MIN

The ED director hailed Trumpet for fifteen minutes, using every authorization she could think of—except Angus’ priority-codes. Then she gave up in disgust.

The gap scout wasn’t answering.

All the explanations she could think of were bitter.

Trumpet’s people didn’t trust her.

Or everyone aboard was dead.

If Morn and her companions had been killed by Trumpet’s brutal acceleration away from the asteroid swarm, the small ship’s scan would remain active. Shaheed’s broadcast would continue automatically. But failsafes would have shut down the drives after the vessel resumed tard.

“Keep at it,” Min told communications darkly. “Hail her yourself. Or just play back what I’ve been saying for the past fifteen minutes. If they don’t answer—if they don’t let us know they’re alive—that’s all we can do for now.”

“Aye, Director.” Cray set to work at once.

Min turned to the command station. “Dolph, how soon can we catch up with her?”

“And match velocities?” he asked. “I assume you want to board her?”

Min nodded. Damn right she wanted to board the gap scout.

Captain Ubikwe referred the question to the helm officer who’d relieved Sergei Patrice. “Emmett?”

Emmett was a stolid man with a round face and unnaturally pale skin. His unreactive manner conveyed the impression that he was no match for Patrice. Nevertheless he knew his job: he already had the figures Dolph needed on one of his readouts.

“That depends on how hard you want to brake, Captain. We’re overhauling her at a good clip. At this rate, we’ll be alongside in an hour and a half. But if we’re going to match velocities for boarding, we have to decelerate first.”

“And if we brake too hard,” Dolph muttered, “we’ll probably fall apart.”

“We can take it, Captain.” Apparently Emmett had a literal mind. “I can put us right beside her in two hours if we start a two-g deceleration in”—he glanced down at his board—“make it seventy-eight minutes.”

Double the effective mass of everyone aboard for forty-two minutes. They could bear it. They’d all endured much worse. Recently.

Dolph cocked an eyebrow at Min. “Good enough?”

She acquiesced unhappily. “But watch her. If she shows any sign of life, we’ll have to be ready.”

“I’m on it, Captain,” Porson said unnecessarily.

“Go ahead, Emmett,” Captain Ubikwe instructed.

After a moment’s consideration he toggled his intercom to inform Punisher’s people that they had seventy-eight minutes in which to eat something, relieve themselves, and complete their duty rotation before the ship began braking.

Because she needed to manage her tension, Min paced the bridge, working the cramps and helplessness out of her muscles, damping the fire in her hands; trying to center herself so that she wouldn’t scream if she found Morn and Angus and Vector dead.

Despite the self-discipline she’d learned from years of action and experience, she felt the unexpected crackle of the bridge speakers like a jolt of stun.

“Punisher,” a woman’s voice said distantly, “this is Trumpet. We hear you. Can you hear us?”

Trumpet was too close to sound so far away. The voice in the speakers gave the impression that the woman was reluctant to stand near her pickup. Reluctant to take this risk.

Instinctively Cray moved to reply; but Captain Ubikwe stopped her with a sharp gesture. “Let Director Donner do it,” he told her. His deep voice had a warning tinge.

Min threw a quick look at the nearest chronometer. Punisher was thirty-one minutes from deceleration.

A few swift strides carried her to the communications station. Poised over the console, she answered as soon as Cray keyed the pickup.

“Trumpet, this is Enforcement Division Director Min Donner aboard UMCP cruiser Punisher, Captain Dolph Ubikwe commanding. We hear you.” Full of complex relief, she added, “I’m glad you’re alive.” Then she went on more carefully, “Who am I talking to?”

There was a delay. Not transmission lag: hesitation. After a moment the voice in the speakers said, “Director Donner, I’m Ensign Morn Hyland.”

Morn was alive. After all this time: against incredible odds. Despite the fact that Nick Succorso had been given the power to use Angus against her. Min closed one fist on the butt of her handgun to steady herself. Suddenly she thought that anything was possible. The UMCP and humankind might survive. Warden might actually win—

She was in focus now, primed with flame. Her excitement and alarm seethed beneath the surface; hidden. Nothing except authority showed in her tone.

“Who else is with you, Ensign Hyland? Where’s Captain Succorso? I thought he was in command.”

Again Morn paused. Afraid to answer? Wondering where Min’s loyalties lay? That was likely: she had reason to be suspicious. Plenty of reason.

But when she replied, her voice had more force. She must have moved closer to the pickup.

“Meaning no disrespect, Director Donner,” she said distinctly, “but I have some questions of my own.”

“No disrespect?” Dolph muttered under his breath. “Who the hell does she think she’s talking to?”

Min ignored him. Morn was saying, “When we left Massif-5, you were engaged with an Amnion warship. Calm Horizons. What happened to her?”

“Calm Horizons,” Dolph repeated. “We’ve got id. Finally.

“File that, Bydell,” he ordered. “Add it to our records on that defensive. UMCPHQ might find a name useful.”

“Aye, Captain,” Bydell returned softly.

At the same time Min countered, “Ensign Hyland, I’m prepared to make some allowances here.” She concentrated exclusively on her pickup and Morn’s voice. “After what you’ve been through, you probably deserve them. But I want answers, too. Where is Captain Succorso?”

She could almost hear Morn leave the pickup: the sense of withdrawal from the speakers was palpable. Morn didn’t close the channel, but she moved out of range. Consulting with someone? Trying to decide how much to say?

Did she think she could bargain with the ED director?

What did she have to bargain with?

When it came, her response was stark and unrevealing.

“Nick Succorso is dead.” For no apparent reason, she added shortly, “So is Sib Mackern.”

Dead? That explained a lot—and raised more questions. Succorso held the priority-codes for a UMCP cyborg. Who could possibly have gotten past Angus to kill him?

But Min didn’t pause to consider the implications.

“I’ll ask how he died later.” I’ll ask you why you’re talking for Trumpet. Why Angus is willing to let anyone else speak for his ship. “First I’ll answer your question.

“Calm Horizons survived. We had to choose between trying to kill her and coming after you. She was on her way out of the system as we left. Her course didn’t reveal where she was headed.”

In the background of the transmission, a harsh male voice growled, “Shit.”

Morn’s reaction was silence.

“Well,” Dolph put in casually, “now we know she isn’t the only survivor. She may have killed Succorso and this Sib Mackern, but she didn’t get everybody.

“You recognize the voice, Director? Was that Thermopyle?”

Maybe. Maybe not. Min couldn’t tell.

She waited while her heart beat eight or ten times. Then she prompted, “Ensign Hyland?”

Abruptly Morn’s voice came back across the narrowing gap between the ships.

