22

The fundamental principle is that no battle, combat, or skirmish is to be fought unless it will be won.

Che Guevara

Cuban revolutionary

Circa 1950

The Planet New Hope

Carnaby Orr liked Sharma's cigars. He was going to have a second one. And why not? The symbiote would mitigate the negative effects. He lit one, took a deep, satisfying drag, and surveyed the slums below. The mansion's defensive wall was four feet thick and offered an excellent vantage point. The paths were illuminated by torches. A breeze blew off the ocean. One of the torches sputtered and disappeared. Shadows moved, and a baby cried.

The industrialist heard footsteps and turned toward the sound. Ari looked lean and lanky, maybe too lean and lanky, but he liked her that way. His orgasm had been much more intense than usual. The result of his self-enforced celibacy? Chemicals the symbiote added to his bloodstream? Whatever it was felt good. He gave the bodyguard a hug. "You slept well?"

"Extremely well," Ari replied meaningfully. "Thanks to you."

Orr laughed delightedly. "Good. It doesn't seem fair, given what you've been through, but we have work to do. Once the wormhole belongs to us, there will be plenty of time to rest. The Voss boy is here, we know that for sure, and so are the coordinates. I can feel it. They were hidden on a Voss Lines ship, the kid either knew it or figured it out, and murdered a man to get them. His mother would be proud."

Ari looked out over the slums. The stamping mill was silent. It seemed as if the whole peninsula was holding its breath. Waiting. The hair rose on the back of her neck, and she took Orr's arm. "It's too quiet. I don't like it."

"Yeah, Sharma said the same thing," Orr replied casually. "He says they're lying in wait for us. So what? We've got his guards plus hired muscle. We'll go down, break a few heads, and take the place apart. It should be fun."

Orr? Breaking heads? Having fun? Ari looked to see if he was serious. Judging from his expression, it seemed that he was. First the hyperintense sex—now this. Her boss had changed. He seemed more powerful somehow. The bodyguard smiled. "Yeah—well, don't get carried away. I need you. For a good night's sleep if nothing else."

Orr knew she was playing to his ego and didn't mind a bit. He laughed and took her hand. It felt good to be alive. "Come on ... opportunity waits."

The waiting room had never been intended for someone of Rollo's size and temperament. That, plus his propensity for pacing back and forth, made the receptionist nervous. The fact that Torx had fallen asleep on her couch and was snoring loudly didn't help. The truth was that the High Commissioner could have seen the co-marshals during the previous day or nearly anytime since. Could have, but chose not to, for reasons she could only guess at.

Maybe it had something to do with the message torps that had arrived during the last twelve hours, or the aliens who came and went through the back door. Whatever it was had driven her to take up smoking after years of abstinence.

The floor creaked as Rollo reached the far end of his ten-pace journey, turned, and bumped her favorite plant. It toppled and fell. The Dromo was nudging the half-empty pot with his horn when the intercom buzzed. The receptionist touched a button and checked the screen. "Yes?"

The Commissioner looked tired. "Send them in."

The receptionist killed the link and breathed a sigh of relief. "Marshal Hypont?"

Rollo looked up from the plant. "Yes?"

"The Commissioner will see you now."

"It's about time," the Dromo grumbled. "Hey, Torx! Wake up! We've got work to do."

If the sound of the plant crashing to the floor hadn't been sufficient, the head nudge certainly was. The couch slid three feet and bumped a wall. Torx yawned and stretched. His fingers fluttered. "What time is it?"

"Four hours later than the last time you asked."

"Ah," the Treeth replied, "that would explain why I feel so rested. Nice couch—nearly as good as a tree. Did his highness send for us?"

"That he did," Rollo said grimly, "and just in time. You know how what happens when I get frustrated."

"Tsk, tsk," Torx signed. "None of that now. We can't afford the damages. And we sure can't afford to lose our pensions."

"Screw our pensions," Rollo replied ominously. "There's the door .. .you first."

