PARSON'S REBELLION

SHUTTLEFIELD, NEW FLORIDA / BARBIEL 68, C.Y. 14 / 0312

The landing field lay still and silent in the dark hours before dawn, its concrete apron turned a pale shade of grey by bearlight. Nothing moved save for the windsock on a pole near the chain-link security fence, gently ruffled by a cool breeze coming in from the northwest. Not far away, the town slept; only a few lights glimmered on the outskirts within the windows of farmhouses whose residents had risen early to feed the livestock.

Four figures emerged from the tall grass near the edge of the field. They hesitated for a moment, looking both ways to make sure that no one was in sight, before scurrying through the darkness toward the fence.

Jonathan Parson stopped at the gate, glanced back at his companions. Susan was right behind him, as she'd been ever since she rendezvoused with him and the others outside town less than an hour ago. Manny was the slowest, of course; his mechanical body had never allowed him to move very quickly, and what he ironically referred to as his "war wounds"— the lack of sight in his left eye, the loss of full mobility of his right leg— hindered him even more. As before, Hawk was helping him along; the kid didn't need to do so, but somehow Hawk seemed to feel responsible for the Savant, much as if he was an elderly gent who needed tender care.

Manny was far from helpless, yet he'd never complained about Hawk's attention, and this act of caring seemed to help the kid himself. Parson had come to worry a bit about Hawk lately. His father had disappeared a few weeks ago, under circumstances that remained not wholly explained, yet Hawk didn't seem particularly upset. Indeed, it was almost as if he was glad that his old man was gone.

No. He had to focus on matters at hand. Pulling off his pack, Parson withdrew the pair of bolt cutters he'd had Hawk buy for him in Clarksburg. He raised its beak to the U-shaped hasp of the lock that secured the gate chain, then pulled the handles together. A moment of resistance, then a hard snap as the blades severed the lock. Parson started to put the bolt cutters back in the pack, then reconsidered and instead tossed them aside.

"Don't you want to bring 'em?" Hawk whispered.

"Why bother?" Parson pulled off the lock and threw it away. "Don't need them anymore. By the time they find 'em, it won't matter."

The night-watch had left the area fifteen minutes ago; by now the blueshirt would be sauntering through town, making his rounds once more before returning to the barracks to fill out the logbook and maybe steal a few winks. Parson almost felt sorry for the poor guy— no doubt he'd catch hell from someone— yet no one must have ever seriously considered the possibility of what they were doing now. The fence was there mainly to keep animals and children away, and the only reason the Proctor came by was because it was part of his routine.

The gate creaked softly as he pushed it open. Parson looked at the others. "Last chance," he murmured, "if you want to back out."

"Too late for that now," Susan said. "C'mon, we're running out of time." Hawk danced nervously from foot to foot, while Manny's right eye glowed like an amber jewel within his cowl. No one was having any second thoughts. Or if they were, they were keeping it to themselves.

"Right." Parson picked up the pack, pulled it over his shoulder. "Then off we go."

They moved quickly across the field, saying nothing to each other as they headed for the closer of the two spacecraft parked on the apron. Now that the New Brighton spaceport was in service, most shuttles arrived there, yet the New Florida landing field was still used on occasion, mainly because of its proximity to Liberty. Of course, there was the URSS Plymouth, but it never went anywhere; long since decommissioned, the old bird simply waited for the day when it would be towed to an as-yet unbuilt hangar, to be preserved as a historic artifact. This morning, though, an ESA skiff rested nearby.

The Virginia Dare had landed only yesterday, following the return of the Drake to the 47 Uma system. Steam rose from vents along its fuselage as indigenous-fuel nuclear engines converted atmospheric water vapor into useable hydrogen. The boarding ramp had been raised— its crew had done that as a precaution, just before they'd gone to the boardinghouse in town where they were staying— but this was a minor obstacle that Parson had already anticipated. Kneeling down, he let Hawk climb on his shoulders, then he carefully stood up, lifting the young man until he was within arm's reach of the spacecraft's lower hull. Using a pocket light, Hawk found a recessed panel; he slid it open, then pushed a button. A faint grinding noise, then the belly hatch opened and the ramp began to descend.

Parson bent his knees again and Hawk hopped off his shoulders. He waited until the ramp touched ground, then he turned to the kid. "Okay, that's it for you," Parson said, and held up a hand before Hawk could object. "We've been through this before. Not enough room for all of us."

"Aw, c'mon, Jon . . ."

"Do as he says." Susan's voice was cold. "You're staying behind. Period."

His feelings more than a little hurt, Hawk looked down, nodded his head. Parson couldn't help but feel sorry for him. The boy had betrayed him, to be sure, and his body bore scars from the beating he'd taken last spring, but he'd come to understand why it'd happened. Perhaps Susan couldn't bring herself to forgive him, but he had.

"Besides," Parson added, "I've got an important job for you." Opening his pack, he produced a satphone. "It's preset to the frequency we'll be using," he said, handing it to Hawk. "Keep it switched on. When you hear from me, I want you to go to the president and give her this." Then he unbuttoned his parka, pulled out a sealed envelope, and gave it to him as well. "But not a minute before. Understand?"

