said at last, “I just hate it when you make sense. So many problems were simpler when they only had me thinking about them.”

“I apologize.”

“Damned well better,” growled Forrice.

“You’re a little ray of sunshine today.”

“Guess why.”

“The Navy will clear out in another day or two, and you can spend a week fucking your brains out on Braccio II.”

“Two weeks.”

“I don’t want you coming back so thin that we have to carry you to your post every day.”

“You’ve been sharing your bed with Sharon for almost two years, and it hasn’t cost you any weight.”

Sharon’s image popped into view. “That’s because he just lies there and I do all the work.”

“You were listening?” asked Cole.

“I’m the Chief of Security. It’s my job to be nosy.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Cole. “Four Eyes, if you want her you can have her.”

“If the Navy sticks around another week,” replied Forrice with a hoot of alien laughter, “I may take you up on that.”

After the Molarian had finished his meal and left, Sharon’s image appeared opposite Cole again.

“You know,” she said seriously, “I’m hardly shy, and I haven’t been virginal in a long time—but I find the crew’s constant obsession with brothels disquieting. Not just the men. I know Val frequents that one that supplies male androids. And here’s dear old Forrice unable to talk about anything else. Don’t you find it all rather . . . I don’t know . . . tawdry?”

“You have to put it in perspective,” answered Cole. “Look at our situation. We can’t go back to the Republic. We can’t have families and settle down. We live in a sexual universe, and we have sexual needs. You and I lucked out and found each other, but whorehouses are what most of them have to settle for. When you’re an outlaw ship—an outlaw fleet now—with prices on your heads, the last thing you want are long-term relationships with any planet-dwellers. So you make your accommodation.”

“You know,” she said after a moment, “I think I agree with Forrice.”

“About what?”

“I just hate it when you make sense. You take away all my distaste for a clearly distasteful situation.”

“I was planning on taking you to that elegant new restaurant that just opened up on the sixth level of the station,” said Cole. “They’re supposed to have mutated bison imported from Pollux IV. I suppose we should each pay our own way to avoid another distasteful situation.”

“I can live with that one,” she said promptly.

“You’re sure?” he asked with a smile.

“Easier than you can live a celibate life for the next six months,” she replied. “Your choice.”

“Let me see a menu and check the prices and then I’ll make a decision.”

She laughed, he laughed, and both of them decided they were very fortunate not to have been born Molarian.

It would be a few days yet before they knew how lucky.

4

Cole and Forrice walked past the gaming tables of Duke’s Place and sat down at the Platinum Duke’s table.

“I got word that you wanted to speak to me,” said Cole.

“How soon can you be ready for a major action?” asked the Duke.

“That all depends. Define major action.”

“The biggest outlaw on the Inner Frontier is the Octopus . . .” began the Duke.

“Human?” asked Forrice.

“I don’t know,” admitted the Duke. “I don’t think anyone does, except his lieutenants.”

“Okay, so he’s the biggest outlaw on the Frontier,” said Cole. “Go on.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him.”

“Why should we?” asked Cole. “We’re not exactly long-term residents. The Teddy R goes out after selected targets, and then it comes right back to Singapore Station.”

“I’m sure someone on the ship has heard of him,” said the Molarian. “After all, we’ve added more than four hundred to our various crews. Maybe the original members of the Teddy R don’t know who he is, but beings who’ve lived most of their lives on the Inner Frontier probably have.”

“I repeat: What about him?” said Cole.

“There’s a consortium of some forty-three worlds that would like to put a stop to his activities.”

Cole shook his head. “Not good enough. Spell it out.”

“They want him killed or imprisoned, and his fleet demolished.”

“How come no one’s asked us to do this sooner?” asked Forrice. “We’ve been a mercenary fleet for just short of a Standard year now.”

Cole shot him a look that said: Dumb question.

“They never thought you were strong enough until now,” replied the Duke. “Word has spread that you prefer to assimilate enemy ships and crews rather than destroy them, so they figure every time you score a major victory you’re that much bigger and more powerful for the next assignment.”

“What’s the bottom line?” said Cole.

“They’ll pay you the sum of—”

“That’s David’s bottom line,” interrupted Cole. “I want to know what we’re up against.”

“I don’t have exact numbers,” answered the Duke. “It’s estimated that he’s got between three hundred and four hundred ships.”

“I don’t think much of your notion of fair odds.”

“When you hear what they’re paying . . .”

“Later,” said Cole. “Tell me what kind of armaments they’re ­carrying.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“How many planets do they control?”

The Duke shrugged. “I told you: forty-three.”

Cole shook his head. “That’s how many are willing to pay us. How many does he control—planets that are too afraid to join the consortium?”

“I’ll find out. Don’t you want to hear the price?”

“After you find out what I want to know, then we’ll talk price,” said Cole. “Although right at the moment, I’m inclined to tell you to forget it. They outnumber us six or eight to one, maybe more. We’ve got a lot of small class-G and class-H ships. If they’ve got any Level 4 thumpers or Level 5 burners and commensurate defenses . . .”

