Beginnings

It was pretty much what Lee had expected. They entered the forward decks unopposed—except for the silent scrutiny of reangled video pickups, and the accusing stares of floating bodies.

The hijackers had killed crew and passengers alike. One of the latter—a Loonie, judging from her unnaturally lean build—couldn't have been more than fourteen years old. Maybe not even that much. Lee clamped his molars down hard and pushed on through the mid-air sargasso sea of corpses and blood globules.

Tagging closed stateroom hatches with small opening alarms to alert them to anyone emerging into their rear, they propelled themselves toward the bridge at best speed—

And were met halfway by two ill-shaven men who had obviously seen them coming on the realigned security cameras. The good news was that the enemy's armament was fairly light. One had a regulation ten millimeter pistol, the other had what looked like a repeating compressed air spear gun made out of spare parts. The bad news was that they were in their space suits: Roderigo's spray gun would be useless unless it hit them in the face.

Damn it, Lee thought, even as he shouted, “Burns, switch to lethals. Fire at will.”

As in most meeting engagements, most of the shots went wild. As in most zero-gee combat, the shots were wilder than usual. Burns was late swapping weapons, got a small spear cum crossbow bolt in the left shoulder of his hard-suit. It was impossible to tell from his grunt whether it had penetrated or merely thumped him mightily. Either way, he was now trying to correct a modest backward tumble.

Finder pitched forward, so that he was aimed face-and-shoulders first at his attackers. Lee did the same, appreciating how this nonregulation “prone posture” both minimized his body's silhouette, and put it in line with the recoil of his weapon. There would be push-back, yes, but little if any tumble.

And that seemed to be helping Finder's marksmanship. As the enemy's own ten millimeter rounds spanged and sparked overhead, the sergeant fired twice, paused and then fired a third time. The pistol-wielding thug went backward, struggling, trying to bring his pistol around to bear again. Finder ended that attempt with a fourth shot.

But Lee was too busy to see the outcome. Sighting down through his own weapon's basic peep sight, he lined up the man with the spear gun and fired. The gun didn't kick at all, but there was a brief wash of pressure on both the inner and outer surface of his gloved wrist. It was the angled back blast from the charge that kicked the round out of the barrel, equalizing the propulsive force both forward and back. An instant later, the tail of the round lit up like a tracer as its gyrojets kicked into life and sent it jumping forward.

And straight into the bulkhead behind the crossbowman. But now Lee understood why Finder had paused after taking two shots. He had been comparing the trajectory of his fire to the three-dimensional drift of his target. But now Lee's target was raising the reloaded spear gun. Lee fired two rounds.

The spear gunner spun sharply to the right as Lee's first bullet hit him in that arm. The second shot, a blind miss, extinguished whatever fleeting flare of triumph the young lieutenant had felt. Sighting carefully, Lee prepared to spend a fourth bullet on this target—

From behind him, a ten millimeter automatic barked three times. At least one of the rounds hit the wounded spearman in the center of mass. Blood erupted like a thin stream from a child's bubble-making toy, and the man's movements diminished into fitful writhing.

Lee turned to thank the now-pistol armed Roderigo Burns—but the rating was desperately reaching out for the wall, trying to stop the tumble imparted by his own quick sequence of shots. Lee stretched to help him—

Finder's voice was a respectful, if curt, reminder. “You wanted a fast advance, right, Lieutenant?”

Lee paused, nodded, turned back toward the bridge and snapped his hips down so that his feet contacted the deck; as they did, he kicked.

Arrowing forward ahead of his sergeant, he couldn't help smiling at Finder's appreciative mutter over the private circuit, “Not half bad—for a newb.”

* * *

Taking the bridge was pure anticlimax. Although the last two mutineers were armed with ten millimeters, they blasted away at a stray suit glove that Finder spun lazily through the doorway. Only three shots from each, but that was all advantage the top-kick needed. Swimming around the rim of the hatchway with the fell purpose of a stubby piranha, he watched as the hijackers tried to correct their tumbles and took careful aim.

Lee chinned the private circuit. “If they're helpless enough, we could take them pris—”

“Negative, L.T. Look at them; they're reorienting already. They're either Upsiders or have enough training to recover from the tumble. We'll have lost our advantage in another three seconds.”

Lee sighed, “Fire at will.”

They both did: two rounds from each of them finished the job.

That was when one of the door-opening alarms went off to their rear. Tugging themselves around into sharp 180 degree turns, Lee and Finder kicked and soared back the way they had come.

Before reaching the site of the first gun battle, they saw Burns taking cover in a hatchway, the distinctive bark of a ten millimeter causing him to flinch back even farther. Just then, a series of sharp, higher-velocity cracks echoed at them from even farther up the corridor.

“All clear,” signaled Lewis on the open circuit. “There was just one of them. Probably asleep when we came in. I got ‘im. Sarge, I hit him all three times, even though the recoil had me—”

“Great, Lewis, that's great.” Finder turned to Lee. “Well, there goes your chance to interrogate a prisoner, L.T.”

Lee shook his head. “Rotten luck, Sarge, rotten luck.”

Finder switched to private circuit. “That presumes the death of that last hijacker was a matter of luck—that there was no intent involved. Sir.” Finder's glance in Lewis' direction was dour.

Yes, Lee reflected, he and the sergeant would have an awful lot to chat about later on . . .

* * *

Arriving back on the bridge of his customs cutter, Lee relieved the acting XO, Bernardo de los Reyes, with an exchange of lazy salutes.

“Started worrying about you out there, Skipper,” said de los Reyes.

Lee finished pulling off his suit gloves. “Had to go to radio silence before we took out the hostiles about two hours ago. There were five of them.”

“And why so shy during the last two hours?” de los Reyes asked in an almost bored drawl, which was an act for the benefit of the bridge ratings. Bernie knew damned well that the extended radio silence meant something unusual was up. Probably something dangerous.

“No time to chat about that just yet, Bernie. We still have some work to do.”

Finder clumped onto the bridge as well, still in his vacc suit. “Lieutenant Strong's working on a pretty interesting hunch, Bernie.”

“You don't say?” muttered the much-younger de los Reyes. The two were pals from way back, and by all rights and measurements of seniority, it should have been Finder, not Bernie, serving as the brevetted noncom XO aboard their cutter, the Venerated Gaia. However, Finder's wit was not only barbed, but occasionally injudicious. Previous Dirtsider officers had put enough demerits and reprimands into his record to ensure that he never became anything more than he was right now: First Sergeant and EVA team leader.

Lee drifted across the bridge to hover behind the shoulder of the nav rating. “Navigator?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Run a plot for me: trajectory of the Fragrant Blossom for the next three weeks.”

“But sir, the Fragrant Blossom is adrift. She's not under power or on course for any—”

“I know, Rating. Indulge me.”

“Yes, Sir.”

As the first navigator worked, both Bernie and Finder drifted over to watch the process.

The computer flicked between subroutines, cleared, then showed a course plot that intersected one red circle: a possible rendezvous with a charted object.

“Throw that up on the main plot, Navigator,” Lee said with a nod at the computer screen.

Which showed that the trajectory of the Fragrant Blossom would carry it out of the Jovian side of the asteroid belt, and very close to one nearby planetoid, the red-circled 216 Kleopatra.

Lee turned to his two senior subordinates. “The hijackers weren't just drifting. If they had been, they'd still have been more or less on course for Callisto. But they're not. Which means that, after they took the Fragrant Blossom, they used some corrective thrust to put them on a coasting trajectory to that collection of rocks,” he pointed at 216 Kleopatra.

“Why there?” wondered the First Navigator.

“Because,” supplied Lee, “that's where their friends are waiting,”

* * *

Bernie and Finder were the only ones who accompanied Lee into the claustrophobic CO's ready room. As they entered, Bernie reached under the light table—already displaying the projected course to 216 Kleopatra—and flicked a switch. The room was suddenly filled with what sounded—or more accurately, felt—like a pitchless hum: a white-noise generator.

Lee glanced at Bernie. “Well, today seems to be the day for nonregulation surprises.”

Bernie met the glance sheepishly and shrugged. “Guess so, Sir. Now, how long do we have before we're on top of 216 Kleopatra?”

“Two hours and eight minutes,” Lee answered. “Meaning I've got no time to catch you up on what we found aboard the Blossom. Hell, we don't even have time to get instructions from, or clear a farther ops plan with, the brass back on Mars.”

Bernie nodded. It was a little over twenty light minutes to Marsm, which would guarantee at least a full hour's lag time.

“They're not going to be able to offer any worthwhile input before we have to commit to some plan of action,” he agreed. “So we either do this on our own—which means we carry the can for not waiting for confirmation if things go wrong. Or else they send us loose, provisional orders based on the first batch of incomplete data. So that, if things go wrong, they can blame the failure on our sketchy reporting and poor execution. That about what you were thinking, Skipper?”

“Something like that,” Lee acknowledged.

“Which leaves the steaming turd in our laps, either way,” Finder grumbled.

“In my lap, gentlemen, in my lap.” Lee sighed. “I'd be happy to share the inevitable blame with you both, but this is my command, my call, my court-martial.”

Bernie looked at Finder and expelled a histrionic sigh. “Jan, I meant to ask you, are we still having trouble with the lascom array?”

Finder was blank-eyed for a moment, then nodded sadly. “Oh. Yeah. That. Can't seem to figure out what's wrong with it.”

“And did you log it as being off-line yesterday, when we first discovered the malfunction?”

“I don't think so. I'll have to go back in the records and check. I might need to make a retroactive correction.” Finder was now beaming with positively malicious glee.

“I should report you both,” Lee said, managing not to smile.

“You should, Skipper,” Bernie agreed with a somber nod, “you really should.”

Lee grinned. “Okay, so the lascom will ‘finally' come back on-line after we get to 216 Kleopatra: too late for us to give a sitrep to, or get orders from, the brass on Mars. But just in time to send them word of what we found both there and here. And of course, we can't send by radio because we can't put out an active EM signature while there might be a hostile hull in our area of operations.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” agreed Bernie. “As per regs. Which we always follow around here.”

“So I have observed.”

Finder looked up. “You suspected there was something hinky bout the Blossom's hijacking from the start, L.T.—but why?”

