21

Captain Poulos had not exaggerated his warning. From the moment the mate, Offenbach, had taken Gareth in charge, he had been assigned one physically strenuous task after another. He could not remember having worked this hard in his life, and he seemed to have been given the heaviest lifting. The reason for this had become clear during one of his infrequent breaks. One of the other crew, an older man with a potbelly and a hooked nose, explained that the Lamonica couldn’t afford to upgrade its artificial gravity, and despite a program of exercise, prolonged time in space weakened both muscle and bone. They’d been a long time looking for a safe port, meaning one where the Federation Spaceforce wouldn’t find them. They’d gotten weaker, but their cargo hadn’t gotten any less massive.

“Local labor, that’s the thing. Cheap, and the gravity don’t wear ’em down none,” Potbelly had concluded, spitting a wad of something brown and foul-smelling. It narrowly missed Gareth’s feet and landed with a squishy sound.

Local labor, indeed.

Toward dusk, Gareth lowered himself to the ground in a rough circle with the rest of Lamonica’s crew. They sat outside, relaxing in the breeze that sprang up with the lengthening shadows. It wasn’t much cooler than the rest of the air and carried a bitter tang, but it was better than the stale, heavy air of the prefab structures. Gareth had not yet had the chance to go inside the ship itself, but he understood from the other men that the air there was even worse.

Gareth rested his forehead against his folded arms on his knees. He wished he had the privacy to take out his starstone and attempt a little laran healing on himself. Grandmother Linnea had taught him only the most basic monitoring, but with the proper motivation, such as aching in every joint and muscle, he was sure he could figure the rest out.

“You’re all right,” Potbelly said to Gareth, punching him none too gently in the shoulder.

“For a native,” one of the other men quipped, but without malice.

“If you off-worlders are so superior,” Gareth groaned, “you can carry my share tomorrow.”

“Shy-oot up, Taz,” one of the others said.

“Shy-oot? Where’d you learn to talk like that?”

“Gods of space, not another of Robbard’s bad jokes! Spare the poor boyo!”

“Spare you, you mean!” The repartee went back and forth, with no one having much energy to take it beyond a few enigmatic jibes.

“What’s in those crates, anyway?” Gareth spoke up when the pauses lengthened. “Rocks?”

“Nothing you need to know about,” Robbard said, an edge in his voice.

“Leave the kid be,” said Taz. “It’s just a question. If you’d been hauling several times your sorry weight all day, you might want to know it was worth the while.”

“Kid doesn’t need to know.” Robbard squinted against the sun, low against the line of western hills. “Captain wouldn’t like it.”

Gareth kept his head down. “I didn’t mean anything.”

“Robbard’s right,” Potbelly said. “It’s safer not to ask. Curiosity’s not too healthy in certain lines of work, if you take my meaning. If Captain Poulos wants you to know, he’ll tell you.”

Offenbach stuck his head out of one of the smaller structures. “Grub!”

With the others, Gareth collected a packet of food cubes and a cup of some synthetic material. He shook his head at the offer of a ration of space grog. One whiff convinced him of its potency, and he had no intention of impairing his faculties. The food cubes foamed up into thick paste on contact with the air. Some of the crew scooped it up with their fingers, others took out metal spoons. Gareth found the concoction flat and unappetizing, although he assumed it was nutritionally adequate. The roasted antelope and spiced grain he’d eaten at Nuriya faded into a dream that had happened to someone else.

He drew out a cup from the water cask, then paused. It looked and smelled safe enough, although with the alkali reek characteristic of oasis water. He’d been drinking it all day without a thought.

“Something wrong?” Taz appeared at his elbow.

“N-no. I was just wondering. This water’s local, isn’t it?”

“You think we got fuel to burn, carting around our own water? Nah, we get it dirtside.”

Gareth shrugged. Water was heavy, as he’d learned from their trek across the Sands of the Sun. “From the village?”

“Gods of space, that’s awful stuff!” Taz twisted the valve and filled his own cup, took a mouthful, swished it and spat it out. “You couldn’t give it away on a decent planet!” Frowning, he regarded Gareth. “What’s it to you where it comes from?”

“I was just curious. I wondered what the villagers had given the captain in exchange for the blasters.”

The spacer’s suspicious expression eased. “Now you’re thinking like one of us! Everything’s a bargain, you see. The secret’s all in knowing what the other giz wants and how much he’ll pay. This bokk-piss masquerading as water, the yokels think it’s so valuable! They’re too dumb to realize it’s this place we need.”

