Source: Prison And The Sea

One of his shoes is split at the toe, like a mouth; the snow keeps seeping in, chilling his toes. Lan scuffs the snow on the dirigible platform away from his vulnerable boot. The guards watch from the sides with faint and superior amusement.

The sky is a crumpled grey, shifting under a steady wind that never moves the air near the ground. He realizes that this is the same sky which Clu can see from their window, and with that thought, cannot understand why he is still standing here - when all he wants is to be with his wife, watching the clouds with her.

The boots, the ragged coat (which reminds him of a coat that Clu often wears, a warm relic of capitalist times), the baggy pants and scratchy shirt - all are reminders of his new status - criminal. The importance lies in what that says about his society, not what it says about him.

He looks down the length of the platform, to where it vanishes in the snow. Somewhere out there is a vast hydrogen wing sliding slowly toward him. A beautiful thing, made by man, except that its purpose is to take him to prison for the next ten years of his life - a sentence passed with no defense allowed.

There are other zeks on the platform; the guards zealously keep them from the "normal" prisoners, as if the zeks might radiate treason. The zeks themselves stand apart from each other, partly as a matter of temperament, partly as a last illusion that they are free men, who do not have to associate with each other.

The sound of engines shatters his introspection as the vast wing decelerates above them, turbines whining against its forward motion. The mooring crews rush out to the platform to capture the lines and drag the wing down to the ground.

"Let's go," the nearest guard gestures. "In there." He points toward a large opening inthe gondola, barred only with elastic cargo net. The first group of prisoners has arrived and their guard parts the net for everyone to pass. For a moment, Lan thinks wildly of escape. He feels his shoulders twitch. But he also sees the casually lowered weapons, and knows he would be destroyed by a step in the wrong direction.

The grey-lit landscape shifts slowly below: dunes of wind-driven snow, an occasional stunted tree, and the roofs of factory buildings and warehouses that no one had ever seen fit to maintain. Lan sits leaning sideways against the webbing and stares down from the gondola, staying awake with the cold wind on his bruised and cut face.

An old man with a brush cut and wire-rimmed glasses hunkers down beside him. "Don't worry," the man smiles, "they don't care if you jump. One less burden to deal with, I'm afraid."

Lan tries to smile, but his effort is weak.

The man offers him a cigarette. Lan's hand is unsteady - from the cold, perhaps, or from terror, but he takes it. He digs through his pockets, finds a match, and shakily lights the cigarettes, cupping a hand against the cold wind from the opening. "What'd you do?" he asks.

The old man shrugs. "Taught outside the canon."

"You're a teacher?"

"I was." The old man exhales a stream of smoke into the breeze. "You?"

"Published a book outsystem."

The man's eyes rise in respect. "That's not easy to manage nowadays. Oh, when I was a kid, maybe..."

Lan shrugs. Stellar Interiors is a painful memory. He inhales deeply and sighs smoke of his own. "Doesn't matter anymore."

The old man's eyes still have a sparkle behind the glasses. "Don't say that. It matters. I'm Franck Taskov, kid. You look familiar - who are you?"

"Lan Masson. I used to work at the Pavilion - astrophysics."

Taskov's brow furrows. "No, that's not it. It'll come to me."

For some reason, it strikes Lan as funny, and he starts to chortle. At black looks from the guards near the front bulkhead, he suppresses it. "Sorry," he mutters.

Taskov leans closer, and his voice drops, while the landscape shifts on his lenses. "It's not going to be like this long, kid. Once they get us to the camp, its hard labor, heat, and not much food."

"Where are we going?"

"They didn't tell you? They usually tell you. Figure it scares you. Hmm... South Cocteau. The ruby mines - or a logging camp." Below, the landscape has thickened to barren forest.

"Oh, no," Lan whispers.

Taskov hunches tighter against the wind as he draws the last from the cigarette. "Listen, kid. When we land, we'll be stopping at Fauteil. Then they put us on a ship to South Cocteau. It'll be the last chance... Stick with me, okay?" His voice becomes a whisper. "I'm going to run."

"You hardly know me," Lan protests.

"I don't have time to get to know anyone. This'll be the last chance."

Lan feels his muscles tensing. "What about them?" he asks, glancing toward the guards. His voice is low and quavers a bit at the end.

"Run fast, in opposite directions, and they'll miss. At least one of us will make it." His lips pull back, hard. "Take a chance, or we'll die in South Cocteau. Because no one comes back as long as they can work, and when you can't work, it's because you're dead."

Lan tries to imagine himself doing this. Taking a chance on dying. An impossible event - to die. But the horrible stranglehold on his gut tells him how much he believes it. "I can't..." he whispers. "I don't know."

Taskov looks at him with a strange mixture of pity and anger. "I understand." he whispers. "But you can't just let it go. Come with me. Do you know Fauteil at all?"

He thinks back. "Yes... yes I went there once."

"Do you know where the Mariner Cafe is?"

He thinks hard, trying to dredge memories from years ago. "No."

"It doesn't matter. It's in the warehouse district. L'auteuil Street. We get away, I'll try to meet you in the alley behind the cafe. We'll help each other, okay?" Taskov's eyes are earnest behind the glasses, and Lan realizes that they are going to make this attempt, just as he senses a change in the pitch of the engines. "OK," he replies.

Taskov smiles. "We'll talk again, I'm sure." He stands, nods pleasantly, eyes blank behind the round lenses. He walks slowly along the gently rocking floor to the back of the car. Someone stops him and they are quickly engaged in conversation. Lan looks out the door again.

The landscape has become flat; a plain extending to the horizon, where it crumples into a series of abrupt hills. Only some scattered hydrogen trees, in their brown winter phase, rise against the snow. Even as he watches, one of the buoyant bodies breaks free from the flimsy dried trunk and rises into the air, a tiny balloon, against the shifting clouds.

He rubs his eyes, suddenly tired. He leans his head back against the regularly throbbing doorframe, watching the clouds slide slowly above. They crack briefly to admit a lance of sunlight. It blazes quickly across him and vanishes.

He thinks about the sun that rides above those clouds. The formulas, the images, the words he has written... this is the price he is paying for them. Even this... he thinks.

That sunbeam, he realizes, had illuminated not only his body, but the course of his entire life.

