Source: Knowledge And Investigation

The forested hills become rugged and then open on an arid canyon - Lantee drives angrily, increasing speed to follow the curves. Then the road descends in a swift ribbon toward the village of Ontabra-Gliese.

A bridge spans the crumpled river, and Lantee is racing toward the stainless steel towers. He pushes the car a little harder up the wide spiraling brick surface that edges the mesa, with the suntube seeming to rotate slowly above him in the sky.

Dust is still drifting as he steps into stillness. Here, not far from where the suntube meets the pole, the weather is hotter. He wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. It comes away moist, but the air is so dry that it dries with a sudden faint sensation of cooling.

He waits by the angular metal insect of the annunciator, hands in pockets, pale face composed. The arms of the annunciator twitch occasionally, casting oddly moving shadows on the dirt. Finally the door opens, revealing the small barbed and chitinous shape of Rlinar. Its multiple dark eyes each reflect the line of the suntube like a fissure.

"Karu," it hisses at the border of hearing, and the sound is translated to his understanding. "How long it has been! I'm so sorry we have not been together recently. May I invite you to join me on the balcony?"

Lantee brings up his arms and folds them, then slashes them to the side. "I'm comfortable with that, old one."

Rlinar gathers its glowingly animated robe about its many arms and legs. The robe follows its motion, and makes a soft sound on the glossy tiles. Lantee follows it to the inner spiral and they rise slowly to the upper rim.

The river rolls below the balcony with a distant but endless roaring. Lantee sips smoke from a bowl and exhales softly into the achingly hot air.

"Many times we've stood here, Rlinar, since you sponsored me."

"True that is." It places its own bowl beside one arm, drawing the smoke through spiracles along its edge. "Yet am I surprised if you come to tell me this is not simply a recollection?"

Lantee smiles. "I don't seem to recall any of your investors found you to be less than astute." He bends to set the bowl on the low railing. Built for Rlinar's stature, it had made him nervous at first, two decades ago. Now it is normal and comfortable. "I'm engaged in a registered investigation. I need to ask you about someone you sponsored - Zyclaryrenaweee."

Rlinar blinks inner eyelids at random. "Not a name that rises easily to mind. Nor, I suspect, to your real-voice."

"Think back to the middle of 583."

"Yesss. From... Lytheriaee, correct?"

An ironic nod. "Tell me the circumstances."

"You are so impatient. Ten years. Do you think I have that memory at the edge of my extensions?"

"Yes. Of course I do."

It blinks again, this time in unison, and wanders to the rail.

"No, the sponsorship was not commercial. It wasn't League redirection, either. It was some small advocacy group. Not around any more, I think. Ilifinak? Rikilinak. Something like that. Some Lytheriaee immigrants put it together, if I remember correctly. The usual thing, getting the youth out, you know. It was a kind deed. As I recall, the candidate had a good record. Was polite and suitable for employment after arrival. Well, and of course, that's hard to know till after arrival. But that is what makes me so good, now, isn't it?"

"Of course. Didn't you show that when you sponsored me? So, the group is gone?"

"Gone." Rlinar twitches its appendage. "Ah, here's what I have. You want it? No current address."

Lantee smiles and accepts the record. "That I have."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Clu asks.

"I know you're not back to par. But I think you deserve to know how the investigation is going." Lantee replies.

"Did Marie ask you to do this?"

"She didn't say not to."

The ice settles in his glass and he looks down at it, not really seeing the room. "Anyway, I still have people to talk to. Rivinak Lytheriaee no longer exists and there's nothing left of it. I found two transactions in the open contract net, one of which is to Rlinar for the sponsorship. I don't know how much else they did. But there's an odd smell to it all..."

The agent returns to Lantee at dinner - external time, three hours. Beyond the vast restaurant windows, the city sprawls across the bay and beyond that is the cold blue of the sea reflecting the day on the surface of Prometheus far above the shielded suntube. At the corner of his vision, the agent blinks, first appearing as if another of the many aircraft lights drifting through the dark. He glances away from his lovely companion and it moves to the center, unfolding a little. He nods, and it runs away to the edge He returns his attention to his dinner and conversation, but a streak of desire is born that has little to do with her beauty.

The message from the conversation node refers only obliquely to a donation to Rivinak Lytheriaee, but the origination address is currently active, even though it is three years old. The conversation, on the comparative effectiveness of various extraction organizations, is otherwise illuminating only for context.

Lantee settles into a chair on his balcony above the night lit city, a smoky liquor at his left hand. His hand gestures up a messaging connection. He sips as it seeks out his quarry, beyond the day line.

"Hi, this is Miriam, I'm unavailable at the moment, but I'll look forward to calling you as soon as I'm free. That is, unless you are an async marketer, in which case, I'll call you when you're getting dressed in the morning." A small giggle. "So pitch on, and leave your home number."

"Miriam, my name is Hikaru Lantee. I'm doing some historical research on Rivinak Lytheriaee. I happened to come across a mention that you had donated to them from CharityNode, and I wondered if you'd consent to an interview. I'll look forward to hearing from you."

He leans back after the disconnect. The communication had been routed through an identity based on his history hobby It had been only an intuition, but he is beginning to think he will get further opaque than clear. He muses on his uneasiness. There's no evidence that his quarry is overtly violent. But there is something... something below his conscious notice.