He means Darkover, an ideal base and staging area now that the Federation’s no longer here to enforce its laws.

Gareth broke the pause that followed. “Do you go into the village for water? Won’t there be trouble after the way Captain Poulos sent the headman away?”

“Nah.” With a roll of his eyes, Taz indicated a cleft in the inner rim of the rock wall, perhaps a mile distant. “This’s from a well off yonder. Don’t you worry none about the locals getting to it. We know how to protect our own. One of them tries—zap!—he gets one nasty surprise.”

“Why didn’t you set up camp closer to the water?”

“Too close to the rocks.” Taz made a sucking sound through his teeth as he squinted at the sharply eroded hillside. “Winds ain’t exactly friendly.”

Gareth nodded, thinking of the unpredictable air currents in the Hellers Range, which had made mapping and exploration by aircraft impossible. Whole sections of those mountains remained uncharted, at least by human explorers. Several of Darkover’s nonhuman sentient races, the shy arboreal trailmen and the chieri, found sanctuary there. The chieri were probably extinct; no one had seen a living specimen since Keral ventured from the forests to aid Grandfather Regis against the World Wreckers.

“Besides,” Taz went on, “it ain’t like the well is far, not by space measure. We haul it back in a crawler, but we’ve only got the one, so we load it up good. We’ll need to fill up tomorrow, most like. Want to come?”

Gareth managed an expression of eagerness. “If the captain can spare me.”

In response, Taz took another draught, swished and spat, then downed the rest of his cup. From this, Gareth deduced there was little chance he would not be needed.

As if to emphasize his doubt, a warning klaxon blurted out a series of short, ear-rattling blasts. The other men went about their business, finishing the meal and an assortment of personal tasks, including lining up at the ultrasound unit that substituted for bathing.

Gareth remained, watching the shuttle rise in billows of superheated dust. The shuttle dwindled to a pinpoint of reflected brightness against the purpling sky. Now that he knew how to look for it, he found the starship, smaller than pearly Mormallor but larger than any of the stars. The Lamonica itself never landed on a planet’s surface. It wasn’t built for the descent through the atmosphere. Instead, two shuttle craft alternated shipside and dirtside. In addition, each was capable of low-altitude flight.

Meal and sanitation accomplished, the crew headed off to their barracks in one of the smaller prefabs. Gareth had thought that they, like the characters in tri-vids or the stories he’d heard about Darkovan outlaws, would stay up half the night drinking and gambling, or at very least sharpening their weapons. But there was nothing to drink beyond water and the small ration of space grog, these men didn’t fight with knives, and the unrelenting gravity left them exhausted. They didn’t even set a watch; that was accomplished by mechanical instruments. Gareth wondered what Dom Mikhail or Tío Danilo, both of whom had served their time in the City Guard, would say to that.

Although his muscles ached, Gareth wasn’t tired enough to sleep. It was almost full dark, and he could hear none of the usual night noises. From the center of the camp, the lights on their poles emitted an occasional crackle, and various other machinery hummed or clicked. He tried to imagine what it must be like in space, encased in tons of metal, all of it cold and noisy.

He thought of seeking out Captain Poulos again, before it got too late, and trying once more to convince him. By his calculations, Lord Dayan’s men could not have been more than a day or two behind. Why hadn’t they shown up? The villagers could not have mounted an effective resistance, and Cuinn might well have welcomed them as powerful allies, as instruments of revenge.

Maybe the Shainsa party hadn’t made it across the Sands of the Sun. Maybe they’d tried for the shorter route and missed the watering places, or had ridden their horses to exhaustion and death. Gareth, having grown up with people who treasured their horses, shuddered at the idea, but he was enough of a realist to know that not every culture, or every man for that matter, felt the same. To some, horses were no more than a means of transport, disposable and interchangeable, whose lives and suffering counted for nothing. Horses . . . and people.

He wondered if he had been one such, or might have been. Or still was. He’d bolted from Thendara with no care for the worries he would cause, the anxiety he’d bring to the people who loved him. He thought of his parents arriving to find him gone. Of Tío Danilo’s expression.

He’d been as thoughtless and irresponsible as everyone believed he was. Nothing had changed since he was fourteen; no matter how hard he tried, it never would. You can’t build a castle out of eggshells, after all. He’d thrown away the small measure of respect and trust he’d earned, and for what? For some overblown notion of duty? More like self-delusion!