The receptionist waited for the marshals to pass, righted her plant, restored the soil to its pot, and went to grab a quick smoke. Aliens. Who could understand them? She'd be glad when they were gone.

The Commissioner was a middle-aged man with thinning hair, slightly protuberant eyes, and an upturned nose. He'd been on the fast track once, a sure bet for Secretary of Commerce, when this sponsor, a senator from Earth, had taken a bribe. The scandal had ruined her career and capped his. The posting to New Hope seemed ironic at first, the final insult from a cruel, uncaring government.

Four years had passed since then, and the Commissioner had concluded that there were worse things than a high-ranking position on a backwater planet. Like swimming in political sewage all day, kissing ass all night, and hating what he was. All it took was the right amount of maturity to see his post for what it truly was, a paradise where his superiors never chose to visit and no one cared what he did. Or didn't do. Not until now anyway, when a pair of unlikely badge jockeys, a wayward rich boy, and a shipload of influence-wielding aliens had conspired to compromise his little hideaway. He could tell there were big uglies hiding in the bushes, the kind of big uglies he didn't want any part of, the kind that would draw attention to his hidey-hole. All was not lost, however. The Commissioner had a plan, and, assuming all parties agreed to it, he would rid himself of the entire lot.

The door opened, and the Commissioner rose. The marshals were no surprise. The Commissioner had met members of both species before. In fact, anyone who had ever witnessed a Dromo consuming hors d'oeuvres at an embassy reception while his companion swung from a chandelier wasn't likely to forget the spectacle anytime soon. His number-three smile conveyed welcome and a touch of pained superiority. He bowed at the waist.

"Marshal Torx ... Marshal Hypont... I apologize for the wait. However, it seems that any number of government officials are interested in your case—and have opinions on how it should be handled. More on that in a moment. Please allow me to introduce gendebeings Ka-Di and Sa-Lo. They represent the Traa government and hope to be of some assistance."

The aliens had been seated, albeit somewhat uncomfortably, on a pair of straight-backed wooden chairs. They stood at the mention of their names, nodded, and bore no discernible expressions. Rollo and Torx recognized the Traa as the same ones who had approached Natalie and absconded with one of lord's shuttles, but gave no sign of their knowledge.

Rollo knew a bureaucratic ambush when he saw one. Assistance, bullshit; the Traa wanted the coordinates, and saw the investigation as a quick way to get them. The very ploy that Torx and he had predicted. So how to play it? Hard, as in there are penalties for interfering with a murder investigation? Or easy, as in we'd just love to have your assistance— please tell us more?

Torx had an opinion and tapped it out. "Let's hear what they have to say ... we might learn something. If they tell too many lies, or attempt to lean on us, we can arrest them for stealing the shuttle."

The advice made sense, so Rollo forced a somewhat toothy smile. "Citizen Ka-Di, Citizen Sa-Lo, it's a pleasure to meet you. Particularly if you have information that would aid our investigation."

The Traa, who had absolutely no intention of aiding anyone with anything, tried to look sincere. It was Sa-Lo who answered. "The pleasure is ours."

The Commissioner, happy that things were going so well, started to offer seats, and realized his mistake. The Dromo would crush anything he sat on, assuming such a thing was possible, and the Treeth had appropriated a chair. That left him with nothing meaningful to say. Still, like millions of bureaucrats before him, the Commissioner said it anyway. "Well, now that everyone's acquainted, we might as well get down to business. Marshal Hypont, perhaps you'd be so kind as to characterize your investigation."

Rollo decided to play dumb, something Torx claimed he was good at, and frowned when the official lit a stim stick. Rather than lay out what they knew about Traa society, and their efforts to capture the Mescalero Gap, he focused on the murder investigation instead. It took less than ten minutes to review the murder, the trail that pointed toward a forced labor camp, and the need to search it, both for Ari Gozen, who was their main suspect, and the Voss boy, who, assuming he was alive, might be in danger. The only impediment was the requirement for a warrant—which the High Commissioner could and should issue. Having said that, and having choked on the Commissioner's cigarette smoke, the Dromo turned the tables.