"Damn intuition," he mutters ruefully. Sooner or later it will surface - or not. He has a bitter liking for his capricious talent.

"I'm surprised you reached me. I did donate. I thought they did good work. I met a few of the expatriates at their parties. But, other than that... I don't know much." She is blue and delicate. "I came from a colony, but I thought something should be done for the homeworld."

"Would you happen to have any of their literature, on file or hardcopy? It might be helpful."

"I... well, I don't know. I might not have cleaned everything out. You know how it is, now, with big autofilers. I never seem to find the time to go through the pending trash, but it doesn't flush for a couple of years."

The insight that hits him then never reaches his face.

"If you could look a bit, I'd be grateful."

And when the message ends, he is back on his filer, running summary searches which keep coming back negative.

"It's too clean," he whispers.

Marie leans back in her chair and looks across the desk and the cloud dappled light of her floor to Lantee who is pacing slowly and thoughtfully.

"The problem is," he finishes, "that there isn't enough left of this organization to be real. They're not in historical databases, administrative databases, or even in very much on the correspondence nodes. I've only been able to determine three of their immigrants, but one was certainly our perpetrator. I have his sponsor on that."

Marie toys with a stylus, then looks at him with those direct green slit eyes. "Why are you going into all this history, Hikaru? Is it the hobby, or are you going somewhere?"

"I've got people working on how he got into the complex and I've fired two inspectors because it their sectors may have been soft. But before that - the trail is doesn't go anywhere because he didn't know anyone, he didn't have a noticeable social life, and he won't talk to me. So I've got to work my way out from the beginning." He stops pacing and leans over her desk. "And the beginning already is developing a very, very bad smell. Not the kind of bad smell we expected, but the kind that says we have the potential for a big security problem from outside."

"How far do you have to go before you can make a case out of this?"

"I have to find out more about where this is going, and unless the forensics get us somewhere I don't see yet, I just don't know enough."

"Are you making the marshal report deadlines?"

"I am."

"Comments from them?"

He sits on the corner of the desk. "They don't get this for two more days."

"Your choice or theirs?"

"I don't like little g breathing on my investigations when they're young, you know how they are, since the never get anything real to do. Consultants." His tone mocks them.

She holds his eyes, then nods.

"I want to know first. And I want you to have a second for every move of this, just in case. Beef up your home security."

"Marie, I know my job."

The former address of Rivinak Lytheriaee and their landlord is the Advanced Theonetics complex on a back street of the port city of Hallas. About a mile distant down a long, linear street is the vast opening that leads down to the docking spaces. Tiny lights crawl across the gradually brightening sky - the processions of airships that are strapped with thousands of tons of cargo from the lifeline in the deep. Most of the diurnal population is still sleeping, but there is a broad hum of distant vehicles as Lantee stands below the tall window. It reads "L'Arashylyn Airship Fitting Rental". The storefront on the first floor, which had been Rivinak Lytheriaee, is empty. As he had known it would be. He settles on to a bench by the door, waiting for the owners as the sun line races past.

"They were nice folks. Small bunch. Mostly paid on time, sometimes not. I cut them some slack, figuring they didn't have much in the way of money.Charities are like that, but I knew it going in."

Lantee watches the being carefully. The rigid facial plates are difficult, but half a year past he had made a special study of Miknaril emotional conventions, because he had an option on a Miknaril security officer. He hopes a post of the logs to the interpretation program may reveal anything he is missing. But from memory, he suspects an honest ignorance.

"Were they multispecies, or Lytheriaee?"

"Blue guys?"

"Yeah."

"Mostly. Odd eyes." Which, considering its three soft grey orbs, is itself an odd comment. Probably thinks pupils are strange. The boldly reddish sand floor whispers with the motion of its restless hands. Behind it, a vast darkened room, walled with shelves, with the mysterious shapes of enormous harnesses hanging like weeds from the ceiling.

"Do you have any of the rental records? I need to find a name. Someone I can contact."

The landlord stirs slowly. Lantee realizes that the thinned edges of its facial plates are a result of the abrasion of age. It finally stands on its tripodal legs and, walking stiffly to the edge of the room, activates an ancient wall printer. Lantee takes the print, but the characters are in one of the Miknaril languages, and his translator only identifies some of the content from its on-board knowledge. Still, it is enough.

The hangar is bustling with activity. A frame stands at the center, and hanging from it are the broken sections and fragments of the disk, as if it had been caught in the process of shattering.

Clu steps through the door and leans on her cane for a moment, frowning. In one corner, several beings stand around a visible hologram that superimposes a simulation of the crash on the slow motion recording. For a moment, the simulation looks like the wreck itself. She feels that she might cry, but she just leans more heavily on the cane and works the tip against the smooth, glossy concrete.

But then L'ihart'Imata notices her from its position beside the hologram. It claps its appendages, and the sequence freezes. "Look, Clu's here!" it cries in its most spindly voice. Slowly at first, and then more quickly, the crew gathers around her as she stands, eyes briefly hazed with emotion. Some reach out to touch her, other enquire as to the state of her injuries. She tries to smile and answer their questions, until L'ihart'Imata waves its appendages and sends them back to work. It takes her arm and they walk together away from the work area.