The threat he’d so romantically envisioned, the raiding party from Shainsa, was never going to materialize. There was nothing left for him, no justification for prolonging this whole misguided escapade. He saw no other choice than to return to Nuriya tomorrow at first light to beg for a guide across the desert.

“You. Boyo.” The giant guard had approached so silently, he emerged ghostlike out of the shadows. Without taking his eyes off Gareth, he tilted his head toward the shuttle.

Poulos had summoned him.

When Gareth and his escort entered, Poulos and Offenbach were bending over a crate at the far end, its lid partly open. Like the other crates, it was not made of wood but of some synthetic material. Scuff marks stood out pale and rough on the dark gray surface.

The mate reacted to Gareth’s arrival, blaster in hand as he straightened up. Gareth froze. Adrenaline swept away any trace of curiosity as to what was in the crate. Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth what a single look might cost him.

Poulos said, “As you were,” and Offenbach lowered the muzzle of his weapon.

“Secure that,” Poulos told his mate, meaning the crate. “We’ll finish up later. It’s time for a chat with our new recruit.”

A few moments later, Gareth found himself as before, standing on the other side of the battered worktable from the seated captain. Offenbach slipped out the door, but the guard remained. Also as before, Gareth had no doubt that any suspicious behavior on his part would be promptly and unpleasantly terminated.

“I hear you’re a good worker,” Poulos said, his tone light. “But then, this is a primitive world. Such places offer little quarter for slaggards.”

Gareth almost laughed aloud, thinking how many in Thendara held the opinion that he was exactly that, an overbred, spoiled slaggard. Instead, he assumed his most helpful expression. “I did my part.”

“No problems with the crew?”

Gareth shrugged. Then, since more was clearly expected, he added, “I get along. I think they like me well enough.”

The captain picked up a slender metal rod from the tabletop and ran it through his fingers, turning it this way and that. Gareth didn’t recognize it; it could have been anything from a pen to a miniature weapon to a medical instrument. Whatever it was, he sensed the threat implicit in the way Poulos handled it.

Poulos said, again in that casual tone, “Then you wouldn’t object to making your status with us permanent.”

It was a statement, a demand, with no room for demurral. Gareth’s throat closed up.

Click . . . click . . . went the metal rod against the table surface.

“I didn’t expect an offer,” Gareth said.

“I wasn’t planning on making one. You posed quite a problem, sonny, breaking into camp like that. If you were a villager, which clearly you’re not, I’d have no worries. By your own story, you’re from elsewhere, and your Terran Standard is too good for you to have learned it from a book.”

The clicking stilled. Poulos held the rod so tightly, the skin over his knuckles bleached white. “You’ve got a faint accent, although I can’t quite place it. But I’ll lay you a hundred credits you got it from someone in Spaceforce.”

Gareth thought, Jeram.

Slowly Poulos opened his fingers and tilted his hand so that the rod rolled onto the tabletop. “I figured maybe you were just what you appeared. Maybe not.”

Meaning, Maybe you’re Spaceforce yourself, a sleeper, a spy. Zandru’s demons, why had he ever thought it romantic to be Race Cargill, Terran Special Agent?

“So you see, it’s much to your advantage to accept this . . . opportunity of a lifetime,” Poulos said. “The aforementioned lifetime being yours.”

Gareth swallowed hard, acutely aware of how his larynx worked beneath his skin. The metal rod gleamed, slick and bright and entirely too pointed.

Poulos laughed. “Green-eyed gods of space, sonny! I’m not asking you to sign your name in blood! Or bring me your grannie’s scalp! Just stay in camp, preferably in plain sight, keep up the hard work, and get ready for one hell of an adventure! You comprehend?”

“Yes . . . yes, sir.”

“Good, then. Get your sorry ass out of here. No nonsense about sleeping under the stars, either. You’ll bunk with the crew.” Right where we can keep an eye on you.

Gareth knew when he’d been dismissed. He hazarded a bow, the abbreviated nod of one of superior station to someone who must be acknowledged but never as an equal, and felt a small thrill when Poulos just smiled.

Between the snoring of the other men, the stuffy, odd-smelling interior of the barracks, and his own emotional state, Gareth didn’t sleep at all well. He tried to convince himself that his only recourse—the only rational option open to him—was to play along, gain the captain’s trust, and wait for an opening to get away, but he could not quiet the sense of impending disaster. It must be nerves, nothing but the notorious Elhalyn nerves, and not the Aldaran Gift of precognition.