Susan stared at him. "What are you—?"

"Our statement of demands. The one we signed. Remember?"

"Sure, but I thought you were going to transmit it once we—"

"It'll be more effective if it's delivered by hand." Parson looked back to Hawk. "Look, this could be dangerous. They might try to pin the blame on you. If you don't think you can handle it—"

"I can do this." Hawk put the envelope in his jacket, clipped the phone to his belt. He hesitated, then offered his hand. "Good luck."

"Thanks." Parson shook his hand. "You, too." Susan hesitated, then gave his shoulder a squeeze. Hawk gave Manny a quick nod, which the Savant reciprocated in his own spooky way: a brief forward tilt of a skeletal head within the cowl of his black robe, like the Grim Reaper acknowledging his presence. Then Hawk turned and jogged away, heading for the fence.

"You trust him?" Manny's voice was a low purr.

"You trusted me, didn't you?" Parson peered up at the sky from beneath the skiff's starboard wing. The leading edge of Bear's rings had already touched the western horizon. "Sun's coming up soon. Let's go."

The cockpit was tight: just enough seats for the pilot, copilot, and two passengers, with the rest of the interior space reserved for freight. Once he was buckled into the left seat, Parson took a few moments to study the dashboard. Although the craft was a little more sophisticated than those he'd flown before, the controls remained basically the same. Besides, he had backup; while he initiated the prelaunch procedures, Manny took the right seat, then stretched a cable from his chest to a terminal on the panel before him. "Comp interface achieved," the Savant said. "All systems green. We're good to go."

"Thanks." Parson pulled up the checklist on a screen. With Manny's assistance, nothing would take him by surprise. He stole a moment to glance back at Susan. She'd managed to figure out how the seat harness worked, yet her hands trembled as she snapped the buckles shut. She'd never gone into space before; all this was new to her. "Relax," he said. "It's no worse than riding a jet, really."

"I've never been on a jet. Only gyros." She hesitated. "Three times."

"Okay." He didn't know what to say to that. "If it gets too much for you, then close your eyes, put your head against the seat—"

"There's a vomit bag beneath your seat," Manny said. "Please use it."

Parson cast a cold look at the Savant, which his blind left eye was conveniently able to ignore. "I'll be okay," Susan said. "Just get on with it."

Parson returned his attention to the controls. All systems nominal: fuel tanks fully pressurized, atmospheric engines preheated, guidance systems in standby mode. He placed his right hand on the thruster bars, moved them up a couple of degrees; the hull trembled as the engines ignited. Through the windows, he saw house lights begin to flash: Shuttlefield residents, awakened by the unexpected roar of a ship preparing to take off. If he waited a few minutes, he'd hear someone come over the comlink, demanding to know who he was, where he was going.

He was wasn't going to stick around that long.

"Liftoff," he said, then he pushed the bars all the way forward.

The Virginia Dare slowly rose from the landing field, its VTOLs burning hot against the cold autumn morning. For a few moments the skiff hovered against the star-flecked sky, its landing gear rolling up within their wells. Then its bow tilted upward and it leaped toward space.

LIBERTY, NEW FLORIDA / 0718

Carlos had just finished making breakfast when there was a knock at the front door. He didn't respond immediately— if he didn't rescue the biscuits at once, they'd burn to a crisp— so he took a few moments to remove the tray from the brick oven and place it on the stove top next to the coffeepot. One day soon, they'd be able to afford one of the new solar ovens that were being imported from Earth; until then, they'd have to continue to make do with wood fire.

The knocking continued, more urgently than before. He heard Wendy yell something from their bedroom. The door was shut, but he could guess what she was saying. "I'll get it," he yelled back, then he pulled off his oven mitt and dropped it on the counter. Whoever was outside was getting impatient. "Calm down," Carlos muttered as he strode toward the front door. "You'd think the house was on fire."

Chris was on the front porch. He apparently noticed the irate look on Carlos's face, for he took an involuntary step back from the door. "Sorry. I know it's early, but . . ."

"It can't wait, right?" Carlos sighed. When he'd been president, he'd let it be known to one and all that he wasn't to be disturbed, save for the more dire emergencies, after Government House closed at six o'clock, or before he returned to work at eight the following morning. This had gone far to preserve the privacy of his home as well as his own peace of mind; there was little that demanded his attention after hours, save for the monthly meeting of the Colonial Council or the occasional late-night budget session. After Wendy took office, though, she'd rescinded that standing order. She'd promised her supporters that, as president, she'd be on call twenty-seven hours a day, nine days a week, 1,096 days a year, and since then she'd been determined to keep that pledge. As a result, they'd often been visited as late as midnight and as early as dawn. Carlos often griped that she was making more work for herself, but she took her job seriously . . . perhaps a bit more than her husband had, he had to admit.

"It's important, yeah." Chris exhaled a tiny cloud; there was a nip to the morning, with an autumn frost upon the dying flowers beside the front walk. "I tried to wait as long as possible, but . . ." He shrugged. "She's up, isn't she?"

"Getting dressed." Carlos stood aside, letting his old friend inside. "Want coffee?"