"So, gentlebeings, in light of the murder investigation presently underway, Marshal Torx and I would like to hear whatever information you have to offer, as well as a detailed description of the assistance you hope to render. Oh, and one more thing ... Commensurate with Section 27, page 318, paragraph 4 of the rules, regulations and procedures covering intersystem criminal investigations, law enforcement personnel are required to record all relevant conversations, discussions, interviews, and interrogations. Please proceed. Taping now." Torx produced a small recorder and smiled disarmingly.

The Traa looked at each other in alarm. The last thing they wanted to do was speak for the record. The entire point of the exercise was to blunt the inquiry, or, failing that, to co-opt the investigation and redirect the process. However, due to the fact that the co-marshals weren't the out-planet hicks the Traa had hoped for, the first objective seemed increasingly unrealistic. Sa-Lo tackled the second.

Everyone knew, or thought they knew, about Sharma's mercenaries and why they were present. The wreck master abused the Voss boy, the kid punched his ticket, and the owner wanted revenge. More than that, he wanted to make an example of Voss, something most workers could live with, except for one thing: Past manhunts, like the one directed at Dorn Voss, had been indiscriminate, and had affected the entire community. Plus, La-So liked the kid, and claimed he was innocent. So they were willing to fight. Never mind that La-So abhorred violence and begged them not to.

Some of the workers had been soldiers and took charge of the semiorganized defense effort. The strategy originated with Lawrence Kane, a onetime sergeant major. Like the others who been around for a while, he knew what would happen. The security forces would exit the compound through the main gate and follow the road into the slums. Then they would split into groups and follow side paths out into the community. During the premeditated rampage that followed, men would be beaten, women raped, homes looted, and neighborhoods burned to the ground. With one quick stroke the security forces would make the workers more dependent on the company and destroy whatever socioeconomic infrastructure had established itself since the previous cleansing. An infrastructure that, like a noxious weed, was certain to sprout culture, norms, and worst of all, leaders, none of which was acceptable.

Like any good strategy, the one Kane came up with was simple. By sealing the side paths and forcing the security forces down a funnel, he would push them into a trap. People understood the plan and liked it. Word spread, and work began. Teams of haulers dragged raw materials to the edge of the road, where wreckers wove junk into eight-foot-tall barricades, which they would defend using long wooden spears, each crafted by a sifter and tipped with contraband metal.

Dorn, who felt personally responsible for the crisis, offered to turn himself in. Kane, along with other community leaders, refused. The ex-sergeant major was not especially large but radiated strength and authority. He wore a carefully groomed handlebar mustache and hair so short Dorn couldn't tell what color it was. He had green eyes, and they glittered when he spoke. ' "That took guts, son, and if we thought it would save lives, they'd be strappin' you to a cross right now. Only trouble is that it wouldn't make much difference. Sharma ain't about to back down, not with the muscle he hired, and that Orr guy egging him on. The best thing you can do is lend a hand. Nobody blames you for what happened. Pull your weight—that's all anyone can ask."

Dorn pulled his weight and then some as he teamed with old companions to haul materials up from the beach. It was hard work, damned hard work, and equal to working the surf. He didn't mind, though, and neither did the others, because they were determined to strike back.

The foursome loaded their slings with an odd assortment of lumber and hauled it up the hill. A gang of children ran by, water trailing from the buckets they carried, heading toward a fire station. La-So had enlisted Myra as a medic and, along with other volunteers, was building a makeshift hospital. Dorn wondered how Myra was doing, prayed she'd be okay, and released the sling. The boards crashed to the ground. The barricades were impressive and growing by the hour. He wondered how much time remained and hurried down the hill.