The next morning, he stumbled into daylight along with the others and stood in line for his share of the soggy gelatinous mess that was breakfast, along with a cup of coffee. He’d never liked coffee when Domna Marguerida had offered him some of her precious hoard, and that had been far superior in quality. This stuff could be used to disinfect a banshee’s nest. He gulped it down and tried not to think what it might be doing to his stomach.

There was no question of his going along on the water-haul crawler. Taz, who was the driver, had been alerted to Gareth’s situation. He grinned from his seat in the narrow cab and sketched a salute in Gareth’s direction as he guided the vehicle in the direction of the well. Robbard and Potbelly had gone along, leaving Gareth with the other two crew, the mate and the captain, and the captain’s ever-present guard in camp. Gareth still hadn’t learned the giant’s name and was beginning to suspect he didn’t have one.

“Don’t worry, kid,” said one of the other men, a rat-faced fellow with a long, barely pronounceable name that had been abbreviated to “Viss.” “Cap’n don’t work us too hard, times like this. No point in it, see? Time takes as long as it takes, otherwise we’d just be shoving crates from one end of camp to the other, see?”

Gareth didn’t see, although as the morning progressed, he managed to piece together enough of the other man’s comments to deduce that another ship was expected to rendezvous with the Lamonica, at which time bargains would be struck and goods exchanged. Just when he’d heard enough to conclude that Poulos and his men were indeed smugglers, Viss would make a cryptic comment that implied piracy might also be involved. In the end, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the willingness of Poulos, or any of his men, to do whatever was necessary to keep their presence here hidden from Federation eyes.

Around midday, Taz and the others returned with the crawler laden with filled casks. The work of unloading them more than made up for Gareth’s easy morning. He and Robbard wrestled them into place beside the old casks.

Robbard wiped his forehead and took the cup hanging from the flimsy metal rack. He filled it from the cask they’d just set up and downed the water in one long draught. Rivulets ran down his jaw and neck, dampening the front of his shirt. With an appreciative belch, he wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, then held out the cup to Gareth.

The smell of the fresh water filled Gareth’s head. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. He’d been sipping the dregs from the old cask all morning, until he couldn’t get the acrid taste out of his mouth. Even so, something—some nudge of instinct perhaps, or some tendril of incipient rebellion—held him back.

The brief hesitation was enough for the other men to crowd in front of him. There seemed to be an unspoken custom that no one drank from the new casks before the men who’d unloaded them. Robbard had taken his share, and now Gareth seemed willing to forego his own turn.

“Gods of space!” Viss said, in between gulps. “Thought I’d go alky on grog.”

Taz poured a cup of water over his head. “This place could dry up a sun-slug.”

“When this run’s over, I’m shipping off to Thetis,” said Potbelly. “Gonna soak me in them waters for about a month. Figure it’ll take that long just to rehydrate.”

“Prune you!” said Viss, and everyone laughed.

Offenbach had emerged from the main building, watching the unloading of the casks. He strolled over.

Potbelly held out a cup. “Want a free sample?” The mate shook his head, clapped the other man on the shoulder in a friendly way, and turned back to the office.

“He doesn’t drink the same water?” Gareth blurted.

“Sure he does, except when he shares the captain’s.” At Gareth’s puzzled look, Potbelly lowered his voice. “Poulos doesn’t like to mention it, but he’s got, you know . . .” with a waggle of his eyebrows, “. . . so some quack put him on distilled water, no grog, no nothing, and now he swears by it. Bitch of a nuisance, but he’s the cap, so we do things his way. Better him than me, right?”

The other men, having drunk their fill, began returning to their tasks. Robbard lingered, cup in hand, watching Gareth. “Well? What are you waiting for? An engraved invitation?”

Gareth eyed the line of casks. Affecting an insouciant shrug, he filled a cup from the old cask. The water was from the bottom of the cask, almost thick enough to be called sludge. Turning away, Robbard shook his head at the incomprehensibility of dirtsider taste. Locals can’t tell the difference anyway, so why waste decent water on them?

After the water casks had been arranged, the men had drunk their fill, and a few other camp tasks been attended to, there wasn’t much to do. Poulos remained indoors, along with Offenbach and the moon-faced guard. The rest of the crew divided their time between sleeping, repairing their personal gear, and grumbling.