Lee shrugged. “Logically, with an intact drive, the bad guys should have made best speed toward a hidey hole as soon as they could. Just as logically, we'd have spotted their engine signature—or their residual temperature, if we only came across them after they stopped boosting. Either way, they'd have been lit up like a neon sign on our sensors, once we arrived in the area. But they made sure they weren't.”

Bernie frowned. “So are you saying they knew we'd be here? But how?”

“That's the hinky part. The only way they could know we'd be here, running dark, was if they had access to classified information. Specifically, our projected patrol plot.”

“Damn,” breathed Finder, “that's nontrivial access.”

“Yes, but everything points to it. They not only knew we were in the area, they were also prepared for any conventional boarding attempt.”

Bernie frowned. “What do you mean?

Finder shrugged. “After we took down the mutineers and secured the ship, we found out that they'd booby-trapped all the logical ingress points—except the one they either didn't know, or forgot, about.”

“You mean the core-ejection tube?” Bernie shook his head. “Hell, they just probably figured no one was crazy enough to try it.”

Lee smiled. “You mean, they figured no one would be able to look past their superstitious fears and focus on the physics.”

“Yeah.” Bernie scratched an ear. “While we're on that topic, L.T., me and Sarge here couldn't help notice that you're not exactly—well, you're not like the other officers Earth has sent to us.”

“To put it scientifically, you are trying to ascertain why I'm not an arrogant prick?”

Finder guffawed. Bernie smiled broadly. “Uh, yeah . . . something like that.”

“Long story, but let's just say my family isn't exactly beloved by the ‘globally-appointed' politicos back home.”

“And home is where, for you?”

“Tacoma, then Vancouver, then Amherst.”

Finder and Bernie exchanged knowing looks. “Another New World troublemaker, eh?” Bernie asked.

Lee shook his head. “Not me. But my folks were. They're part of a dying breed, I'm afraid.”

Bernie shrugged. “Seems to me the independent spirit doesn't die too easily in ‘the colonies.'”

“Perhaps not”—Lee tried to smile genuinely but felt rue pulling down the corners of his mouth—“but die it does, nonetheless. There are a lot of disincentives for free-thinkers. You don't get prompt access to social services if you're known to be a card-carrying ‘recidivist.'”

Bernie and Finder exchanged long glances. “Yeah. We know.”

Lee leaned back. More and more it seemed that the “long chat” he was going to have with Finder had probably better include Bernie as well. “You guys have been watching me, haven't you?”

Finder smiled as he filled a liquid-bulb with coffee. “You're just figuring that out now? A smart guy like you—Sir?”

“No, I just didn't realize how methodical you've been. And how much more there must be for me to learn.”

Bernie shook his head. “Lieutenant, you don't know the half of it.”

“I'm sure you're right—but it's going to have to wait.” Lee glanced at the clock. “We'll be drifting past 216 Kleopatra in only two hours, and we've got a lot of work to do.”

“Like what?” asked Bernie. “Seems to me we should just back well away from the Blossom without altering its heading, match course, and lie doggo until an extraction ship comes out to pick up the mutineers. Then we hit them while they're in the middle of their personnel transfers and—”

Lee shook his head. “You're presuming that upon reaching Kleopatra 216, they'll have to stop for a long rendezvous, and that the mutineers will stay inside the Blossom, waiting for pick up. But they may go EVA beforehand, and get fetched by a small ROV tug. That way, the enemy ship could stay in the shadows of Kleopatra the whole time.”

Stares went back and forth between Bernie and Finder again. Finder was the first to shake his head and admit, “He's right.”

“Damned if he's not,” muttered Bernie. “Imagine, being schooled in space ops by a Dirtsider. My Ma on Mars will never let me live it down.”

“Then don't tell her,” suggested Lee. “But that EVA pick-up is not the scenario I'm most worried about.”

“Oh?” Finder leaned forward, coffee suddenly forgotten.

“Nope. Since the hijackers weren't interested in hostages, or the ship itself, that means they have other motivations. Motivations we haven't seen yet.”

Bernie shrugged. “Okay, but how does that change anything?”

“It changes things because, if they do have access to our patrol plot, then this is just the messy part of some bigger covert operation. An operation that someone is trying to hide, or to keep plausibly deniable. Which means it has to be perfectly sanitary.” He paused. “Which means that the tools they used to carry it out might need to be sterilized. With extreme prejudice.”

“Damn,” breathed Finder, “the kid—I mean, the lieutenant is right. For all we know, the rendezvous at 216 Kleopatra may only be to get information or proof of mission success. Once the extraction team gets what they need, their next move might have been to grease the hijackers themselves.”

“Yeah,” Bernie agreed with a nod, “it fits.” He folded his arms. “Okay, skipper, so what's the game plan?”

“Are all of our own ROV tugs available?”

“One hundred percent readiness, sir.”

“Excellent. And how many remote passive sensor packages do we have in stores?”

“Six, Sir. Of different marks.”

Lee nodded, then leaned over the light-table plot . “Okay, then. Here's what we're going to do . . .”

* * *

Almost two hours later, the crew of the Venerated Gaia was at general quarters, and wondering why the hell Lieutenant Strong was not maneuvering more aggressively. But the cutter—which they had long ago rechristened the Venereal Gato—continued to match the slow progress of the Fragrant Blossom, drifting side by side with the larger hull, fully in its shadow.

Couch-sized debris tumbled along with them. Having originated from the Blossom's cargo decks, it angled away from the twinned craft, the gap between junk and ships widening steadily.

The Gato was almost as silent as the space through which she glided. The hum of computers and the dampened vibration that resulted from running on batteries were unusually noticeable in the absence of human banter. The possibility of an engagement not only had the crew tense, but evoked a sense of the surreal, so rare was space combat. That the potentials of the adversary were wholly unknown only kept their eyes more firmly riveted to their screens, their fingers tense with waiting for orders to act.

The bridge crew had another object to stare at, however. There, in the main viewscreen, 216 Kleopatra—shaped like a 217-kilometer long dog-bone with a maximum width of 94 kilometers—loomed steadily larger. Tumbling end-over-end every five hours, it was a fairly kinetic rock, accompanied at some distance by two planetisimals—three and five kilometers in diameter, respectively. Intermittent sampling and mining ejecta accompanied it as well, the individual objects ranging in size from a handball to a house. And so, depending on the size of the enemy ship—assuming there was only one, of course—it could be hidden behind any of several dozen rocky slabs or lumps in the area, including, of course, the immense Kleopatra herself.

“Kleopatra is now within the outer engagement envelope of our missiles, Skipper,” the first gunner rasped, his throat evidently too dry to get out the words easily.

“Sensors, report,” Lee ordered, not turning to look at the rating in question.

“No change, sir. Of course, we'd get better data if we lit up the active arrays—”

Lee's interruption was quiet but sharp. “Don't even think that thought, Rating. We run dark until I give the word.”

“Yes, Sir, but—”

“I'm well aware that passive sensors don't give us full detection capabilities, much less targeting. For now, just maintain the lascom links to our passive assets and keep me apprised.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Bernie drifted closer. “Lieutenant, you know it's possible that the hijackers don't have anyone waiting for them here, that they just planned to switch to a smaller craft that they stashed here in some little crevice where we'll never see it.”

“It's possible,” Lee admitted.

“But you don't buy it,” Bernie completed the implicit reservation.

“No, I don't. Given all the trouble they went to in setting this up, I just don't—”

“Lieutenant—!” The tense exclamation was in reaction to a sudden orange glow limning the far rim of 216 Kleopatra: a false-colored superimposition of a new heat signature's halo.

“I see it, Sensors. Get me a triangulation on the probable point-source.”

“Can't do it, sir—not with the remote sensors we're depending upon currently.”

Bernie chewed his lip, staring at the orange glow. “That's a lot of juice, if we can see it as this range with portable passive sensors. What do you think—?”

“Nuke drive,” Lee answered flatly.

“Sounds like you were expecting it,” Finder said from the back of the bridge.

Lee turned, barked. “Sergeant, your post is in auxiliary for the duration of all combat. If this bridge is destroyed—”

The faces around Lee suddenly became pale. Finder snapped a salute. “I'm on it, Sir.”

Bernie smiled—until Lee swiveled around to face him. “Mr. de los Reyes, you are the only man on this bridge who is not secured in an acceleration couch. Do so at once.”

Bernie gulped, nodded, sat, and pulled at the straps.

The Mars-lean crewman manning the Sensors sounded as if he was being strangled. “That halo is heating up, Sir. Readings suggest high-energy particles—”

“I'll bet they do,” muttered Lee. “Prepare to re-angle the passive sensors—but be careful not to impart any vector change to the debris we mounted them on.”

“Aye, sir. The ROV tugs are ready to rotate the debris and converge the scanning cones of the individual sensors.”

And not a moment too soon. From over the rim of 216 Kleopatra, the orange halo coalesced as it rose, shrinking and concentrating into an angry red blob.

“Vampire, vampire!” shouted the Sensor Rating. “Moving at—holy shit!”

Lee ignored the profanity. “Gunnery, sensors are now under your direct control. Triangulate upon the emissions with the passive sensors.”

“That won't get us a serviceable target lock, sir.”

“I am aware of that, Rating. I'm not trying to get a hard lock with them—yet. And with our on-board active arrays still dark, he doesn't even know we've got him located. Unless he has ESP and knows that the junk paralleling us is concealing passive sensor packages.”

Bernie breathed appreciatively. “And working almost like a phased array of thermal detectors.”

“That's the idea. Let's hope it works. Helm, stand ready. Navigator, plot a direct retreat from that vampire.”

“We—we're running, sir?”

“No, we are opening the range. And if you wait another second to plot that course, I will cite you as derelict in your duty, mister.”

“Sir, plotting new course, Sir!”

The engineering rating licked his lips. “Do I bring our own power plant on-line?”

“Not yet. Right now, we're putting out less radiant energy than the plant on the Blossom. I want to keep it that way.”

Bernie smiled. “So we're hiding in the liner's thermal shadow.”

“Hopefully. Gunnery, ready a wide missile spread.”

“How many birds, Sir?”

“Salvo all.”

“Sir?”

“Given how fast that ship is approaching, do you think we're going to get a chance to shoot twice?”

Gunnery gulped. “Salvo all, aye, Sir.”

The red blob seemed to have angles now, but was more intensely red—and it was growing visibly.

“That damn thing has twice our thrust,” muttered the helmsman.

“More like five times, and unless I'm very wrong, it's leaving a rad trail so hot that it almost glows in the dark.”

