Milos Taverner sighed, ran his hand back across

          his mottled scalp as if to verify that what

          remained of his hair was still present, and lit

another nic. Then he glared again at the transcript hard-

copy on his desk and tried to imagine an approach that

might work - without getting himself into so much

trouble that the people he was paid to please would turn

against him.

 He was responsible for the ongoing interrogation of

Angus Thermopyle.

 It wasn't going well.

 That pleased some people and infuriated others.

 Angus' trial had been a simple enough affair, as such

things went. Com-Mine Security had recovered the

pirated supplies. The search which located the supplies

aboard Angus' ship, Bright Beauty, had adequate legal

justification. With a number of vague, troubling ex-

ceptions, the evidence of the ship's datacore supported

the charges against him - the less damning ones. He

mounted no defense, apparently because he knew it was

futile. Everything was correct and in order; Angus

Thermopyle was guilty as charged.

 On the other hand, despite provocative rumors con-

cerning zone implants, rape, murder, and the wrecked

UMCP destroyer Starmaster, no evidence had turned up

to convict him of anything more serious than the bur-

glary of Station supplies. He was sentenced to life impris-

onment in Com-Mine Station's lockup; but the law

simply could not be stretched to include his execution.

 Case closed.

 Station Security had no intention whatsoever of letting

matters rest there.

 Milos Taverner had mixed feelings about that. He had

too many conflicting priorities to juggle.

 As Deputy Chief of Com-Mine Station Security,

interrogation was his responsibility. True, the present

charges against Angus Thermopyle had been adequately

proven - and true, the evidence didn't justify any other

charges. But Security knew Angus of old. His piracies

were a moral, if not a provable, certainty; his dealings

with illegals of every description, from druggers and psy-

chotics to the bootleg ore industry in all its guises, were

unquestionable, if indemonstrable. His crew had a dis-

tressing tendency to disappear. Additionally the un-

explained chain of circumstances which brought him

back to Com-Mine accompanied by a UMC cop who

should have died aboard Starmaster was profoundly

intriguing - not to mention disturbing.

 All things considered, Taverner couldn't question the

decision to keep after Angus Thermopyle until he broke

or died.

 Nevertheless the Deputy Chief didn't really want the

job. For a number of reasons.

 Because he was personally fastidious, he found Angus

repulsive. As far as anyone knew, an addiction to nic was

Milos' only vice. Even people he made no effort to please

would have admitted that he was clean, circumspect, and

correct in all his dealings. And no sane observer would

have ascribed those virtues to Angus.

 More than anything, he looked like a toad bloated by

malice. His bodily habits were offensive: he only took a

shower when the guards forced him into the san cubicle,

only put on a clean prisonsuit at stun-point. That and

the way he sweated made him smell like a pig. The color

of his skin was like ground-in grime. His mere existence

made Milos feel vaguely ill: his presence inspired a sense

of active nausea.

 In addition his eyes glared yellow with a belligerent

wisdom that made Milos feel exposed; dangerously

known.

 Angus was cunning, crafty; as insidious as disorder.

And people like that were risky to work with. They lied

in ways which confirmed their interrogators' illusions.

They learned from the questions they were asked, they

gained as much knowledge as they gave - as much or

more, in Angus' case - and they used that knowledge to

perfect their lies; to work for the ruin of their interrog-

ators even when they had nothing tangible to work

with and had themselves been worked over regularly by

experts to encourage cooperation. When they should

have been at their weakest, they became most malignant.

 Angus caused the Deputy Chief to feel that he himself

was the one being tested, the one whose secrets might

be laid bare; the one put to the question.

 And, as if all that weren't enough to contend with,

Milos had to wrestle daily with the fact that his interrog-

ation was potentially explosive. Angus Thermopyle was

an ore pirate. Therefore he had buyers. He had obtained

Bright Beauty by illegal - if unproven - means; had

outfitted her illegally. Therefore he had access to bootleg

shipyards. Some of his technology smelled alien, and his

records were patently too clean, even though they were

unimpeachably recorded in his ship's datacore. And all

those conclusions, all those strands of inference, ran in

only one direction.

 Forbidden space.

 Angus Thermopyle had dealings - direct or indirect

- with secrets destructive enough to shift the balances of

power everywhere in the United Mining Companies' vast

commercial empire. Those secrets could threaten the

security of every Station; perhaps they could threaten the

security of Earth.

 Milos Taverner wasn't sure he wanted those secrets to

come out. In fact, as time passed he became more and

more convinced that he needed them to remain hidden.

Angus' silence infuriated some of the people Milos was

paid to please: his secrets, if they were revealed, would

infuriate others. But the people who hated Angus' silence

were less immediately dangerous.

 On the other hand, every moment he spent with Angus

Thermopyle was recorded. Transcripts were regularly

reviewed on-Station. Copies were routinely forwarded to

the UMCP. The Deputy Chief of Com-Mine Station

Security couldn't tackle this assignment with anything

less than complete diligence and expect to get away with

it.No wonder he couldn't give up nic. He found the

habit disgusting in other people - and yet he couldn't

quit himself. Sometimes he thought nic was the only

thing that enabled his nerves to bear the stress.

 Fortunately Angus Thermopyle refused to participate

in his own interrogation.

 He faced down questions with unflagging hostility and

silence. He absorbed stun until he puked his guts out,

and his entire cell stank with ineradicable bile; but he

didn't talk. He suffered hunger, thirst, and sensory depri-

vation relentlessly. The one time he cracked was when

Milos informed him that Bright Beauty was being dis-

mantled for scrap and spare parts. But then he only

howled like a beast and did his best to wreck the interrog-

ation room; he didn't say anything.

 In Milos' opinion, telling Angus about Bright Beauty's

fate had been a mistake. He'd said so openly to his

superiors - after taking considerable pains to plant the

suggestion in their minds. It would reinforce Angus'

intransigence. They'd insisted on the ploy, however.

After all, nothing else seemed to work. The outcome

was about what Milos had expected. That was one small

victory, anyway.

 In other ways, most of the interrogation sessions were

unenlightening.

 How did you meet Morn Hyland?

 No answer.

 What were you doing together?

 No answer.

 Why would a UMC cop agree to crew for a murdering

illegal like you?

 No answer.

 What did you do to her?

 Angus' glare never wavered.

 How did you get those supplies? How did you get

into the holds? Computer security wasn't tampered with.

Nothing happened to the guards. There's no sign you

cut your way in. The ventilation ducts aren't big enough

for those crates. How did you do it?

 No answer.

  How did Starmaster die?

 No answer.

 How did Morn Hyland survive?

 No answer.

 She said she didn't trust Station Security. She said

Starmaster must have been sabotaged - she said it must

have been done here. Why did she trust you instead of

us?No answer.

 Why were you there? How did you just happen to be

in the vicinity when Starmaster's thrust drive destructed?

 No answer.

 You said - Milos consulted his hardcopy - you were

close enough to pick up the blast on scan. You implied

you knew a disaster had occurred, and you wanted to

help. Is that true?

 No answer.

 Isn't it true that Starmaster was after you? Isn't it true

she caught you in the act of some crime? Isn't it true

you crashed when she chased you? Isn't that how Bright

Beauty got hurt?

 No answer.

 Sucking nic so he wouldn't start to shake, Milos

Taverner studied the ceiling, the stacks of hardcopy in

front of him; he studied Angus' stained face. Angus'

cheeks used to be fat, bloated like his belly; not anymore.

Now his jowls hung from his jaw, and his prisonsuit

sagged down his frame. The punishment he received had

cost him weight. Nevertheless his physical deterioration

didn't weaken the way his eyes fixed, yellow and threaten-

ing, on his tormentor.