The zeks are crowded at the openings when the wing settles to the field. The guards step through the prisoners to unlatch the webbing, and, at that moment, Lan and Taskov exchange glances. Taskov shoves the woman ahead of him into the guard. "Look out, look out!" Lan screams, and as everyone surges against the webbing, he pushes through to the opposite side, past the guards coming to the aid of the fallen one. In a moment he is at the threshold and alone. He sees the treeline, not far away, and suddenly, his feet crunch into the thin layer of snow, a terrifying counterpart to his breath - the treeline rushes closer and closer. Then he hears the sounds of the weapon fire. But somehow they are distant and abstract - or they would be, if his heart were not suddenly pounding beats against his throat, dizzying his steps with their hideously loud noise. The trees stand above him while the bushes swirl in his wake. He trips and sprawls across the snow, ice crust grating across his chin and lips. For a moment he is paralysed at the sounds of two bullets tearing into the dry heads of the wintering hydrogen trees. He whirls in the snow and stares back toward the wing.

Guards are standing in the snow, legs apart, twisting, weapons ready. But they are not looking toward him. For the moment.

Slowly, he moves backward in the snow, the cold softness pushing up his pant leg. Then, at the bottom, he crawls swiftly down toward the water, pushing the bulging dry reeds aside, until he peers over a dirt edge to the dark shivering mirror below. He hears another report from the field, and without another thought shoves himself over until he drops. The icy water slaps and swallows him.

By the time he crawls onto the shore again, he is shivering uncontrollably, and his hands are numb. He rolls back and forth on the sand, hands clenched in his armpits until they burn with returning sensation. Finally, sun slips across him through the broken clouds, and the brief warmth is enough to break the lethargy. He struggles to roll over, and then slowly creeps up the embankment. At the top, his hands push through a cornice of snow and he can see the brick-domed back of a factory. He runs across the snowly lot.

The curved door is textured with peeling paint. The glass is mostly cracked or broken. He peers through and can see that the factory is empty except for the massive mountings of looted machinery. Shivering again, he hurries to the next building. This one is not abandoned, but there is no one in sight, so in an excess of energy, he smashes the wood slats between the windows, and the glass scatters across the floor. He climbs through into the dim interior. Even the absence of the slight breeze is enough to start to warm him. He prowls the edge of the floor, looking until he finds it - a coverall. In moments, he pushes off the freezing, soaked clothing and stands for a moment naked. He dabs at his skin with the dry cloth, and finally climbs in, impossibly grateful for the dryness and shelter.

But the floor is hard and icy. He stares with distaste at his soaked socks and soft shoes. He picks up the shoe and glares at the split toe. Finally, he looks around. A pair of cloth bags, emptied of bolts, replace his wet socks; a slightly larger bag provides a home for his wet clothes after being used to dry his hair. Exhausted, he perches on a stool and rests.

It is hot. The sun, a blinding point in the sky, is just beginning its western descent. Beneath it, multitudes of hydrogen trees shift restlessly, veiled in bluish haze. Lan Masson, age eleven, sits at the mouth of the cave, looking downslope across the jumpled scree to the forest and the tree-shrouded hills beyond, scratching meditatively at his knee.

A violent roar shatters the silence. Three black diamond-shaped craft erupt over the cliff behind him. For a moment, he thinks he can see the shining throats of their engines burning faintly blue; then, they are rapidly diminishing into the distance. He stepped quickly to the cave and called: "Rilda!"

His mother appears from the darkened mouth of the cave, a strand of her dark hair trailing across her forehead. She looks up, squinting in the sudden brightness. "What is it?"

"Fighters," he replies, pointing.

The three craft are only dark shapes on the horizon, now.

"You'd better get back in the shadow for a while," she says. "Anything left around?"

"No. Can't I watch?"

"Yes, but inside." She presses his back toward the cave.

They sit on a ledge just inside the shadowed entrance, waiting. After a moment, a bright blue dart flashes overhead with a snarl, higher, pursuing. Three more follow, their engines making dim thunder in the stillness. And the specks at the horizon, the Traditionalist flight, split, curving to confront their pursuers. Lan feels like cheering, because he knows then that they are brave.

Two of the black fighters sweep in on the loose enemy formation from the flanks. The third flashes toward and below, slewing with violent evasive manuvers. There is a flicker of missile fire - the blue darts scatter. The paths of the two flanking black fighters cross, then they swerve again, coming back toward the slowly dispering blue formation. The third, trailing a thin streamer of dark smoke, is coming toward Lan, the flickering rumble of its engine becoming louder even as it gutters toward extinction, its shape growing larger by the second. Sun glints from its canopy. Lan thinks for a moment that he can see a face behind the glass. He stands with his mother in awe, knowing that they have nowhere to go in time.

At the last moment, with only hundreds of meters to go before collision with the cliff, the fighter turns. Lan thinks he can see the astonished O of the pilot's mouth, the dark spaces of eyes staring at them. Then the craft is past, trailing a rush of air. But it is too late. It strikes the cliff with its wing, scattering pieces of wing and fin into the air. It rolls, spins, drops, crashing to the scree. The grinding and rattling of its impact subsides into a silence punctuated by the clatter of sliding rock.

Suddenly, Lan leaps to the ground, running. He scrambles across the rocks, oblivious to his mother's calls. All he knows is that he has to save that pilot.

There is a door on the side of the fuselage, just behind the domed cockpit, dented and scarred from the collision. Lan wrenches at the handle, but the latch is jammed. Then, Rilda is beside him, adding her strength. The door bursts open, almost sprawling them across the rocks. Rilda pushes quickly past Lan, blocking his view. "Okay," she calls, finally. Then, "Give me a hand."

The pilot is unconscious. "We have to hope his back's OK," Rilda says. "There's no time to do this right. Help me with his shoulders..."

Rilda cradles him over her back. He is heavy, and she has to carefully pick a path across the scree to the cave. Rilda casts worried glances at the clear sky, listening to the echoes of the distant battle. Then, into the shadows of the cave, and easier terrain. They deposit him on Rilda's bed near the back of the cave. A gesture and the light casts a bright disc onto the bed. Lan looks carefully at the man while Rilda moves her hands across limbs and torso. He sees a sharp jaw and nose, a brown mustache curling at the edges of thin lips, a high forehead. The uniform is dark - plastic, leather, cloth.

"I think he's all right," Rilda said, pulling a bandage tight across a cut on his forehead. "No bones broken... I think. Not too many bruises; I don't think he has internal injuries, but who can tell?" She brushes an unruly lock of hair back from her face, hand flickering pale as it transits the circles of light. "I don't think so," she repeats. She pauses. "Let's leave him alone for a while. He'll wake up in his own time if he can. I want to see if the others are gone."

Outside, the trees stretch away into the bluish distance as before; no fighters mar the sky. Rilda sighs. "Come on," she beckons. They pick their way slowly along the base of the cliff to an overhang just above the crash site.