“Damn—yes Sir, I think it is,” said the sensor rating.

“Gunnery, do we have a preliminary target lock?”

“Still working, Sir. Interpolation is pretty messy with these portable sensors—”

“Sensors, has the vampire lit up its active targeting arrays, yet?”

“No—but he should have done it, Sir. He's in range. Is he damaged—?”

“He probably has home-brewed missiles with shorter range than ours. So he's hoping we'll panic when we see how rapidly he's closing on us, and that we'll go for a Hail Mary shot from extreme range.”

Bernie nodded. “Yeah, he wants us to launch while he's still just a thermal smudge. And once we do, he'll go active, get a fast reciprocal lock on us by tracking back along our own active sensor emissions, and run a missile up our ass.”

Lee nodded; he felt his armpits growing unpleasantly wet. “I say again, Gunnery, do we have a preliminary lock?”

“Not ye—Lock! It's fuzzy and unsteady, but I've got a piece of him. Not enough to guarantee a hit, though, Sir.”

“Salvo all, Gunnery. Set missiles to follow our guidance datafeed.”

“But Sir, if they're to have any chance of hitting him, we've got to light up our own arrays, get an active lock with our on-board sensors.”

“Negative. Not until fifty percent of our missiles' flight time has elapsed.”

“Which is happening . . . right . . . now!”

“Active arrays on,” ordered Lee. “Send that new datafeed straight to our missiles: give them a solid lock. Engineering, power to full. Helm, best speed away from the vampire.”

Gunnery whooped. “Missiles are transferring over to active array target lock. Eighty percent of them are still inside a possible intercept footprint pattern and are closing.”

Out in space, the missiles were no longer following the imprecise and irregular targeting data being relayed from the tactical thermal sensors riding the ROVs slaved to the Blossom's detritus. Now that they were using the active arrays' clean, infinitely superior guidance datastream, they rode it straight toward their target. The crude guidance from the passive arrays had put eight of the ten missiles close enough to adjust to a true intercept course—even though they had already closed sixty percent of the range to target.

Obviously, the enemy craft had expected the Gato to launch and engage her active arrays at the same time—the latter being the target they had been waiting for. Now, with eight missiles already bearing down upon it, the vampire attempted to evade, tumbling ninety degrees and using its extraordinary thrust to alter its vector as abruptly as possible. But the tremendous delta vee it had already invested in closing the range to its target now worked against it. Although the enemy hull could side-vector dramatically, it was still closing with the oncoming missiles, which tracked along with its vector changes unwaveringly.

The adversary discharged a desperate flurry of its own missiles—and then was gone in a short, vicious flash.

The elated whoops on the bridge died at the sound of Lee's harsh question. “Inbound missiles? “

“Three, sir. Jamming, but they're still on us.”

“Probably flying by simple on-board sensors now, looking for our emissions. Deploy decoys; put in a heavy mix of thermals.”

Bernie nodded. “Another reason you kept our own rockets cold for so long. If we had been building up engine heat over the past hour, their birds might have been able to distinguish us from our decoys.”

That was the very moment that the countermeasures rating reported that one of the enemy missiles had spent itself homing in on an RF emitter decoy; the other two expended themselves on the thermal flares.

Lee undid his seat-straps and stood. “Secure from general quarters.” He leaned over to the voice-activated comm system. “Sergeant Finder to the bridge on the double. Helmsman?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“As senior rating present, you have the con. I will be in the ready room with Mr. de los Reyes, preparing an after-action report and waiting for the sergeant to join us.”

* * *

As soon as the ready-room's door closed behind Finder, Lee turned to face his two NCOs. “Okay, gentlemen, now that we have a few minutes to talk, you have some explaining to do. Specifically, I need to know the origins of the gyrojet zip gun that you passed to me on the sly, Sergeant Finder, and why you made sure Rating Lewis was left out of the team that went into the forward section of the Blossom. Who, you later intimated, may have shot the last hijacker three times not out of nerves but in order to ensure that we had no prisoners left to interrogate. And then there's the white-noise generator that you obviously had installed in this room, Mr. de los Reyes. A pretty unusual modification for a man who ‘always follows regulations.'”

Lee sat down. “So I need both of you to remedy my Dirtsider ignorance about these matters. Right now. Before Mars can respond to the after-action report I just sent.” He folded his arms and waited.

“Wow,” breathed Bernie after blinking. “We had you pegged for the mild-mannered type, L.T.”

“Sorry to surprise you. Now, it's time to share your surprises with me. What the hell is going on out here?”

Finder massaged a calloused palm. “L.T., just to make sure that we don't waste time reinventing any wheels that are already spinning between your ears, what do you think is going on out here?”

“Well, what I already know is that what we Dirtsiders are told about Upside is incomplete and slanted to flatter the dominant political party on Earth, the Greens. Who have a penchant for information control, whereas the Neo Luddites don't have the clout, organization, or—most of allð—the patience to oversee the necessary subtleties and nuances. What I suspect is that despite all the rhetoric, the Customs Patrol Officer corps isn't the Earth Union's only ‘loyal eyes and ears' in space. The Union has to have other, less obvious methods of surveillance.”

Bernie shrugged. “We know where our officers' loyalties lie, given where all of you come from. No offense intended, L.T.”

“None taken. But that means you're more worried about informers from inside your own, Upside ranks.” Lee turned toward Finder. “So that's what was going on with Lewis. You suspect him of being an informer for the Earth brass.”

Finder nodded soberly. “Yeah. He's new and no one knows his family—not even the other Loonies.”

“He's a Loonie? He doesn't look it.”

“That's because he's not lunar-born. But his zero-gee skills are too good for him to have been born Dirtside.”

Lee thought about Finder's assertion. “Could he have grown up on one of the rotational habitats—like you, Sergeant?”

Finder smiled. “So you pegged me already? Good for you.”

Lee shrugged. “I've heard your accent in the mess. Sounds like one of the L-4 hab rings. And you didn't get that build living anyplace that had less than a one-gee equivalent. Means one of the big toruses. Which could be where Lewis' family came from. That would explain his Upsider skills, but why he'd be a first-generation Loonie, even so.”

Bernie nodded. “Which would also make him a perfect candidate for the Greens to recruit as a snitch.”

“Why?”

“The Earth Union maintains strict immigration limits between the different Upside communities. But there are ways to increase your chances of getting permission to move.”

“Such as a demonstrated willingness to ‘cooperate'?”

Bernie nodded. “They extort a lot of favors that way—particularly when people have a real need to change where they live. Medical needs, for instance.”

“Such as?”

Bernie leaned forward, legs wider, hands rubbing roughly between his knees. “You sure you want to hear all this, L.T.? Might change your world view more than you think. Might make it hard to go back.”

Lee breathed out. “Not sure I want to go back Dirtside. Not sure I want to live Upside, either.”

“Hell,” grunted Finder, “ain't like there's much in between.”

Lee smiled. “And there you have the crux of my dilemma, Sergeant. But go ahead, Bernie: tell me how the Earth Union uses medical blackmail.”

Bernie shrugged. “Okay—and remember: you asked. So, when I was growing up on Mars, we had some neighbors, two domes farther down the main tube. Nice folks, two kids, one a daughter. Guess I had a bit of crush on her. Anyway, when she was twelve, they diagnosed her with environmentally-induced leukemia.”

Lee frowned. “I thought the habitats on Mars all had to meet rigorous radiation protection standards.”

“Yes, and all our nonexistent pigs have wings, too. Look, L.T., maybe the protections passed spec when they were built. But in some cases, that's more than two centuries ago. Materials get compromised, shielding wears away, berms get eroded. Bottom line is we have to maintain them as best we can, but Earth always finds excuses to delay or cancel crucial cargos.”

“They delay shipments of basic shielding?”

“They delay shipments of everything. Including—and here we return to my story—specialty medications. My cute neighbor with the leukemia should have been getting her meds weekly, but the supply on Mars ran out after five weeks. She had to wait ten weeks before another batch arrived. If that had gone on, she'd have been dead in two years, three at the outside.”

Lee unclenched his teeth. “So her parents made a deal.”

“Of course they did. Wouldn't you? They got permission to go to one of the low-gee rotational habitats out near Earth's Trojan asteroids. And I'm guessing they're still there, working as snitches for the Earth Union. Lewis is a more typical candidate, though.”

“Why?”

“Well, frankly, because he's a Loonie. See, Loonies are generally the wealthiest Upsiders. They get lots of shipments from Earth, they get lots of loyalty perks, they have a lot of regular contact with Dirtsiders. And because it's only a light-second away, and it's part of the same public data net, and because you Dirtsiders see a lot of it on your screens, the Earth Union has got to make life on the moon look nice. So Loonies tend to enjoy the same social services and access to needed supplies. And where that kind of money and privilege is flowing, it's always easier to find sympathetics for the Earth regime.”

“If there's an Earth Union snitch on board a ship,” grumbled Finder, “it's even odds that he's a Loonie. Which is why we're careful sharing secrets with them. Like our home-made zero-gee pistols”

Lee leaned back. “This isn't exactly what they teach us in school about Upside life.”

“Yeah,” Finder said gruffly, “we know. Remember; we've dealt with a long line of your predecessors, a new one every year. And that's touches on the mystery we've been trying to solve, L.T. How did you become so—um, ‘open-minded'?”

Lee shrugged. “Well, some of my relatives are Fifthers.”

Now it was Bernie's turn to stare blankly. “‘Fifthers?'”

“Yes. As in ‘I invoke my rights as guaranteed under the Fifth Amendment'?”

“What's the Fifth Amendment?” asked Bernie.

Finder frowned. “If I remember correctly, that's the part of the American Constitution that gives people the right to refuse to respond to a question, even in a court of law, if it would incriminate them.”

“Wow,” wondered Bernie. “Whatever happened to that right?”

Lee shrugged. “It still exists in the U.S.—technically. But back about a hundred years ago, when the Greens were consolidating their hold on power before revamping the UN into the Earth Union, they managed to get the equivalent of loyalty oaths passed in most countries. In some places, like northern China, you had to respond. In others, if you didn't respond, it was the old ‘silence grants consent' construance. In a small number of countries, you could still refuse to take the oath. You had to explain why, however—except in the U.S. There, you could still just fold your arms and shut your mouth, as per your Fifth Amendment rights. Ever since then, anyone in the U.S. who doesn't roll over for the powers that be is dubbed a Fifther.”