Torches flickered and bottles passed back and forth as Orr's toughs and Sharma's security forces mingled in the compound. Exoskeletons had been brought up from the beach. Servos whined and shadows flickered as the machines stalked from place to place. Past experience had proved them invaluable for ripping the roofs off shanties.

Sharma entered the courtyard through the kitchen. He was furious with his daughter. First because she'd left the family compound without permission, and second because she'd known who the Voss boy was and kept it to herself. All of which had led to the potentially disastrous situation before him.

The slums were like a well-maintained compost heap, in that they required turning from time to time. Not too frequently, however, since excessive chum led to high costs and low productivity. Not that Orr cared. No, the industrialist had decimated Sharma's cigar supply and hijacked his security forces all without so much as a by-your-leave. Now he planned to grab the Voss boy and his wormhole. Owning a wormhole! Imagine! It could have been his, would have been his, if Seleen had any brains.

Sharma sighed, checked to make sure his sidearm was loaded, and left the porch. He didn't relish a foray into the slums, but Orr was going, and that left him no choice. Not if he wanted to retain his people's respect and limit the amount of destruction they caused. But everything wasn't lost. No, Orr might be a tough negotiator, but so was Sharma, and the industrialist had affixed his thumbprint to an exclusive salvage contract. Not a wormhole, perhaps, but millions over the next ten years, and all for the family. Except for Seleen, that is, who would spend the next four years with a rather strict religious sect, making prayer rugs for the poor. The thought made the salvage operator feel better and put a spring into his step.

Orr was about to address the troops when he saw Sharma move into the courtyard. Ari shouted for their attention and got it. "Hey! Listen up! Mr. Orr has something to say."

Orr, conscious of the fact that Sharma resented his presence, pointed toward the salvage operator. "Let's hear it for Mr. Sharma!"

A cheer went up and died away. It was a nice gesture, and Sharma was pleased. Orr placed hands on hips. He looked as if he'd conquered the wall rather than climbed on top of it. "All right, people, you know who we're looking for. His name is Voss, Dorn Voss, and he's wanted for murder. Justice must be done. However, before this young man pays for his crime, I want to speak with him. I'll pay one thousand credits to the man or woman who drags him in. Providing he's alive, that is."

Ari stepped forward. Her eyes were bright and her voice was hard. "Did you hear that? One thousand credits! Let's hear it for Mr. Orr!"

A cheer went up. Ari noticed that it was at least ten times louder than the one Sharma had received. Orr waved his cigar in acknowledgment. "The talking's over—go get 'em!"

The cheer was spontaneous this time, and they surged toward the gate. It opened on well-oiled hinges. Ari noticed that in spite of her efforts to integrate all of them into a single force, Sharma's security people had instinctively clumped together, as had the mainland toughs. This troubled the bodyguard and didn't bode well for a coordinated effort. Still, the task before them wouldn't call for much cooperation, Ari assumed. Both groups crowded through the gate and started down the hill. Spirits were high, and there was no attempt at discipline.

A group of household servants had gathered to watch. Most favored the slum dwellers. Fimbre stood to one side and frowned. He found the whole thing distasteful. Yes, discipline was an absolute requirement for a stable society, but this was uncalled for. A role for each, and each in their role. That's what he believed in. Anything else led to anarchy. He thought about sending the servants inside, decided the show would expire on its own, and retired to his room. A glass of sherry and one of Mrs. Sharma's books—now that was the way to pass an evening.

Dee Dee, Ahmad, and Dougie were hidden amongst the junk that bordered the slums. The area immediately behind them had been evacuated on the theory that the toughs would strike there first. Dee Dee had recovered the data ball and wore it in a pouch that hung from her neck. She twisted the thing this way and that while they waited. Ahmad saw movement and pointed toward the gate. "Look, Dee! Here they come!"

Dougie saw the exoskeletons marching out front, heard dogs barking with excitement, and wanted to pee. This in spite of the fact that he'd gone only fifteen minutes before. "Come on, you two... we gotta tell Kane."