She crouches down, facing him. "Okay. I've got to talk to you here, because I can't be sure he's really unconscious. You know we can't go back."

"Sure. Because of Father. And the others. And the fighting."

"That's right. But if this man's friends think he's here, they might come looking for him. So we have to make sure they can't tell he's with us."

"How'll we do that, Rilda?"

"We have to blow up the plane. It's the only way. But remember, we're helping him, but we can't trust him. He might leave when he can, and we'll have to move so they don't find us. Don't tell him your patronymic. Don't tell him about Father, or anything about why we're here. Let me decide what he has to know. And if anything happens, and you can get away, run."

He realizes now the danger he has put them in. "I'm sorry, Rilda. I guess I didn't think."

She smiles and leans down to muss his hair. "It's OK, Lanster. We'll get through this. I understand why you wanted to help."

"He was going to try to fly over the ridge, but he saw us, and he wasn't sure he was going to make it."

She nods, looking down the cliff. "I want you to go back to the cave and wait for me. Don't be surprised when you hear the explosion."

He nods earnestly; then he notices how worried she looks. He smiles encouragingly. "We'll get through," he tell her, in the tone of a quotation.

"Yeah, get going."

In a few moments, she is stepping across the scree to the ruined fighter. She pauses, and then carefully feels inside a slot for a trigger. The fuel door pops, and she shoves a stick into the valve, propping it open. Then she turns and hurries as fast as the scree allows. Ten meters from the cave, she turns and produces her Neil. The second beam strikes just above the vent, and the heat ignites the escaping hydrogen into a blazing white plume. She turns and runs, stumbling on the blocks, but somehow keeping her feet until she is in the cave entrance. Her breath is gasping, and her expression is desperate - how long will it take?.

There is a metallic thud and a brief blinding flare; then an enormous concussion shivers the rock of the cave. Stones rattle down the cliff and then there is a cascade of flimsy metal plates clattering on the stones. Vague flames and a shattered skeleton are all that remain of the aircraft.

"That'll do it," Rilda mutters, satisfied.

The pilot whispers his name when he can speak - Meyer Lantaume - and his rank - Sargeant in the Home Reserve. He sips some water, and his voice steadies, soft and melodius, though interrupted by pain. The fighting, he explains, clarifying the broadcasts, was between the government, and the now overt revolt of the Guild Force. There had been bloody street battles for weeks, portions of the cities had been raized by bombings and aircraft missile attacks. The government had called up the Reserves, but was unable to save the situation: too many of the ranks were Guild sympathizers. After another week of fighting, the prevailing opinion was that civilized society on Cocteau would not last until the next month.

Then the huge blue cruisers of sympathetic military forces emerged from hiding, lowered themselves through the clouds above the capital, and the city had begun to burn.

"The propose to accomplish the aims of the Guild by force. For our own good. And the Guilds have formed a Leadership Council. Already they have sent a million people to the labor camps. They boast that with these resources - resources, that's what they think of people - they will rebuild the world, and it will be gentler, fairer, without failure." His hand shakes with anger. "My brother is in their camps, probably chained, certainly starving - the truth is, the Guilds have little food - everyone is fighting and the food stock is low. His only crime was to not be a member of the Guilds. So, with his life they will make their rebuilding."

Finally, Lan stirs in his silence. The door opens easily from the inside, and he slings the cloth bag over his shoulder, walking slowly around the rim of the dome to the empty street beyond.

Now what? he wonders. He decides to try to find Taskov. What was that address? L'auteuil Street? Mariner... Cafe. Of course, he knows nothing of the city, not even where he is now. He zips the coverall up high and walks slowly to the corner stone, to see what names are engraved on it. But at the corner, he notices a few pedestrians and a transit pylon further down the street. Of course... he thinks. He hurries to the transit stand.

There are two others waiting, both dressed not so differently from Lan. They glance up at his approach and then look away. "Excuse, me," he asks, diffidently, "but I'm visiting. How long before the transit stop?"

"Five minutes?" one answers. A cloud shadow races past, and for a moment it is cold, then warm, then cool again. A large truck rattles past on the opposite side of the street. Lan waits, He thinks, I'm free. A fugitive, but they don't know where I am. I'm free.

The cylindrical steam bus hisses to a stop and kneels to the edge of the road. Lan sits up straight from a sudden and unexpected sleep - startled. "L'Auteuil!" the driver calls. Lan pushes himself to the door and back into the cold.

At the corner, he gets directions to The Mariner, which is a quarter-mile down the street toward the docks. The clouds have closed in, and the wind is brisk, so Lan pushes up his collar. Across the street, a uniformed patrol pair have stopped another pedestrian, and they lean over her threateningly as they examine her travel papers. Lan shoves his hands deeper in his pockets, striving to attain invisibility as he passes.

His feet are freezing, even in the cloth bags. Moisture has seeped in through the open toe, and he limps slowly along the opposite side of the street from the bulging brick edifice that houses the Mariner, the faint smells of food and drink so sharp that he can hardly restrain himself from entering its shabby door. But he does, and with a quick glance, he crosses the street, and walks as normally as possible into the alley behind the Cafe. Once hidden from the street, he stops beside a haphazard pile of containers, and leans against a curved wall, arms clenched across his chest to hold in the warmth.

After what seems endless waiting, he suddenly hears the sound of voices at the mouth of the alley. Quickly alert, he crouches lower, looking around for some way to either hide or defend himself. And just as suddenly, he recognizes Taskov's voice. He peers around the containers and sees the backs of two patrollers confronting a warmly dressed Taskov. "Oh, no" he gasps in a terrified whisper. His heart pounds. He has a choice - help or hide. Help and he could die. Hide, and Taskov would, as soon as they found out who he was. Lan hunkers to a crouch, feeling himself perched on the edge of action. He is about to fall back to safety, when he pushes - hard. He grasps the handles on a container and swings it up. He knows what to do, and for a short time, the cold against his feet and face are gone, as he pads quickly toward the patrol. He can hardly believe it as the container whips swiftly through an arc that intersects two blue-capped heads. Taskov's eyes are widening, and his expression transits to shock as the two fall beneath the sharp blow. Lan puts the container to the side and grabs one of the pair under the arms, dragging him into the alley. Taskov reacts at last and does the same. They kneel over the bloody-headed bodies briefly, breath smoking, eyes met. "What the hell are you doing, kid?"

Lan grins, but his voice is shaking. "Saving you a little time. We'd better get out of here."

Taskov looks back over his shoulder. "Get the caps."