“Huh. So you come from a long line of troublemakers,” observed Bernie. “I knew there was something I liked about you, L.T. But that doesn't explain why you're—well, competent.”

Lee shrugged. No reason not to tell them. “Probably because I grew up reading all the radical books in my great-grandfather's library—half of which you can't even find anymore.”

Bernie mused. “What sort of books have the Greens and Neo Luddites weeded out of Dirtside circulation?”

“Lots. Decent history of any kind. Fiction—or plays or poems—that had heroes whose behavior didn't ‘exemplify the spirit of communal cooperation.'”

“What?” Finder exclaimed, “No Shakespeare?”

“Oh, that's different. Anything from before the nineteenth century is now considered ‘primitive' literature.”

“Damn,” said Bernie with a stare, “I though they were called the ‘classics' of literature.”

“Yeah, well that was before the Behavioral Standards committees made sure that all our society's heroes unfailing demonstrated ‘model-worthy behavior.' So the earlier heroes are relegated to semi-barbarian status. No fault of theirs, of course. They lived in the benighted epochs before the Green Awakening.”

Finder was frowning. “Didn't the Russians try to control book availability during their Communism phase?”

Lee shook his head. “Can't say. It's hard to find much accurate history from 1800 onward. We had a little in great-granddad's library, but mostly books about America's past and its military campaigns. But novels—” Lee pictured the dark wood shelves that went on and on, that had been silent gateways into worlds other than his drab, narrow reality, in which bold ideas or actions were viewed as destabilizing and dangerous. In the books, characters had saved cities, built or broken empires, discovered continents, explored planets . . .

“L.T., you still with us?”

Bernie's quiet prompt jarred Lee out of his fond recollections. “So I decided I was going to live as much of that life as I could.”

Finder's bushy eyebrows climbed toward his receding hairline. “And how did you do that?”

Lee shrugged. “After college, I enlisted in the only service that still went in harm's way: the Coast Guard. Search and rescue. And the Earth Union is always glad to find people willing to sign up for that kind of duty, particularly officer material. Not a lot of folks with good grades are willing to take those kinds of risks anymore—not even to save someone else's life.”

Bernie nodded. “Well, that explains why you didn't get rattled on the bridge when we started trading shots with those bastards. Damn, even us Upsiders don't head straight into danger. If it's coming toward us, we sensibly run like hell. If we can.”

Finder smiled. “So you prequalified for the Customs Patrol by sailing into hurricanes.”

Lee smiled back. “Pretty much. That was the only way they were ever going to let me go Upside.”

“Which you wanted to do . . . why?”

Lee glanced at Bernie. “To do this. To go to a place where I figured the global bureaucracy couldn't have everything under its constant scrutiny and control.”

“Well,” exhaled Bernie, “welcome to the shit, Lieutenant Strong. Because that's what you asked to swim in, and that's where you are.”

“Skipper,” the communications rating broke in, “incoming signal from the brass.”

“Speaking of shit—” drawled Finder.

Lee cut a sharp look at him as he responded to the rating, “Pipe it in here.”

“Sir, there isn't really anything to pipe. It's a request for a retransmission of your after-action report, sir—to new lascom coordinates.”

“New coordinates? For where?”

“Best guess, sir? Hygeia.”

Bernie and Finder looked as surprised and puzzled as Lee felt. “Very well, Rating. Comply with the request.” He toggled the channel off, turned to the other two. “Hygeia?”

Bernie shrugged. “The outermost of the Belt's big rocks. Observation post, watering hole, fuel station, gathering place for off-contract prospectors and small-claim miners.”

“That I know. I've read the charts. But what do you mean, ‘off-contract'?”

“I mean what everyone out here knows, L.T., your superiors included. Not every person born off-Earth is duly reported to the authorities, nor is every business, or every ship, or every community.”

“So, by off-contract, do you mean they're not part of a legitimate commercial contract, or not part of the greater social contract?”

“Both. They only continue to exist because they stay under the radar.”

“Ah. And some of these—independents—come to Hygeia to trade?”

“That, and more. A lot of matchmaking goes on there. Talk to a Belter sometime about the about the difficulty of really long-distance relationships.”

Lee smiled. “I see your point. But then why would the brass order us to retransmit our report to Hygeia?”

Finder looked at his big feet. “Well, there are rumors, Skipper.”

Bernie looked over at him, surprised. “Okay, Jan, what've you been holding out on me?”

Finder looked up at him. “Listen, Bernie, if I told you everything I knew, then you'd be as smart as I am. Almost. So allow an old man his secrets.” He turned to Lee. “Skipper, word is that there are a few Earth Union ships—larger than cutters—which lurk around out here, and that they have hidden support caches on or near some of the major planetoids. Like Hygeia.”

Lee frowned. “You mean, other Customs Patrol craft?”

“Yes and no. Reportedly, these ships are under the control of a secret branch of the Customs Patrol, one that reports directly to the senior Green politico on the Earth Union Steering Committee. And these ships are crewed by guys like you, former cutter skippers and other Dirtsiders who got a little actual experience out here.”

Lee felt his frown deepen. “And what's their mission?”

Finder looked glum. “Whatever the politicos tell them it is.”

Lee felt his hands and feet suddenly go cold. “A spaceside Praetorian Guard?”

“Or Cossacks. So the rumor runs.”

Bernie stared at Finder. “I thought that was just an old wives' tale, bogeymen for scaring the kids.”

Finder's eyes rolled round toward the younger man. “If the tales I hear are true, they don't show up to scare people. Only to kill them.”

Lee started doing the forensic math. “If such ships really exist, it makes sense that one might be lurking nearby—particularly if our guess is right that the hijacking of the Blossom is just part of some larger covert conflict.”

“Okay,” said Bernie, “but if this Cossack Patrol is in on that action, then were the hijackers working for Upside or Dirtside interests?”

Lee nodded. “Or are there other players in the game?”

Bernie frowned. “Like who?”

The comm system squawked. “Incoming message, Sir. And be advised, there's a total exchange delay of forty seconds.”

“Acknowledged. Pipe it in, Rating.”

Bernie rubbed an index finger across his full upper lip as he did the math. “Twenty light-seconds range. A little closer than Hygeia, but not by much.”

The screen on the aft bulkhead flickered into life, revealing a plain-featured man, wearing an extremely conventional suit, seated stolidly in front of a nondescript background.

“Greetings, Lieutenant Strong. I am the Regional Customs Patrol Coordinator, Stephan Mann.”

With no outgoing signal to be sent until they were done watching this transmission, Bernie wasn't shy about filling in what he knew about their caller. “I've heard of this guy. Swiss-Belgian, been out here about five years. Every time he shows up, something funky has, or will, hit the fan. No friend of us Upsiders, and as Green as they come.”

Lee nodded and added silently, And not on any table of organization I've ever seen for the Customs Patrol. This guy handles special jobs only. Careful, now.

“We are in receipt of your after-action report, Lieutenant. You are to be commended on your competent performance.”

“I think he means, ‘enthusiastically congratulated for kicking bad-guy ass,'” muttered Bernie.

Mann's time-delayed image had not paused. “However, your failure to maintain necessary system readiness on your vessel compels us to append a negative comment to your performance. We trust you will ensure that such a failure does not recur.”

“System failure?” echoed Finder. “What system failure?”

Lee grinned sideways at him. “The lascom that you recorded as malfunctioning, ‘yesterday.' Remember?”

Finder's puzzled frown was replaced by the same sheepish look that was already on Bernie's face. “Oh, yeah, that. Sorry we didn't see this glitch coming, L.T.”

“So I don't get a cookie from Mr. Bad Suit. Big deal.”

The spare administrator in the admittedly bad (or at least, utterly dull) suit, was continuing. “What was of greater concern to us, however, was that you were unable to secure any prisoners. It would have been helpful to interrogate any of the perpetrators of the senseless and depraved criminal act that was carried out against the Fragrant Blossom.”

Lee raised an eyebrow. Senseless and depraved? That seemed to obliquely suggest that Mann was satisfied that the unexceptioned slaughter of both passengers and crew was an act of wanton savagery, not ruthless premeditation. It was a puzzling—or maybe telling—conclusion.

Mann droned on. “Concerning your speculation that the ship you destroyed was equipped with a reconfigurable nuclear thermal rocket—specifically, a gas model that could shift between closed and coaxial operating modes—our engineers point out that such a technology is hypothetical only. Your speculation also presupposes that there are rogue Upside engineers and shipbuilders who have achieved this high-performance technology independently, and have amassed sufficient radioactives to operate it. Our threat projection analysts deem both conjectures insupportable and not worthy of farther examination. However, if you have farther evidence to support your speculations, please transmit it now.” The message ended.

Lee looked at his senior ratings. “Am I going nuts, or did he just tell me that what I hypothesized is absolutely impossible, but then ended by asking me to send more evidence to support my hypothesis?”

“Uh, yeah, pretty much,” nodded Bernie.

Lee shook his head, and signaled to the communications rating. “Prepare to send reply.”

“Sir, your comm pickup is live and sending.”

Lee stood slightly straighter. “Coordinator Mann, I am happy you have received my reports and data so promptly. In the matter of the capabilities and origin of the enemy craft, I base my conjecture on theoretical work that dates back almost three centuries, and the Customs Patrol's known inability to maintain complete overwatch on Upside activities this far from Earth.”

He felt Bernie's and Finder's eyes upon him, watching, measuring, wondering how much he was going to tell or reveal about what he was learning about the real circumstances of Upside existence.

“However, while I can offer no concrete evidence of production facilities or personnel operating away from the supervision of the Customs Patrol or other duly appointed Earth Union authorities—”

—he heard two faint, relieved sighs behind him—

“—it is nonetheless noteworthy that the intensely radioactive nature of the threat vehicle's expended propellant, and its ability to generate such a profound energy spike so quickly points to a fundamentally different nuclear thrust technology, one that would be consistent with the projected performance ratings of a reconfigurable nuclear thermal rocket. I close by pointing out that it would be the perfect vehicle for their operation, able to change power levels quickly, and seize the offensive initiative with a five hundred percent thrust advantage over us, at least during our brief engagement.