"I have missed your input, and my precision has suffered as I have been forced to do without."

She grins. It is a joke between them. "Yes, yes it has," she replies. "But really, the only thing you can do to save yourself is to bring me up to date."

She watches the playback of "Nimshi's" log on the accident simulation holoprojector, because she cannot yet wear contacts. L'ihart'Imata stands waiting. It gestures some annotations at a break in the motion. "Here you can see Nimshi is lifting harness Tholus-34 from its normal position above the waveguide. The clamps are here and here - open. Remember, we had to develop a special tool to be able to move it far enough without altering the field effect pattern at the guide boundary? Well, idiot this is doesn't know so. Watch next. You can see the harness is dropped, though it's a little blurry because it is about to look at you, but the harness doesn't land straight. Or so we think."

"And so if it doesn't land straight? Didn't someone notice the clamps?"

"Yes. Here is an excerpt from Micah's log. Micah keeps everything. Thank goodness she remembered where she put the inspection. You can see Micah replacing the clamps and giving it a good lookover. Looks fine, except for one thing not noticed - this bit of plastic is missing from the clamp, probably broken when the clamp removed. It's not visible. Don't know where it went, yet."

"What's under there... the M332 power supply... with a fan; a section of the inducer... I suppose it could have gotten into the power supply. Have you simulated that?"

L'ihart'Imata puts the image away. "Soon. Micah is working on it. Hates the idea that she might have missed something. Tried to quit, but I wouldn't let her. Precise though I am, I would have missed that, also. We have improved the inspections. A new team is improving the virtual profile software for the inspectors, and there is an automated contour matching on the way, also. You don't mind going through this, do you?"

Clu sighs and rubs her forehead. "No. I don't mind." She looks off across the floor, but her mind is on other pain, other fear. "I lived this time. I'm not going to die." She swallows a sudden surge toward terror. "I don't want to die. If I didn't check something, if I depended on someone, when I take those controls, I still take responsibility. I don't want you to punish Micah."

"No, I agree."

"Well, then, I guess we'll see when the simulation gets done. It might not even have been that."

"No. But so far, we haven't found any sabotage, either."

The understreet is quiet with night. Only a few beings wander the corridors, and only a faint rumble announces the passage of a vehicle above. Clu walks slowly, feeling the weapon under her arm as a weighty reminder of how worried she would be walking the street at night on Cocteau. She wonders, knowing what little she knows, whether the equation may be shifting toward danger here as well.

Many of the diurnal stores are closed, and the few nocturnal and full clock stores are doing slow business. As she walks slowly, feeling the prosthetics take up the load once carried by her cane, she finds herself delighting in the activity. She stops in a small store and purchases a pack of thin cigars from an odd gaunt man with pale, nearly translucent skin and red eyes; at the threshold she takes one out and lights it - the taste is mild, delicate, and, she is assured, cancer free.

Her walk is slightly labored, but the bone-knitters are rapidly improving the stability of her leg, while the exercise is reconstructing the muscle. More annoying is the loss of her contacts.

I'm dependent, now, she thinks.

She walks forward more slowly. Her inability to wear lenses seems more crippling than the weak legs she has to rest halfway up the stairs to ground level. It bothers her. How can I ever go home?

On the surface, her feet crunch softly on gravel, but the sound is mostly drowned by the passage of cars and the distant rumble of massive trucks on the commercial ways further inland. From somewhere far off, she hears the sound of a siren, and for a moment she is again a young child, face pressed to the glass of her parent's home, looking out over the beautiful congestion of a Cocteau city as things begin to fall apart. She shudders, but then recalls where she is. Her steps, which had faltered, begin again. Not a perfect world, but the best one I've ever known. I'll find Lan. I'll bring him here. We'll have our life again. A better life.

She pauses at the door to her building and listens to the soft sound of the shore lizards and the gentle surf. Soon. Soon.

Lantee visits the Bureau of Registered Investigations to drop off his annotated logs for the past two days. Over iced caray he spends some time narrating for the monitors. The BRI marshals offer a couple of suggestions which he tries to accept peacefully, but he knows their suggestions are no more than the theories of the chair bound, informed by their long ago experience and the experience of reporting detectives like himself.

Later, Talorak finds Lantee stalking the hallway at Field, looking sideways out at the slow smoke of a launch from the commercial port at Malton. "Karu!" Talorak calls, walking with the awkward gait of his bulk, eyes returning from the window to the hallway. "I've been looking for you."

Lantee halts and leans, arm straight out against the windowframe. "Because?"

"I didn't want to put this in a packet, but we have something from vapor forensics."

"And?" Lantee leans agressively into the question.

"He didn't go out the same way he came in."

Lantee's face screws tight with anger. "Another one! Damn it, this place is a sieve. Who's involved?"

Talorak shakes his massive head. "It's not that easy. It's probably a mislead to a null zone. Wouldn't have mattered, it's only about eight inches wide."