Two patrollers emerge from the alley, with ID and vouchers warming their pockets. One is bulky and taller, with round wire-rimmed spectacles and greying hair in a brush cut. The other is shorter, with reddish blond hair, thinner. A careful examination might show a remnant of red stain at the back of the cap, but it would take a sharp eye to see it, and they would be out of the district within minutes.

The line outside the clothes shop is mercifully short at this hour. Lan waits at the corner, hands behind his back, trying to look as if he belongs, desperately hopeful that no other patrol will pass. Taskov moves past the restless line with an assumed arrogance that leaves Lan grateful - until he disappears inside and Lan is alone.

But nothing happens, and five minutes later, Taskov emerges with a string-wrapped parcel under his arm. He nods, and they walk away together. At a deserted corner blocked with trees, they saunter into the remains of a private yard, now deteriorated, and in the shelter of a wall and some tall dry reeds, they discard their patroller uniforms for the new clothes purchased on the vouchers of the patrolmen.

Hours later, a thin snow is sifting down from clouds amber with the final touches of sunset. Lan stands at the rental room window, his hand on the metal sill, watching the slow moving pedestrians file away toward the faint gold of the horizon. A wayward wind swirls the tiny snow into brief chaos, and he sighs. I may have killed a man, he thinks.

The door closes behind him, and Lan turns to see Taskov setting down some food packages on the table. "So, we can at least eat," he says, smiling wanly. Taskov looks up and grins at him. He's actually enjoying this, Lan thinks.

"You, okay, kid?" Taskov asks.

"I'm worried, that's all."

Taskov's smile is disreputable. "I'm not surprised. But listen, it isn't as bad as you think. We have the room for a week, but we'll be gone tomorrow. They'll never find us."

Lan finds himself standing stiffly, arms at his side. "What I did, today, I never did that. I... don't - didn't want to. But if you hadn't helped me..."

"Please, don't."

Lan looks away for a moment, his eyes caught on the darkening grey beyond the window. "Why couldn't they just leave me alone. Let me do my work. I learned so much, I could have done so much more." His hands are shaking. "I wonder what happened to Clu. If only I could call her..."

Taskov steps around the table and grasps Lan by the arms. "Tomorrow, my boy, tomorrow. Listen, I have tricycles to take us down the coast, and we'll go to Brillanos, you can try to reach her from there. In the meantime, we need food, rest, a bath. We could be on the run for a long time."

Lan realizes that tears are trickling down his cheeks. He steps back and rubs the wetness with his sleeve. "Sounds like you have a lot of experience."

Taskov has turned back to the food and is pulling pieces of hot meat pie onto some plates from the apartment cabinets. "I just read a lot. Always hated those novels where people on the run somehow managed to get by on no sleep or food, or somehow never cared if they were clean. Believe me, if you want to stand out, the best way is to look desperate... Although, if you think about it, half the people you see look desperate. The other half are past that."

Lan sighs and seats himself on a stool by the table. The food smells delicious, and he salivates involuntarily. "Which half are we?" he wonders out loud.

Taskov leans on his hands and looks up. "We", he replies, "are the third half. The angry half." The light glints from his lenses and makes him look blind.

He awakens in the dark, with Taskov shaking his arm. The air outside the thin blanket is cold - inside, it is just tolerable.

"What is it?" he whispers.

"Time to go."

The cold steps creak and cold breath steams in the darkened stairwell. The clatter of their footsteps echoes in a particularly hollow fashion, and then Taskov pushes open the door onto predawn light. Lan shivers for a moment, and finds himself wishing guiltily for the patrol coats they had forsaken yesterday. But then he sees the worn but serviceable tricycles chained to the elaborate stainless steel rail at the door side.

"These are ours," Taskov mutters, looking from side to side, the light glinting from his round glasses. He bends down and produces a key, fussily unlocking and withdrawing the chains from one trike; he reaches around the back and slips the chains into a soft plastic pack behind the bucket seat, surreptitiously palming a local passport document. With a crooked finger he beckons Lan, who takes a key and pulls the chains. In the satchel, as he drops in the chain, he roots for and finds the passport. He slips it into his inner chest pocket. "What now?"

"You're Willis Tendall, a shop worker from Grini. You can look at the passport when we're on the road. You need to memorize your address. I'm Lennak Prizko, also from Grini. We're on our way down the coast to Brillanos on the Flow for two weeks to work in the shipyards."

"Is that true?" he asks.

Taskov grins a mirthless smile. "Of course it is, Willis. Now come on, we have a long ride ahead, and today's the first day of Flow."

The sun finally peeks over the horizon sending streamers of pale lemon through the frost, but Lan is already warm from the exercise of pedaling. The dormant hydrogen trees rank the road, their shadows like quiet sentries on the road, undisturbed by the sound of chains whispering across metal. They pedal slowly up hill, and another trike sweeps down past them, heading the other way. Lan comes up even with Taskov. "So where'd you get all this?"

Taskov offers an enigmtic look as the hot breath blows back past his face. "I have friends. Right now, you don't want to know more. Later you might. They owed me a favor." he grins. "Now you owe me one."

"Sure... but what I really want is to call Clu."

"That'll come. Maybe in Brillanos."

As they coast down the hill, they can see a clot of trikes and minicars lined into the distance. Nervously, Lan reaches under his coat and feels the passport. Taskov removes his glasses and slides them into a flap beneath the seat. They join the line, which moves slowly.

"Lots of folks going through today," Taskov remarks in an uncharacteristically gravel voice, as if he makes this drive every morning. Lan tries to get in the spirit. "Sure are," he replies. "Maybe they're all on Flow this week." Taskov's eyes seem to glint with both approval and warning. Then he pulls ahead. Lan is suddenly afraid that Taskov will get through and run off. But he just grips the handlebars tighter. It seems an eternity as they creep toward the checkpoint. The slow passage of vehicle after vehicle soothes him, but he hopes someone will come up behind him, so that he will not stand out quite so much.

The heat is wearing away, and he feels his muscles tensing against the cold.

Behind him a soft whining rises in pitch as it approaches - a minicar pulls up behind him - he can see it from the corner of his eye. But then he pedals the next stage forward and watches Taskov presents his passport to the Internal Guard. Lan's hand steals toward his jacket; but he stops it. He waits till Taskov pedals through. Then it is his turn.

He pulls out the passport, trying to be nonchalant. But he doesn't know where to look as the young patroller flips through the book. He tries to make himself stop thinking of another patroller. He tries to keep his eyes from flicking around, and is only partly successful. But then the passport comes back down and he is waved through.