“Don’t you care that Calm Horizons must have heard Vector’s broadcast? Don’t you care that she’s probably burning for forbidden space?”

“Of course I care.” Min’s tone dripped acid. “I’m Min Donner,” God damn it. “But Calm Horizons isn’t my only problem.”

“You mean us.” Morn sounded like she was talking to herself. “We’re too dangerous. I knew we were in trouble. But it’s worse than I thought.”

Dangerous? The ED director knew what Morn meant. But she didn’t comment on that. Instead she offered, “And it could get even worse. One of my other problems is a mercenary called Free Lunch. She has a contract to kill you. Have you seen her?”

Another pause: more hesitation. Min restrained an urge to shout while she waited.

Captain Ubikwe shifted forward in his g-seat as if he hoped that might urge Morn to answer. Cray frowned relentlessly past Min’s shoulder. Glessen drummed his fingers on the edges of his board like a man who wanted to start shooting.

At last Morn replied, “Free Lunch is dead, too. We met her in the swarm. Angus killed her with a singularity grenade.”

“Captain,” Porson whispered excitedly, “that must have been the kinetic reflection anomaly we picked up. Director Donner was right.”

“Don’t remind me,” Dolph grumbled.

An edge of anger crept into Min’s voice. “Damn it, Morn, you’re talking, but you aren’t telling me what I need to know.”

She wanted to ask, demand, With a singularity grenade? How in hell did he manage that? But she cautioned herself, No, keep it simple. Don’t get distracted.

Deliberately she pushed her ire down.

“Never mind, Ensign. Free Lunch is something else I’ll ask you about later.

“What’s your condition? Have you lost anyone besides Captain Succorso and Sib Mackern?”

Why are you coasting? Who’s really in command there?

Morn responded with another maddening silence.

Min allowed herself to rap the communications console with the knuckles of one fist—a small outlet for her tension.

“For a mere ensign,” Dolph observed dryly, “that woman is certainly mistrustful of her superior officers.”

She glared at him. “We gave Succorso those priority-codes,” she retorted. Hell, we sold her to him in the first place. So he would go along with one of Hashi’s misbegotten plots. “How much do you expect her to trust us?”

“That’s a good question.” Captain Ubikwe adjusted his bulk against the arm of his g-seat. “You called this ‘Warden Dios’ game.’ Do you think she knows whose side she’s on? Do you think she or that cyborg or any one of them has a clue what Director Dios wants them to do?”

Min didn’t reply. She held herself ready for Morn’s response.

The speakers emitted a whisper of static.

“Director Dormer,” Morn’s voice said, still muffled by her personal distance, “what are your intentions? You have us on targ. Are you planning to open fire?”

The ED director swallowed a hot protest. “That depends,” she snapped back, “on whether you try to get away again.”

Who in hell do you think I am?

Now Morn spoke without delay. She’d already made this decision. “We can’t,” she returned flatly. “Our drives are dead.”

Still she contrived to supply answers without telling Min what she needed to know.

Captain Ubikwe looked quickly at scan.

Porson shrugged. “It’s probably true, Captain. I can’t see anything that says otherwise. Her guns aren’t charged, that’s for sure.”

“What if she’s faking?” Dolph suggested. “What if she shut down her drives, and now she risks cold ignition?”

This time Min made Morn wait. For a moment she wanted to hear what was being said around her.

The scan officer’s face showed a perplexed frown. “I can’t imagine what good that would do her, Captain. Thrust will be unstable while her tubes are cold. She’ll hardly be able to maneuver until the tubes heat. That’ll give us plenty of warning. We can probably react to whatever she does.”

“We already have her at point-blank range, Captain,” Glessen put in without being asked. “I don’t think I could miss if I wanted to.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions, targ,” Dolph warned sharply. “She may be telling the truth. Stranger things have happened.

“What about her gap drive, Bydell?” he pursued. “Can she get away from us if she just uses thrust to power her into tach?”

Bydell’s eyes widened at the idea. She seemed to find it frightening. “Not until her thrust stabilizes, Captain,” she said hurriedly. “Otherwise it’ll be like hitting the gap at random. If she can’t generate reliable hysteresis, she can’t be sure she’ll ever resume tard.”

“And as I say, Captain,” Porson repeated, “we’ll get plenty of warning.”

Min had heard enough. She turned her attention back to the communications pickup.

“Listen to me, Ensign Hyland. We’re talking to each other, but we aren’t getting anywhere. We need to do better.

“You’ve been through quite an ordeal. And you probably think you have good reason not to trust me. I understand that. So let’s not make this any harder than it has to be. Tell me what you want us to do.”

Tell me how I can keep you from fighting me.

Apparently Morn was done with hesitation—at least for the moment. Her answer returned from the speakers almost at once. “Drop targ,” she said clearly. “Drain your matter cannon. Stop treating us like the enemy.”

Min raised her head as if she’d been stung; faced Captain Ubikwe across the bridge.

She expected umbrage: instead he rolled his eyes humorously. “Hell, Min,” he drawled, “if she thinks this is how we treat the enemy, she should see us when we’re in dock.”

The fire in Min’s palms was as acute as a decompression klaxon, warning her of trouble. Morn’s attitude didn’t make sense to her. Trumpet’s drives were dead: the gap scout was helpless; doomed. Under the circumstances, what sane ship would insist on trying to bargain with her rescuers? What in hell did Morn think she had to bargain with?

Nevertheless Min put on authority as if it were confidence.

“Just do it, Captain,” she ordered.

He gave an exaggerated sigh; but he didn’t argue. “You heard the Director, Glessen. Cancel targ. Drain the guns. At least we don’t have to worry about Free Lunch anymore.”

“Aye, Captain,” Glessen muttered disapprovingly.

“We’re relying on you, Porson,” Dolph went on. “If that damn ship lets out so much as one flicker of drive emission, I want to hear about it.”

“I’m on it, Captain,” the scan officer promised.

Min bent to the pickup again. “We’re complying now, Ensign Hyland,” she said acerbically. “Watch scan. You’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

For half a minute the bridge speakers brought in nothing from the void except random particle noise. The silence seemed hollow, devoid of life; vaguely ominous. Then Morn’s voice returned.

“Thank you, Director Dormer.” She sounded faint with relief or dread. “That helps.”

Then she sighed audibly. “There’s just one more thing.”

“No, Ensign Hyland,” Min snapped. She meant to be cautious, but she’d come to the end of her patience. “Now it’s my turn.” Morn’s palpable suspicion grated on her nerves—perhaps because she knew she deserved it. “I’m trusting you. It’s time for you to trust me. Then we’ll consider whatever it is you want next.”

Morn sighed again. “I’m listening.”