"Nimshi isn't eight inches in any damn dimension." Lantee takes a deep breath. "Bill, this was your responsibility. I want a report before morning. Don't go home until I review it. I want information on how this happened. Understand? Make it objective. OK? Get to work." His eyes are cold as he turns away and gestures up Moritan Urimee. "Moritan?" Lantee asks, seeing his ombuds. "You're responsible for everything having to do with the perimeter for the next two days. Talorak found an eight inch hole in coverage. Find out from him where it is and get it closed. I want two hundred percent overlap everywhere, and I want you to back him up on finding how that spot was missed and I want you to make sure you look for similar causes everywhere in the plant perimeter. Buy whatever you need. Are you with me?"

"No problem, boss."

Webley Smith's Weapons Emporium occupies a hollow in the center of a range of hills, with its own air traffic control system, and restrictions up to 30,000 feet. With good reason, since the entire expanse of land northward is a test range for missiles, projectiles, and energy weapons - at least those which can be operated safely within the confines of Prometheus.

An array of beacons marks the edge of their airspace, and Clu steers her rented fanplane in accordance with the directives displayed on her contacts. After a fairly short time, the Emporium itself is visible - a structure the size of a stadium, surrounded by a wide moat that glitters with the local breezes.

A streamlined high performance annular wing jet slips past her a quarter mile away, outgoing. She watches it with admiration, then returns her attention to the approach.

The field is fairly empty as she settles the fanplane to the landing pad. Some clouds are building above, but there is no forecast of rain.

The entryway is thirty feet high. Two thin panes of glass, the entire height of the arched opening, are opened onto a cavernous interior. Her heels are loud in the hallway, echoing from the polished stone. Then the entrance widens into the main room. Nearly a hundred feet tall, walled with compartments and automated cranes, domed with frosted glass whose beams cast soft shadow onto the marble floor. At intervals across the floor are kiosks playing virtual and real projections of space battles, target shooting, ground combat, and weapon specifications. In the center of the floor, a pit extends the compartmented structure adding another hundred feet below.

An attendant approaches. "Doctora Sherril, we're honored." He holds out a hand which she grasps firmly, despite her confusion at being recognized. "Niall Smith, General Manager."

"Mr. Smith," she tries to maintain her assertiveness, "I'm looking to arm my vessel. It's a special one. From Cocteau. A prototype."

"Of course, I'd heard you were having Strachan fix it up after that battle. It would be a unique job to match your armaments, but perhaps you'd like to upgrade?"

She frowns. "Mr. Smith, my funds are fairly limited..."

He laughs, "Doctora... may I call you Clu? Clu, your money is not terribly good here. I'm prepared to offer you some substantial discounts if you'll let us fit you out. As long as you're willing to allow us to mention it in our advertising."

She raises her eyebrows at the thought. Overhead, a jet's shadow shifts past, sound reduced to a soft roar. More publicity, she thinks. But I need the money.

She stands suited at the dockside with Ivo, looking up the hundred foot length of the Zadar - a small spire among mountains. The walls rumble with the arrival of a new vessel, one sufficiently huge that it requires tugs to shift it slowly down the corridor. Its hull is a cliff, formed of irregular facets of gleaming colored metal and vast networks of piping, luminous threads and mists. Clu shivers - perhaps it is cold, perhaps it is awe. She looks back to the Zadar. Its frailty and crudness are an embarassment...

"Oh, Ivo," she moans.

"What's the matter?"

Clu shakes her head, caught unable to speak for a moment. Finally she looks up again, and her skin seems drawn tight across the bones of her face. "I thought... if I finished this. If I could get it fixed... that would be the end. I'd know what to do, I'd be able to do it."

Ivo steps closer to the edge of the dock, and looks up along the lines of the plated, flattened shape, edged with graceful wings at bow and stern. Clu is momentarily transfixed by the grace of her grey-suited form against the shape of the Zadar - it reminds her of something she had once, long ago, hoped for in her designs. Then Ivo looks at Clu and smiles. "So it's not the solution to all your problems. So what? It's still something you need, right?"

With an effort, Clu shoves her dispair back into its box. "It's still something I need. All right, let's go up and have a look."

The change in gravity across to the Zadar is always unnerving. Then they are at the hatch, a thin line marking an oval, now bordered with a red, yellow and black rim, courtesy Strachan AirDock and Salvage. She stretches out a hand to touch the edge, and then her fingers slide down to the latch. She pushes the plate and exposes the four contact encoder for her quick combination. With a crisp snap the door seals separate. It pulls back into the darkened anteroom, slides over, and the lights rise to greet them. She steps through, Ivo just behind.

"Wow, does this smell great!" Ivo grins, looking around. "Like a new car."

Clu glances over. "This is better than a new car," she replies severely. The excitement captures her, and she feels her heart racing. She steps to the inner door, which pauses for the outer to have time to snap seal behind them and then admits them to the spinal corridor. Lights switch on up its length toward the flight deck. To the left, a wide, specially reinforced door blocks the way to the engineering systems. Clu turns toward it and pauses with her hand beside the latch.

It happens in utter silence.

The edge of her ship is enveloped in a blinding flash that quickly dies away into a vague fog of parts and gas as the vehicle tumbles away, shattered.

Air roars out of the hull, tearing at her suit. The force of the blast spins the ship, and she faints with G-shock as the blaze of the explosion envelops her. The energy vaporizes parts of the seat and the control panel. It washes across her back as she is thrown forward against the restraints.