He catches up with Taskov, who glances over sourly. But Lan can't help himself, he's grinning and his pedaling is strong. Taskov laughs silently as the sun flicks by.

At the edge of the city, the road winds between tall spike-wire fences. Behind the fence, the low sun spills the shadows of tall rusted skeletons across them. "That's the confiscated construction system impound," Taskov tells Lan.

"They're amazing," Lan replies, awed by the size and complexity.

"They haven't done a bit of work since they were confiscated from the capitalists. They're just sitting there, rotting." His voice is strangely bitter. He pushes the pedals, and the trike shifts into motion.

The plaza is wide and there are scattered people and rubbish in the deepening orange light. An empty pedestal rises from the center. Lan and Taskov pull the trikes up at the edge of the plaza and Taskov locks them with chains through the steaming iron grates.

"What now?" Lan asks.

Taskov is looking around, but he interrupts his scan to catch Lan's eye. "You wait here. I'll be back in a while, but I don't know when." He nods across the plaza to a group near the pedestal. "You see them? Stay away from them."

"Why?"

"The one by the pedestal is a police agent, an inciter. Most of the rest around him are police also. They record everyone who stops to listen."

"What are we doing here?" Lan hisses, panicked.

Taskov shrugs. "It's safe enough, as long as you sit here, look bored, and tell them you're waiting while I find our lodging."

"Why can't I come?"

"Because I have to meet someone, you're not ready and they're not ready. Yes?"

He is disappointed. "I suppose." He sulks back into the seat and stares out at the plaza. His hair stirs in the slowly colder breeze. Taskov clasps his shoulder quickly. "It's better this way, Lan. I'll be back soon."

The shadows dissolve into cold blue twilight, and the small knots of people slowly disperse into the dusk. Lan waits, getting colder a little at a time, arms crossed over his chest, thinking wistfully about Clu, worrying about Taskov. His eyes keep returning to a public audiolink standing in the last rays of the sun. It's late, he thinks, but Clu is often working late. Finally, he stands indecisively beside the trike, looking this way and that for Taskov, who is nowhere to be seen. He shrugs and walks to the communicator. For a moment he cannot remember her work number, but finally it comes to him. He spins the dial this way and that until it clicks at the end of the sequence. The connection tone buzzes. Again and again. He taps his foot. Then there is a click and he has been answered. "Ahaoe! Who's this?"

"Phil Imbro. Who's calling?" the voice responds in a thick Lineau accent.

"I'm looking for Clu Sherril," Lan replies obliquely.

"Lan... Lan is that you?" the voice demands.

"Why?"

"Lan, Clu's not here."

"I'll try home, then."

"No... she's not there either."

"Can you tell her I called?"

"No, she won't be back."

"Phil, what are you talking about?"

"She's left. She doesn't work here anymore."

"Where is she? Where did she go?"

"She - she stole a spaceship. I heard it was destroyed outsystem."

His ears seem to be hissing an endless noise. "That's impossible." he protests, weakly.

"It's true. Or, well, that's what they told us. Who knows what's true? They make their own truth. What happened to you? Did they let you out after all?"

"Something like that," he manages to reply.

"Don't call here again. They're looking for anybody who had anything to do with Clu. If I were you, I'd get out of sight and stay out of sight."

Tears are running cold down Lan's face. "Okay, Phil. Thanks... I guess."

He ends the connection with a gentle and lingering touch.

It is dark, and the stars are just coming out when Taskov returns to find Lan huddled in his trike seat, shivering.

"You called?" he asks, incredulous at the story.

"She's dead, I know it."

"All right, let's get out of here, now." Taskov's hands seem stiff and shaking as he hastily unlocks the chains and pulls them throught the grates.

"Why?"

"You think they didn't expect you to call? Maybe they didn't but it's not smart to assume. We're taking a ride."

They pedal off into the darkness. The wind is cold, and the lights are spottily flickering to life across the city. Taskov is pedaling madly, and Lan's stiff muscles are finding it hard to keep up. They turn and turn again down narrow and busy side streets. Homegoing buses are clogging the main streets with fumes and noise, so they turn away into a darkened alley, where Taskov parks, turned to face the entrance, breath panting cloud into the flickering light from the street.

"What's the matter?" Lan whispers.

"We can't be followed."

Lan is swept with remorse and embarassment. "I'm sorry."

Taskov looks over at him with a momentarily angry expression - then it smooths into a wry smile. "Yeah, I know. I can't blame you. You didn't know, I should have told you... Looks like we're OK." He wheels the cycle back around. "Let's go. We've got bed, shower and food waiting."

Lan tries to smile. "Not in that order, I hope."

The shower is a cold one in the shared bathroom of a transient's hostel. The rooms show signs of once having had their own bathrooms, long since torn out. Though the water is cold, the towels are clean, and there is soap. Lan climbs out shivering into air warm with heat from clanking pipes. But somehow he feels good. Then some motion of his arms brings it back to him - the feeling of striking the man's head, the sound, the fall. The clothes from the warm unconscious, possibly dead body shedding warmth on him. He is suddenly cold, and the towel is on the floor. He picks it up and tries to shake off the vivid image.

In the room, he is confronted with a wonderful smell of plhasta with noodles, tea, and harlon-fried wire beans. And someone with Taskov. "This is Pierre," Taskov says. The heavy-set bearded man smiles, though the smile fails to reach his eyes completely - the eyes remain wary and searching. "Go change," Pierre says - his voice is kindly but gruff with an odd accent that may be local. Lan ducks his head. "Sure." "Then come eat," Taskov reminds him. "Sure," Lan replies, stepping into the bedroom.

Pierre watches from beside the window as they eat. "Pierre lives downstairs," Taskov explains. "That way, there are no questions about his coming or going." Lan looks over at the silent visitor. "Neat arrangement," he remarks. "So what now?"

"I told Pierre that we had a problem. That you had contacted your girlfriend's work. We agree it would be best to move on and break the trail again. So, we will move on tonight, after dinner. By tomorrow, the tricycles will have been reclaimed by their actual owners, along with our former passports. They will resume their identities, and we will be elsewhere. No one will know anything more than they have to."

"And where will we be with all of this?"

"Somewhere else."

Pierre smirks and then leans against the window frame to peer outside through the thin frost.

They wear new clothes, and Taskov is clean shaven, giving his square face an oddly blank and youthful look. Lan has been trying to raise a beard, an as yet thin blond effort. Pierre hands them the new passports and explains their new identities. They file carefully down stairs that once were concrete but which were now ill-fitting boards of wood, Pierre in the lead. The wood creaks, and the narrow stairwell is lit only sporadically with tall flourescent fixtures.