“So you’ll lose a few ships,” said the Duke. “You’ll replace them with the ones you assimilate.”

“Those ships you shrug off are filled with people who depend upon me to keep them alive, or at least give them a fighting chance to survive.”

“You have to expect losses. This is war, Wilson.”

“Not if we don’t declare it,” said Cole. “And war has nothing to do with dying bravely and nobly for your side. Our job is making the other guy die bravely and nobly for his side.”

“You really don’t want to hear the price?”

“Not now.”

The Duke shrugged. “Okay, but if I can’t make my commission, at least go place some bets at the tables.”

“You don’t know our Wilson,” said Forrice. “He never gambles.” A hoot of alien laughter. “That’s probably why we’re willing to follow him.”

Cole noticed Val approaching them from the alien jabob table. “She’s smiling. I guess she won her money back.”

“How can she drink like a fish and stay so beautiful?” asked the Duke.

“A better question is how can she abuse her body the way she does and stay so fit and powerful?” said Forrice.

“She’s certainly not like any other woman I’ve ever met,” agreed the Duke.

“She’s not like anybody anyone’s ever met,” said Cole. “Give me fifty like her and I could probably conquer the Republic.”

“If she felt like it,” noted Forrice. “That’s always the wild card.”

“She always feels like conquering things,” replied Cole. “The problem is that she doesn’t always feel like obeying orders . . . though I must admit she’s getting better at it.”

Val reached the table, pulled up a chair, and ordered a bottle of brandy from a robot waiter.

“You’re going to share that with everybody, right?” asked the Duke with a smile that said he was gently teasing her.

“With my shipmates,” she replied seriously. “You own the stock. You can order your own bottle.”

“You know,” said the Duke thoughtfully, “I’ll bet she’s heard of him.”

“Of who?” asked Val.

“The Octopus.”

“Ugly son of a bitch,” she said contemptuously.

“You’ve met him?” asked Cole.

“Not lately. I knew him, oh, about ten, eleven years ago.”

“Is he human?”

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?” asked Cole.

“He’s either a freak or a mutant,” answered Val. “He doesn’t wear a shirt, and he’s got six misshapen hands sticking out of his sides.”

“Can you tell us anything else about him?”

“He’s smart,” she said. “Almost as smart as me. Physically he’s not much.”

“With six extra hands?” said the Duke.

“They’re not arms, just hands.”

“It’s still impressive.”

“He tried to grab my ass with one of them, so I coldcocked him,” replied Val. “He never tried again.”

“Doubtless why he’s still alive,” said Cole wryly.

“Damned right,” said Val seriously. “Why all the questions?” Suddenly she turned to the Duke. “You got us a commission to take him out.”

“It’s still in the negotiating stage,” said Cole.

“That means you won’t agree until you know what he’s got,” said Val decisively. “I can’t help you. Like I say, it’s been ten years.”

“There’s no rush. Forrice and Jacovic are still working our new ships and crews into shape.” He turned to Forrice. “Any potential command personnel there?”

“Too early to tell,” replied the Molarian. “I think we should leave our people in place there for the time being.”

“Does Jacovic agree?”

The Molarian shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him, though I can’t imagine he doesn’t.”

“All right,” said Cole. “When we put our people permanently in command of the new ships, take the personnel from Perez’s and Jacovic’s ships. I’m getting to where I don’t know half the crew of the Teddy R. I want to keep the ones that I still have.”

“That shouldn’t prove a problem,” said the Molarian. “I’ll make the transfers when we go back to the ship.” He stood up. “And now, if there are no objections and there’d better not be, I think I’ll take my leave of you and go over to the Glowworm, where I plan to try my luck at the stort table.”

He headed off toward the door in his graceful spinning three-legged gait.

“I don’t know what he enjoys about that stupid alien game,” remarked Val.

“Stort?” repeated Cole. He smiled. “He wins at it.”

“Big deal. He ought to try the jabob table right here.”

“You were lucky, my dear,” said the Duke. “It’s got a fifteen percent break for the house.”

“That’s what makes it so challenging,” she said. “Most places it’s only two percent.”

David Copperfield waddled over and sat uncomfortably on a chair that was made for humans.

“Where have you been?” asked Cole.

“I thought someone ought to find out what’s going on in the galaxy,” replied the little alien.

“The Republic’s still at war with the Teroni Federation,” said Cole. “You didn’t have to go to a subspace radio for that. It’s been going on for twenty-odd years.”

“Trivial stuff,” said Copperfield with a contemptuous sneer. “Spica II won the divisional murderball title. The Deluros VIII stock market is up three percent. And there are now thirteen books, disks, cubes, and holos about the mutiny aboard the Theodore Roosevelt.”

“Each more inaccurate than the last, no doubt,” said Cole with no show of interest. “Did you learn anything useful?”

“Not on the radio,” admitted Copperfield, “but a cargo ship that just landed reports that the Navy decimated six more worlds on the Inner Frontier.”

“Why would a naval commander obey an order to wipe out six neutral Frontier planets?” said Cole disgustedly.