The afternoon pressed thick and heavy on the bare earth. Even the shuttle looked as though a layer of dust had settled over it. Gareth drifted about the camp, pausing here and there but careful not to give the appearance of eavesdropping.

“Kid, you drive everybody crats if you don’t settle your down bones,” Viss called out, as Gareth ambled by for the tenth time. Viss slumped against the shade side of the barracks, along with Taz and Robbard. It looked as if they’d been engaged in a game involving six-sided dice, although Gareth didn’t see any sign of money.

“Sit,” said Taz. “Tell us about the local women.”

Robbard made a sound halfway between a snort and groan. “For all the good it’ll do us.”

“We can dream, ni?”

Viss watched while Gareth folded his legs and settled beside the men. “Spill.”

“They’re Dry Towns women,” Gareth said. “What else is there to say?”

“Gotta give us more than that! You passed through the village, didn’t you?” Taz said.

Robbard made an expression of barely contained aggravation. “We haven’t so much as peeked over that rim.” He blew out a breath through loose lips. “Captain’s being a stickler.”

“But what I don’t get is why not?” Taz said, his tone growing more animated. “Sure, while Cap’n wanted to keep on their good side, I can see the sense in it. Locals, you never know what they’ll take the wrong way. Look at their women through the wrong eye and bam! you’ve got a war on your hands. Right, kid?”

In his mind, Gareth saw these men rushing back up the trail over the hills and charging down on Nuriya. He didn’t know the level of hand-to-hand fighting skill of either the spacers or the village men. Even if they were roughly equal, the results wouldn’t be good. That assumed Robbard and the others didn’t carry off-world weapons . . . or the villagers didn’t have more blasters. Even so, it would be all too easy to smash livestock pens or huts, and the Nuriyans lived close to the edge of survival. At least Rahelle wouldn’t be there.

“Crat!” Taz snorted. “Ain’t seen a woman since that mining colony on Bellatrix and they don’t hardly count! It’s not as if we were gonna hurt ’em. Just want a little fun! Desert women know how to have fun, don’t they?”

“Not what you’d call fun,” Gareth said, trying to manufacture an expression of disgust. “Shriveled up things, uglier than toads and worse smelling. They’d as soon skin and roast you as look at you.”

Taz and Viss exchanged glances. Gareth’s gorge turned sour as he realized they had taken the implication of cannibalism seriously. He did not want to find out why. His story might fall apart within moments of testing, but with any luck, he’d managed to discourage their interest.

Robbard heaved himself to his feet. The sun had dipped halfway behind the ridge line, and the slanting light bathed his face in an unhealthy flush. “Don’t know about you, but I’m about gabbed out. If those women are anything like this sink of a planet, you can have them all, tied up with a ribbon. Uhn!” Wincing, he rubbed his belly.

“You okay?” Taz said.

“Sure. Should of known better than to drink so much, all in one go. A little lie-down’ll see me right again.”

Gareth watched as Robbard lumbered to the barracks entrance. Although the spacer looked steady enough on his feet, Gareth remembered that horses could get sick from drinking too much when they’d gone too long without. But horses weren’t men. Men didn’t get colic.

Neither Taz nor Viss seemed to be ill, but the heart had gone out of their talk. They no longer seemed to care about the village women.

As for Gareth, he was content to sit here, watching the lengthening shadows, when his companions shuffled off to their bunks. A soporific warmth clung to the earth. His muscles felt heavy. The sounds of the machinery receded, distant and dull. He bent his head, resting his forehead on his folded arms, and closed his eyes . . .

. . . and opened them to the sound of Offenbach shouting. By the fading western light, he guessed he’d been asleep for an hour. The air was noticeably cooler.

“Hai-yi-yi!” A shriek, shrill as a raptor’s cry, shattered the dusk.

Gareth scrambled to his feet as a mounted horse raced past. Hooves pounded over the bare earth, throwing up billows of dust. His eyes streamed tears so freely that he could barely make out the attackers. There was a second rider . . . a third, all of them screaming at the top of their lungs and brandishing spears. Shouting came from the barracks.

The horsemen galloped between him and the building that housed the captain’s office. They circled, swerving and changing direction. Gareth was reasonably certain they hadn’t spotted him. He could rush them—and do what? All he had was the little knife he’d been allowed to keep, utterly useless in a fight. His hands ached for a sword.

One of the riders sprinted into Gareth’s field of vision, wheeled his horse using knees and balance, and hurled something. The next moment, dust erupted like a fountain in front of the barracks door. A figure stumbled through the wall of dust—Gareth thought it was Viss, rather than Taz—and fell to his knees, clutching his belly.