 Take him outside,' Milos sighed to the guards. 'Soften

him up. Again.'

 Shit, the Deputy Chief thought when he was alone.

He didn't like foul language: 'shit' was the strongest

expletive he used.

 You shit. I shit. He shits. We all shit.

 Now who am I supposed to be loyal to?

 He went back to his office and made his usual reports,

dealt with his usual duties. After that, he rode the lift

down to Communications and used Security's dedicated

channels to tight-beam several transmissions in his pri-

vate code, none of them recorded. Just to reassure him-

self, he put through a data req which - when an answer

came - would tell him the balance of the bank account

he held on Sagittarius Unlimited under an alternative

name. Then he resumed Angus Thermopyle's interrog-

ation.

 What else could he do?

 His one and only definite opportunity to break his

prisoner came when Angus attempted to escape.

 In spite of his personal intransigence, his plain soci-

opathy, Angus was hit hard by what Milos told him about

Bright Beauty. When his burst of grief or fury was over,

he didn't crumble in any obvious sense. He was failing,

of course, worn down by the physical stress of interrog-

ation and stun; but in front of Milos Taverner, at least, he

preserved his uncooperative demeanor. Nevertheless his

behavior when he was alone in his cell changed. He began

eating less; he spent hours sitting on his lean bunk,

staring at the wall. Observers reported that his manner

was listless, almost unreactive; that when he stared at the

wall his eyes didn't shift, didn't appear to focus on any-

thing. As a matter of course, Milos ran this information

through Security's psy-profile computer. The program

paradigms suggested that Angus Thermopyle was losing,

or had already lost, his will to live. In the absence of

that will, the use of stun as an aid to questioning was

contraindicated. Angus could die.

 Milos thought Angus was faking his loss of will in an

effort to get his punishment eased. The Deputy Chief

decided to ignore the computer.

 That was another small victory. His judgment was

confirmed when Angus contrived to beat up his guard

and break out of his cell. He got as far as the service shaft

which led into the labyrinth of the waste processing plant

before he was recaptured.

 Shit, Milos said to himself over and over again. He

was using the word much too often, but he didn't have

any other way to express his visceral disgust. He didn't

want Angus' interrogation to succeed - but now he had

a lever he could use, and he would never get away with

not using it.

 When he'd issued certain very explicit instructions, so

that his own plans wouldn't be compromised, he let the

guards have Angus for a while to vent their frustrations.

Then he had Angus brought in front of him again.

 In a sense, stun wasn't a very satisfying outlet for frus-

tration. Its effects were strong, but it felt impersonal; the

convulsions it produced were caused by mere neuro-

muscular reaction to an electric charge. So this time the

guards hadn't used stun: they'd used their fists, their

boots, perhaps a sap or two. As a result, when Angus

reached the interrogation room he could hardly walk. He

sat like a man with cracked ribs; his face and ears oozed

blood; he'd lost a tooth or two; his left eye was swollen

shut in a grotesque parody of Warden Dios.

 Milos found Angus' condition distasteful. Also it

scared him because it increased his chances of success.

Nevertheless he gave it his approval before he dismissed

the guards.

 He and Angus were alone.

 Smoking so hard that the air conditioning couldn't

keep up with it, he left Angus to sit and sweat while he

keyed a number of commands into his computer console.

Let Angus' resolve erode under the pressure of silence.

Alternatively, let him use the respite to recover his deter-

mination. Milos didn't care. He needed the time to take

the risk on which he'd decided to stake his own safety,

even though the dangers made his fingers tremble and

his guts feel like water.

 He was preparing the computer to provide two record-

ings of this session. One would be the actual recording:

the other would be a dummy designed to protect him in

an emergency.

 When the session was over, he could use whichever

recording he needed. He was the Deputy Chief of Secur-

ity: he knew how to take all trace of the other recording

out of the computer.

 But if he were caught before then-

 The rather imprecise nature of his loyalties would be

exposed. He would be ruined.

 Deep in his guts, he hated Angus for putting him in

this position.

 He couldn't afford to falter, however. Once his prep-

arations were complete, he hid his hands behind the

console and faced Angus across the table. Covering his

anxiety with assertiveness, he didn't waste any time

coming to the point.

 That guard died.' This was a lie, but Milos had made

certain no one would betray the truth to Angus. We've

got you for murder. Now you're going to talk. I won't

even try to bargain with you. You're going to talk, you're

going to tell me everything I want to know, everything

you can think of, and you're going to hope we consider

what you're saying valuable enough so that we won't

have you executed.'

 Angus didn't reply. For once, he didn't look at his

interrogator. His head hung down; it seemed to dangle

from his neck as if his spine had been broken.

 'Do you understand me?' Milos demanded. 'Have you

got the brains left to know what I'm saying? You are

going to die if you don't give me what I want. We're

going to strap you down and stick a needle in your veins.

After that, you'll just be dead, you won't even feel it

happen, and nobody will ever care what happens to you

again.'

 That last sentence was a mistake: Milos felt it as soon

as he said it. For a moment, Angus' shoulders twitched.

He should have been crying - any other prisoner with a

scrap of human frailty would have been crying - but he

wasn't. As soon as Angus raised his head, Milos saw that

he was trying to laugh.

 'Care what happens to me?' Angus' voice sounded like

his face, bloody and beaten. 'You motherfucker.'

 Unfortunately 'motherfucker' was a word Milos par-

ticularly disliked. Helpless to stop himself, he flushed.

He tried to conceal his reaction behind another nic, but

he knew Angus had seen him. He couldn't control the

tremor in his hands.

 The damage to Angus' features made him look

maniacal. Glaring at Milos, he said, 'I'll talk, all right.

As soon as you file your murder charge, I'll talk. I'll talk

to everybody.'

 Milos stared back at Angus. Angus was the only one

of them sweating, but Milos felt that he himself was the

only one afraid.

 'I'll tell them,' Angus said, 'there's a traitor in Security.'

He said the words as if he could prove them whenever

he wanted. 'I'll even tell them who it is. I'll tell them how

I know. I'll tell them how to be sure I'm telling the truth.

As soon as you file your charge.

 'I'll trade his name for immunity. Or maybe' - Angus

was sneering - 'I'll try for a pardon.'

 Tensing against the distress in his bowels, Milos asked,

Who is it?'

 Angus' glare didn't waver. When you file your charge.'

 Milos did the best he could to face down the danger.

'You're bluffing.'

 'You're bluffing,' Angus retorted. 'You aren't going to

file that charge. You don't want to find out what I know.

You never have.' Then he concluded happily, 'Mother-

fucker.'

 Milos bit down on his nic. Because he was fastidious,

he felt no desire to assault his prisoner physically. He

didn't want the sensations of Angus' sweat and pain on

his hands. Instead he keyed a command that brought the

guards back. When they arrived, he instructed them to

take Angus away. Then, abruptly, he became calm.

 The trembling was gone from his fingers as he dumped

the actual recording from the computer and substituted

his dummy. After that he stubbed out his nic, thinking,

Filthy habit. I'm going to quit. Remembering that he'd

made similar commitments in the past, he added, I mean

it. Really.

 At the same time, in a part of his mind which had

suddenly become a separate compartment, like a com-

puter file that couldn't be accessed without a secret com-

mand, he was thinking, Shit. Shitshit. Shitshitshit.

 He appeared quite normal and perfectly correct as he

went down to Communications to make two or three

tight-beam transmissions which weren't recorded,

couldn't be traced, and might have been impossible to

decipher if they were intercepted. Then he returned to

his office and continued working.

 The recording of his session with Angus attracted no

particular attention, and deserved none.

 Angus resumed his yellow-eyed and irreducible silence.

 On Com-Mine Station, nothing changed.

 Milos Taverner might as well have been safe.