“Not everyone is a mutineer,” said the Duke with a smile.

“Oh, well,” said Cole, “if they’re done, maybe we can clear Four Eyes to make a quick trip over to Braccio II.” He got to his feet. “I’m going back to the ship now. David, I’m sure the second I’m gone the Platinum Duke is going to tell you about all the trillions we can make for no effort at all if we accept the assignment he’s working on.” He paused. “First, you do not have the authority to negotiate or accept it without my approval, and second, you are not subtle enough to slyly introduce it into the next ten conversations we have as if it just came up spontaneously.”

“Steerforth, you cut me to the quick.”

“Just remember what I said, or I’ll take a butcher knife and go hunting for your quick.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Val, getting up and grabbing her bottle.

“I thought you’d want to spend the night celebrating your win,” said Cole.

“I do,” she said. “But I want to hide half the money first, just in case my luck turns.”

“I can hold it for you.”

She considered it for a long moment, then thrust a wad of Republic credits, New Stalin rubles, and Maria Theresa dollars into his hand.

“I wouldn’t trust anyone else with it,” said Val.

“I appreciate that.”

“Where will you be if I need it back in a hurry?”

“If you think you’ll need it back to cover some losses, why not just keep it?” said Cole.

She shook her head. “I’ve got to at least go through the motions.”

“If you come by for it later, I could just refuse to give it to you.”

“No,” said Val seriously. “If I’m liquored up and you won’t give me my money, I might kill you.”

“You won’t.”

“I don’t think I will, but you never know . . .”

“I’ve never seen you that liquored up,” said Cole. “I’ll take my chances. You can have the money back when we take off on our next mission, whatever it is.”

She stared at him, then nodded and took her bottle back to the Duke’s table.

Cole made his way to the Teddy R, where he found Rachel Marcos waiting for him.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“We just finished the damage report from the Machtel operation,” she replied.

“What damages?” demanded Cole. “Not a shot was fired.”

“Some space debris damaged the Longshot and the Penny Dreadful inside one of the wormholes.”

“I assume their structural integrity hasn’t been compromised, since they made it back to Singapore Station.”

“They seem okay,” she reported. “But if the abrasions aren’t fixed, the ships could begin developing problems.”

“It is anything Slick can’t handle?” asked Cole.

Slick was the Teddy R’s only Tolobite, an alien who along with his symbiote, which acted as a second skin, was able to work long hours in the airless cold of space.

“He’s seen the holographs of the damage and thinks he can fix it, sir,” said Rachel.

“Okay,” said Cole. “Run the reports and holos by Mr. Odom”—Mustapha Odom, the Teddy R’s engineer—“and if he agrees, tell Slick to go to work on them.”

He went to Sharon’s office, waited until she was through with her work, and took her to dinner on Singapore Station, where he ran into Forrice.

“How did you fare?” he asked.

“I broke even,” replied the Molarian. “Tricky game, stort. Just when you think you’ve got it figured, you find out that it’s more complex than you imagined. Must have been invented by a Canphorite.” Suddenly he smiled. “But I heard some good news: The Navy has stopped killing everyone and is going home.”

“Until the next time,” said Sharon.

“Until the next time,” agreed Forrice. “If you have no objections, I’ll take one of the shuttles and head off to Braccio II in a few hours.”

“I suppose it’s okay,” said Cole. “But there’s no reason why you should be the only happy Molarian on board next week. Take Braxite and Jacillios with you.”

“I’ll take Jacillios,” replied Forrice. “But Braxite messed up one of his legs somehow when we were running the new ships through their paces. He’s in sick bay with some pressure bandages on it.”

“So give him some crutches and take him along anyway.”

Forrice shook his massive head. “Men can get along fine with one leg and a crutch or a prosthetic, but Molarians have to have the use of all three. Believe me, he’ll be in so much discomfort that he won’t be able to partake of what’s awaiting us on Braccio II.”

“Well, you’re the guy who’d know,” said Cole.

“I’m off to get my gear together and alert Jacillios to the fact that we’re leaving shortly. I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Have a good time,” said Cole. “And be careful.”

“I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do with our esteemed Security Chief,” answered the Molarian, “but I’ll do it with far more finesse and élan.”

“I’m sure you will,” said Cole. “But I meant, be careful in case there’s still a Navy ship or two lurking in the area.”

“If I run into one, I’ll give it your exact location in exchange for an extra day on Braccio II,” said Forrice with a hoot of laughter.

“Don’t say it,” remarked Cole as Forrice swirled off to the Teddy R.

“Don’t say what?” asked Sharon.

“Tawdry.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

“Sad,” said Sharon.

“Why?”

“We don’t have any Molarian females aboard the Teddy R,” she replied. “How would you like to face the knowledge that you were on a ship with no women, and you could never go back to your home world?”

“I’d probably develop a crush on Vladimir Sokolov or Bull Pampas,” answered Cole.

“Say that once more and you can spend the night with them,” said Sharon.

Cole decided not to say it once more.

Starship: Rebel © Mike Resnick