"Not yet," Dee Dee countered grimly. "Kane said to count 'em, so we gotta count 'em."

"What if there's more than ten? I can't count more than that."

"So, count the skeletons," Ahmad said patiently. "We'll handle the people."

Dougie swore, fought his bladder, and counted exoskeletons. They, like the people behind them, were silhouetted against the mansion's security lighting. "Three ... four ... five. There's five! I see five!"

"Good," Dee Dee replied. "I counted sixty-three goons. Ahmad? How 'bout you?"

"Sixty-one," the boy answered. "But it's hard to tell with people moving around."

"We'll split the difference," Dee Dee said pragmatically. "Sixty-two it is. Let's tell Kane." The children backed away, faded into the shadows, and scampered toward the center of the slums. Dougie ran fastest of all.

The barricades were as good as they were going to get. They were wide where the slums began and narrowed until they closed on what Kane referred to as "the killing zone."—a cul de sac surrounded by head-high walls.

Dorn, who still felt guilty about his role in precipitating the crisis, had volunteered for what Kane referred to as "the bait patrol," a mixed force of workers who would engage the goons and draw them into the killing zone. It was dangerous duty, the worst possible, which explained why Dorn sought it out. Having done so, it seemed natural to accept a steel wrecking bar and march next to Jana. She and Sandro had been named as noncoms and led teams of twelve people each. Dorn noticed the axe the woodcutter carried and shivered. If someone was wounded with it, there would be little chance of survival. There was a hollow feeling in his stomach.

Orr had fought hundreds of intellectual duels in which the victor fired words and the loser hemorrhaged money. However, with the exception of some boyhood fistfights, and one barroom brawl in college, he'd never been part of an honest-to-god battle. The prospect was quite invigorating, and made even more so by the knowledge that unlike those around him, he'd survive anything short of a bullet through the head. Yes, Orr thought as Ari took her place in front of him, the prudent man has at least one insurance policy, and two if he can afford it.

Though ostensibly civilian craft, Traa landers were equipped like assault boats, including high-performance propulsion units. They raced just above the whitecaps and traveled at four hundred miles per hour. Torx was impressed but careful not to show it. The decision to accept a ride from the Traa had been part pragmatism, part politics. The Traa, who had previously blocked their attempts to obtain a search warrant, proved remarkably cooperative when invited to come along. The invitation to use their in-atmosphere flight craft followed. That, plus the fact that Captain Jord had refused to loan the marshals his remaining shuttle, led to an agreement in which both parties would arrive simultaneously and monitor each other's activities, an arrangement that was sure to come apart if Jord learned the Traa were involved.

The lander rocked from side to side as a gust of wind hit from the south. Rollo, who'd been roped to the cargo area's deck, braced himself, and put a curse on bipedal ship designers. Natalie Voss freed herself from a Traa-style jump seat and crossed the deck. She grabbed a strap, jerked the slack out of it, and secured the loose end. "There, that should do it."

The marshal looked back over his shoulder. "Thank you. I was built to swim .. .not fly."

Natalie patted his back. "Still, you get around when you need to."

The Dromo smiled. "We do what we have to. Don't worry so much. Your brother is fine."

Natalie forced a smile. "You think so?"

The Dromo delivered a human-style nod. "Absolutely."

Natalie smiled. A real one this time. "You're probably right. Dorn's fine and I'm worried for nothing."

Having been alerted by Dee Dee, Ahmad, and Dougie, Kane ordered the bait patrol to make contact. Like thousands of soldiers before him, Dorn felt a rock hit the bottom of his stomach and heard blood pound in his ears. Everything was clear and sharp—the smell of his own sweat, the feel of gravel beneath his sandals, and the glow up ahead.