 Nevertheless when the order came through to have

Angus Thermopyle frozen, Milos heaved a sigh of

entirely private and malicious relief.

Morn Hyland didn't open her mouth from the

          moment when Nick Succorso grabbed her

          arm and steered her through the chaos in Mal-

lorys to the time when he and his people brought her to

the docks where his frigate, Captain's Fancy, was berthed.

His grip was hard, so hard it made her forearm numb

and her fingers tingle, and the trip was a form of flight;

frightened, almost desperate. She was running with all

her courage away from Angus even though Nick never

moved faster than a brisk walk. Nevertheless she clung

to the zone implant control in her pocket, kept both fists

buried in the pockets of her shipsuit to mask the fact that

she was concealing something, and let Nick's grasp guide

her.The passages and corridors were strangely empty.

Security had cleared them in case Angus' arrest turned

into a fight. The boots of Nick's crew struck echoes off

the decking: the knot of men and women protecting

Morn from Station intervention moved as if they were

followed by a suggestion of thunder, metallic and omin-

ous; as if Angus and the crowd in Mallorys were after

her. Her heart strained against her lungs, filling her with

pressure. If anybody stopped her now, she would have

no defense against a charge which carried the death

penalty. But she fixed her gaze straight ahead of her, kept

her mouth shut, clenched her fists in her pockets; let

Nick's people sweep her along.

 Then they reached the docks. Beyond the clutter of

tracks and cables between the gantries lay Nick's ship.

She missed her footing on a power line and couldn't use

her hands to catch herself; but Nick hauled her up again,

kept her going. Here the danger of being stopped was

gravest. Station Security was everywhere, guarding the

docks as well as the cargo inspectors, dock-engine drivers,

stevedores, and crane operators. If Nick's deal with

Security fell apart-

 But nobody made any move to stop her, or the people

protecting her. The Station lock stood open; Captain's

Fancy's remained shut until one of Nick's crew keyed it.

 Nick took Morn inside, nearly drove her through the

airlocks with the force of his grip.

 After the expanse of the docks, she had the sensation

that she was entering a small space - almost that she was

being cornered. The frigate's lighting seemed dim and

cloying compared to the arc lamps outside. She'd done

everything she could think of to get away from Angus:

she'd committed herself to this when she accepted the

zone implant control. But now she caught her first

glimpse of the place she was escaping to, the constricted

passages of an unknown ship, and she nearly balked.

 Captain's Fancy was a trap: she recognized that. For a

moment the knowledge that she was going aboard

another ship, another ship, where there was little hope

and certainly no help, came close to seizing her muscles,

paralyzing her like a spasm.

 Then all Nick's people were aboard; and she had no

time for paralysis. The airlock cycled closed. Nick Suc-

corso took hold of her by the shoulders: he was about to

put his arms around her. This was what he'd rescued her

for - to possess her. The first crisis of her new life was

upon her, when she was so full of alarm that she wanted

to strike at him, drive his touch away.

 Nevertheless she had the presence of mind to stop him

by saying, 'No heavy g.'

 Morally more than physically, Morn Hyland was

exhausted to the core of her bones. Under the circum-

stances, perhaps the best that could be said about her was

that she was half insane from rape and gap-sickness, from

horror and panic and Angus' manipulation of her zone

implant. During her weeks with him, she'd done and

experienced things which would have sent her into cater-

wauling nightmares if she'd had the strength to dream.

And then, despite everything, she'd saved his life. To

all appearances, she'd been conquered by the desperate

vulnerability which made the victims of terrorists fall in

love with them.

 Appearances were deceptive, however. She hadn't

fallen in love: she'd made a deal. The price was that she

was here, aboard Nick's ship, at his mercy. The rec-

ompense was that she had the control to her zone implant

in her pocket.

 Saving Angus may have been the only cold-bloodedly

crazy act of her relatively young life.

 But if she'd lost her mind, she was still only half insane.

No one who was totally mad could have come through

that ordeal with the presence of mind to protest to Nick

Succorso, 'Please. No heavy g. Not without warning me.'

 She may have been cornered, but she wasn't beaten.

 Her gambit succeeded. He stopped, stared at her

oddly. She could see that he was suspicious. He wanted

her. He also wanted to know what was going on. And

he needed to get his ship away from Com-Mine.

 What's the matter?' he demanded. 'You sick or

something?'

 'I'm too weak. He-' She managed a shrug as eloquent

as Angus' name. 'I need time to recover.'

 Then she forced her mind blank, as she'd done so often

with Angus, so that her visceral abhorrence of any male

contact wouldn't make her do anything foolish - like

kneeing Nick in the groin when he embraced her.

 He was accustomed to women who dropped dead with

pleasure when he took them. He wouldn't have been

amused by the truth of how she felt about him.

 He also wouldn't have been amused by the real reason

she dreaded heavy g.

 That was the key to her gap-sickness, the trigger which

made her truly and helplessly insane. It had caused her

to wreck Starmaster, to attempt a total self-destruct, even

though Starmaster's captain was her father and much of

the crew was family; even though Starmaster was a

UMCP destroyer which had just watched Angus

Thermopyle slaughter an entire mining camp.

 Gap-sickness was the sole justification of any kind for

the zone implant Angus had placed in her brain - or for

the zone implant control she now held. And that control

was her only secret; her only defense when she went

aboard Captain's Fancy. She would have tried to kill any-

body who took it away from her.

 To deflect his suspicions, she was prepared to tell Nick

as much about Starmaster as he wished, even though the

ship was entirely classified and Morn herself was a cop.

As a last resort, she would tell him how Starmaster died.

But she would never tell him that Angus had given her

a zone implant - and then let her have the control.

 Never.

 She was a cop: that was the problem. She was a cop -

and 'unauthorized use' of a zone implant was the single

worst crime she could commit, short of treason. The fact

that she was helping Angus Thermopyle by hiding the

control to her own zone implant only made matters

worse. She'd dedicated her life to fighting men like him

and Nick Succorso, to fighting evils like piracy and the

unauthorized use of zone implants.

 But she knew what the control could do for her. Angus

had taught her that, inadvertently but well. It'd become

more important than her oath as a UMC cop, more

precious than her honor. She would never give it up.

 Rather than betray the truth about herself, she did her

best to go blank so that she wouldn't react as if Nick

were Angus when he kissed her.

 Fortunately her ploy worked. He had more immediate

exigencies to consider. And, after all, the idea that Angus

had left her sick and damaged was plausible. Nick

released her suddenly and wheeled away.

 Over his shoulder, he told his second, 'Assign her a

cabin. Get her food. Cat if she wants it. God knows what

that bastard did to her.'

 As he strode away, Morn heard him say, We're leav-

ing. Now.' He had hunger in his voice and a livid flush

in the scars under his eyes. 'Security doesn't want us to

hang around. That's part of the deal.'

 Morn knew what his hunger meant. But now she

would have a little time to get ready for it.

 Inside her shipsuit she was sweating so fearfully that

she reeked of it.

 Nick's second, a woman named Mikka Vasaczk, was

in a hurry. Maybe she was eager to get to the bridge

herself. Or maybe she knew she was being supplanted,

and didn't like it. Whatever the reason, she was brusque

and quick.

 That suited Morn.

 Riding the soft pressure of hydraulics, they took the

lift down - 'down' would become 'up' as soon as Cap-

tain's Fancy undocked and engaged her own internal-g

spin - to the cabin deck which wrapped around the ship's

holds, engines, databanks, scan- and armament-drivers.

Captain's Fancy was luxurious by any standards, and she

had more than one cabin for passengers. Mikka Vasaczk

guided Morn to the nearest of these, ushered her inside,

showed her how to code the lock and key the intercom.