She looks around and sees no sign of the forces and volatiles which had blasted through this corridor. "It's like it never happened," she whispers. From the hatch behind, the distant sounds of the dock fall into the silence. Her eyes fill with the edge of tears. Ivo squeezes her shoulder. "We can repair almost anything nowadays... almost." She looks around. "It's a war machine, but I see you in it." Clu smiles and triggers the latch. "It is a war machine, and now it's mine," she replies. "Let's look at the engines, and then let's see how she flies."

Ivo watches her friend's slim hands play across the virtual consoles. The crude displays and buttons have been removed, but to Clu and Ivo, the flat metal panels are populated with their equivalents. And with the slide of a finger across a surface, the Zadar rumbles to life. Clu leans back and with a gesture calls up the public exit schedules; another motion registers them five minutes hence. The lights dim to near darkness. She turns with a grin to Ivo, ponytail flying back across her shoulder. "We're set. Now comes the fun. You know, I've never done this before outside the simulator." It is a joke from a popular subscription, and Ivo knows it. She tries to smile.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," Ivo remarks.

"You said you wanted to come. Strachan already test flew it twice. It'll be safe. Come on, time for the helmets now, just in case."

The helmets are slightly flexible and transparent. Clu feels the suction seal cleanly across her collarbone and the indicant glows briefly green. A look at Ivo shows her having a little trouble. Clu reaches over and adjusts a fold against her suit fabric, and the seal glows a cold green. "You're set, now. Shall we see how well my Zadar runs?"

Ivo smiles, though a little nervousness is betrayed by a soft motion of her eyes. "Let's see," she echoes.

"OK, the dock is disengaged, we're on non-local gravity." A sudden wave of lightness sweeps them. "In fact, we're on no gravity at all." She laughs suddenly and oddly. "Time to go for a ride." Behind them, the reaction engines shiver the spaceframe and they begin to move. Clu's expression shifts to one of sudden fear and then back to control as she slows their progress with a sudden burst from the thrusters. "Phoo!" she exclaims. "They added a bit of push when they put that back together." But her eyes are narrowed, looking beyond the windows and the comment is an absent remark to herself. "OK, we'll take it a bit slower."

Ivo tightens her restraints.

Clu glances at her. "No, no, I've got it." She stares back at the panels and then out the windows. "I can do it. Listen, can you change our .. no... no, never mind, we're on the right course." Ivo feels the Zadar turning in two directions at once - she curls briefly into the seat with discomfort. Other vessels shift past the windows. Quiet variations of pressure and energy signal each change of direction.

And Clu's exaltation rises with every correct manuever - her simulations are paying off; so far, she has come on a vector leading to collision with the walls only twice (recovered to tunnel normal within seconds) and only once within a mile of a passing vessel. Now she starts the final turn into the exit chimney, watching the thruster countdown timer on her contacts. A large cargo vessel slides slowly past, too close but far enough. Far ahead, she can see the stars, sharply speckling the distant exit. The walls around her are vast cliffs of glass and metal, lit with activity. She looks around, trying to remember where she put the forward radar monitor, finally finds it nestled on a corner panel. She drags it over to where she can see it. There is plenty of room - all of the inbound traffic is to the right. She takes a moment to look at Ivo, who is alarmingly pale, though perhaps it is only the light. "Oh, cheer up, the hard part's over. There's hardly anything left to crash into."

Then she shoves the throttle sliders to fifty percent, and the Zadar quivers with an applied energy that suddenly carries it past thousands of stories of brightly lit windows into instant blackness. On the rear view she can see the exterior of Prometheus as a crumpled dark plane retreating, and other glittering wells creeping over the horizon, even as they shrink with distance. "I hate crowded space," she mutters, altering course to miss an incoming freighter that passes to the high left a few miles distant in the darkness.

She glances at Ivo, "You OK?"

"I'm OK," Ivo assures her, looking longingly out the right window at Prometheus. "That went pretty good, girlfriend. But let's not do it again for a while. Not really my kind of ballet."

Except for the billions of crusted stars, the slowly moving visual beacons of passing vessels, and the faint darkness of Prometheus itself, the space is both dark and empty - especially in the relatively tiny volume of a billion cubic miles where the Zadar runs - a space rented with what is nearly the last of Clu's savings. Without the navaids that orbit Prometheus, and the corridor reserved by Webley Smith's, she would be hopelessly lost.

At first, the manuvers are simple, linear, and even at that, they are faltering and faintly clumsy. But as they progress, the silhouette of the Zadar yaws, pitches, and rolls with more precision. She begins to find the flow, and Ivo alternately watches her and looks out into the darkness.

Finally, Clu feels more confident, and it is time for the final part of the test. A call to the range controller, and three drones are released into the space, flying complex evasive courses that are displayed and projected on the threat monitors. She smiles over at Ivo, who looks a little miserable. "Cheer up, Ivo, It's time to spend some money."

Ivo sighs. "It's just my stomach. I should have raised more for you so you could have bought some gravity."

Clu remembers buying the drones.