Gritting her teeth, Min ordered, “Stop broadcasting Vector Shaheed’s formula.”

Morn made a hissing sound—indignation or dismay. Again Min thought she could hear a male voice swearing in the background.

Dolph cocked an eyebrow at Min, pursed his mouth. Apparently he hadn’t expected this. He was caught up in the needs of his ship; hadn’t thought beyond the immediate situation.

When Morn spoke again, her voice was closer: as acute as a knife. It flayed bitterly from the speakers.

“Why am I not surprised? You’ve been suppressing this drug ever since it was developed. You took it away from Intertech, and now you’re keeping it to yourself. You would rather use it for a few covert operations once in a while than make it public and take the risk it might actually scare the Amnion into a retreat. Because”—Min tried to interrupt, but Morn overrode her—“if the Amnion backed off, the UMCP wouldn’t be so crucial. And then people might start asking questions about you.”

“Stop that, Ensign Hyland,” Min commanded harshly. “You’re talking about Data Acquisition, not Enforcement Division. I don’t play those games.”

She probably wouldn’t be playing Warden’s game right now if he’d ever told her what it was.

“I swear to you on my honor as the Enforcement Division director that I am not going to suppress Shaheed’s transmission. I have no intention of suppressing it.

“Even if Director Dios orders me directly to bury it,” she added for emphasis, “I can’t do it. VI has already heard it. It can’t be suppressed.”

She was confident Warden wouldn’t give that order. But it didn’t matter whether she was right or wrong. He wasn’t here.

“Then why—?” Morn began, then faltered to silence.

“Because,” Min rasped, “it’s too goddamn loud! You can’t control who’s going to hear it. You say Free Lunch is dead. Fine—I hope you’re right. But what if some illegal picks it up and decides to come after a prize like that? What if Calm Horizons swings around this way and uses it to locate you?

“We’ve got damage over here, Ensign Hyland. We can’t protect you. We’re in no condition for another battle.

“Turn it off,” she finished with all her authority. “Turn it off now.”

Don’t force me to board you at gunpoint. Don’t make me take you prisoner. You deserve better.

Dolph nodded to Min, showing her that he understood. Glancing around the bridge, he remarked generally, “Makes sense to me,” just in case any of his people agreed with Morn.

Min whitened her knuckles on the butt of her handgun and waited for a response.

When Morn answered, her voice sounded more distant than ever: she might have been whispering. For no apparent reason, she asked, “Do you remember my parents, Director Donner?”

Min’s eyes widened. What? Your parents?

She recalled them vividly. Not because she had Hashi’s eidetic memory: she didn’t remember faces or names well. To some extent her ferocious loyalty to her own people was an attempt to compensate for a lack in herself. But years of service overcame that inadequacy. And men and women whose names or faces she sometimes forgot while they worked for her were unalterably etched in her mind by death.

Morn was testing her in some way she didn’t understand.

She wasn’t a woman who hesitated under pressure, however. “Your father was Captain Davies Hyland,” she replied promptly, “commander, UMCP destroyer Starmaster. He died with his ship while he was hunting Angus Thermopyle in the Com-Mine belt. You probably consider yourself responsible. And your mother was Bryony Hyland, targ second, UMCP cruiser Intransigent. She died saving her ship during an engagement with an illegal armed with super-light proton cannon.

“I delivered a whole satchel full of commendations and decorations for her in person when you were just a kid.” Min scowled at the memory. She hated all the duties that fell to her when her people died. For that reason she never shirked them. “The way I remember it, you refused to look at them. You were too angry to let someone like me comfort you.”

Is that it? Is that really what you want to know?

Maybe it was. Out of the void Morn breathed softly, “What I remember is that they trusted you.”

Cray adjusted the receiver in her ear. She didn’t look at Min: her eyes were busy tracking signals on her board. Abruptly she jerked up her head. “They did it, Captain! They’ve stopped broadcasting.”

Min began a low sigh of relief—and realized suddenly that she wasn’t relieved at all. If anything, her nerves burned hotter. An intuitive alarm she couldn’t name squalled in her head. There was danger here—

What danger? Trumpet’s drives were dead: she couldn’t charge her guns; couldn’t avoid Punisher. And this whole sector of space was empty of other ships.

Morn’s distrust ran deep. Why had she acquiesced?

Angus killed her with a singularity grenade.

If he could do that, he could do damn near anything.

No! Min told herself grimly. It didn’t make sense. Any singularity which could threaten Punisher would swallow Trumpet as well. The gap scout’s people had fought and suffered all this way from Billingate for no apparent purpose except to make DA’s antimutagen public. They wouldn’t commit suicide now—not for the small satisfaction of damaging Enforcement Division.

She looked over at Dolph. His expression was speculative, searching; but he didn’t offer any comment.

No one else said anything. The bridge crew knew even less about what was going on than she did.

“We’ve complied, Director Donner,” the speakers announced unnecessarily. “Now it’s my turn.”

Did Morn sound scared? Or was that just more suspicion?

“What else do you want?” Min asked the pickup. How much more do you think you can get away with?

Morn had her answer prepared.

“There are six of us.” Her voice seemed to resonate softly across the gap between the ships, hinting at threats. “Mikka and Ciro Vasaczk. Vector Shaheed. Davies Hyland. Angus Thermopyle.” If she was scared, she didn’t falter or flinch. “I want you to take us aboard.”

Min’s whole body tightened in surprise.

Bydell looked almost cross-eyed with perplexity. Glessen cracked his knuckles over his board as if he were limbering his fingers to recharge his guns. Cray gazed vaguely at Min with her mouth hanging open.

“Well, shit.” Captain Ubikwe threw up his hands, then slapped them on the sides of his console. “Is that all?

“What in hell’s the matter with her? If we aren’t going to shoot her, we for God’s sake sure didn’t come all this way just so we can watch her coast.” He paused, then wondered, “Or is she afraid we’ll only take some of them? Leave the rest to die? Does she think we’ve sunk that low?”

Min punched her pickup silent. “I know what you mean,” she told Dolph sourly. “The more she says, the less sense she makes.”

Who was Morn talking for? Who was really in command over there?

Did she have Angus’ codes? Was that possible?

“But we still have the upper hand,” Min went on, even though her nerves flamed with warnings. “We have guns and thrust. And Angus is alive. We know his priority-codes.” If worse came to worst, she could order him into stasis. “We want those people.” Warden Dios wanted them. “If we don’t bring them aboard when we get the chance, they may do something really crazy.”

Like commit suicide.

Dolph spread his palms as if he were disavowing responsibility. “You’re the ED director, Min. I’m just here to follow orders. And right now,” he admitted, “I don’t want your job.