“Finally, while our understanding of the Fragrant Blossom‘s hijacking is limited to what we can reconstruct from the forensic evidence, I must point out that although the felons showed depraved indifference to life, their actions are hardly seem ‘senseless.' Each step of their plan was deliberately and methodically executed, right down to the long drift they undertook to reach 216 Kleopatra a few days after the event, rather than making a fast getaway. The discipline evident in their actions leads me to conclude that this may not be the work of mere pirates, but of political radicals among the Upsider communities.” He switched off the comm hub, sat down . . . and suddenly noticed that both Finder and Bernie were carefully avoiding his eyes. “Okay,” Lee said in a low voice, “what now? Is there an organization of renegade, radical Upsiders?”

“Well,” answered Finder, “it's not so much an organization, as it is a loose collective. They call themselves the Spacers.”

“Why that?”

Bernie rubbed his hands anxiously. “Because, L.T., it's their way of saying you're wrong to think that the dirt is humanity's real home. The most extreme of them insist that humanity's prevalent obsession with living on a green planet is not only outdated, but dangerous. They believe that's why Dirtsiders treat Upsiders like crap: because they feel superior, because they live on Earth, the holy womb of the race.”

Finder nodded. “And their answer is to turn their backs on Earth and let it drown in its own sewage and self-importance.”

Damn, I really do have a lot to learn about what's going on out here, Lee thought.

“But I'm not sure the Spacers are militant enough to resort to hijacking, Skipper,” finished Bernie. “On the other hand, you're dead right that whoever took down the Blossom wasn't doing it to get money, to get the ship, or even to get the short-term concessions that hostages can buy. So we've gotta wonder, what were they after?”

Finder nodded with the whole upper half of his body. “Yeah, and why was there an illegal, nuke-engined, missile-laden hot rod waiting in the weeds to spirit them away?”

Lee nodded. “We have too many questions and not enough answers—but I don't think we're going to find any new ones just by combing the ship, again. I think we have to expand the search.”

“To where?” Finder asked.

“To the one place that might have answers, and which we can get to: Callisto. That's where the Fragrant Blossom was heading.”

Bernie nodded. “And you think that the ‘mutiny' was planned to make sure she didn't get there?”

“More specifically, to make sure that something or someone on board didn't get there.”

Finder frowned. “So you think someone on Callisto was waiting to receive the goods? Maybe the guy who sent the warning about the Blossom being overdue?”

Bernie shook his head. “No, that would be too obvious. And besides, Callisto doesn't get a lot of ships in—maybe four a year, tops. So a lot of people are going to be eagerly waiting on each one of those hulls for supplies, building materials, new personnel, forwarded cargo.”

Lee nodded. “Yes, but somewhere in the haystack of the Blossom's cargo hold, there just might be that one incriminating needle of evidence that will point to someone who was waiting for something not on the manifest, something secret.”

The communications rating called through the ready room door. “Skipper, incoming reply to your last transmission.”

“Thank you, Rating. Pipe it in.”

The screen brightened. Mann was seated as before but appeared to be on the verge of fidgeting. “Lieutenant Strong, it is my professional opinion that your comparative youth and the uncommon stress of the last few hours has you imagining perfidies, plots, and political renegades where none exist. It is an understandable after-effect of combat, but you must put these phantasms behind you. You have work to do and a patrol route to complete. You are to take the Fragrant Blossom in tow and make for the nearest secure Earth Union facility at best speed. You are not to conduct any farther forensic surveys of the ship's contents; that will be carried out by the on-site authorities. Farther communications on this matter are prohibited, except insofar as you must coordinate with the Earth Union facility at which you will turn over the derelict ship. If, since your initial report, you have detected anything anomalous or unusual on board the Fragrant Blossom, you are to report it now. I await your final transmission.”

After a few seconds, the communications rating prompted over the intercom, “Sir, do you wish to record your reply?”

Lee exhaled slowly, leaned back from the communications hub. “I will not be sending a personal reply. Simply transmit that I have nothing farther to report, that I have received and understood my orders, and will be under way to the nearest secure Earth Union Facility within the hour. Conclude with my regards to Coordinator Mann, and my thanks.”

Finder jerked his head toward the now-blank screen. “That bastard Mann should have let you follow up on the evidence, finish this investigation.”

Lee smiled. “Oh, but he did.” He punched the intercom stud, feigning obliviousness to the matched stares on the faces of his senior staff. “Helm?”

“Yes, Skipper?”

“Make fast the Fragrant Blossom for towing. Navigator?”

“Here, Sir!”

“Plot a course for Callisto. As soon as the helmsman signals that the Blossom is securely in tow, execute at best speed.”

“Yes, sir!”

Lee turned back to his goggling senior staff and smiled.

“You're trying to get yourself court-martialed,” hypothesized Bernie.

“I am obeying orders,” corrected Lee. “You said it yourself, we always follow regulations on the Gato. To the letter, in this case.”

Finder's face brightened with comprehension. “Because Mann told you to head to the nearest secure Earth Union facility. Which, given our current position is Callisto.”

“Yes, it's the closest—by about a thousand kilometers.”

Bernie stared balefully. “Skipper, you know Mann wasn't including Callisto in the list of options.”

“Do I, Bernie? He said ‘the closest.' If he had any exceptions in mind, it was—by regulations—his responsibility to make them explicit.”

“Lieutenant, Callisto is off-limits. We're not even allowed to go there.”

“That's where you're wrong, Bernie. You're not allowed to go there. No Upsider is, unless they are on a government contract to help build the Outbounders' interstellar colony ships. But as a Customs Patrol officer, I have clearance to go to the facility and inspect it, if I deem it necessary to ensure its security.”

“And do you currently have any concerns for its security?”

“I don't have to, Bernie. On the one hand, I have the clearance. On the other hand, I was just given an explicit order by Coordinator Mann to go to the closest facility—Callisto.”

Bernie glanced at Finder, who shrugged. “Hey, he's following regs, as far as I can tell.”

“Sure, Skipper's following the letter of the law—but is completely twisting the intent of it.” Bernie turned back toward Lee. “Listen, Lieutenant Strong, we don't get a lot of officers like you. So you'll forgive me if—for purely selfish reasons, and for the good of the crew—I ask you to reconsider this course of action. You know they're going to slow-roast you for going to Callisto—for bringing us Upsiders that close.”

Finder leaned forward. “Skipper, I hate to say it, but Bernie's right. Much as I'd like to see you get to the bottom of whatever happened on the Blossom, the Earth Union has made it painfully clear to us Upsiders that we're not allowed close enough to see the technology that's being used to build the Outbounder ships. And you can understand why. If your hunch is right, then our own off-contract communities found a way to improve on nuclear thermal rocket technology and build the raider that almost blew us to dust a few hours ago. What do you think they'd do with the fusion drive and power-plant technologies used for the Outbounders' STL colony ships? Or the waste-heat radiation systems? Or the robotics and automated systems?” He spread his hands wide. “L.T., your bosses know that if we Upsiders got our hands on those systems in their entirety, not just the little bits and pieces we fabricate separately, we'd have monkey copies operating in a few years. And we'd have improvements within a decade. And then how long would it be before the Spacers would decide to turn away cutters like this one—or vaporize them, if they refused to listen? With fusion-based energy and engines, we'd own space almost overnight. And you know what that means.”

Lee nodded. “Ultimately, you'd own Earth, too. Or can at least threaten it with annihilation.”

Bernie leaned close. “So don't push the letter of the regs on this one, L.T. The Earth Union will burn you for it, even if they have to trump up charges and falsify evidence. They can't afford to let you thumb your nose at them.”

Lee nodded. “True—but on the other hand, they can't afford to reprimand me if I find, and can prove, that there was a deeper conspiracy behind the hijacking of the Blossom. Hell, you know how they'll spin it, then: Coordinator Mann ‘displayed extraordinary foresight in ordering Lieutenant Strong to take the unusual step of towing the Fragrant Blossom to Callisto, thereby enabling him to surreptitiously conduct the investigation that ultimately revealed the identity and purpose of the saboteurs.'”

Bernie shook his head. “But L.T., you don't have to do that. You're taking a hell of a risk. And for what? Because you'll be able to prove your fellow Dirtsiders wrong?”

“No,” Lee said, looking steadily at Bernie, “because it's the right thing to do. Because it's our duty to find out who was ultimately behind the deaths of all those innocent people on the Blossom. No matter what our gutless superiors say, that is Job One. So that's the job we're going to do.”

“Damn,” breathed Finder, “you really do sail straight into hurricanes, don't you?”

* * *

“Administrator Perlenmann is on open channel, sir. Exchange delay is minimal.”

Lee leaned toward the audio pickup. “Hello, Mr. Perlenmann. I'm sorry to come to your facility under these sad circumstances.”

“Lieutenant, as I understand the regulations, you are not supposed to come to my facility under any circumstances. We are off limits to all Upsiders.”

“That is true, Mr. Perlenmann. But firstly, I am not an Upsider. Secondly, I was given clear orders to tow the Blossom to ‘the nearest secure Earth Union facility.'”

“And why was I not informed of your arrival earlier?”

“Again, orders. I was instructed not to send any transmissions relevant to the disposition of the Blossom until such time as I was ready to transfer her to the closest facility.”

“I mean no inhospitality, Lieutenant, but your presence here, and those orders, are most irregular. However, we are grateful you have brought the Blossom to us, both for operational and personal reasons.”

“I understand that several of her passengers were late-arriving members of Outbounder families already working here on-site.”

“That is correct. They will want to take possession of those bodies as soon as it is practicable. What is your ETA to Callisto, Lieutenant?”

“Just under three hours, sir.”

“Very well. After our navigational controllers have settled you into orbit, I will send a shuttle to dock with the Blossom and—”

“Mr. Perlenmann, I'm sorry, but that isn't going to be possible.”

A long pause. “And why not?”

“Unfortunately, in handling some suspicious containers that the hijackers evidently smuggled aboard the Blossom, a hermetic seal was broken and it is possible that a bioagent was released.”

Lee glanced at Finder, who, at that signal, opened a spoiled ration pack. He wrinkled his nose at the faint stench, and whispered, “Uh oh. Could be a biohazard, Skipper.”

Lee rolled his eyes, tried not to smile, and heard a note of concern creep into Administrator Perlenmann's voice. “It is not a particularly virulent pathogen, I hope?”

“It's too early to say, Mr. Perlenmann. We're still trying to type it. But until we do, and assess how effective our efforts at containment have been, I'm afraid I have to impose a quarantine.”