Hundreds of them racked; ordered by size, shape and functions around the center of Webley's. She had walked among them, amazed at the variety of drones, missiles, bombs, and projectiles, as Naill Smith explained the virtues of each. Thanks to her research, she knew most of them by sight and the rest were signaled through the recognition practiced into her contacts. In the end, she had walked away with four MinMaxa drones, eighty Plinar G 894 missiles compatible with her launchers, a five hour outside range rental, and a munitions loading, transportation and retrieval contract. And veto power over any advertisements referring to her. So many agreements, she thinks. So much money. Ten thousand for each drone, even with the discount. She had patted them gently before they were loaded on the transporter rack. Little red ships. Expensive little red missiles with the brains to pretend to be combatants, but, hopefully, not smart enough to avoid destruction.

She forces herself to smile. "Doomed to die!" she cries. Ivo stares. "The drones," Clu reminds her. "Do me a favor, keep an eye on our exhaust bell edge temperature. Let me know if it goes over five thousand." Ivo sighs. "Which one is that?" Clu points to the indicator at a corner of the panel, then turns her attention to the pattern of the drones, which are now converging aggressively on the Zadar.

Like every space battle she has ever simulated, this one is a game of sensor returns from distances so great that the enemy is not even visible. The drones are capable - probably superior to any force Cocteau might field. They disguise their location with countermeasures and formation changes. They fire phalanxes of simulated missiles, which the Zadar is largely able to dodge successfully, though it becomes more difficult as their tracks thicken and clog the range. The drones are successful with some energy weapon strikes, but the simulated power is attenuated by distance and relatively little simulated damage is done.

At first, Clu practices targeting, calmly noting successes and failures, and knowing the logs will be available for later analysis. But finally she must undertake the most expensive part of the test.

She watches carefully for an opening in the mass of ballistic trajectories and the powered motions of the drones. Her own systems have gained an understanding of the drone countermeasures - then they project an opening that will occur minutes hence - within the launch window for her own missiles. She lashes her hand out across the console and assents to the firing. The Zadar rings with the harsh sound of the ejection harness and the ignition of the propulsion systems for the three large missiles. "How about that?" she grins at Ivo.

"But will it work?"

"Maybe - let's get closer to that one so we can test the lasers." She shifts bearing and pushes the throttles to full thrust. Within a minute it is difficult to breathe. "Would you like to take the shot?" Clu asks. Ivo rolls her head to look at Clu. "How?" she asks.

"Don't worry, we're almost at turnover. It's all just mathematics. Use your fingertip to keep the laser cursor near that one. When it flashes yellow, that means a damaging shot; green means estimated destruction. When you get green, double tap to accept the firing solution. But don't do it too early."

"All right... I'll try."

As the Zadar flips end over end, the star field flies by the windows.

"It's flickering green," Ivo cries.

"Wait for it to be steady," Clu insists.

"How long?"

"Three seconds."

"I'm waiting... I'm waiting. Wait - there it is... I'm going to do it!" And with a sense of wonder at the strangeness and reality of her own actions, the ballerina unleashes the weapon.

The Zadar moans with the rotation of the turret, shudders with the concussion of the fusion exhaust from the pumped laser reaction. The resulting beam is invisible, but the systems keep the Zadar aligned on its target as the beam is applied to an object two hundred miles away. A brief and tiny flash is confirmed by the sensors as a hit. Shortly afterward, the missile hit is confirmed, and two drones are no more than dust.

The restaurant is high in the wall above the dock, and below them space and ground vehicle ttraffic is light. In the distance, Clu can see the Zadar, one among many. The sound of the docking area chatter fills the room as atmosphere, underlain with a soft music she does not recognize.

She sips her drink and feels the warmth of the distilled liquid like a brief flame in her throat. Ivo smiles faintly. "Like it?"

"I don't know if 'like' is the word. Maybe I shouldn't drive home after that." She chuckles. "Boy, what a flight. I only wish those reveres hadn't been waiting. How do they find out where I am? Why do they care?"

Ivo shrugs and bites into a steaming roll of frenat. "It's what they do."

Someone leans over the table. "Excuse me, but aren't you Clu Sherril?" a male voice asks. Ivo pauses in mid-chew, and Clu rolls her eyes. Then she pushes the chair back and looks up. "So?"

"So, you don't remember me? Britt Stannard."

"Sure, I remember," and the recognition lights her voice. "You taught me to fly fanplanes at Hammer Drome. It feels like a year ago, but it wasn't that long. How are you?"

"Good, good. I haven't seen you down at the drome for a while." His face is as open and friendly as she remembers.

"I was there a few days ago. First time in a while. I don't get much time to fly lately. I had an accident."

His expression shifts to concern. "I'm sorry to hear that. But you look all right. Was it bad?"

"Not bad enough to keep her out," Ivo interposes.

"Hi - Britt Stannard."

"Ivo, Ivo Hitaro Ikai."

"What brings you here, Britt?" Clu asks.

"Training. I'm working on my Gar-39 certification. I'm hoping to get a rating as a militia relief pilot, maybe a contract to work convoy. But you've got to be certified for that, so I'm using Outbound Rating Authority. They're based right down the dock from here. A lot of Hammer's people stop by here - we'tre not too far upstairs, actually. How about you?"

Clu grins. "I'm testing my Zadar. Down that way - see the cream colored thing with the green star?"

"Oh yeah? I didn't know you had a vessel of your own. That's real well paid. How did it go?"

"Fantastic. There was a lot of damage, but I had it rebuilt by Strachan, and he did a great job."