“You make the decisions.” He chuckled quietly. “I’ll be content complaining about you behind your back.”

Min had no time for his sense of humor. With a movement like a blow, she toggled her pickup.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Ensign Hyland.” Despite her apprehension, she kept her tone neutral. “Of course you can come aboard. That’s what we’re here for.

“Just give us time to come alongside and match velocities. We’ll use limpets to pull you to our airlock,” so we don’t need to try any tricky maneuvers in our condition.

“We’ll be ready,” Morn replied promptly; distantly. Apparently she’d received the answer she expected. “Trumpet out.”

The speakers gave a pop of static as the gap scout ended her transmission.

“I’ll bet you will,” Min muttered as Cray closed the communications channel. “I’ll just bet you will.”

Morn Hyland was only an ensign, nothing more. But she’d been to the far side of hell—and come back. Now she was trying to play a game of her own: against Min and Punisher; against the Amnion; even against Warden Dios.

In the secret core of her heart the ED director didn’t know whether to feel proud or appalled.

Punisher eased carefully toward Trumpet and nudged braking thrust to pace the gap scout. Emmett had brought the cruiser to within two hundred meters of her target.

He could have done better: Sergei Patrice probably could have done much better. But two hundred meters was close enough for limpets. With a damaged ship and an exhausted crew, Captain Ubikwe didn’t want to push his luck by moving nearer. If Punisher’s core displacement worsened suddenly—if misalignment froze the bearings, halting internal spin with a screech of tortured metal and any number of injuries—she would be thrown out of control, at least temporarily. A collision was possible.

Dolph kept a safe distance; let limpets close the gap for him.

Magnets on flexsteel cables coiled out from Punisher’s sides toward the little ship. Guided by sensors from the cruiser’s auxiliary bridge, the limpets were aimed along Trumpet’s flank until they reached suitable positions bracketing one of her airlocks. Then the magnets were charged, locking the limpets to Trumpet’s hull. After that it was a relatively simple matter to reel the gap scout in like a hooked fish.

The final adjustments took time. Trumpet’s airlock and Punisher’s had to meet and mate securely so that they could seal against each other. But eventually the auxiliary bridge reported that Trumpet was in place: status indicators green; the airlock pressurized.

Captain Ubikwe blew a sigh through his lips, then turned to his intercom.

“I know you’re tired, bosun,” he said into the pickup, “but I think this might be a good occasion for a little ceremony. Muster a guard, meet our guests at the airlock. Let me know when they’re aboard.” He paused for a heartbeat, then added, “Go armed, bosun. But don’t threaten anybody. I’m not expecting trouble. I just want our guests to know we’re prepared to stand up for ourselves.”

“Aye, Captain.” The young man tried to stifle his weariness, but the strain in his voice was clear.

Dolph silenced the intercom.

“You don’t suppose, do you,” he drawled to Min, “that they’re going to keep us waiting? After they made such an issue out of getting permission to join ship?”

Min paced the bridge to contain her impatience while other people worked. At Dolph’s question she shook her head. If she’d been able to guess any of the moves Morn—or Warden—would make, she would have been better prepared for them.

“Apparently not,” Captain Ubikwe answered himself a few minutes later. His status readouts told him what was happening. “They’re in their airlock already. They’re keying our side now. We’re cycling our lock for them.”

Abruptly, as if he felt a sudden need for reassurance, he asked scan, “We’re still alone, aren’t we?”

“We’ve lost our scan sweep, Captain,” Porson answered. Punisher had been forced to stop her rotation so that she could grapple with Trumpet. “I can’t be sure. But I haven’t seen any hint of another ship.”

Dolph’s mouth twisted. “Charge the guns anyway, Glessen,” he ordered. “Maybe we can believe Free Lunch is dead. But I don’t trust Calm Horizons to leave us alone.”

At once Glessen’s hands jumped to the task. “Aye, Captain.”

“As soon as our lock seals, Emmett,” the captain went on, “resume rotation. We need that scan sweep.”

“Aye, Captain,” Emmett responded stolidly.

“Cray,” Dolph finished, “tell the auxiliary bridge to hang on to Trumpet. We’ll piggyback her home with us.”

Cray reached for her intercom. “Right away, Captain.”

He looked around the bridge as if to assure himself that he hadn’t forgotten anything. Then he settled his back more comfortably against his g-seat while he waited.

Min feared that she was losing her self-command. At intervals she caught herself grinding her teeth as she paced. Trumpet’s people were playing some kind of game: she was sure of it. And she wanted to know what the hell it was.

Fortunately she didn’t have to wait long. After another minute or two, the intercom snapped to life.

“Captain,” the bosun reported softly, “they’re here.”

Dolph toggled his pickup quickly. “All six of them, bosun?” he asked in a deep growl.

“Aye, Captain. But, Captain—” The bosun faltered, then said more loudly, “One of them—it’s Captain Thermopyle—he’s pretty angry. He says we’re still treating them like the enemy. Because we’re armed.”

The captain’s eyebrows arched on his forehead. He flicked a glance at Min. “What does he want you to do about it, bosun?”

“He wants me to disperse the guard, Captain. He says they’ll find their own way to the bridge.”

For reasons she couldn’t name, Min’s sense of danger worsened. With his welded resources and his native hate, Angus was a kind of singularity grenade.

Dolph’s rumble took on an unmistakable edge. “Is Captain Thermopyle threatening you, bosun? Has he mentioned what he intends to do if you don’t comply?”

“No, sir,” the bosun replied. “He hasn’t gone that far.”

Captain Ubikwe tapped his fingers on the arms of his g-seat. Glancing at Min again, he asked, “Now what, Director?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I want them in front of me, Captain. I want to see their faces when they talk.”

Dolph nodded slowly. To the intercom he said, “Remind them that an honor guard is a sign of respect, bosun. Assure Captain Thermopyle I’ll dismiss the guard as soon as he and his companions are safely here. Then bring them to the bridge.

“When he gets here, he and I can discuss the protocol of joining a superior officer’s ship in person.”

“Aye, sir.”

The intercom clicked silent.

Questions she didn’t have permission to ask filled Bydell’s face. Glessen seemed unnaturally busy at his board, giving Punisher’s weapons more attention than they needed. Porson whistled thinly through his teeth while he hunted the dark with his instruments. Repeatedly Cray lifted her shoulders and dropped them as if she’d developed a twitch.

They’d all been under too much pressure for too long. Only Emmett sat at his station as if he had nothing to worry about.

Dolph aimed a frown in Min’s direction. “Now what do you suppose is going on?”

She shrugged. “Sounds like a gesture. A warning. He doesn’t intend to let us push him around. He’s still a cyborg. He can defend himself. Or he wants us to think he can.”