The street curved, and it wasn't long before they saw the exoskeletons, torches, and a mass of undifferentiated bodies. The blob looked like a monster with thirty arms, thirty legs, and too many heads. It roared and rushed to meet them.

"All right," Jana shouted over the noise. "Remember the plan. We engage, then retreat. Are you ready?" The team roared their defiance, and Dorn yelled with the rest.

Jana lifted her wrecking bar over her head. "Charge!" The battle was joined.

"You ready?" Dee Dee asked tersely. "We gotta be quick."

Dougie looked out onto the street. The bait patrol was running uphill and the goons were running down. In seconds, a minute at most, the whole lot of them would collide in front of him. Then he and his friends would dash out, hook a rope onto an exoskeleton, and pull it over. It was a stupid, nearly suicidal plan. He checked Dee Dee and Ahmad. They appeared eager and ready to go. What was wrong with them, anyway? Couldn't they see how stupid it was? Or did the problem lie inside him? Dougie swallowed the lump in his throat. His voice was thick and raspy. "Yeah, I'm ready. Let's get it over with."

The combatants came together. There were grunts of expelled air, a variety of oaths, and the clank of steel on steel. Some of the goons had firearms, but weren't supposed to use them. Not when each death lowered Sharma's profits by two or three hundred credits. A wrecking bar stabbed at the salvage operator's groin. He parried and back away. The key was to look aggressive but survive.

Orr uttered a shout of pure joy and waded into the battle. Besides the weapon holstered on his hip, he carried a four-foot nightstick wrapped with metal. It rang on pipe. The wrecker holding the pipe was strong, very strong, and pushed the industrialist back. Orr's fear turned to rage as the symbiote added chemicals to his blood. He pushed the other man off balance and struck with the club. It fell on an unprotected shoulder. Bone cracked; the man fell to his knees and begged for mercy. Orr laughed, raised the club, and crushed the man's skull. He died instantly. It was a new kind of power, and Orr drank it in.

Dorn discovered that the strength gained as a hauler and the martial arts techniques learned from his sister made an effective combination. A man moved forward, raised his baton, and prepared to strike. Dorn shifted his weight, aimed for the man's knee, and launched a side kick. The blow connected, cartilage gave, and the man went down.

The goon was still falling, still screaming, when something hit Dorn from behind. It knocked him facedown, drove the air out of his lungs, and opened his wound. He rolled right and fought for air as a rust-covered pod landed next to his head.

An exoskeleton! The thought had no more than crossed Dorn's mind when the rest of the machine towered above him. He watched the pod rise, center itself over his chest, and start to fall. He rolled clear, and was scrambling to his feet when a group of children appeared.

One yelled, "Hey, shitface," while another hooked a rope to one of the exoskeleton's legs, and the third pulled. Nothing happened until the other two tailed on. A pod came off the ground, the machine swayed, and toppled over. Dorn recognized Dee Dee and shouted her name. He might have followed, might have caught her, if Jana hadn't yelled over the noise.

"Fall back! It's time to fall back!" Sandro echoed the order, took a blow to the head, and fell. The battle passed him by. It took a while to disengage, to retreat as a unit, but the workers managed to do so. Orr, seeing the enemy waver, charged forward. The mercenaries followed.

Ari broke a man's arm, put a needle through his temple, and frowned. Fall back? Why? The workers had held their own. It didn't make sense. Not to be outdone by the mercenaries, Sharma's security forces followed their lead. They ran full out, yelling their heads off, oblivious to their surroundings. Their employer, clearly wishing he were somewhere else, followed along behind. That was when Ari noticed the barricades, the way the street narrowed, and knew what lay ahead. The bodyguard started to jog, to call Orr's name, but knew it was too late. A wall of flesh and steel appeared, parted to let the fugitives through, and closed behind them. Orr attacked like a madman. The rest followed.