“Which puts us at a most difficult impasse, Lieutenant. We cannot safely come to you, and you are not permitted to come to us.”

“That's not quite accurate, Mr. Perlenmann. I have had no personal contact with the possible pathogen and, as a Dirtsider and officer of the Customs Patrol, I am authorized to travel to Callisto.”

Another long silence. “Very well, but that does not answer the issue of reclaiming the deceased family members of our Outbounders, nor our timely access to necessary supplies. We get only four shipments from cis-lunar manufacturers per year. They fabricate all the proprietary systems that go into the Outbound colony ships. Without those components, we're unable to work.”

“I think I have a way to solve those problems, Mr. Perlenmann,” Lee said. “Upon arriving, I will shuttle down to Callisto to present the paperwork necessary for releasing the bodies to their next of kin. The bodies themselves will need to remain under observation for seventy-two hours to ensure that they are not harboring elements of the unknown biohazard.” During which time we'll ensure that the incriminating needle we're looking for isn't being carried inside one of those bodies.

Perlenmann sounded thoughtful. “And so at that point, either my personnel or yours could transfer the contents of the Blossom to my shuttles?”

“Well, sir, we'll need to be a little more methodical than that with the cargo.”

“I don't understand, Lieutenant.”

“Mr. Perlenmann, the hijackers compromised the Blossom's computers. Among the most heavily damaged files were those containing the ledgers of the ship's manifest, stores, and personal effects. Unfortunately, we have not been able to locate any hardcopy back-ups. Consequently, because some of the contents of the Blossom's hold were bound for locations other than Callisto, we can't simply release everything to you. Instead, I must ask you to forward an itemized list of what you expected to be receiving from the hold—or from the personal belongings of the deceased. While we wait out the seventy-two hours of quarantine, we will locate the items you indicate and ready them for conveyance to you.” And sift through all that junk for the evidentiary needle we're seeking.

Perlenmann did not respond immediately. Bernie and Finder waited hopefully; Finder even had his fingers crossed. The silence dragged on—

“Very well, Lieutenant, although this is most inconvenient. Now, when did you say you would be arriving with the paperwork for releasing the bodies?”

* * *

Perlenmann met Lee at the entry to Callisto's cavernous ice separation and processing facility. Over the sustained, throbbing moan of the catalytic water crackers, he shouted an inaudible greeting and waved for Lee to follow. As he did, spacesuited workers turned to watch him pass, the exposed faces no more readable than the ones concealed behind sealed visors. Although the volatiles refinery was a shirtsleeve environment, it was separated from the murderous surface of Callisto by only one bulkhead wall. Suits were required, no exceptions.

Lee was turning to ask his bearded host about their daily production capacity when the immense hydrogen purification tank on the far side of the processing facility exploded. The shock wave slammed into Lee like a whole-body battering ram and sent him tumbling forward. His left shoulder hit the rocky floor first, his torso cinching at the waist. His feet continued arcing away from the source of the blast, dragging him head-over-heels into a punishing low-gee somersault.

Instincts took over—instincts that had been drilled into him during his training on Luna, and that had been acquired at a high price in bruised bones and suppressed vomit. As Lee's momentum spun him back into a heads-up position, he stretched his legs wide, thereby making his longest axis perpendicular to the direction of his tumble. His rotation became faster but less powerful. At the same time, his left hand (the expendable one) went out in front of him, elbow bent, wrist relaxed: a shock absorber for what was sure to be a nasty impact. His right hand caught the lower lip of his helmet's raised faceplate, pulled down sharply—

Burning hydrogen roared over and around him just after the faceplate clanked into place. The force of the fiery wash accelerated his forward tumble; he landed hard on his left hand, felt several bones bow, one crack. Lighting streaks of pain sprinted up his arm.

He managed to keep his legs wide and his hips cantilevered forward as his chin and chest slammed into the floor. His heels tried to rise again, struggling to unclench his abdominal muscles and pull him into another somersault.

But Lee fought back, kept his waist bent and legs down. His rotational momentum bled away and he started sliding forward, his left arm out for drag and stability while his right hand protected the faceplate. A few more skittering bumps and then he felt himself drifting to a halt. He rolled over, kicked his legs out-and-up, and came to a buttock-bruising stop.

The wash of burning hydrogen had been brief but every worker in the high-roofed chamber had been knocked flat by the force of the explosion. Most were swaying to their feet, some weren't. Uncertain hands fumbled to secure faceplates as snow began to materialize in the cold, thinning air; a clear sign that the explosion had caused a pressure breach, probably somewhere behind the shattered purification tank. Considering the leisurely pace at which the white specks were migrating in that direction, the breach was probably no worse than a small crack in the berm-covered bulkhead.

Lee rose into the almost nonexistent gravity, looked for Perlenmann, and spotted him rising to his hands and feet a few meters away. Lee dusted off his spacesuit, skim-walked over to the administrator, and helped him up.

From behind a cracked faceplate, Perlenmann nodded his thanks, silver-gray forelock bobbing limply. He smiled crookedly at Lee; “Welcome to Callisto, Lieutenant.”

* * *

Steam oozed out of the drinking tube which protruded from the top of Lee's coffee bulb. The ostensibly disposable bulb looked even older than the ones on the Gato. It had been washed and reused so many times that the plastic rim's innumerable hairline cracks resembled a thick forest of denuded saplings.

Directly across the table, Administrator Perlenmann stared down at nothing in particular as his chief engineer concluded his report. The news was not good.

“—so I figure we're down to forty-eight percent production capacity, Mr. Perlenmann, since that was our largest purification unit.”

Perlenmann nodded slowly. “Can we reconfigure any of the standard tanks to function as purifiers?”

The engineer nodded and rubbed his blistered cheek; he had been at the processing plant when the explosion occurred and hadn't gotten his faceplate down in time. “Can't do it, Mr. Perlenmann.”

“Why?”

The engineer scratched his reddening cheek, winced, snapped his hand away from his face. “Because storage tanks can't be retooled for refining. They're too thin-skinned to take the pressures generated during purification.”

“Very well, Mr. Carroll.” Perlenmann turned toward a man and a woman who were sitting at the far end of the table. He inclined his head slightly toward the woman. “Doctor Iseult?”

The woman, about thirty and pixie-ish, straightened in her seat, an action that was more suggestive of a porcupine bristling than a mere effort to improve posture. “Casualties were much lighter than they might have—or rather, should have—been. One fuel operations worker, Grigori Panachuk, is still in the infirmary.

“Frankly, it is a miracle that Panachuk didn't wind up in the morgue. He was standing within thirty meters of the tank when it exploded, with his faceplate open and his gloves off. Luckily, he was facing the other way, adjusting his collar communicator with both hands. Otherwise—”

“—Otherwise, Panachuk wouldn't have a face or hands left to worry about,” finished the man who was sitting near Iseult.

The doctor shot him an annoyed look, but nodded assent. “Mr. Parsons' assessment is correct. As it is, Panachuk has serious burns and a number of internal injuries. A piece of debris punctured his suit and lodged in his back. Seventeen personnel have been treated for second degree burns, another eighteen for fractures—nineteen, counting Lieutenant Strong.” Her eyes, sharp and unfriendly, flicked in Lee's direction. “The pain has subsided, yes?”

Before Lee could nod and lift his splinted hand in thanks, Iseult was finishing her report. “First degree burns and other, minor traumas—I don't even have a final count on those yet.”

Perlenmann nodded toward the man next to her. “Mr. Parsons?”

Parsons shifted his blocky frame, stared down at his coffee bulb, and wiped a greasy hand on the front of his faded gray coveralls. He didn't seem in a hurry to answer, or to be particularly impressed with Perlenmann's authority.

A faint German accent intruded upon Perlenmann's otherwise perfect diction; “Your report, Mr. Parsons.” Parsons now sounded like Parsuntz.

Parsons shrugged. “My report? Okay, here's my report. The casualties were predominantly fuel ops techs. All Upsiders. All my people.” There was a distinct tone of accusation in Parsons' voice.

“As I understand it, Mr. Parsons, there were also half a dozen flight technicians and two environmental maintenance workers in the processing area when the explosion occurred, all of whom sustained some level of injury. All Dirtsiders. I therefore doubt that this explosion was targeted specifically against your personnel.”

Lee stopped in mid-drink; a targeted explosion? Terrorism? Sabotage? Here too?

Parsons' face was split by a humorless grin. “Perlenmann, if you weren't such a book-loving Green, sometimes I'd swear you were in cahoots with the Sols yourself. How can you even doubt they were behind this? It was Sol sabotage, pure and simple.”

Lee put down his coffee bulb with a sharp clack. Eyes turned towards him. “Excuse me, but would somebody mind telling me what the hell is going on at this ‘secure' facility? Specifically, who or what are the ‘Sols'?”

Iseult, Parsons, and Carroll all exchanged brief, awkward glances. Perlenmann seemed to be waiting. In the end it was Parsons who leaned forward, incredulity in his voice. “Don't they tell you guys anything before they send you out here? Oh wait a minute, I forgot. It's beneath a Dirtsider's dignity to learn about Upside.”

Parsons was clearly looking for trouble. Lee held his tongue until he was sure of his resolve not to give it to him. “Mr. Parsons, prior to my assignment to the Gato, I read everything I could about Upsider communities and issues. And you're right, the info we're given on Earth is incomplete and slanted. However, I've been fortunate enough to be included in some Upsider conversations, so I know about some of the less obvious issues, and about political movements like the Spacers.” Parsons blinked. Hah, gotcha. “But I have never heard mention of the Sols, so maybe you'd be kind enough to clue me in.”

Parsons guffawed. “I don't know any way to ‘clue in' an inherently clueless Dirtsider, but I'll give it a try. Ignoring the Greenie administration in charge of this facility,” he glared briefly at Perlenmann, “you've got at least three distinct groups on Callisto. The smallest is made up of Dirtside contract workers. The largest is comprised of Upsiders like me, some of whom are probably undisclosed Spacers. Then you've got Outbounders, who just can't wait to get on their colony ship and abandon us Upsiders to the tender mercy of Earth's Greens and Neo Luddites. It's also possible that you've got a small number of Sols here, who think that Upsiders like me are soft, and that Outbounders are craven traitors.”

Iseult scoffed, looked away. Lee seized the opportunity. “You have a different perspective, Dr. Iseult?”