Then the second demanded, not quite politely, 'You want

anything?'

 Morn wanted so many things that her desire left her

weak. With an effort, she replied, 'I'm all right. I just

need sleep. And safety.'

 Mikka had assertive hips; she moved like she knew

how to use them in a variety of ways. The way she cocked

them now suggested a threat.

 'Don't count on it,' she grunted sardonically. 'None of

us are safe while you're aboard.

 'You'd better be careful. Nick has better sense than you

think.'

 Without waiting for a reply, she left. The door swept

shut behind her automatically.

 Morn felt like weeping. She felt like curling herself into

a ball and cowering in the corner. But she had no time

for tears and cowardice. Her bare survival was in doubt.

If she couldn't find a way to defend herself now, she

would never get another chance.

 First she tapped a code into the keypad of the lock, not

because that would keep people out - the ship's computer

could override her instructions whenever Nick wished -

but because it would slow them down; it would warn

her when somebody was about to enter.

 Then she took out the control to her zone implant.

 That small black box was her doom. It showed how

much Angus had cost her, how deep the damage he'd

done her ran. Her ruin was so profound that she was

willing to turn her back on her father and the UMCP

and every ideal she'd held worthy - and turn her back,

too, on rescue by Com-Mine Security, which would have

led to every form of help and comfort the UMCP had at

its command, as well as to Angus' execution - for the

sake of control over her own zone implant.

 But she also knew the control was her last hope. That

was true no matter where she went: it was only more

obvious aboard Captain's Fancy, not more true. With the

zone implant, Angus Thermopyle had made her less than

she could bear to be. He'd taught her that her physical

and moral being were despicable; mere things to be used

or abused with impunity, and then discarded if they failed

to satisfy him; ill-made objects with no claim on respect.

By the same logic, however, the zone implant was the

only means by which she could become more than she

was. It was her only way past her smallness, past the

contemptibility of her own resources. It was power - and

she'd been powerless too long. Without it she would

never recover from the harm she'd suffered. Nothing

else could counteract the lessons Angus had taught her.

 Therefore she was dependent on it - and therefore she

had to avoid any kind of external help. Com-Mine Station

and the UMCP would have done everything they could

think of for her; but they would have taken the control

away. In effect they would have abandoned her to her

unworth.

 Once she'd said to Angus, Give me the control. I need it

to heal. But he'd refused her then, and now her needs

were altogether more absolute.

 At the moment, however, they were simply more

immediate.

 If Nick knew - or guessed - that she had a zone

implant, how long would she be able to keep the control

itself secret? More than anything, she needed energy.

Energy to force down her fear; energy to face him.

Energy to distract him.

 The zone implant could give her that. It could suppress

her brain's necessary ability to acknowledge fatigue.

Unfortunately she only knew what the implant could do:

she didn't know how to use it. Of course, she could read

the labels imprinted above the buttons; but she didn't

know how to tune them, how to combine them to pro-

ducc specialized effects. She could only make her implant

function at its crudest.

 That had to change. She would be fatally vulnerable

until she gained complete mastery over the control, over

herself; until she could play her own nerves and synapses

the way Angus Thermopyle had played them.

 To learn that kind of mastery she needed time. A lot

of time.

 Right now, the best she could hope for was a few

hours.

 None of us are safe while you're aboard. She ignored that.

You'd better be careful. Nick has better sense than you think.

She dismissed everything except her immediate problem.

Her cabin had a private san cubicle and head - and one

of the cabinets beside the head held a guest supply of

toiletries and personal items; even a small mending kit

for torn shipsuits. She took tweezers and used them to

open the cover of her zone implant control. Then, with

a needle from the kit, she scraped a gap in a tiny section

of the control's circuitry - the section which enabled the

control to render her helpless by blocking the link

between her brain and body. Angus had used that func-

tion often: it allowed him to do what he wanted to her

flesh while her mind could only watch and wail.

 As well as she could, she made sure that nobody would

ever again have the power to simply turn her off. Her

electronics training in the Academy was good for that,

anyway.

 Her fingers were trembling by the time she was done,

and she was terrified that she'd made a mistake. But she

couldn't afford to be terrified. None of us are safe while

you're aboard. She also couldn't afford mistakes. Nick

wanted her. But to her 'wanting' meant Angus; it meant

brutality and rape. Nick has better sense than you think.

Fighting the shakes, she closed the control cover. Delib-

erately circumspect, she returned the evidence of what

she'd done - the tweezers and needle - to the san. Then

she sat down on the berth with her back braced against

the bulkhead, raised the control, and touched a button.

 At once a wonderful lassitude washed through her.

Her body seemed to fill up with rest as though she had

a syringe of cat plugged into her veins. Drowsiness

spread balm along her limbs, soothed ravaged nerve-

endings, denatured old and essential anxieties. She

relaxed slowly down the bulkhead; her head nodded over

her chest.

 Healing. Safety. Peace.

 She was nearly asleep before the desperation she'd

learned from Angus came to her rescue.

 That sting of panic gave her the strength to turn off

the control.

 When reality flooded back into her muscles and

neurons, sheer visceral disappointment brought tears to

her eyes.

 But she already knew that living with a zone implant

wasn't easy. She didn't expect it to be easy: she expected

to be in command of it.

 She had a nagging sense that she was asking too much

of herself, that no human being could do what she

intended and get away with it; that the law against 'un-

authorized use' was absolutely reasonable. In order to

make the zone implant serve her effectively, she needed

something akin to prescience - a kind of crystal ball.

The control included a timer, and that would help. But

suppose she decided to risk the rest her body craved.

How could she know how long it was safe to sleep?

Suppose she turned on energy by suppressing fatigue in

an attempt to get through heavy g without going mad.

How could she know how much was necessary, or how

long her flesh could stand the strain? For that matter,

how could she know which centers of her brain were

involved in her gap-sickness, which parts of herself she

should stifle in order to avoid that state of lunatic calm

when the universe spoke to her and told her what to

destroy?

 She would be guessing every step of the way. And

every guess was dangerous. Any mistake, any miscalcu-

lation, any accident might betray her to Nick.

 But the problem went deeper. Angus' use of her had

left her half insane and profoundly weary, even though

he'd frequently imposed rest on her. How could she

know that madness and exhaustion weren't endemic to

the use of a zone implant? How could she know that her

efforts to save herself weren't about to damn her?

 She couldn't know. She wasn't wise enough to tamper

with herself this way.

 On the other hand, she was here because Angus had

driven her half insane. There was no escape that didn't

also involve insanity.

 A small thunk carried through the ship's hull - the

characteristic jolt of undocking. When the grapples and

cables snapped clear, everyone aboard always knew it.

 Morn was running out of time.

 As Captain's Fancy floated free, g disappeared. The

involuntary contraction of her muscles, bracing herself

against undock, sent her adrift in the cabin.

 In moments, however, the intercom piped a warning,

and the bridge crew engaged the spin that produced

internal g. The berth reoriented itself; Morn settled to

the new floor.

 Such maneuvers were familiar to her. Instead of dis-

tress, she felt simple gratitude that Nick engaged g so

soon. Most captains liked to run a considerable distance

out from dock - to be sure they were clear, and to refresh

their recollection of zero g - before they took on the

inertia! inflexibility of spin.

 Grimly she pushed another button.

 Wrong one, wrong one, this button brought pain, the

entire surface of her skin seemed to catch flame. Angus

had told her that her father was flash-blinded when she

blew up Starmaster's thrust drive. His face must have felt

like this, all fire and agony, every nerve excoriated beyond

bearing.

 Her muscles convulsed in a spasm of fire and remem-

brance. She stabbed wildly at the control, trying to hit

CANCEL.

 She missed. Instead, she got the button she'd already

tried, the one that made her rest.