She had no confidence in that explanation. She just didn’t know what else to think.

Grimly she resumed pacing the bridge.

By chance she happened to be on the far side of the curved space when the bosun and his honor guard escorted Trumpet’s people onto the bridge. From her perspective they appeared to be walking on the ceiling; standing upside down.

She was familiar—more than familiar—with the strange orientations caused by the g of internal spin. Nevertheless she strode rapidly along the curve so that she would be able to meet the new arrivals face-to-face; study every glare and falter in their eyes.

The bridge crew watched in silence as Morn Hyland and her companions approached the command station.

“Captain,” the bosun announced formally, “may I present the captain and crew of UMCP gap scout Trumpet?” His voice shook despite the determination on his features.

With an impersonal scowl, Captain Ubikwe studied Trumpet’s people. “Thank you, bosun,” he rasped. “You can dismiss your guard now. But I’ll ask you to stick around. There may be something you can do for our guests.”

The bosun and the honor guard saluted somewhat raggedly. As soon as Dolph returned an acknowledgment, the bosun sent the others off the bridge. Apparently unsure of what to do with himself, he remained a step behind Trumpet’s people.

Min reached the group; stopped. Gripping the butt of her handgun, she cocked her other fist on her hip and confronted six pairs of eyes, six strained, tired faces, as if she were daring them to challenge her.

Between one heartbeat and the next she scrutinized them all, first together, then individually.

Two women. Four men—or two men and two boys. She had no difficulty recognizing some of them. The names of the others became obvious by default.

Morn had positioned herself a little ahead of the others; leading them; taking responsibility for them.

One of the boys, an ash-pallid kid with grieving eyes and an unsteady mouth, looked like he might throw up if anyone offered to harm him; like he’d already suffered enough harm to sicken his soul. But the rest of the group—

In their various ways, most of his companions were vivid with tension. Their postures shouted of dangers Min didn’t know how to evaluate.

She remembered Morn well, not just as a little girl, but as a cadet at the Academy. Primarily because of who her parents had been, Min had paid unusual attention to her. But the woman who stood here now was dramatically changed.

As a cadet, Morn had been so beautiful that Min had considered her almost featureless: perfect and bland; with only a hint of chagrin and—perhaps—stubbornness in her gaze to give her face character. Now her airbrushed loveliness was gone. She’d lost weight, a lot of it, as if she’d been burning herself for fuel. And her experiences had chiseled at her features, chipping the blandness off her cheeks and forehead; cutting lines like gutters for pain between her brows, at the corners of her eyes, along her nose and mouth. Her eyes were dark with doubts and hesitations which the sharp demarcation of her mouth belied.

A cast covered her right arm: a sling held it loosely to her chest.

Facing the ED director, her free hand seemed to move involuntarily toward a salute; but she aborted the gesture.

Two men guarded her shoulders, Angus Thermopyle and a much younger man who nevertheless resembled him astonishingly.

Angus stood with his arms relaxed and his palms forward, as if to show that he had no intention of challenging anyone. He seemed essentially unchanged since Min had last seen him. Perhaps the yellow malice in his eyes had deepened: perhaps his feral grin held more threats. In other ways he looked like the same strong, grubby, bloated man Hashi had reqqed and welded. A slight hitch in his stride suggested that he’d hurt a hip.

The younger man must have been Davies Hyland: the damaged kid bore no resemblance to Morn. But Min had automatically expected Davies to look like Nick. She hadn’t guessed that Angus was his father. Only the hue of his eyes—exactly Morn’s color—indicated that he hadn’t been cloned from Angus.

Yet that one detail was significant; crucial. Because of it, his expression reflected Morn’s rather than Angus’. The mind behind his father’s features hadn’t been cramped and clotted with his father’s hate.

The other woman—Mikka Vasaczk—glowered harshly past Morn and Angus without meeting Min’s scrutiny. A bandage partially obscured her right eye: she’d injured her temple somehow. For that and other reasons, she reminded Min oddly of Warden Dios. She carried herself with an air of competence, and her compact frame and assertive hips gave the impression that she was stronger than she looked. Nevertheless she seemed almost eager to remain behind Morn and Angus, as if she didn’t want to call attention to herself. Or perhaps it was her brother, Ciro, she wished to conceal. She kept one hand on his shoulder as if he couldn’t move unless she pushed him; guided him.

Knowing nothing about her, Min guessed that she habitually used anger to control her fear.

Of the six, only Vector Shaheed looked relaxed. His blue eyes held a calm simplicity that contrasted markedly with the tension of his companions. His movements were obviously stiff, presumably painful: Min guessed that his joints hurt him in some way. Yet the pain didn’t appear to bother him. His work at Intertech had at last borne fruit. Now he may have been at peace with himself.

“Ensign Hyland,” Dolph put in suddenly, “you ought to be ashamed of yourself.” His tone throbbed with deliberate anger. “Apparently you’re proud of your parents. Didn’t they teach you how to treat a superior officer? That’s Enforcement Division Director Min Donner you haven’t bothered to salute.”

Min didn’t glance away from Morn. Morn kept her eyes on Min. The air between them grew more concentrated moment by moment, thickened by exigencies which hadn’t been named yet.

More than ever Min believed that Warden’s game—the future he played to win—was at issue here. She felt in her burning palms and her clenched handgun that the outcome might be determined by what happened between her and Morn.

At last Morn spoke.

“Director Donner.” Her voice was low; gravid with complex intentions. “I’m Ensign Hyland. You know Captain Thermopyle. This is my son, Davies Hyland.” She indicated the young man at her shoulder.

As if he couldn’t stop himself, Davies breathed quickly, “Director Donner.” His tone hinted at involuntary respect.

But Morn wasn’t done. The hesitation in her eyes didn’t seem to affect her. “It’s my duty to inform you,” she went on, “that the others are under arrest. Vector Shaheed, Mikka Vasaczk, and Ciro Vasaczk are my prisoners.”

Captain Ubikwe snorted like a mine-hammer. “That’s fascinating, Ensign. They sure don’t look like they’re under arrest. The last I heard, we use armcuffs when we’re outnumbered by our prisoners.”

Min shook her head. “What do you mean, Ensign Hyland? What’s your point?”

Don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me what the hell’s going on.

Morn held her head high. Only the darkness of her gaze shifted: nothing else wavered. “My point is that I’m responsible for them,” she answered firmly, “and I won’t tolerate any interference with them while they’re in my charge.”

Slowly a fighting snarl pulled at Min’s lips. Without transition she no longer cared whose game she was playing, or why. She was the Enforcement Division by God director, and she was responsible here. No matter how much Morn Hyland—or Warden Dios—meant to her, she had no intention of letting anyone come between her and her oath of office.