She turned to look at Lee, apparently trying to decide whether he was worth talking to. Eventually, she shrugged and offered her version. “Many of the personnel here do express one of two primary political sympathies: pro-Upside or pro-Dirtside. However, their differences have never been violent. The great majority of the Upsiders want to stay on Callisto and keep the Outbound operations running. They rightly believe that if it wasn't for the opportunity to send Earth's most wealthy Dirtsider dissidents off to the stars, the Green and Neo Luddite political alliance would probably discontinue all space-based activities altogether.

“The Dirtsiders are the technicians sent here from Earth to carry out the confidential engineering on the colony ships, or the Outbounders themselves. The Outbounders fear the same outcome that the Upsiders do, but rightly believe the way to prevent the closure of Callisto's shipyard is to offer strong support to the mostly moderate Greens of the Earth Union Steering Committee. As long as they stay in power, Callisto stays open and the starships keep leaving.”

“And the Sols?”

“They are the wild cards in this strange game. The Sols—the self appointed ‘star-chamber' of the entire off-Earth population—think that Outbound activities should be ended so that the moderate Upsiders are no longer seduced by the contracts they get from Earth. Then, they believe, the Upsiders would become desperate and help them overthrow the Earth Union.” Iseult shrugged. “I do not approve of their methods, but you can hardly blame them. They know what's coming.”

They know what's coming. Strange that such a simple sentence could have so ominous a sound. “They know what is coming, Dr. Iseult?”

Her fine-boned face was very grave. “War.”

“With whom?”

“Mon Dieu, can you be so blind? Why, with Earth, of course. Upsiders may resent Earth, but they work with it—and have done so for almost three centuries, now. And over that time, the Upsiders have been accumulating power, gathering the knowledge and means to independently produce technologies which will soon reduce, maybe eliminate, their dependence upon Earth. However, when that day comes—” Iseult shivered although the room was warm.

“And the Sols believe that things are getting so bad that it's better to trigger a war now, to openly engage in sabotage?”

Perlenmann volunteered the answer. “Lieutenant, even out on Callisto, we hear the protectionist rhetoric in the speeches coming out of the Steering Committee in Geneva. The Behavioral Standards Committees have even gone so far as to retroactively restrict the books that may be distributed or owned Upside, including those that will comprise the now-stunted libraries of the Outbounder colony ships we launch.

“The last century's trend toward gradual improvements in freedom of trade and information is now reversing rapidly. And the Sols are not willing to stand by and let that happen. If they are behind today's bombing, it would be to call attention to the creeping return of tighter controls and the danger of Upsider complacency in the face of a potential conflict with Earth.”

“There isn't going to be any such conflict, and the Sols know it.” Parsons' growl swelled in both volume and disdain. “Let's be realistic. You Dirtsiders know that with us already sitting on the moon, ready to pull another Heinlein ‘drop-the-rock' maneuver, you can only push us so far. The Sols are making a mountain out of a molehill. When push comes to shove, the Earth Union will back down.”

Iseult shook her head. “Before Lieutenant Kotsukov was ‘transferred' he said the same thing about Upsiders: that they would ultimately kow-tow to the Earth Union's increased restrictions because the Upsiders are simply not self-sufficient in most regards.” The doctor smiled bitterly. “Parsons, if the leaders on both sides are as hardheaded as you and Kotsukov, then there will be war.”

Parsons snorted disdain but offered no rebuttal.

Lee kept his attention focused on Iseult. “Doctor, who is Lieutenant Kotsukov, and why was he ‘transferred'?”

Another uncomfortable silence. Perlenmann ended it, his voice not much more than a murmur; “Lieutenant Kotsukov was our on-site chief of security. He was ex-Customs Patrol and was given a small detachment to help him in his duties here.”

“A detachment of Upsiders?”

“No: Dirtsiders, like him. They were drawn from the domestic security administrations of several of the nations of the Earth Union.”

Lee kept his reaction from showing on his face. “Domestic security administration” was just a nice word for the paramilitary rent-a-thugs who hunted down unlicensed inventors and roughed up dissidents. “So Lieutenant Kotsukov was a strong supporter of the Green and Neo Luddite coalition?”

“He was a god-damned Dirtsider fascist,” snarled Parsons, “He didn't give a damn about politics except in one way: that Earth was to remain the object of all human veneration and the source of all authority.” Parsons snorted. “Hell, he didn't make it any secret that in his opinion, the Greens were too soft, and the Neo Luddites too boneheaded to be trusted. That didn't go over too well with the home office, I guess.”

Lee frowned. “I'm curious, Mr. Parsons. How did the Earth Union find out about Kotsukov's political sympathies? As Mr. Perlenmann observed, this is a rather out-of-the-way facility.”

Parsons' smile was feral. “I guess some concerned citizen must have sent a complaint to his regional advocate.”

So it was Parsons himself who had been responsible for Kotsukov's “reassignment.” Interesting—and valuable cautionary information, reflected Lee as he picked up his coffee bulb.

“Okay, so you've got potentially violent extremists in both the Upsider and Dirtsider communities, resentment toward Earth, resentment toward the Outbounders, and someone sabotaged one of your quarterly cargo runs when they took over the Fragrant Blossom—which I'm guessing would have shut you down for quite a while out here.”

Perlenmann nodded. “All true.”

“So why do you think it happened now? Which individuals might be behind it?”

Perlenmann smiled. “That is precisely what we hope to learn from your investigation, Lieutenant.”

Lee paused in mid-drink; hot coffee slid to a stop in the vicinity of his larynx and burned there. “I beg your pardon?” he croaked.

Perlenmann simply continued to smile—and Parsons jumped into the silence with all the docility of a scalded wolverine.

“Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick, Perlenmann. You're going to turn the investigation over to him?” Parsons' finger fired an acrimonious beam at Lee. “To another undereducated and inexperienced Dirtside shavetail who's been here for less than three hours?”

Before Lee's shock at the frankness of the insults could transform into indignant rage, Perlenmann was halfway through a counter. “Lieutenant Strong's dossier indicates that he is not, as you would suggest, a ‘reject,' Mr. Parsons.”

“Then what the hell is he doing all the way out here? They only send losers to staff the deep space cutters of the Customs Patrol. Everybody knows that.”

Lee didn't bother to keep the edge out of his voice. “Mr. Parsons, my parents are American—Fifthers who are active in the Constitutional Return movement. My assignment here was, I am sure, partly motivated by the Earth Union's willingness to distance me from such a ‘recidivistic environment.'”

Parsons rolled his eyes. “Great; now we've got an American version of Kotsukov: a Yankee Doodle Dirtsider ready to give it up for the red, white and blue. What did you do, Perlenmann—put in a special order for this guy?”

Lee kept his own voice level. “Mr. Perlenmann had nothing to do with my arrival here, Mr. Parsons. That was strictly coincidental. Farthermore, I myself am not involved in the Constitutional Return movement. However,” he said, turning toward the Administrator, “insofar as any investigations are concerned, Mr. Perlenmann, I would be going well beyond my jurisdiction if I were to take charge of a civilian inquiry.”

Perlenmann smiled wanly—and Lee had the distinct premonition that he was about to learn that his jurisdictional knowledge was imperfect. Perlenmann did not disappoint him.

“Lieutenant, I must point out that while our charter here is through a non-security related agency, the Outbound Operations Administration, we are also officially classified as an Earth Union ‘secure facility.' The safety and secure operation of such facilities are the direct responsibility of the Customs Patrol. Under those terms, I believe your authority in this matter is quite clear.”

Damned if it isn't at that, thought Lee. If Callisto had only been a commercial refueling depot in the Belt, then it would be a local matter. But since the Callisto facility was where the Outbounder ships were built, and that necessitated the application of proprietary technologies that were subject to security monitoring and protection, it was—officially—a security asset, as well. That meant the investigation was Lee's responsibility.

He cleared his throat. “You realize, of course, that if you turn this matter over to me, the crime in question can no longer be investigated or tried as industrial sabotage. It becomes an act of treason.”

Only Perlenmann nodded. The others seemed surprised and suddenly uncomfortable. Lee pressed on, “Mr. Perlenmann, everyone here assumes that the explosion was the result of sabotage, rather than a mechanical failure. Why is that?”

Perlenmann shrugged. “Because, I am afraid, we have already experienced one smaller incident of sabotage here on Callisto. Our secure document scanner was sabotaged about four months ago. The replacement I asked for should be on board the Blossom. Did you happen to notice it when you reviewed the cargo?”

Lee nodded. “Actually, I did, because it was a rather surprising item. From what fragmentary records we have”—Lee suppressed a sudden impulse to cross his fingers as he said that—“it was actually included in the priority cargo manifest. But Mr. Perlenmann, I have to wonder if the two incidents are really connected. After all, why would a Solist, or a Spacer, or a militant Dirtsider bother to sabotage your secure scanner?”

Perlenmann folded his hands. “The Earth Union authorities require that we use our document scanner as a primitive data firewall to protect our mainframe. All incoming data is run though a standalone computer and converted into image files or hard-copy. Those images or hard copies are then run through the secure scanner, which is able to analyze any suspicious code elements without those elements becoming resident on any drive as executable data packages. That way, if viruses or trojans are found, they never make it to the mainframe.”

Lee nodded. “ But how would it be in anyone's particular interest to sabotage that?”

Parsons snorted. “Because all the extremists on this rock have their own worries about the administrator receiving a message they don't get to hear first. If there's no secure scanner, then coded orders can't be sent here, because there's no other means of decryption. So if the Earth Union Steering Committee gets taken over by Neo Luddite extremists and orders that Callisto is to be shut down, the Earth Union would have to send it in the clear, which gives the Outbounders a fair amount of warning.”

“And the Sols?”

Iseult shrugged. “They fear the opposite: that the most moderate Greens in the Earth Union Steering Committee might begin reversing the current crackdowns and even order the reacceleration of the Outbounder hull construction programs. The Sols would see that as undermining the urgency of their own radical anti-Earth agenda, so, given advance warning, they might successfully undermine that trend with key acts of terrorism.”

“Okay, so there's reason to suspect both sides of sabotaging the scanner. I'm assuming you already investigated and came up empty-handed?”

Perlenmann nodded.

“Okay, so do you at least know how today's explosion was rigged, what kind of bomb was used?”