 The effect astonished her. In an instant, she was trans-

formed.

 It was magic, a kind of neural alchemy. Out of absolute

pain, it created something she needed more than energy,

something which would enable her to deal with Nick -

something which Angus had never tried on her, either

because he didn't know what it would do or because he

didn't want it.

 In a sense, the combination she'd keyed didn't ease the

pain, not entirely. Instead the hurt was translated almost

miraculously into something quite different - a sensual

ache which focused itself in the most sensitive parts of

her body, so that the tips of her breasts burned as if they

could be quenched by kisses, and her mouth and loins

became hot and damp, hungry for penetration.

 For several moments she was so overwhelmed by the

sensations of desire that she couldn't stop them. She

didn't realize she was writhing hungrily on the berth until

thrust ran through Captain's Fancy and caught her off

balance, toppled her to the floor.

 Not much thrust: just enough to get the ship

underway. Nevertheless the fall restored Morn's self-

awareness; she grabbed the control and canceled it.

 Then she clung to the berth and breathed hard, trying

to absorb the shock of sensation and discovery.

 She'd found it, the answer to her immediate problem:

a way of responding to Nick that wasn't predicated on

revulsion. For the time being, she now had the means

to endure his touch.

 And if, like Angus', Nick's lust included the desire to

inflict pain, she would be able to experience it as pleasure.

She would be protected-

 No wonder Angus had never used this particular func-

tion. It would have made her paradoxically invulnerable:

accessible to everything his hate required; inaccessible

to terror.

 Now she could rest. At the moment, the only guess

she had to make was, when would Nick come? how much

time did she have? Thrust complicated the direction of

Captain's Fancy's g; it made movement around the cabin

awkward. All the more reason to roll into the berth,

velcro herself secure, and let her exhaustion take her

away. When he arrived, she would have to face his sus-

picions. Whatever they were. Until then-

 She didn't do it. Angus Thermopyle had taught her

more things than either of them realized. There were still

precautions she could take, ways to camouflage the truth.

 She went back to work on her door lock.

 This time she keyed the door to open on request -

after a five-second delay, and a chime to warn her that

someone wanted in.

 Then, bracing herself against the tug of complex g, she

moved into the san, peeled off the ill-fitting shipsuit

Angus had given her, consigned it to the disposal chute,

and took a long shower. She didn't emerge until her arms

felt leaden from scrubbing herself, and the san's suction

had dried her pristine. She couldn't wash away her

crime, but the shower made her skin more comfortable.

 After that, she stretched out naked on the berth and

hid her zone implant control under the head of the mat-

tress; she pulled the blanket up to her chin and sealed

the velcro strips.

 While thrust took the ship away from Com-Mine

Station - away from sanity and any conceivable help -

she settled her clean body in the clean berth and began

doing what she could to evolve contingency plans.

Under the influence of the zone implant, she wouldn't

be able to think effectively. She had to prepare herself

now for whatever might happen.

 Maybe it was a good thing Angus had given her so

much enforced rest. No matter how her head - or her

soul - felt, her body really didn't need sleep.

 Captain's Fancy would do a certain amount of maneuv-

ering when she left dock, getting clear of Com-Mine's

gear and grapples, the antennae and ports and gantries,

the tugs and other ships; assuming attitude and trajectory

for departure. That, presumably, would occupy Nick's

attention for a white. Of course, he wouldn't be obliged

to oversee any of this personally: his bridge crew could

handle it. Mikka Vasaczk looked like she could handle

almost anything. But most captains enjoyed the business

of running out from Station. All that communication

with center and all those routine decisions could be made

by habit; but it was good to refresh the habits, good to

renew the priorities and necessities of command. In fact,

most captains wouldn't consider leaving the bridge until

they were well outside Station control space, beyond the

likelihood of encountering other ships. Morn didn't

expect that much diligence from Nick Succorso; but she

did expect him to make sure Captain's Fancy got away

clean before he turned over the bridge to anyone else.

 She would have that much time before he put her to

the test.

She was right. Whether he intended to or not, he gave

her that time.

 When he came for her, she was as ready as possible,

under the circumstances.

 She had to compartmentalize her mind to do it. Angus

Thermopyle in one box; everything he'd done to her in

another. The harsh death of Starmaster. Her gap-sickness.

Revulsion. Fear of discovery. Everything dangerous,

everything that could paralyze or appall her, had to be

separated and locked away, so that she could be at least

approximately intelligent in her decisions.

 Will-power was like the zone implant: it dissociated

mind and body, action and consequence.

 Angus had taught her that, too, without knowing it.

 When the door chimed, she felt a new shock wave run

through her, the brisance of panic. Nevertheless by her

own choice she'd entered a world of absolute risk, where

nothing could save her except herself. Before her door

opened, she reached under the mattress and hit the com-

bination of buttons her life depended on. Then she rolled

over to face the man who'd rescued her.

 Nick Succorso looked like he belonged in the romantic

stories people told about him back on Com-Mine; like

the stories were true. He had smoldering eyes and a buc-

caneer's grin, and he carried himself with the kind of

virile assurance that made every movement seem like an

enticement. His hands knew how to be gentle; his voice

conveyed a caress. Those things alone might have made

him desirable. But in addition he was dangerous - notori-

ously dangerous. The scars under his eyes hinted at

fierceness: they showed that he was a man who played

for blood. When his passions made those scars turn dark,

they promised that he was a man who played for blood,

and won.

 He entered her room as if he were already sure that

she could never say no to him.

 Morn Hyland knew virtually nothing about him. He

was a pirate, a competitor of Angus Thermopyle's; as

illegal as hell. And, like Angus, he was male. In fact, the

differences between him and Angus were cosmetic, not

substantive. He'd only been able to trap Angus by

making use of a traitor in Com-Mine Security. That was

all she had to go on.

 Nevertheless she was in no danger of seeing him in

romantic terms. She knew too much about what piracy

- and maleness - cost their victims.

 But instead of nausea, or panic, or the deep black

horror which had lurked in the back of her mind, waking

or sleeping, since the destruction of Starmaster, she felt

a yearning heat arise. Her blood became a kind of liquid

need, and the nerves of her skin seemed to leap into focus

like avid scan. That sensation helped her raise her arms

as if she wanted Nick to come straight into her embrace.

 He replied with a smile, and his scars intensified his

eyes; but when he'd stepped into the cabin and locked

the door behind him, he didn't approach closer. He

studied her hard, although his manner was relaxed. After

a moment he said easily, We don't have any choice about

heavy g. That bastard did us damage. My engineer says

we've got a gap flutter. We might go into tach and never

come out. If we want to get anywhere, we'll have to use

all the thrust we've got.'

 He paused; he seemed to want Morn to say something.

Better sense than you think. But she didn't respond. The

problem of g could wait: it didn't scare her now, not

with this warm ache surging through her veins and every

inch of her skin alive. As long as Nick was in her cabin,

she was safe from gap-sickness. Captain's Fancy wouldn't

increase thrust now: his hunger wasn't something he

could satisfy under hard acceleration.

 She held out her arms and waited. She couldn't see

her own face; but the way she felt must have been plain

to him.

 He came nearer, balancing against the ship's move-

ment effortlessly. With one hand, he unsealed the

blanket's velcro and flipped it aside. In one of the com-

partments of her mind, she flinched and tried to cover

herself again. But that compartment was closed; shut off.

All of her body aspired to his caress. She arched her back,

lifting her breasts for him.

 Still he didn't touch her; he didn't come into her

embrace. Instead he reached for the id tag on its fine

chain around her neck.

 He couldn't read the codes, of course, not without

plugging the tag into a computer. And he couldn't access

any of her confidential files without plugging her tag into

a Security or UMCP computer. However, like virtually

everyone in human space, he knew what the embossed

insignia meant.