“It doesn’t work that way.” She made the words crackle like alarms. “You’re only an ensign. You have neither the authority nor the competence to present yourself to me like this.”

Abruptly Angus bared his teeth. They looked as carious as his eyes. “I warned you,” he remarked to Morn as if they were alone.

She turned to look at him. While a firestorm gathered in Min, Morn nodded slowly. “You were right,” she murmured softly. “We’ll do it your way.”

Min had an instant of warning as the clenched tension of Morn’s group exploded into action. Just an instant: a fraction of a second; hardly long enough for the synapses of her brain to register the change.

Nevertheless she was fast. Years of experience and training had honed her reflexes to lightning. Before the instant was over, her fist leaped up; aimed her impact pistol at Morn’s head.

But Morn had already moved. The doubt in her gaze—and the cast on her arm—did nothing to slow her; hinder her. As soon as she spoke to Angus, she flung herself headlong at Min.

During the thin slice of time while Min’s gun rose into line, Morn’s boots lifted from the deck, carried by the force of her spring. She couldn’t have stopped even if her reflexes had been as sharp as Min’s; even if she’d had time to see Min’s gun and recognize that Min was about to kill her.

Other people moved as well—Angus, Davies, Mikka Vasaczk, Vector Shaheed; even Ciro. Their actions were too sudden for anyone else on the bridge to counter. But Min had no time for them. Scarcely a millisecond remained before she tightened her finger; blasted Morn in midleap.

She changed her mind as swiftly as she raised her hand. Snatching the gun down, she stepped aside from Morn’s attack.

The adjustment took too long, despite her speed. The interval of Morn’s leap simply wasn’t large enough to accommodate so many reactions. Before Min finished her sidestep, Morn crashed into her; hammered an acrylic-clad forearm onto her shoulder; grappled for her arm.

Min could have handled that. The force of Morn’s blow struck her shoulder numb; but she didn’t need it. Plant her rear leg: cock her hip: twist her torso in the direction of Morn’s momentum: throw Morn past her. It would have been easy.

Unfortunately Morn’s charge had already served its purpose. It was a feint, nothing more: a distraction. Angus reached Min before she recognized the true danger.

If she’d focused on him from the beginning, she could have beaten him. Despite his augmented resources, she would have had time to draw her gun and fire before he closed the gap.

But now—

Now she didn’t stand a chance. His fist caught the side of her head with the force of a steel piston; and she went down like a sack of severed limbs.

She didn’t lose consciousness. No. She positively declined. She was Min Donner, by God, Min Donner, and she was responsible for everything that happened here. She would not surrender to a mere punch in the head. Through pain that clanged and shivered inside her skull as if the bones were a gong, she clung to the deck and the bridge; refused to let the kind dark carry her away.

For a while she couldn’t see anything: Angus had hit her hard enough to shock her optic nerves, her occipital lobes. But she felt the gun snatched out of her limp hand. With her cheek she sensed boots pounding the deck. From the fringes of unconsciousness she heard shouts and curses—Dolph’s roar of anger; Bydell’s involuntary wail; Glessen’s harsh cursing.

Then a woman yelled.

“If you touch that intercom,” the voice cried harshly, “I’ll blow your head off!”

Not Morn. And not Bydell or Cray.

That left Mikka Vasaczk.

Min twisted her head to the side. The movement spiked more pain through her skull; but when it eased she could see again.

Blinking frantically, she looked up from the deck.

“All of you!” Mikka shouted again. “If anyone lifts a finger, I’ll kill him! First I kill him. Then Angus kills Director Donner!”

Min couldn’t locate Morn or Angus: they must have been behind her. But the rest of Trumpet’s people had spread out around the bridge. Davies had positioned himself to guard the aperture to the bridge. He didn’t have as much bulk Or muscle as Angus; but he looked quick enough, driven enough, to hurt anyone who tried to get past him. Vector stood in front of Cray, holding his hands over her board so that she couldn’t reach the keys to summon help without fighting him for them. Ciro Vasaczk crouched on his hands and knees, crawling toward the nearest bulkhead.

Mikka confronted the command station: a gun in her fist covered Dolph. She must have grabbed it from the bosun. He lay dazed on the deck; eyes dull; holster empty. Min knew at a glance that Mikka was both able and willing to use her weapon.

Captain Ubikwe must have seen the same thing. Nevertheless her threat—and the attack on Min—left him almost apoplectic with fury.

“I don’t have to touch the intercom, God damn you!” he raged like a bullhorn. “This is a UMCP cruiser! A ship of war! You can kill all of us. You can kill everyone who comes onto the bridge in the next ten minutes. But after that you’re finished!

“By then the rest of my crew will have guns, too. And they aren’t stupid, no matter what you think of the cops. They’ll override everything from the auxiliary bridge. They’ll seal you in here, they’ll cut off your goddamn air. And you won’t be able to stop them because you don’t have the goddamn codes!”

Only Punisher’s senior officers had the codes he meant—the cruiser’s essential priority-codes. Even Morn wouldn’t be able to prevent it if, say, Hargin Stoval invoked those commands in order to take over the ship from the auxiliary bridge.

“Either shoot me or get that popgun out of my face,” Dolph demanded hotly. “I don’t deserve to be insulted.”

“You fat asshole,” Angus drawled with a grin, “what makes you think we care?”

Min was angry, too; as angry as Dolph. But her fury was cold and hard, like forged ceramic. Somehow she dredged her head up from the deck. With a brutal effort, she levered her good forearm under her.

“You should care,” she croaked hoarsely.

You’d better kill me now. Otherwise I’m going to crucify every one of you.

Abrupt hands grabbed the back of her shipsuit. They were strong; impossibly strong: they jerked her upright as if she had no mass, no substance. They planted her on her unsteady feet, then released her with a negligent flick that nearly sent her sprawling.

She flexed her knees against the weight of her pain and turned to face Angus and Morn. Her right arm dangled useless from her numbed shoulder.

Angus held Min’s pistol aimed at the center of her chest. His free hand clenched and unclenched slowly, as if he were pumping it full of violence.

“Why?” he jeered at her. “You’re the one who reqqed me from Com-Mine Security so Hashi fucking Lebwohl could play his little games with me. After that you pretended you didn’t like it, but you let him have me anyway. The way I see it, I owe you nothing but damage. Why should I care?”

Min took a deep breath, reached inward to find a center of balance beyond the clamoring pain. Distinctly she answered, “Because I won’t let you do this.”