Gareth rubbed his eyes and regretted it the next instant. His lids burned as if someone had thrown a handful of pepperspice in his face. With an effort, he wrenched his hands away. Through streaming tears, he glimpsed the center of the camp. A spear clattered off the metal side of the crawler, an instant before another landed between two water casks.

Gareth darted along the side of the barracks and hauled Viss to his feet. Retching, the older man half-fell into Gareth’s arms. Gareth dragged him back into the open barracks doorway. The reek of vomit filled the room. His stomach clenched in rebellion. When he released his hold, Viss bent over, knees folding. From the far bunk, Taz struggled to rise, then fell back. In the gloom, Gareth couldn’t see any reaction from Robbard or Potbelly. There was nothing more he could do here. He ran out of the barracks.

Shouting, two figures emerged from the office building. Gareth couldn’t make out their words over the cacophony of war cries, neighing of the horses, pounding hoofbeats, and the muffled yelling from behind him. One of the figures, by his size and the controlled power of his stride, was most definitely the guard.

The guard raised his weapon and took aim. A bolt of searing light pierced the layers of dust. A horse screamed and reared. Only by a feat of athletic skill did the rider cling to its back. Apparently the horse had not been hit, only startled, for the next moment, its rider urged it into a hard gallop toward the office building.

The rider drew back his arm, readying his spear. The guard shifted his weight, settling deeper into his firing stance, and brought his blaster around.

“No!” Gareth darted forward, sickened with the certainty of impending, unstoppable tragedy. His warning blew away on the dust.

A second rider barreled past, so close that only a lucky reflex saved Gareth from being run down. The rider joined the spear thrower, the two of them sprinting for the office building. Gareth raced after them.

He slid to a halt just as the beam from the guard’s weapon shot out. A shriek of inhuman agony drowned out all other sound. With tears still flooding his eyes, Gareth couldn’t make out who’d been hit. He heard shouting in Dry Towns dialect, a high keening cry, then the syncopated beat of a horse’s retreating gallop.

The guard stood half a pace in front of Poulos, Offenbach at the captain’s shoulder. The guard still held his blaster at the ready in both hands. Danger radiated from the stillness of his posture. A few meters away lay the rounded form of a horse. Its legs splayed out from its immobile body.

Someone whimpered in pain.

“Robbard! Taz! Viss! Where the hell are they?” The captain’s gaze lit upon Gareth, his face a mask of fury.

Gareth gestured back toward the barracks.

Poulos jerked his chin toward Offenbach, who headed in that direction at a near run. Then, to the guard: “Keep an eye on him.”

The guard shifted his blaster to point directly at Gareth. Gareth dared not move other than to breathe. A trick of light glinted off the guard’s eyes, as uncaring as obsidian.

Poulos strode over the fallen horse. Gareth heard another sound of excruciating pain. Was the rider, pinned beneath his own mount, still alive? The moment stretched out as the rider’s cry faltered, then rose again. All the while, Poulos watched, impassive.

Do something! Don’t let him suffer like this! In the guard’s unrelenting glare, Gareth dared not speak.

Offenbach emerged from the barracks and hurried over to the captain. “Taz and Viss are sicker than rats. Robbard’s dead. Lakrin—” that must be Potbelly’s real name, “—he’s barely breathing.”

The guard’s vigilance heightened. Nothing moved, not even the air in Gareth’s throat. Then, with a curse in a language Gareth didn’t know, Poulos lashed out with one boot. The kick landed with the sound of leather against flesh, of splintering bone, and then there were no more tortured moans.

Poulos inhaled, the air hissing between his teeth. A little of the raging tension went out of his massive shoulders. “Let the kid bury Robbard. It’s got to be done right away in this heat. The others—” with a flicker of his gaze toward the guard, who gazed back impassively, “do what you can for them. Offen, we’ll need a specific, if you can analyze the agent.”

Offenbach nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

Poulos responded with a brief, almost invisible hunch of one shoulder as he pivoted and headed back to his sanctuary. Offenbach, grim faced, followed him like a shadow. The guard waited for a long moment before lowering his blaster.

Gareth swallowed. “It was the water. That’s why the captain didn’t get sick.”

“He knows, sonny. He knows.”

Something in the guard’s words, spoken ever so softly, chilled Gareth to the marrow.