They pass the ground level, but continue to descend to the cellar. Locks snick back. Pierre pushes a heavy fire door to one side with a quiet rumble from its well-oiled rollers. He waves them in with a sardonic raised brow.

The room is ranked with machinery, and they weave their way to the wall. At the wall, Pierre pushes aside another fire door, which opens into a tunnel under the street. Their steps echo in the moist coolness. A lone bus rumbles overhead. Then they are in a narrow, dirt-floored cellar. The dirt slopes upward to a ragged wooden door that releases them into a back alley and the faint pelting of snow. "Come with me," Pierre mutters, striding ahead with a muscular pace.

The snow is thicker, swirling with brief spirals in the wind when they reach a door. Pierre leans back against it, looking at them, as he knocks with the back of his hand. There is no answer, so he pushes the handle. The door swings open narrowly emitting a slash of warm light. "Go in," Pierre rumbles. They slip past into a tiny room.

"Leave your shoes here," he gestures at the space under the rude wooden bench in the alcove, so, respectfully, they stop. Lan props himself against the wall as he unlaces his boots. His fingers are stiff from the cold, but he pushes the boots to the floor and under the bench. Pierre stands by the inner door and grasps Lan by the arm. "Come in, meet my family."

The next room is larger but still small, lit by some warm niche lighting. One of the bulbs flickers slightly. The walls are a concrete block painted with a pale bluish green that shows its wear in small patches. But most of the wall is covered with framed images. Industrial images of docks, cranes, dirigibles, and cargo containers. Some seen from the ground, others from the air. Pierre stands beside him and smiles, his voice low but melodic. "This is my family." His smile smooths into a thin line. "I gave up any chance at a wife or child to have this." Lan stares at him, surprised. "But now, it doesn't matter, does it? The Leadership Council needs my property, so they can take it. So I live here. And the docks, the platforms, it all rots into the sea, because there is nothing and no one to produce anything to trade." The last words are nearly barked, and the smile behind the beard twists bitterly. Finally he glares around the room, and gruffly pats Lan on the back. "Come on, we will have dinner, such as it is."

Pierre takes Lan with him on a morning walk, while Taskov still sleeps noisily in the darkend room. The air outside is warmer, and some of the clouds have gone, but a fog streams slowly across the ground. Lan can smell the ocean, and hear its soft directionless sounds.

"I like it when I can find someone who wil come walk with me. I need the walks, or I will get even heavier than I am already. I like the company, when I can get it."

"But is it safe?"

"Sure. You're far away from where you started, you don't look like that gentleman, and you have the right papers. Besides, this is where you start the next leg of your trip. I'm sending you south by sea."

"When?" Lan asks, shocked.

"Now," Pierre replies quietly.

"What about Taskov?"

"Franck?" Pierre raises an eyebrow. "Why? You like traveling with that old sod?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just a joke, kid. He'll come out on a separate trip to the boat."

The street becomes cobblestoned and gold sun slants out of the clouds onto the glistening cobbles.

"You know Taskov?" Lan asks.

"I've heard of him. He's been doing some things for us now and then."

"What kind of things do you do, Pierre? What kind of things are going on, besides people like me, running?"

"You don't like running?"

"Not much."

"Well... it's too early, Lan. Soon, maybe, after things cool off, after you've gotten settled, someone will talk to you, and maybe there will be something you can do."

They turn down an alleyway, and then they are on a long concrete wharf fronting decayed warehouses. Huge cranes line the waterfront, and massive metal parts lie on the wharf, stained with corrosion, staining the concrete. Pierre seems to glare at them, and he mutters to himself. Finally, he says, "Disgusting, can't you see? They just let this rot, until pieces fall off. Look at that one. Fell fifty feet from a crane. Come along, I can't look at this."

Lan shivers a little with the salt breeze, and there is something about the vast expanse of ocean that seems barely real. A brief shower of snow sweeps past, followed quickly by a shaft of light. Lan shields his eyes, and, in a moment, he can see the angular outline of a surface vessel far along the dock ahead. "Is that it?"

"It is. Your home for the next week."

The captain is a tall, hawk-like figure, standing at the brow. His face is long, bony and dark, and his almond-shaped eyes are even darker than his skin. "So," he drawls, blocking the brow with his immobility, "been to sea before, or will ya be a puking nanny leaning off the side of the vessel at every push and throw?

Lan feels like he should hang his head, but he eyes the giant directly and calmly. "Sorry, I haven't been to sea before. But I'll do my best."

The captain laughs suddenly, brilliant white teeth splitting his face with mirth. "Aye, kid, perhaps you will. Welcome aboard, then." He steps aside and gestures up the brow.

Lan takes his first step onto the narrow platform, suddenly he turns, to say goodby to Pierre, to thank him... but Pierre is gone. "Where..." But the captain is already gesturing him onto the metal deck.

A seaman in a black jumpsuit ushers him into a narrow cabin. Someone else is in the room, struggling into a jumpsuit, and there is a moment of confusion before Lan recognizes him.

"Franck!" he cries. "You're here!"

The grizzled face splits in a sudden grin. "So are you," he replies. "Over on the bunk, get into the jumpsuit - we're supposed to look like crew."

There is a throbbing sound that suddenly leaps to a growl, and Lan is shaken by the movement of the ship. He manages to grab the edge of the door and steady himself, then to carefully negotiate his steps to the bunk, where he starts to strip off his worker's clothes, catching himself on the bedframe as the ship heels and then begins a rhythmic rise and fall on the waves. "What do I do with these?" he asks, holding out his old clothing.

"Give them to me," Taskov responds, hand held out. "I'll take them to the garbage plant and see that they're burned." Then, clothes in hand, he walks unsteadily through the door and disappears down the hall. Lan catches himself about to call after Taskov, wondering what they should do next, but stops himself. He drops to sit on the bunk and digs through the waist pocket of the jumpsuit, finally extracting a passport folder. He opens it. He is Elie Boudreau, from Inisk, 29 years old, a merchant sailor for the last five years. "Hey, I'm experienced," he mutters with a grin. "That's embarrassing." He thinks of how little he knows about ships, about the slightly queasy feeling the irregular movement of the ship seems to be generating.

Suddenly the door is filled with the captain's giant frame. "Seaman Boudreau, time to get on deck and get to work. Snap to it, ye slug." He is grinning broadly.

"But what should I do?"

"Ye'll do whatever the deck foreman tells ye. If ye don't know how, ask him. But try not to look too stupid, would ye, Seaman?"

"Sure."