Britt's sharp face is suddenly inattentive, but his attention returns almost immediately. "I'm sorry, I guess I've really got to get going. Got a lesson back at the drome in a half hour. Stop by, sometime, won't you? Bring your friend. I'll slip one in on the house."

Clu smiles back. "Thanks."

Ivo shakes her head as he walks off. "Hardly seems fair," she mutters.

"What?" Clu asks.

Ivo holds up a hand as she takes a bite. "Nothing, really. Must be a pilot thing."

Lantee pants hard with the effort of running. His gun is out, but he is hoping to avoid using it. He needs answers.

Suntube dark races past him. Quickly he flattens against the wall, listening to the clatter of the silicate appendages of his pursuer over the thunder of his heart. Then, as it passes, a swift rush of shadow, he steps out behind it and calls "Stop!"

It clatters to a halt, spiky and gleaming in the amplified ambient light, robe flags . Lantee raises his weapon. "I want you right there," he calls. He gestures.

A whine of lifting fans announces the presence of three operatives above them. "You see them? Move, and they'll put you down, hear me?"

It growls with an ominous creaking sound beneath it. "I hear..." it sighs.

"Then put down.... whatever that is. You're under arrest for attempted assault and unlawful pursuit. Do you understand?"

"Unnerstan." Its appendages drop something with a clatter to the paving, and Lantee barely restrains a twitch. He mutters a curse. A gesture again, and the fans grow louder until there are three dark figures surrounding the arrestee. Finally, one covers, while the remaining two move to search the arrestee. A bulky vehicle pulls up to the alley mouth. After an unobtrusive consent from the lead op, Lantee walks up to their captive.

"You are going to get a lucky chance today, pal." He stares into the glassy eyes. "Tell me what I need to know, and you'll be on your way before your dust pit buddies even know you're gone, understand?"

"Unnerstan."

The door clicks open with a swath of light across the slack face of the sleeping Lantee. He stirs as a shadow moves across his face, then he is sitting bolt upright, eyes wide, weapon aimed.

"Pull that trigger and you can forget about being paid next week," Marie Field says calmly.

"Marie..." he complains. He lowers the weapon and swivels his legs off the couch onto the floor. "You should know better."

"You've never actually shot anyone who came in here."

He rubs his eyes and carefully lays the gun beside him. "There's always a first time. What's going on?"

"I heard you made some progress today."

"If you count getting chased through an alley by a piss-drunk Kholometh progress, sure. But now all I've got are two very annoying prisoners who won't tell me a damn thing, and are somehow connected. The profile of the second penetration matches an old modus and some epidermal for this Kholometh, who calls itself P&ckeray. I've found out it's an eight year immigrant, didn't have anything to do with the Rivinak Lytheriaee, of course, since they don't sponsor its species, and that its a very good runner. Other than that, it's claiming innocence. I've only got the assault and pursuit charges, and according to the rules, he'll have to go into the system within the day, so I was trying to get a little sleep and see if there's some correlation. Something I can use in my questioning."

She sits down on a thin chair at the edge of the light. "Any ideas?"

He sighs and rubs his face again. "They're both immigrants. The period of its registration and Nimshi's isn't so far apart. It's a voice animator for a live action cartoon in Bledveserd, while Nimshi's a no-one. There's just nothing there."

"Sponsors?"

"No, I thought of that."

Marie stands. "Well, you know what I want, don't you? I want..."

"The reason the Hermes was targeted. The people responsible for instigating the crash. I'm not going to work any faster because you come and wake me up, you know."

"Well, maybe if you work instead of sleep, you'll get something done." Her green eyes glitter with a momentary reflection as she sweeps back out into the hallway.

Clu detaches her contacts with a shudder. Her eyes feel exhausted and raw. A brief spray soothes the new corneas. New corneas, she thinks, staring into the mirror. Like I bought a pair of shoes. I am not getting used to this.

She throws some water on her face and rubs it across her neck and collarbone. For a moment, she remembers the control inputs under her hands, and she is chasing the drones again, but, in a second, they become the interface of the Hermes, and she nearly screams as the floor seems to fall from beneath her feet. But then everything is stable again.

She sighs and wraps her robe more tightly around her waist. Gaining weight, she chides herself. It was only to be expected - better food, too much rest. She groans. More exercise. Fewer meals. Hasn't she had enough?

Her feet pad across the glossy wood floor, just a little cold. She can hear the lizards cheeping at the window, and she detours to the narrow kitchen corner to pick out a treat of seeds for them. At the window, the diffuse twilight boundary is racing away from her, and she sees the sapphire lizard, her favorite, perched on the ledge. She hunkers down and offers a bit of seedcake. It sings a momentary tune and then reaches out and snaps a piece into its gaping mouth. It turns sideways and seems to wink at her. She smiles and lays the seedcake on the ledge.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, she watches it munching contentedly. Finally, it snatches up the remains and hurries away to its night-hole. She laughs a little and lies down.

What next? she wonders. I have the Zadar, it works, it's armed. I can fight hand to hand - a little. I can shoot - a little. I know what I want to do, but I can't see how to finish it. Where am I going to get the answers?

Her eyes creep shut at the lights of the city brighten amidst darkness.