 'You're a cop,' he said.

 He didn't sound surprised.

 Didn't sound surprised.

 Through the pressure mounting inside her, she

thought, He should be surprised. Then she realized: No.

He had an ally in Com-Mine Security. He could have

known from the day he first saw her that she was a cop.

 That possibility might help protect her. It would

encourage him to think about her in terms of covert

operations and betrayal, not helplessness and zone

implants.

 'You rescued me.' Her voice was husky, crowded with

desires which transcended reason or fear. 'I'll be anything

you want me to be.'

 For the moment that was true. The zone implant made

it true. She took hold of his hand, drew it to her mouth,

kissed his fingers. They left a trace of salt on her tongue

- the sweat of his concentration when he ran Captain's

Fancy out from Station; the sweat of his hunger.

 And yet, despite the way her whole body urged him,

he still held back. The demands of the zone implant

mounted in her; synapses she couldn't control fired out

messages of need. She didn't want him to talk; she

wanted him to come to her, come into her, quench him-

self in the center of her.

 'Is this the approach you used on Captain Thermo-

pile? Is that why he kept you alive?'

  'No,' she said automatically, 'no,' without thinking.

But she needed to think, had to think, because the next

words she would say without thinking were, He didn't

use this combination.

 Her own hunger seemed like a roar in her ears.

Swallowing hard to muffle it, to equalize the pressure,

she offered the cheapest answer Nick might accept.

'You've seen him. I left him for you. I couldn't feel this

way about him.'

 She knew nothing about him. Maybe he would be

vain enough to accept that.

 He wasn't. Or his vanity was too profound to be satis-

fied cheaply. He didn't move; his smile was crooked and

bloodthirsty. Try again.'

 Try again. Try again. She couldn't think. She wasn't

supposed to think, not while the zone implant did this to

her. What could she tell Nick that would be true enough

to be believed and false enough to protect her?

 'Please, Nick,' she said, almost whimpering with

urgency, 'can't we talk about this later? I want you now.'

 He smiled and smiled but he didn't relent. Instead, he

ran his hand down her chest and circled her breast with

his fingertips. Involuntarily this time, she arched her back

again. His smile and his eyes gave her no warning as he

nicked her nipple hard with one of his fingernails.

 Just for an instant the balance of the zone implant

shifted toward pain. She gasped; she nearly screamed.

 'Your name is Morn Hyland,' he said almost kindly.

'You're UMCP. And Angus Thermo-pile is the slimiest

illegal between forbidden space and Earth. He's sewage

- and you're one of the elite, you work for Min Donner.

He should have obliterated you. He should have taken

you apart atom by atom, and never risked coming back

to Com-Mine. Tell me why he kept you alive.'

 Fortunately the functions of the control recovered their

poise almost immediately. Her scream evaporated as if

it'd never existed.

 'Because he needed crew,' she answered. True enough

to be believed. 'He was alone on Bright Beauty. And I

was alone on Starmaster -I was the only survivor.' False

enough to protect her. There was nothing I could do

to threaten him. So I made a deal with him. He could

have left me to die.' She couldn't think - but she'd made

herself ready to answer him. 'He kept me alive to crew

for him.'

 Perhaps because she burned for him so hotly, she

seemed to see Nick struggling with himself. His scars

were black with blood; everything he looked at was

underlined by primal and acquisitive passion. His fingers

stroked her nipple as if to wipe away the hurt. She felt a

tremor in his muscles as he bent over her and lightly

kissed her breast.

 That's not good enough.' His voice seemed to stick

far back in his throat; it came out in a rasp. 'But it's a

start. Right now, I want you. You can tell us all the rest

later.'

 When Morn heard him unfasten his shipsuit, what was

left of her mind went blank with anticipation.

 Now at last she had a chance to learn what she needed

most to know about him.

 She had no conception of the romantic way her escape

from Angus Thermopyle to Nick Succorso was viewed

back on Com-Mine. The idea that anything about her

situation was romantic might have made her hysterical.

The first thing she learned was that Nick Succorso

       had limits. He could be exhausted.

          During the hours they spent wrapped around

each other in her berth, their roles were ones he set for

them: artist and instrument. He played her nerves as

though they were alive to his will, responsive to nothing

except his private touch. In her turn, she replied with a

kind of blind, willing ecstasy that bore no resemblance

to anything she'd ever felt with Angus Thermopyle - an

abandonment so complete that she seemed transported

into a realm of pure sex.

 For a while that terrified her: in one of her locked

compartments, she dreaded his effect on her. If he could

do this to her, if he could make her feel this and this, then

she was lost, useless; she had no hope.

 But then she discovered that 'artist' and 'instrument'

were only roles. She and Nick were acting out an illusion.

She was the one with the zone implant: she could have

kept going no matter how absolutely she responded to

his desires, how completely she abandoned herself. Until

the moment when her brain or body burned out, and her

synapses consumed themselves in an endorphin confla-

gration, she could do everything Nick required and

more.

 He, on the other hand-

 In a final burst, his intensity expended itself. Groaning

with pleasure, he collapsed suddenly into sleep.

 As his passion drained out of them, his scars lost their

fierceness. Without hunger behind them, they became

only pale and aging tissue, old wounds; the marks of

defeat.

 The artist ended, but the instrument endured.

 A little while passed before she understood what had

happened. When he slumped beside her, her first reaction

wasn't satisfaction or even triumph: it was disappoint-

ment. The need which drove her couldn't be satisfied by

anything less than a kind of neural apotheosis. She

wanted to ride the zone implant's emissions until she

went nova.

 But short of suicide he was the one who had limits.

She didn't.

 Because of that, the entire experience was an illusion.

 And the illusion was aimed squarely at him. She per-

formed it for his benefit: he was its victim. The appear-

ance that she abandoned herself, that she was wholly his,

was false.

 She had that much power.

 It might be enough to protect her. The thing she'd

dreamed and prayed and suffered for when she accepted

the zone implant control from Angus was starting to

come true.

 Then she felt a touch of satisfaction - and then a hint

of feral and necessary rage. In its concealed compart-

ment, her fury received its first taste of the food it craved.

When she'd betrayed Angus - when she'd enabled Nick's

people to plant Station supplies aboard Angus' ship by

disabling the blip which would have warned him

Bright Beauty's holds were unlocked - she hadn't felt any

rage. She'd been too caught up in the risk of what she

did; the danger of Angus' response, and her helplessness

against it.

 But now she felt that anger. One of her compartments

cracked open, and a passion hotter than the zone

implant's enforced yearning leaked out.

 It guided her hand as she reached under the mattress

and switched off the control.

 The transition was hideous. She was going to have to

learn how to manage transitions, or else the shock of

them would ruin her. They hadn't been this bad when

Angus held the control. Whatever he'd imposed on her,

she'd always been eager for it to end, frantic to regain

some sense of herself. But now the functions of the zone

implant were hers to choose. That made a profound dif-

ference.

 Earlier, waiting for Nick, she'd tried to prepare herself

for the flood of weariness which poured through her

when the implant was switched off. To some extent, she

was ready for that. But she wasn't prepared for the grief

she felt now, for the keen pain of resuming her ordinary

mortality. She'd lost something precious and vital by end-

ing her abandonment.

 However, the transition was swift. Or else it was more

complex than she realized. Faced with the knowledge

that she was only human after all, she started to cry -

biting her lip for silence, so that she wouldn't wake Nick.

But then, almost immediately, her rage came back to her.

And it was followed by her revulsion. If she was only

human, then Nick Succorso was only another version of

Angus Thermopyle: male; therefore ultimately interested

in sex only as a masque of rape and degradation.