Angus widened his eyes mockingly, then narrowed them into a scowl. “Oh, I get it,” he rasped. “You’re planning to stop me, aren’t you.” He sank his teeth into the words; seemed to tear them loose one at a time like shreds of meat. “You’re going to use my priority-codes, turn me back into a toy. Aren’t you.

“Well, go ahead,” he challenged her. “Go ahead and fucking try it.”

His manner warned her: everything Trumpet’s people had done since Punisher spotted the gap scout on scan warned her. Nevertheless she didn’t hesitate; didn’t second-guess herself.

“Isaac, this is Gabriel priority.” Her voice recovered its force as she spoke, filling the air with compulsion. “Give me that gun.”

Angus Thermopyle was a welded cyborg, ruled by zone implants and exigent programming; absolutely controlled. Hashi had assured everyone in UMCPHQ that he would never draw another free breath as long as he lived.

But he didn’t surrender her weapon.

Instead he laughed like the hunting growl of a predator.

“Well, what do you know? I didn’t do it. Isn’t that amazing?” His eyes concentrated on her like coherent light.

“And you know what’s even more amazing?” he went on. “I don’t have to hold back from hurting UMC-fucking-P personnel. Not now. Not ever again.”

He turned his free hand as if he were aiming a punch in the direction of the command station. Without warning a ruby shaft as thin as a needle lanced between his fingers toward Captain Ubikwe’s feet. First the laser scored the deck, deliquescing metal with a plume of smoke, a stink of heat. Then it touched the side of Dolph’s boot.

The captain sat like a stone in his g-seat. Not a muscle moved. If he felt so much as a lick of pain, he didn’t show it. But the glare he fixed on Angus promised murder.

Through his teeth Angus told Min, “I already hit you hard enough to get your attention.” Slowly he shifted his laser away from Dolph’s boot. “I can amputate his damn legs if I feel like it.” At last he turned the beam off.

A faint sigh crossed the bridge as Bydell, Porson, Cray, and even Glessen let themselves breathe again.

“We changed my datacore,” Angus stated scornfully. “I don’t have to take your orders anymore, or let you turn me off, or make me break my promises. You don’t have any restrictions left on me. Do you hear me?” he raged suddenly. “I’m done with you! The next time you give me an order, I will push it back down your throat with my bare hands!”

“Morn,” Davies put in, half demanding, half imploring, “tell him to stop. He’s made his point. We don’t need more threats.”

Mikka’s grip on her gun held steady: her aim hadn’t wavered a centimeter. “Whatever it takes,” she muttered. “Whatever it fucking takes.”

“But he is telling the truth, Director Donner,” Vector offered as if he wanted to placate her. “He doesn’t accept orders from us either.”

Min stared back at Angus without moving. For a moment she thought her heart might stop. Her grasp on reality seemed to unravel in the face of his ability to disobey his priority-codes.

Changed his datacore? How? That should have been impossible. Everything was impossible.

Hashi, you miserable, goddamn sonofabitch, this is—

But then another explanation struck her with the force of an electric shock.

—your doing?

No. It wasn’t Hashi’s doing. It wasn’t his game at all. It was Warden’s.

Warden had used Punisher to convey a message to Trumpet. The text of the transmission had given Angus’ codes to Nick Succorso. But the plain words had been embedded in some kind of specialized programming language. And now Angus was free. Something similar to the one we use to program datacores.

Warden’s doing.

Beyond question the future he was fighting for depended on what happened here.

Morn didn’t reply to her son’s demand, didn’t say anything to Angus; didn’t glance away from the ED director. Maybe Min was wrong: maybe it wasn’t doubt that darkened her gaze. Maybe it was grief.

“We’re not going to kill anybody.” Her tone was full of resolve—and hints of sorrow. “Not unless you don’t leave us any other choice. We don’t want bloodshed. And we don’t mean to hurt you. We don’t even want to insult you.

“All we want,” she said firmly, “is command of this ship.”

Porson gave a low gasp of surprise. Glessen swore viciously under his breath. Even stolid Emmett flinched.

Dolph was too angry to keep quiet. “And you expect me to allow that?” he barked at Morn. “What are you, crazy as well as stupid? If you think I’m going to give up my ship just because you’re waving a couple of little guns around, you should go check yourself in to sickbay. You’ve gone too far over the edge to function without medical help.”

Min held up her left hand, mutely commanding him to silence. This was between her and Morn—and Warden Dios, whose nameless needs hung over them like a shroud.

“What for?” she asked sternly. “What do you propose to do if we let you take command?”

“‘Let’?” Angus sneered. “‘Let’ has nothing to do with it. We don’t need your goddamn permission.”

Snarling deeply, Dolph bit back a retort.

Still Morn kept her attention on Min as if no one else had spoken; no one else mattered.

“For a start”—her voice was low, but steady—“we’ll go home. Back to Earth.” She shrugged. “After that it depends on who tries to stop us.”

Back to Earth. Exactly where Min would have taken them.

All at once she seemed to feel a nagging burden of uncertainty and confusion drop from her shoulders.

Between them Morn and her companions carried the most explosive body of information in human space. Morn could testify that Angus had been framed: that UMCPDA had conspired with Milos Taverner to steal supplies from Com-Mine so that the Preempt Act would pass. Vector Shaheed had analyzed the formula for an antimutagen which the UMCP had kept secret, despite its obvious importance to humankind. Mikka and Ciro Vasaczk surely knew about Nick’s dealings with the Amnion on DA’s behalf. They could describe the Amnion near-C acceleration experiments Angus had mentioned—experiments which might give forbidden space an insuperable advantage if the present uneasy peace turned to war. In some way Davies Hyland represented the knowledge the Amnion needed to create artificial human beings who would be indistinguishable from real ones. And Angus had changed his datacore: therefore everything Hashi Lebwohl had done with welded cyborgs—and, by extension, all humankind’s reliance on SOD-CMOS chips—was untrustworthy; founded on a false premise.

If Morn and her companions returned to Earth and revealed what they knew, every dishonorable action the UMCP had taken in recent years would be exposed.

The result would be chaos. At the very least the GCES might dismantle the UMCP. Or pass a Bill of Severance. But the damage would almost certainly go further.

It might go far enough to bring down Holt Fasner.

On the other hand, if Min fought Morn and won—if she outplayed or outwaited Trumpet’s people, and took them all prisoner—the harm might be contained. Certainly the Dragon would do everything in his vast power to contain it. The stories Morn and her companions had to tell would be suppressed; lost.

Yet eventually Warden’s hand in these events would become known. Angus’ datacore would play back every bit of input it had been given. Then Fasner would have no choice but to destroy Warden. It would be all too obvious that Warden had tried to destroy him.