"Come in!" Celine calls to the rap on the wooden door. It opens behind her, admitting a draft of rain as Clu steps through. Celine looks back over her shoulder and smiles at Clu. "Come in, help me here."

She has been holding soil back from the center of a modest ceramic pot. "Here, put your hands in there." Clu eyes the dirt distrustfully. Her farming past is long behind her. But she thrusts her fingers to make a wall around the depression.

Celine lifts a complex greenish plant from the worktable. Its roots seem to shift and twitch as the soil falls away. "It hates being uprooted," she remarks. She slips it into the soil and the roots seem almost to grasp for a hold, then Celine shifts Clu's hands and pushes dirt into the hole. "Well, now, that's finished." She tamps the dirt down to support the stem. "New home," she whispers to it.

She turns to Clu. "And so what can I do for you, today?"

Clu is taken aback by the direct inquiry. "I... did you know the Zadar is finished?"

Celine smiles like a mother. "Congratulations."

There is a faint rumble of thunder and the door creaks with the force of a wind gust.

"Well, let's go upstairs and have a glass of the Garandil. I've still got a few bottles left for special occasions."

The youngsters are playing in the yard now that the storm has started to receed into the distance. Clu has sprawled on the couch with her third glass of wine. The sound of the children outside reminds her of her first weeks in Prometheus and she smiles with a lazy fondness.

Celine pours herself another glass at the kitchen counter. She looks at Clu with a brief bright glance. "Have you seen the garden this season? The massicaria are rising well - you know, they'll flower daily in a different color every day for the next few months."

Clu stirs. "No."

Celine eases into the seat across from her. "We'll walk later. Maybe we can even get your hands dirty again, put in a few seedlings... But I keep thinking there's something else you wanted to talk about besides finishing the Zadar..." Her hand with its glass floats for a moment in an uncertain gesture.

Clu drinks more of the wine, swiftly, as if to cover a sudden emotion. "Oh, well. Nothing really. I mean, I don't really know how to thank you enough for what you've done already."

A dismissive gesture from Celine. "Clu, we're beyond that, I think."

Clu puts her drink on the table and pulls at her fingers nervously. "I flew the Zadar. It's a great job. Marie helped me get it fixed. She's given me a job, helped me get a good price to repair it." She laughs with a deprecating tone. "She's even helped me learn hand-to-hand combat. But she has a lot on the line getting the Hermes ready, dealing with the investors. And I'm still not ready. I don't know enough about... anything, much less where Lan might be."

Celine sips her wine and looks speculatively at Clu. "I don't have firm information on this. But Marcel has come across a trace. A hint that Lan might be alive. Somewhere."

For a moment, it becomes very important for Clu to carefully pick up her glass, to sip as if nothing had been said. "I see." She puts the glass back down, but her hand is shaking and it spills on the table with a clank.

"Oh, I'm so sorry..."

"Never mind, hon, let the automates get it. I understand. I wasn't going to say anything until we knew more. It's premature to get your hopes up. But the information is from a member of what passes for the resistance. Most of what they do is to help fugitives and that sort of thing. Reportedly, Lan and another man escaped from a prisoner transport depot. They were sent south, but Marcel's contact wasn't allowed to know where. Marcel's asked him to try to find out, but it won't be easy."

"But he's all right," Clu's voice is hard.

"He was. But that was more than a month ago."

Clu stands, arms at an angle. "Then I need your help. All I've wanted is to get Lan back. But the more I look at the problem, the more I see that I just don't have the resources. But you do. Or I should say - the League does."

Celine's smile is pitying. "I don't think we have the resources you think we do."

But though Clu's stance is faintly unsteady, her eyes are direct. "You have an unfufilled contract, and you probably still have funding for it. I talked to the publishers who put up the funds. They say your accounting people have the contract open, with funds attached."

With a frown, Celine sips at her wine. Finally, "It's open," she admits. "But the funding is partly committed to Marcel's effort. And the League doesn't work with freelancers. And, honestly, Clu, I don't think you have any kind of plan."

Clu, at the window, looks out at the children, who run and throw a ball back and forth. Now she turns to Celine. "I had a plan. It was a stupid plan, but it was a plan. And it's improving. But the problem is, I still don't know enough to make it work. I don't know the current situation on Cocteau. I don't know where Lan is. And, while I've done a lot of reading about Promethean ground techniques... I'm a fairly good space tactician, even considering how much more advanced your doctrine is. I've had to be, because you can't design war vessels without knowing those things. But infiltration, commando tactics, that's another story. I need knowledge. I need training." She turns back to the window with an inescapable sly smile. "That I know you can help with."

Celine sighs and moves to stand beside her. "It's not as simple as you seem to think. I don't have some kind of unilateral power in the League. If you have a proposal, you have to make it to the Board." She touches Clu's arm. "Are you ready for that?"

"I will be if you get me the chance."

Lantee awakens suddenly, wondering why. He throws off the covers and sits, staring into the darkness of his room. Something stirs at the corner of his mind, like a dream nagging at him long after its content had been overwritten.

"Not the sponsors," he mutters. "Their sponsors."

"Hi, Clu, it's Marie," the message tells her. "The investors have come through. I need you to come back and work with the team. Come up to my office in the morning."