Torx watched pinpricks of light grow larger until they took on meaning. Huge starships, hulls eternally grounded, flashed under the fuselage. A mansion, lights blazing, stood on a promontory. Hundreds upon hundreds of torches outlined streets and paths. A blob of light appeared, and Torx strained to see. The pilot said something in Traa, Ka-Di barked a reply, and the aircraft banked to the right.

Rollo struggled to stay upright and spoke into a Dromo-sized headset. "Torx? What's going on?"

The Treeth tapped an answer into his belt pad. Each contact created a corresponding vibration against the Dromo's skin. "A batde of some sort," the Treeth answered calmly. "Right at the center of town."

"Order them to put us down," Rollo said firmly, "and I mean now."

"Your wish is my command, oh lawful one," the Treeth replied. It took some gesturing to communicate with the pilot, but he got the idea eventually, and switched the landing lights on. They carved paths through the night.

Orr bellowed his triumph as the workers wavered, broke, and fell back. Ari was there, shouting something into his ear, but he refused to hear. Not while faces filled with fear, flesh gave beneath the force of his weapons, and blood roared in his ears. The industrialist waved his bloodstained truncheon and urged the troops onward. Ari followed for a ways, stopped, and let the mob go. The street was only fifteen feet wide, and the end was near. She was standing there, watching the insanity, when Sandro, who had come to his senses, and stumbled down the street, cut her down.

Dorn turned on his pursuers. He was angry now ... too angry to run. Five or six lassos settled over the remaining exoskeleton and pulled it over. A cheer went up, and the troops looked confused. Dorn waved a fist at them. "Come on, you bastards! Fight!"

A hand grabbed Dorn's belt and jerked him backwards. He swore, stumbled, and fell. The barricade opened. There were five surviving members of the bait patrol. Four staggered to safety, and Dorn, alone except for the goons, remained where he was. The attackers turned in his direction and were about to finish him off, when the sifters slid their spears through holes provided for that purpose and skewered those within reach. Orr's mercenaries, and Sharma's men panicked, ran toward the mansion, and were blocked by a company of angry wreckers.

Sharma, along with a number of his security people drew handguns, and were about to use them, when beams of white light pinned them in place. The Traa ship rumbled ominously as it circled above. The repellors hummed and debris flew into the air and whirled through the lights. A voice came from above. ' 'Remain where you are ... do not move. Confederate marshals are on the ground ... do as they say."

Rollo, happy to be off the damnable ship, pushed his way through the workers. Torx, armed with a submachine gun, rode his neck. The muzzle commanded the crowd. Natalie followed behind. The Dromo spoke into his headset. "Make way, make way, Confederate marshals coming through." Mouths dropped open and faces registered surprise as the law enforcement officers pushed toward the center of the trap.

Natalie, eager to see, moved to the left. She recognized Dorn the moment she saw him. He was bigger now, much bigger, and covered with blood. The bar code looked like a sun-faded tattoo. He stood alone, until a man she recognized as Carnaby Orr stepped into view. He took two steps forward and raised his pistol. Time seemed to slow. "Dorn Voss?" he asked.

Natalie's blood ran cold as she heard her brother answer, "Yes, I'm Dorn Voss."

Orr looked curious. "Did you find them? The coordinates?"

Dorn felt strangely calm as he stared down the pistol barrel. Would he see anything as the bullet emerged? His voice came from a thousand miles away. "Yes, I found the coordinates."

Orr nodded as if satisfied. "I was right, then. Well, say good-bye to your friends, son, because you and I..."

Later it would seem strange that the person who took Carnaby Orr's life had never heard of him before. His name was Jorge Petras, and he had survived the camp for twelve long years. Though not especially smart, he was resourceful and extremely resilient. Petras lived while others died. Still, the years took their toll, and finally, after what seemed like an eternity of suffering, he could take no more. He had to strike back. Orr made an obvious target.

The spear was a homemade affair, taken from a woman who had fallen. The point, fashioned from a piece of hull metal, gleamed with reflected light. The yell came from deep within, from ancient ancestors long dead, and shattered the silence. Petras charged. He sensed bodies moving to intercept him, heard someone shout, and saw Orr turn. The pistol winked red.