 Now she had to bite her lip hard to keep herself from

crying out or flinching; to master the electric jolt of her

reaction against what Nick had just done to her. She had

to think, and think quickly-

 Not Angus. Not like Angus. Even if Nick were essen-

tially the same, he was effectively different. His passions

were less naked than Angus': he was caught up in the

masque. No, more than that: he liked the illusion that

his personal virility and magnetism were capable of

making her respond so utterly.

 And if he remained caught up in the masque, if she

could keep him there - if he liked the illusion enough-

 He would be blinded to the truth.

 Without realizing it, she'd stopped biting her lip. Her

need for that small hurt was over: her need to fling herself

away from Nick was receding. He looked vulnerable

now, asleep, and that had never been true of Angus.

Despite the long, clean line of his muscles, despite his

unmistakable grace and strength, he looked like he could

be killed before he woke up. That eased her revulsion.

 Now, perhaps, she could have rested. Most of the

immediate intensity of transition had declined: the weari-

ness remained. The external reality of her body, as

opposed to the internal reality of the zone implant, was

that Nick had used her extravagantly. She was acutely

sore in some places, and there was a price to be paid for

all those endorphins. Sleep would be good for her, if she

could sleep without dreaming about Angus. If she could

sleep without waking up back aboard Bright Beauty.

  But she didn't trust sleep. Nick had said, That's not

good, enough. She had that threat hanging over her. You can tell us all the rest later.

  She had more getting ready to do.

  Of course, the 'getting ready' she needed most

involved further experimentation with the zone implant

control. That was too dangerous, however. If Nick

caught her at it, she was finished. She left the zone

implant control where it was.

  Instead she tried to guess what 'tell us all the rest'

meant. Did he mean, 'tell us all', the whole crew? or, 'all

the rest"?

  None of us are safe while you're aboard.

  There were too many unknowns. She knew only one

thing about Nick, had only that one lever. Everything

else was blank. How much had he learned about her

through his contact in Com-Mine Security? What had

the UMCP told Com-Mine? How many of his secrets

did he share with his crew? What was their loyalty to him

based on: personal gain? success? reciprocity?

  Who was he, that he could get Com-Mine Security to

help him betray Angus Thermopyle?

  Since she had no way to approach any of her other

questions, she concentrated on that one.

  Angus Thermopyle was guilty of almost any illegal act

imaginable - and yet he was innocent of the specific crime

for which he'd been arrested. She knew the truth: she'd

been there when he was framed. That was disturbing

enough. But even more disturbing to her - considering

that she was UMCP born and trained - was Security's

complicity.

 Why would Security risk vital Station supplies to help

one known pirate betray another?

 No, worse than that: what on Earth possessed Security

to trust Nick Succorso against Angus Thermopyle?

 And here was another question, now that she thought

about it: why did Security let Nick take her?

 It was one thing to leave her alone with Angus. After

all, she'd used her UMCP authority to demand that

Com-Mine keep its hands off her. But it was something

else entirely to risk Station supplies to help one pirate

betray another, with a UMC cop in the middle, and then

to simply let that cop depart unquestioned. Why had

Security allowed her to leave its jurisdiction?

 Yet the issue was even more complex than that. Under

any circumstances, Com-Mine Security must have sent a

message to UMCPHQ when she first appeared with

Angus. Security would have relayed everything she said

and did to UMCPHQ as a matter of course. Why hadn't

Enforcement Division replied? Granted, communication

across interstellar distances was no instantaneous busi-

ness. Nevertheless gap courier drones could have carried

messages to UMCPHQ and back in a few days. Ordinary

ship traffic could have done the job in a couple of weeks.

Surely her time with Angus hadn't been too short to

permit a reply? And surely, if ED had replied, Security

wouldn't have let Nick take her?

 She was lost in it. If Min Donner, the Director of

Enforcement Division, had instructed Com-Mine Secur-

ity to let Nick Succorso take her- Mom couldn't get

past that point. There were too many levels involved, too

many implications of treachery. And she'd trusted the

UMCP from the day she was born: it was the same thing

as trusting her father.

 She had to stick with what she knew, or else she would

paralyze herself. She had to focus on the present; on

survival and the zone implant.

 She had to concentrate on Nick Succorso.

 Before she could get any further, the cabin intercom

chimed. A voice that sounded like Mikka Vasaczk's said

neutrally, 'Nick.'

 As if he'd never been asleep, Nick sat up and swung

his legs over the edge of the berth. Ignoring Morn, he

scrubbed his hands up and down his face for a second or

two: that was all the time he needed to collect himself.

While Morn was still trying to decide how to react, how

to play her role now, he stood up and keyed the intercom.

 'Here.'

 'Nick, you're wanted on the bridge.' The intercom

flattened the voice, made it sound impersonal; un-

touched.

 Nick didn't reply. Instead he keyed off the intercom

and reached for his shipsuit and boots.

 He still hadn't glanced at Morn.

 She was too vulnerable, too much at risk: she had to

say something. Swallowing weariness and old fright, she

asked with as much naturalness as she could summon,

What is it?'

 He finished sealing his shipsuit and pulling on his

boots before he turned to her.

 His eyes were bright; they focused on her with a keen-

ness, an inner intensity, which she might have loved, or

at least desired, if she'd met him before she met Angus

- if she'd never met Angus. Despite the easy way he

carried himself, he conveyed a tense, coiled quality, as if

his physical relaxation were a part of what made him

dangerous.

 He was smiling - even his tone of voice smiled - as he

said, We're pretty casual here. Not like the UMCP.' And

yet she knew she was being warned; perhaps threatened.

We've only got a few simple rules. But they aren't nego-

tiable. Here's one of them.

 When you hear the word "want", you don't ask. It

isn't up for discussion. You just do.

 'Understand?'

 Morn was definitely being threatened. Keeping her

face as blank as a mask, she nodded once, firmly.

 'Good,' he said.

 The door hissed open, and he was gone.

 When the door shut itself after him, she stayed where

she was and stared at his departure as if he'd turned her

off- as if he'd taken away her reasons for doing anything.

 Nick was Svanted' on the bridge. And want had a

special meaning aboard his ship. It was the command

that couldn't be questioned, the absolute imperative, like

the coded order her father might have given her if he'd

decided Starmaster had to self-destruct; if she'd let him

live, and the occasion to issue such an order had ever

arisen.

 Something had happened.

 Captain's Fancy was on a routine departure trajectory

out from Com-Mine Station. Presumably. What could

have happened? What was conceivable? What kind of

danger or exigency could have come up after only a few

thousand

 Almos kilometers

           t certainly, ;

                       th stil

                        e l within

                              explanatio Station'

                                        n involve s

                                                 d control space

                                                       Com-Mine in ?

                                                                 some way. It involved Security and Angus.

 Morn couldn't stop staring at the door, at the spot

where Nick had left her; she couldn't move. What was

she going to do now? She was losing control of her

compartments: pieces of doubt and black horror bled

together, combining like elements of a binary poison.

She wanted to flee, but she had nowhere to go. There

was nothing around her except panic.

 Riding a visceral tremble, as if she were caught at the

epicenter of a quake and needed to get away from it, she

decided to leave the cabin.

 Half expecting a shift in Captain's fancy's g which

would indicate a change of direction - to return to dock,

or to meet interceptors from Com-Mine - she left the

berth and began hunting through the built-in lockers for

a clean shipsuit.

 She found one easily: Captain's Fancy was equipped

for guests. Female guests, judging by the cut of the ship-

suits. But Morn hardly noticed the comfort of wearing

clothes that fit. She was in a hurry, and the only thing

she cared about was the tremors driving through her -

or the danger that they might make her do something

foolish.

 She sealed the shipsuit; located her boots in the san.