Jack Carroll, the blister-faced engineer, pulled a small plastic sleeve out of his breast pocket, pointed at the blackened mass inside the bag. “There was no bomb involved. The saboteur used that electric igniter, slaved to a common wrist-watch.”

Iseult leaned forward. “Que? How can one have an explosion without an explosive?”

“When there's still some hydrogen in a fuel tank, you don't need an explosive, Doctor. Just a spark.” Carroll frowned, thinking. “My guess is that the saboteur's first move was to rig the fuel tank's level indicator so that it would read ‘empty' a little prematurely. That would keep the pumps from completely purging the tank after a processing run, which means that some of the liquid hydrogen would remain at the bottom of the tank.

“But, when the level indicator registers the tank as empty, the cryogenics shut off. So the tank begins to heat up a little—enough to cause the liquid hydrogen to evaporate into its very flammable gaseous form. At that point, all you need is one little spark and wham—you get one hell of an explosion.”

Lee frowned. “Who on Callisto would have the knowledge and technical expertise to set this up?”

Carroll's face did not betray what his voice suggested; that only a rank newbie would ask such a question. “Everyone, Lieutenant—with the possible exception of Dr. Iseult and some of her staff. And all the various models of igniters are easy to acquire, since we use them for so many tasks: for burning off waste gases, as starters for auxiliary power plants. They're ubiquitous.”

Lee sighed. No easy answers there.

Parsons rose noisily. “If we're just about done, I've got some people in the infirmary that I'd like to visit.”

Perlenmann hadn't even completed his nod of acquiescence before the fuel ops chief was out the door. Iseult and Carroll were close behind. Lee rose to follow.

“Lieutenant, a moment—if you please.” Lee regained his seat slowly. Perlenmann smiled. “I trust you've had warmer welcomes, Lieutenant. Although I confess surprise that you are out here at all.”

“Just luck, Mr. Perlenmann. It was my turn in the patrol rota—”

“You misunderstand me, Lieutenant. I mean I find it unusual that you are in the Customs Patrol.”

“Oh. That. Well, unless you were bluffing earlier, you've already seen my dossier.”

Perlenmann smiled faintly. “I have. Which is precisely why I'm asking what you're doing out here. A history major, with a minor in literature? And with dissident parents? I'm surprised you were even allowed to go to college.”

Lee smiled, knew it was crooked. “Administrator, that's not the kind of—er, ‘politically incorrect candor' I am accustomed to hearing from a Green official.”

Perlenmann shrugged. “I don't recall saying that I am a Green. Or anything else, for that matter. However, you will find in the course of your investigation, Lieutenant, that there is a great penchant for affixing labels around here. I suspect you arn't particularly susceptible to that kind of blind partisanship, but allow me to emphasize what you probably already know. It will not help investigator to assume that labels are either useful or accurate.”

“Probably no better than it does a facility administrator—even one so unusually articulate one as you, Mr. Perlenmann. So tell me, what are you doing in this plush job?”

The administrator stroked his beard. “Watching myself grow old, Lieutenant. In some ways, my story resembles your own. I started out as a young professor at Cambridge—Political Science—and was a bit of a radical in the eyes of my employers. I insisted on using unabridged original works, which was not a welcome pedagogical method when the books in question were treatises such as The Federalist Papers and Rousseau's Social Contract.”

“You're English?”

“Half. My mother was from Munich, which is where I grew up before going to school in Italy. I'm something of an EU mutt, I'm afraid. At any rate, I was accused of proffering the forbidden fruit of free thought—so they sent me here.”

“It would seem Milton takes a back seat to the Earth Union when it comes to devising suitable punishments for liberty-spouting Lucifers.”

Perlenmann laughed. “Lieutenant, despite the sabotage and political skullduggery, I am glad to have you here. Please feel free to come by if you need any assistance—or if you wish to borrow a book.” He swept a hand behind him, indicating the innumerable volumes of every height, width, and color, which covered all four walls in serried, sawtoothed ranks.

Lee had a sudden reminiscent flash of standing in the doorway that led into his great grandfather's library. “I just might take you up on that offer, Mr. Perlenmann.”

“Good. And Lieutenant, you might wish to introduce yourself to the on-site security personnel. They are, after all, under your direct command while you are on Callisto. Here are their dossiers. You might also be interested in learning that I haven't notified them of your arrival.” Perlenmann smiled. “Nothing like a surprise inspection to boost morale, eh?”

* * *

The duty officer's room was in complete disarray: overflowing ashtrays, dishes clotted with ossified leftovers, and a clutter of papers held together by the seamy brownish lacquer of old coffee spills. Through the far door, the tittering of girlish laughter was plainly audible. Moving softly on the balls of his feet, Lee approached the doorway.

Two double bunks faced away from the door, offering a direct view of the videoflat which had been set up (in defiance of regulations) on the wall opposite. The current cinematic fare: a buxom starlet in a Little Bo Peep costume halfheartedly fending off the advances of three leering, leather-clad adolescents.

The lower levels of both bunks were occupied. On the left, a broad torso (with a decidedly large central bulge) spanned the width of the mattress. To the right, a small and almost cadaverously lean man was cheering on the video studs in some mishmash of English and Portuguese.

“Tennnnnn-HUT!”

The little stick figure on the right jumped so hard and high that he hit the ceiling, rebounded at an angle, caromed off the upper left bunk—and crashed straight into his larger companion, who was just rising. The stick figure went down in a heap. The larger man tottered and unsuccessfully aimed a meaty leg at the stick figure's head. Steadying himself, the big one spat a Slavic growl—”Izvierk!”—and then turned toward Lee, the growl metamorphosing into English. “And who the hell do you think you—?” The big man's mouth froze in a fishlike gape as his eyes hit the gold bar on Lee's left shoulder.

“You were about to ask me a question, Sergeant Bulganin?”

The broad Russian snapped his mouth shut—so hard that Lee could hear his teeth clack. Then: “Nyet—I mean, ‘no,' Sir. No question.” Bulganin had pushed himself to attention, but his chin stayed down and his dark brown eyes had hardened into stubborn, lusterless black beads.

Lee turned his attention to the smaller trooper, whose stare was rapidly shuttling back and forth between the Russian and the American. Eager, observant, waiting to see how things would work out. This one would follow whoever established himself as the top dog, rank notwithstanding. Lee turned his attention back to the Russian. “I take it Sergeant, that you were not informed of my arrival.”

“That is correct . . . Sir.”

A long pause on the “sir”; the challenge was starting already. Good. Best to get this over with right away. “And is this the condition in which you maintain your quarters?”

Bulganin shrugged, did not answer. Lee could feel the little guy's growing excitement; stick-figure smelled a fight brewing.

“I asked you a question, Sergeant.”

Bulganin, who hadn't uttered a sound, sneered. “I said ‘No, Sir.' My apologies; my speech must be too soft for you to hear.” Stick man giggled.

Lee took a step closer to the Russian. “That's odd, Sergeant. My hearing is quite good and you don't seem like the quiet type. But, perhaps your speech has become soft”—Lee lowered his eyes to Bulganin's sagging midriff—”along with the rest of you.”

The black eyes flared then smoldered. “The Lieutenant will please pardon my inquiry: I have seen a uniform and insignia of rank, but I have not seen papers.”

Lee admired the way the Russian refused to surrender the initiative. Bulganin was tenacious, if sloppy. There was probably a good soldier lurking underneath the blubber. Lee tossed his ID packet on Bulganin's bunk. “Lieutenant Lee Strong, Customs Patrol, USA, New World Collective. Now in charge here.”

Bulganin smiled faintly, smugly. “I see,” he said.

“No, you don't—but you will.” Still looking straight at Bulganin, Lee barked, “Cabral!”

The stick man jumped, rammed back to attention, his eyes wide. “Sir!”

Lee recited the dossier from recent memory. “Cabral, Eduardo. Senior Rating, Third Interurban Security Force, Brazil. Currently on detached duty to the Customs Patrol.” A rent-a-thug from the favelahs, probably; might as well check. “From Rio, Cabral?”

“Yes Sir!”

“Enjoying this assignment, Rating?”

“Yes Sir!”

“Then you don't have the brains you were born with. Bulganin!”—the Russian didn't even flinch as Lee turned back toward him, roaring his name—”First name: Arkady. Sergeant, 18th Security and Protection Group. Twenty-four-year service record. Demerits for brawling, drunken-and-disorderly conduct, and ‘political agitation'—nyet, tovarisch?”

Bulganin's eyes narrowed at Lee's drift into his nation's contemporary hardline Neo Luddite vernacular. “If we are foregoing standard military address, Sir, I prefer gospodin.”

Stubborn and insubordinate, but Bulganin had balls. “Perhaps I should include your mention of that preference when I make my first report, Sergeant. The Neo Luddite regime in Moscow might find it somewhat disturbing.”

“I am already in exile, sir.” Bulganin's eyes swept the dismal environment. “Where can they send me that's worse than here?”

Lee smiled. “They can send you out an airlock, Arkady. Things are tightening up back in Mother Russia. Neo Luddites—and their preindustrial Communalism—are busy looking for counter-revolutionaries. Some things never seem to change.” He stepped back. “And at this moment, I don't give a damn whether they ever do. The only thing I'm concerned with is what's going on right here, right now.”

“Sir, with all due respect,”—Bulganin's tone suggested that this was a minuscule amount—”I must ask. What do you know about what is going on right here, right now?”

“I know that discipline has gone down the drain and that this unit is currently incapable of carrying out its assigned mission.”

“Lieutenant, this ‘unit,' as you call it”—Bulganin glanced sidelong at Cabral, and then back—”has carried out its duties, even though we have been forced to struggle along without an officer for over a year now.” Bulganin allowed himself a slow, sarcastic smile.

Lee smiled back. “So you're in full readiness? Even for emergency duty in a full grav environment? Tell me, Sergeant,”—Lee looked down at Bulganin's overly-thick midriff—”have you been putting in the mandatory one hour per day in the spin gym?”

Bulganin's smile diminished, faded away.

“Have you, Sergeant?”

The Russian glanced sideways. “There have been—mechanical failures.”

“Have there? Well, then you'll be glad to learn that I stopped by the spin gym on my way here and found it to be in full working order. So I'll expect you to report for double-shift PT, Sergeant.”

Bulganin's eyes betrayed a hint of dread. “When?”

Lee's smiled widened. “Right now.”

* * *