"'Aye, sir' is the appropriate response. 'Aye aye' is what you say to respond to an order." The captain turns to go, then looks back. "And... Seaman, I don't run a terribly tight ship, but try at least to act a little like a sailor so ye won't get us all killed if a patrol heaves us to, eh?"

"Uh... aye, sir."

The captain's grin reappears, and then he is gone down the hall.

Taskov finds him on the deck, coiling a rope - a job the deck foreman seemed to think he could handle. Lan has his doubts, given the fact that he has had to start the job over twice now. But the deck shifts like an animal, pushing up under his feet, and the smell of the sea is somehow exciting. A parade of flappers circles slowly above them, following the ship as it powers out of the harbor. All around them, to the horizon, are the imperceptibly shifting masses of giant ships at anchor, or moving in and out of the harbor at much slower speeds than they.

Taskov looks pale, and his lips seem thinner behind his thickening beard. Droplets of moisture gather on his glasses, until he finally takes them off and pushes them into a pocket. "Hi," Lan grunts. "Got a job yet?"

"I'm supposed to help you," Taskov replies.

"There's a change," Lan replies.

"What are you doing?"

"Coiling these ropes. They're supposed to be made into these kind of cone shaped stacks - don't ask me why. The end of the rope has to be at the top. I assume they'll tell me what to do with them once I finish, since it seems to me these piles aren't going to last if we keep pitching the way we are." Lan likes the word "pitching", which he had heard the deck foreman use to another seaman. But then he notices Taskov looking weakly around. "You okay, Franck?"

Taskov focuses on him. "I'm trying. Maybe if I'm busy. Can I do this one?" he asks, pointing to a random pile of rope.

"Sure. I mean 'aye'. Here, let me start this one over, and maybe show you how it works..."

The deck is washed with a soft lemon light that escapes through the cracks between the clouds. Lan is busy cleaning one of the faceted walls with a brush and soapy water. A gong sounds twice, and the crew members on deck turn quickly to putting away their tools. Lan looks up as one of them walks past. "Hey, what's going on?" he asks. "Time to eat," the fellow replies. "C'mon down to the galley."

The galley is a tiny room near the center of the ship, dark and filled with narrow tables. The cooking surfaces of the galley are behind a short wall at one end, presided over by a short, lanky man, with thinning hair plastered back by sweat. A cigarette dangles from one edge of his mouth and Lan idly wonders how much of the ash is in the food. But the smell is fantastic after a day of work. One of the men pulls at Lan's arm and gestures to a seat. "Not a bad job up there today, Boudreau," he says. Lan recognizes the deck foreman. "Thanks," he replies. "Hey, where's... my friend," he suddenly realizes that he doesn't know Taskov's new identity. "Oh, him?" the woman across the table laughs in a gravelly voice. "He's 'not feeling too well'. But ye seem to be ok, are ye?"

Lan thinks about it for a moment. "I think I'm OK."

The cook stops at the head of the table with a big platter of sea leek and pattake slices. "Pass it down, mates," he orders.

Lan finds Taskov lying on a bunk, staring miserably at the ceiling, sweat beaded on his forehead. "Hey, you know, you never told me your name."

"Michel," Taskov whispers. "You seem like you're not having any problem here."

"I guess not. What's wrong?"

"All the... movement. I'm not... feeling very good. My stomach." He grins wanly. "Lousy sailor."

"Well, listen, let me go check with the captain. Maybe he has something." He squeezes Taskov's arm, and feels suddenly older.

He steps forward. The alley is harshly lit, and he sees the figures of patrollers, intimidating some unseen person. A pipe is heavy in his hand, and he swings. But as the figure falls, it turns slightly and he realizes that it is Clu, the side of her head crushed and bleeding. He screams, desperate to take back the blow...

And, suddenly he is awake. The bed is rocking very slowly, and it is a moment before the reality of the dream dissolves and the truth of the present slips in. I didn't kill her, he pleads with himself. But somehow, the guilt still sickens him. He tries to force himself back to sleep, to undo the dream, but he is too afraid that the dream will recapture him and carry him in its flow.

He pushes himself from the bed and stands, swaying, for a moment against, then with the motion of the ship. He feels eerie and nervous. Yet there is nothing but the sound of engine, wave, and Taskov snoring lightly.

He makes his way to the galley. Through the rectangular ports, he can see the edge of dawn. He sighs and sits on the table, trying to purge the dream from his mind. Finally he stirs and wanders the room, poking through the shelves that line the walls. There are games, and then he finds a writing pad and a stylus. Maybe what I need is some mathematics, he thinks. He pushes the pad and stylus into the chest pocket of his jumpsuit and heads out onto the deck to watch the sun rise and think thoughts of thermonuclear fusion.

After lunch, Lan has a free hour, and he sits at the stern, looking back over the endless wake. The sky is a clear deep blue, and the wind is cool. He leans back against the wall of the deckhouse and brings out the pad and stylus. He wants to think about an elaboration of a formula that represents core boundary microconvection, but his mind is tugged again and again to his fears for Clu.

He forces his attention to the pad. He makes a few false starts, scratching out dead end formulae. But eventually, his entire mind is focused in the abstract space of energetic particle trajectories and radiative transfer equations, sketching graphs and abstract operations in a crude hand.

A sound beside him brings him back from the fire. Taskov squats beside him.

"Uh, Elie, I don't think this is a wise idea."

"What do you mean?"

"Sailors don't carry notebooks filled with advanced mathematics."

"Oh. Yeah, but who's going to know?"

Taskov sighs. "The first patrol that stops us."

Lan closes the notebook. "Is there anything I don't have to give up?"

"You're not 'giving up'. You're making a choice. Live, or be caught and die. Guards have died because of us. Patrollers may have died because of us. The Watch will be looking for us everywhere. So everything we were, everything we knew, has to be put behind us. Your wife, your mathematics, your name - all gone, whether this is what you'd like or not. Please."

Lan hands the notebook to Taskov, who proceeds to rip pages from it and toss them into the wake. Finally, Taskov stands and disappears into the deckhouse, leaving Lan with only memories of the world of nuclear fire.

He comes awake to someone shaking him and whispering loudly, "Wake up, Lan. Come on."

"Wha... What? What is it?"

It is Taskov, lenses glinting in the faint light from the port. "Wake up. Something's wrong, the captain has called an alert."

He sits up and his legs are cold in the icy air. "What's he afraid of?" He swings his feet to the floor and grabs his jumpsuit from the foot of the bed, pulling it over his stockings.

"It seems some sort of ship is overtaking us. They don't think its a Sea Patrol."

Lan shrugs the jumpsuit over his shoulders. "What does that mean?"