Because of the nature of her panic, she went back to the

berth and retrieved the zone implant control. She didn't

want to be separated from it.

 But then she stopped herself. The part of her which

had been shaped by Angus Thermopyle responded to

fear in ways which were new to her. Mere physical pos-

session of the control was dangerous. If she carried it

with her, anybody who searched her or simply bumped

against her could find it.

 Her cabin was the only simulacrum of privacy available

to her. She had to conceal the control somewhere here.

 Under the mattress was convenient, but too easy. With

the right tools, she would have preferred to open either

the door's panel or the intercom and bury the black box

among their circuit boards and wiring. Unfortunately she

only had the mending kit to work with.

 Inside her the tremble built so that every movement

felt unsteady as she went back to the san, to the mending

kit. She tossed some of the patches and velcro into the

disposal to make room; then she put the control in the

bottom of the kit and covered it with the remaining

supplies.

 That would have to do. If she stood where she was

and tried to imagine the perfect hiding place, the trem-

bling would break down her defenses, and she would

panic.

 Almost in a rush, she left the cabin.

 Exploring, that's what she would do, she would go

exploring. Nick hadn't told her to stay where she was.

And anybody would understand her desire to familiarize

herself with a new ship. As long as she didn't accidentally

gain the bridge.

 In part to keep her hands from shaking, and in part to

make the action habitual, so that no one would consider

it unusual, she shoved her fists deep into her pockets.

Then she started hurrying along the passage in the op-

posite direction from the lift Vasaczk had used to take

her to her cabin.

 No, she shouldn't hurry. She couldn't afford to be

caught hurrying. That would lead to questions.

 She could feel her will-power fraying under the strain,

but she forced herself to slow down, attempt a more

casual stride.

 She passed four or five doors, all of them identical to

hers; presumably Captain's Fancy had that much accom-

modation for passengers. Then she reached another lift.

 There was no way to leave this section of the ship

without using a lift. Bulkheads sealed both ends of the

passage. And the movement of all the lifts would be

monitored and controlled by Captain's Fancy's mainten-

ance computer. She couldn't use one without the risk of

attracting attention.

 She didn't want to be noticed.

 Her shaking grew more violent. Without realizing it,

she pulled her hands out of her pockets and covered her

face. For several moments she stood frozen in front of

the lift with her palms clamped over her eyes while her

shoulders quivered.

 She couldn't do it. Angus hadn't left her enough cour-

age. Nothing was safe enough. She should have stayed

in her cabin and worked with the zone implant control

until she found a cure for her fear.

 But in this state she might not have been able to make

her fingers hit the buttons she chose. And, in any case,

the computers could watch her door as easily as the lifts.

She'd already put herself in jeopardy by leaving her cabin.

 Slowly she pulled her hands down from her face. When

she'd succeeded at pushing one of them back into a

pocket, she used the other to key the lift.

 If the different levels served by the lift had been labeled,

she might have been able to make a neutral choice. If

she'd been able to think clearly, she might have been able

to reason out some of the ship's internal structure. Since

she didn't have anything else to go by, she took the lift

down one level and got out to look around.

 Almost at once she smelled coffee. By good fortune

she'd arrived near the galley. At a guess, this level was

the crew's: it contained the galley and mess, wardrooms

and cabins, used by Nick's people. It might also hold the

sickbay - a possibility she set aside for future exploration.

As soon as she smelled the coffee, she realized that some-

thing as simple and ordinary as hot, black caffeine might

be what she needed to steady her.

 She followed the smell away from the lift without paus-

ing to consider the likelihood that the galley was already

in use.

 She could smell coffee because the galley had no door:

it was essentially a large niche in one of the interior bulk-

heads, with equipment built into the three walls and a

round, easily reached table. She noticed a particularly

luxurious foodvend, quite a few storage cabinets for

staples and special supplies, and, of course, a coffee

maker. The pot steamed richly in the ship's dry

atmosphere.

 She also noticed a man sitting at the table.

 At the sight, she froze again. She didn't know whether

to retreat or move forward. Everything was dangerous,

and she didn't know which risk was preferable.

 But she remembered to keep her fists in her pockets.

 The man had his hands wrapped around a hot mug as

if he wanted the warmth. His fingers looked fat because

they were stubby, and his face looked fat because it was

almost perfectly round; nevertheless he was only com-

pact, not overweight. Like his face, his eyes were circles.

They were a gentle shade of blue Morn had never seen

before. Combined with his fine, sandy hair and his steady

smile, they made him look friendly.

 He glanced up as soon as she appeared. When he saw

her, his eyes and his smile showed mild surprise. She

obviously didn't disconcert him, however. He gave her a

moment to move if she could. Then he said, 'You look

like what you need most is sleep but you're too scared to

get it.' His voice was mild, too. 'Come have a cup of

coffee. It's fresh. Maybe I can give you a reason or two

to be less scared.'

 Morn stared at him. She wasn't prepared to trust any-

thing aboard Captain's Fancy - especially not mildness

from a total stranger. It might be camouflage, like Nick's

air of relaxation. She stood where she was, with her

elbows locked and her hands buried.

 Controlling her voice as well as she could, she said,

'You know who I am.'

 The man's smile held. 'I should,' he replied without

sarcasm. 'I saw you in Mallorys often enough. And you're

the only passenger Nick invited to go with us this time.

 That's one reason you're scared. We all know who you

are - we know that much about you. You don't know

any of us. You only know Nick, and that may seem like

it's not much help.'

 He paused, giving her a chance to say something or

move. When she didn't do either, he resumed.

 Well, let me introduce myself, at any rate. I'm Vector

Shaheed. Ship's engineer. Off duty at the moment. My

second is a pup off Valdor Industrial, where they don't

teach you anything, but he's competent to keep us going

under this much thrust. So I've got time to exercise my

only real talent, which is making coffee.'

 Morn continued staring at him. Her hands were damp

with sweat, but she kept them curled in her pockets.

 Stiffly, as if all his joints hurt - but still smiling -

Vector Shaheed stood up to get a mug from one of the

cabinets. He filled it at the steaming pot and set it on the

table for her. Then he seated himself again.

 That's not a reason to trust me, of course,' he con-

tinued. We're all illegals, and you're UMCP. You would

have to be crazy to trust any of us. But we're alone here,

and I'm willing to talk. You really can't afford to miss

an opportunity like this.'

 That made sense. Morn shook her head - not reject-

ing what he said, just trying to break herself out of her

paralysis. She felt a visceral desire to pull away from him.

His mildness was seductive: he was a trap. But she was

trapped anyway; and whatever he chose to reveal might

be useful.

 With a stiffness of her own, she entered the galley.

 She didn't take her fists out of her pockets until she

was sitting at the table. Then, abruptly, she pulled up

both hands and cupped them around the coffee mug. She

needed something to steady her so that she could think.

The coffee was seductive, too, but she was prepared to

trust it.

 He was right about one thing, anyway: he had a talent

for coffee. A couple of hot sips made her feel almost

instantly stronger. In simple gratitude, she said through

the steam, 'Thanks.' Then she sipped again.

 'That's better.' To all appearances, Vector Shaheed's

approval was genuine. 'I don't like to see anybody scared

- especially not a woman like you. Out here, there's many

an old spacer who thinks women are worth dying for. I

myself' - his smile became rueful for a moment - 'am

gratified just to have you sit here and drink my coffee.

 What would you like to know about us?'

 Without thinking, Morn asked, 'Where are we going?'

 Vector's smile lost none of its soft ease, but the muscles

around his eyes tightened. He drank some of his coffee

before he replied, 'You can probably guess that that's not

one of the subjects I'm prepared to talk about.'

 She shook her head again, chagrined by her own weak-