That fact would be significantly less obvious if Morn Hyland was in command when Punisher reached Earth.

Min was unaccustomed to surrender. The concept violated her combative spirit: the word itself seemed to violate her mind. But she had larger responsibilities to consider.

“I guess”—for a moment her voice stuck bitterly in her throat—“I guess you didn’t believe me when I said,” swore to you, “I’m not going to suppress Shaheed’s broadcast.”

Morn’s head twitched back as if she were reacting to a flick of pain. “Oh, I believe you, Director Donner. My whole family trusted you.” Then the corners of her mouth knotted with self-coercion. “I just don’t believe you’ll have the final say.”

She was right: Min knew that. The Dragon Was too strong for her.

“In that case,” the ED director announced like acid, “you win. The ship is yours.”

Bydell gaped at her in astonishment. Glessen covered his face with his hands.

From the aperture of the bridge, Davies crowed, “Yes!”

“Min!” Dolph cried out. “You can’t—!”

“I can!” Min wheeled to face the command station; overrode his protest with a shout like a flail. “I am!

“Listen to me, Captain Ubikwe. Listen hard so you don’t make any mistakes. As long as Ensign Hyland wants to head home, we’ll take her there. And we’ll take her orders along the way. We are not going to resist her or sabotage her. We aren’t going to cause her any trouble at all.”

“Min, please—” His eyes beseeched her.

“No!” She refused to be swayed. Returning sensation sent needles of fire down her forearm into her stunned hand. “I won’t have any more bloodshed. We’ve just taken aboard the only six people in human space who’ve been through more hell than we have. I want all of us to survive the experience, all of us. If that means letting a mere ensign issue instructions for a while, we will do it.”

If we destroy Warden and bring down the whole UMCP, that’s on my head, not yours.

“These people are not the enemy, Dolph.” She lowered her voice to a cutting edge. “Maybe they’re out of line. And maybe they’re too dangerous to mess with. We’ll sort all that out when we get home. Better yet, we’ll let Director Dios sort it out. But for the time being”—she delivered each word as distinctly as an incision—“you will not risk any more of your people.

“Is that understood, Captain Ubikwe? Have I made myself clear?”

“Shit, Min.” He slumped as if he were collapsing in on himself. “Of course you’ve made yourself clear. You know that.” With the back of his hand he wiped sweat from his dark forehead. “But I have to say”—his tone reeked of bile—“you sure as hell know how to rub salt in our wounds.”

He slammed to his feet, brushed Mikka aside as if she didn’t hold a gun. Gesturing at his g-seat, he growled, “The bridge is yours, Ensign Hyland. I’ll be in my cabin. Throwing up.”

Without waiting to be dismissed, he headed for the aperture.

“Sounds like fun,” Angus snorted past his grin. “I’ll go with you. Just in case you decide you don’t want to be a good boy. Or Director Donner changes her mind.”

He handed Min’s gun to Davies as he followed Dolph Ubikwe off the bridge.

Min understood, although no one said the words. Dolph had just become a hostage.

He seemed to take all the cruiser’s courage with him as he left. His people sagged at their stations. Their faces fell: they hung their heads. Even Glessen lost his truculence. Bydell made a small sound that might have been a moan of abandonment.

Abruptly Min’s anger returned like the flash of a signal flare. She found herself flexing the fingers of her right hand against the burn; flexing them like Angus. She wanted her gun.

“Don’t make this any harder than it has to be, Ensign Hyland,” she warned. “Our people have already been pushed right to the edge. It’ll take just about nothing to make them explode. If your cyborg so much as scratches Captain Ubikwe, you’ll have a full-scale battle on your hands.”

And I will personally execute the lot of you.

“We know that,” Mikka muttered. “We know what’s at stake.”

Holding Min’s gun in his fist, Davies left the aperture to approach Morn and the command station. Bitterly he told Min, “Angus hasn’t hurt anyone since you gave Nick his priority-codes. At the moment he’s easier to trust than you are.”

Min wrapped her fingers around the fire in her palms so that she wouldn’t retort.

Once again Morn didn’t hesitate. She’d committed herself to this course of action. If she had doubts about it, she kept her uncertainty private.

Deliberately spurning her years in the Academy, as well as her whole family history—the respect for rank and authority which she’d surely been taught—she stepped to the command station and assumed Captain Ubikwe’s g-seat. Despite the darkness in her gaze, she seemed sure of what she did. The cast on her arm gave her an odd combination of vulnerability and dignity.

Min watched in confusion, baffled by outrage—and by a strange, keen pride that one of her people could rise to a challenge like this.

“Mikka,” Morn said quietly, “I want you to supervise helm.”

“Right.” At once Mikka stalked over to Emmett’s station; positioned herself at the arm of his g-seat so that she had a clear view of his console.

“Davies,” Morn went on, “you’d better keep an eye on Director Donner. Just to be safe. I want everyone to know she’s being held under duress. Like Captain Ubikwe.”

She meant that neither Min Donner nor Dolph Ubikwe was responsible for what Trumpet’s people did. In an oblique way she was protecting Min, Dolph, and Punisher. Perhaps she was even protecting Warden Dios. To that extent, at least, she understood the implications of her decisions.

Quickly Davies shifted so that he had an open shot on Min without risking either Morn or Mikka. Grimacing like his father’s grin, he covered Min with her own weapon. But he kept his distance: apparently he’d seen how quickly she could move.

When Davies was in position, Morn turned her station. Following her gaze, Min saw Mikka’s brother still huddled on the deck. He’d retreated to the bulkhead; pressed his shoulder against it as if he wanted to hide and had forgotten how.

Gently Morn asked, “Ciro, are you all right?”

He didn’t reply. After a long moment, however, he jerked a nod.

Sighing, Morn returned her attention to the rest of the bridge.

“Communications, I’m sure you have a copy of Dr. Shaheed’s transmission. Please ready it for general broadcast. As soon as we reach Earth, we’ll start transmitting it again.

“Vector, you might want to be sure she gets it right.”

Cray snorted at the suggestion that she might make a mistake. But Vector’s response was a grin of relief. “I think I can handle that.” At once he stopped blocking the communications board and moved around behind Cray’s station to support himself on the back of her g-seat.

Morn continued assuming command.

“Helm, please set course for Earth. The best course you can manage with no more than one g of thrust. I don’t want to put any more pressure than necessary on this ship.”

“Yes, sir,” Emmett responded automatically. Placing his hands on his board, he started to tap keys.

“Engage thrust when you’re ready, helm,” Morn finished.

Punisher was going home.

Gritting her teeth, Min tried to tell herself that she’d done what Warden wanted.

And that what Warden wanted was right.