Petras felt the bullet tear his body, staggered, and kept his feet. The spear was heavy now ... it took all his strength to hold it up. Petras knew he would die and looked forward to it. He took two additional bullets before the spear entered Orr's belly. Freedom felt good.

Orr was surprised when the spear point went in. Surprised that a scarecrow could take so many bullets and live, surprised that anything like this could happen to him, and surprised that it hurt so much. Where was Ari? Damn the bitch anyway. He grabbed the shaft, tried to pull it out, and felt the ground slam against his back. He was conscious, which seemed like an advantage. But it wasn't.

The industrialist felt something stir deep inside his belly. He wasn't sure what it was at first. Then he knew. The symbiote! It had assessed the damage and written him off. Orr screamed as the organism enlarged the hole in his belly, ripped connectors free from his nervous system, and worked its way to the surface.

Dorn stared in open-mouthed amazement as loops of intestine slithered out of Orr's abdomen and onto the ground. Something, he wasn't sure what, separated itself from the mess and humped its way toward one of the wounded. It was halfway there when a huge, plate-sized foot landed on it. The symbiote made a popping noise and ceased to exist. Orr died a moment later.

"The party's over," Rollo announced calmly. "Surrender your weapons."

Sharma ordered his men to obey, and a wide assortment of clubs, spears, and wrecking bars clattered to the ground as Natalie approached her brother. "Dorn? It's Nat."

Dorn grinned. "Hi, Nat. You sure as hell took your time."

Natalie laughed and gave him a hug. His body was covered with blood. She wondered how much was his. "Dorn... Mom and Dad..."

Dorn hugged his sister and realized she was shorter than he was. "Yeah, I know. We have lots of catching up to do."

"Dorn? Are you all right?" The voice came from behind. Dorn turned to see Myra hurrying toward him. She held Dee Dee by the hand, and La-So brought up the rear. Truth was, his wound hurt again but he ignored it. "I'm fine, just fine. Myra, Dee Dee, and La-So, this is my sister Natalie."

Myra looked self-conscious, Dee Dee peppered Natalie with questions, and La-So turned his attention to one of the wounded. The lights reappeared, chased each other around the ground for a moment, and centered on Dorn. The assault craft hovered to one side. Rollo recognized the voice as belonging to the commercial being known as Sa-Lo. "Surrender the coordinates or die. The choice is yours."

Dorn blinked in surprise. What the hell was going on? Everyone seemed to know about the coordinates. He pushed the others away. "Then kill me! You can't have them!"

La-So got to his feet and wiped the blood off his paws. The voice, a Traa voice, sounded familiar, very familiar, and he shaded his eyes against glare. His voice was loud and carried well. "Sa-Lo? Is that you? Stop this nonsense immediately. You should be ashamed of yourself."

Silence reigned. A light found La-So and bathed him in brilliance. Then, unable to trust what his eyes were seeing and his ears were hearing, Ka-Di emerged from the shadows. He approached, stopped, and exposed the back of his neck. "Greetings, Uncle La-So. Many years have passed."

"They have treated you well," La-So said ritually. "Have you followed the one true path?"

"Yes ... no ... I'm not sure," Ka-Di replied soberly. "The Mountain of the Moons exploded. Most of the Philosopher Sept was killed. La-Ma was there and we miss her counsel."

Sadness filled La-So's eyes. "I am sorry, Ka-Di. Come, let us leave these beings in peace. You will tell me all that transpired and we will make things right."

The warrior nodded obediently and followed where La-So led. The ship, still hovering above, did likewise. Natalie watched them go, then turned to her brother. "So, Dorn, where are the coordinates?"

Dee Dee giggled and held the data ball up to the light. It gleamed, and somewhere in the deep blackness of space, a wormhole waited.