Taskov shrugs. "There have been a lot of pirate attacks lately. Law isn't too strong out here. Captain's issuing weapons from the armory."

Lan stops for a moment and stares at him. Then he pulls on his seaboots. Taskov grabs his arm. "Here, put on your coat. Might slow down a bullet enough."

The corridor is dark and rustling with footsteps and bodies. The deck foreman is visible in the flickering rays of a flashlight as he hands out rifles and pistols. "You know how to use one of these?" he asks, pressing a pistol on Lan. "I guess so," Lan replies, uncertain.

"Ye push this to load a round into the chamber, pull this to fire. And make sure ye're pointing the damn thing where I or the captain tell you, and don't do anything with it unless we tell you. Understand?"

"Aye, sir."

"Get on deck, then, lad. And hope it's nothing but a passing freighter."

The sky is littered with stars that reach down to the inky waves. On the foredeck, three sailors work to mount a large gun on the firehose stand. The captain walks the barely lit deck restlessly, until he hears them call out their success. "Get it loaded," he orders loudly. He looks up to the pilot house and gestures. The pilot signals back with a three times pumped arm. Lan stands with the others, waiting. But his heart is pumping so hard that he can feel the pounding in his throat and forehead. He can hardly hear the voices around him.

"OK, fire the shot!" the captain cries. The weapon shudders with light, and there is a brief screaming as the shell flies invisibly toward the equally invisible ship. Their lights are suddenly extinguished and Lan feels the ship surge under his feet. He realizes that they are engaging in evasive action. In a moment, he sees a bright explosion light the horizon, and he cheers - but the deck foreman standing behind him slaps his shoulder. "Shut up, kid, it's an explosive shell. We want to scare them off, not kill them. We don't know for sure that they're pirates."

Suddenly there is a soft whisper and then a concussion from a small sonic boom; an explosion erupts a quarter mile to the starboard like a brief star followed by thunder. The boat heels again, more sharply and the spray starts to mist against his skin as the speed increases and their direction shifts into the wind. The captain hurries past and climbs the stair to the pilot house at a double step run. Lan exchanges a worried glance with Taskov. The deck foreman is watching the pilot house. A dim red light appears and the captain and the pilot are visible, hunched over the controls, but the rest of the lights remain dark.

The foreman turns to them. "The captain asked me to stay with the two of ye." He grins mirthlessly. "Wants me to make sure ye don't accidentally shoot some of the crew." His grin slips away. "Serious, now, ye must know a bit more. The captain is trying to frighten them and lose them at the same time. But since they be shooting back, 'tis sure they'll pursue."

"Will they catch us?" Lan asks softly.

"They may. If so, the captain will have the pilot put us port on to them. Everyone here knows this, and we'll be ready to fire into them. It's unlikely they'll try to sink us - after all, the cargo is what they want, but they've no desire to leave us alive. So they'll kill us and sink the ship if they can. But when they are ready to board, the captain will use the backup cannon, and he'll expect us to be using hand weapons for what we can. Ye've fifteen shots. Plan them and use them carefully. They probably can spare only twenty people for boarding. If each of us get one or two, that may be enough to put them off." The thin, lined face is harsh limned with the red from the pilot house on one side, and a cold blue from the sea on the other. "But now, ye must remember to not freeze. 'Tis natural, but if ye do, they'll get ye. Ye must be cool, and fire, and not worry about the humanity of yon creatures. Believe me, they will be quick to show ye how little humanity they have left if ye give them a chance."

Lan feels this concept trickle through him slowly, like a faint fever of infection. The thought of deliberately killing disgusts him, but then his emotions wash him back to an alley and a strike that humiliates him. Then Taskov touches his arm. "Remember, kid, it's not immoral to defend yourself." he whispers, as another shell shocks the air above them.

The next moments are a wrinkle of terror. The pirate becomes a blot against the stars and the waves, bulking above their deck.

Then a hidden gun on the pilot deck barks. The flash lights the side of the oncoming ship and there is a sound like the tearing of foil as the pirate lurches and then can be seen to list. On its deck, the sound of confusion, and the flashes of hand weapon discharges. "Wait till I tell you," the deck manager urges Lan and Taskov. A projectile clanks against the pilot house behind them, and there is a surge of dark figures on the pirate deck. The primary gun fires and the pilot gun joins it. The metal of the pirate screams, and the deck manager cries "fire at their deck, boys!" Their ship heels hard away from the pirate, as Lan points toward the clot of men on its deck and firmly closes something within himself to allow his hand to twitch the trigger. The gun booms and bucks against his hand. He cannot see any effect, but he fires again, and this time his hand hurts from the force. But the pirate is sliding toward their stern, and has begun to list alarmingly toward them. The deck guns fire again and together - the whole ship lurches with their tolling. From the pirate they can hear begging and screams, and the figures on its deck are silhoetted against flames. But Lan is angry now, angry at what they have made him do. His hand squeezes off another shot and this time he can see a figure fall at the same instant. Then the pirate has disappeared behind the pilot house and the tears are streaming cold down his cheeks, as salt as the spray that flies over the bow as they steer away.

An hour later, the sky is cold indigo with dawn, and the pirate is a smudge topped with fire in the west. Lan stands on the deck, hoping that the icy breeze will clear the stench of guns, fire, and blood. Two men have been taken below, dead. One woman sits up against the pilot house with her arm in a sling, and a bandage across her ear, stained with blood. Taskov is near the bow gun with a mop and a pail, and the water he sweeps, and the mop sweeping it, are tainted with the blood of the two who died. His face is screwed into a disgusted expression. The mop moves, but he cannot watch it.

Lan turns back to watch the pirate. His face is cold, his brain is unfeeling, and his back aches. He wants to sleep, but he is frightened at what might happen if he allowed it. He overhears the captain.

"I think it was a damn patrol boat. Where ye guess they gonta get patrol boats? I know the damn disarray the government's in, but there's no way they want to let pirates have a patrol."

The deck manager responds in a voice that is weary, but seems desperate to talk. "So ye think that they were police."

"I don't know. Can the police be brigands now?"

"When have they been aught else, I ask?"

"Aye."

Lan rubs his face. His hand smells of gunfire, and he pulls it away with a nameless revulsion. He looks around. There is nothing to do. He forces himself to go down to his bunk, weaving raggedly through the narrow corridors. He falls on the darkened bed, but the dawn is starting to shed light through the port. He runs his hand over his face and forces his eyes closed. He tries not to think of where his life is going. He tries to think of his mathematics, but somehow he falls away into sleep before the first expansion is complete.