"Sure. Thanks." Chris walked over to the dinner table, took a seat in the guest chair. Carlos had set the table for three, so he went to the cupboard to fetch another mug; on second thought, he also pulled out a fourth plate and butter knife. Chris was up early, so he probably hadn't had breakfast yet. And besides, he always made more biscuits than Wendy or Susan could eat . . .

Come to think of it, where was Susan, anyway? Her bedroom door was still shut, and although she tended to sleep later than her parents, by now she was usually coming back from the privy, clutching her robe about her, damp hair wrapped in a towel. Of course, there'd been many times recently when she hadn't been home at all, but that was when she'd been away on research, and it had been a while since . . .

"Morning, Chris." The door of the master bedroom swung open, and Wendy came out. "Early for you, isn't it?"

"Madam President." The Chief Proctor gallantly stood up.

"Hey, you never did that with me." Carlos put a mug in front of him, then placed the extra plate and knife beside it.

"Stand up when you entered the room, or address you as Madam President?" Wendy picked up the coffeepot, carried it over to the table. "I like it. Makes me feel all tingly inside."

She was dressed for the office: ankle-length hemp skirt, cotton blouse, wool sweater, all in earth tones. The kind of outfit one expected the leader of the Coyote Federation to wear while conducting the affairs of state. If necessary, though, she could report to the hospital, where she could change into scrubs to deliver a baby or perform surgery; then she was no longer Madam President, but simply Dr. Wendy Gunther, chief of emergency medical services. One job rarely interfered with the other, although the latter paid better than the former.

"So where's the fire?" Without sitting down, Wendy poured coffee for Chris, then for herself and Carlos. She seldom let business get in the way of breakfast. "Or did someone steal one of your mother's chickens again?"

It was an old joke between them; Chris forced a smile. "No fire, but you guessed half right. Someone stole a bird this morning . . . the Virginia Dare, a skiff from the Drake."

"Really?" Carlos raised an eyebrow. "The one that landed yesterday?"

"Uh-huh." Chris sipped his coffee. "Don't blame yourself if you didn't hear it take off. Happened around three-thirty, and whoever did it was careful not to engage the main engines until they reached altitude. Woke up a few people, but most slept right through it."

Well, that was serious enough. The European Alliance had landing rights throughout the colonies, but they'd come to use New Brighton as their principal spaceport. Ana Tereshkova had landed in Albion, aboard the Walter Raleigh; no doubt she'd be aggravated over the theft of one of her landing craft.

"What about the night watch?" Wendy took a seat, poured some goat's milk into her coffee. "Didn't they see anything?"

"My guy says he'd just walked the area. Didn't see anything. We found a pair of bolt cutters next to the gate, along with the lock." Chris shrugged. "I was tempted to dock him a week's pay, but then I read the log. He wasn't slacking off. Just didn't see it coming, that's all."

"Who would have?" Carlos fetched the biscuits from the stove top. Picking up a jar of strawberry preserves, he carried everything back to the table. "Why would anyone want to steal a skiff?"

"My thoughts exactly." Wendy cast him a hard look. I'm the president. You're the ex-president. Shut up and serve the biscuits, and let me do my job. "Did anyone try to make contact with the pilot?"

"Of course. The minute it took off, my officer hustled the radio chief out of bed. Not a peep, from any frequency. Whoever hijacked that thing, they're ignoring all transmissions."

"Uh-huh." Wendy nodded. "But I think you're missing something. Like Carlos said, why steal a shuttle? It's not like you could go anywhere with it . . . or at least, not to any other colony, because it'd be recognized as soon as it touched down. Maybe you could land somewhere else."

"But then you'd have to fend for yourself." Chris nodded. "We thought of that already. I've got my people going to all the shops in town, to see if anyone recently purchased the stuff you'd need if you wanted to set up camp out in the boonies." A pensive frown. "But that doesn't make sense, either. Why steal a skiff if you could just as easily hire someone to fly you wherever you want to go?"

"Got a point there." Wendy used a knife to open a biscuit and spread preserves on it. "You said they dropped a pair of bolt cutters . . ."

"We're looking into that." Chris helped himself to a biscuit. "And that's weird, too. That sort of purchase can be traced easily enough . . . it was Earth-made, and there're only a few shops carrying that sort of hardware. So it's almost as if they didn't care whether we find out who they are."

"Not only that, but how many people here are rated to fly a skiff?" Wendy's brow furrowed. "Five, ten? A dozen at most? I'll have Tomas check the records. Maybe he'll—"

"Where the heck is Susan?" It was an irrelevant question, but amid the discussion of one mystery, Carlos abruptly realized that there was another that hadn't been solved. Her door remained shut, and there was no sound of movement from her room. "Not like her to sleep in."

"Maybe she had a late night." Wendy was paying little attention. "Wake her up, tell her breakfast is ready."

As he walked across the room, Carlos found himself wondering, once again, when his daughter would find her own place. She was an adult now, with a job at the university that frequently sent her out into the field. Very often she'd been gone for weeks on end, conducting research on the native fauna, the chirreep in particular. A long absence, then she'd return, sunburned and exhausted, with clothes so filthy and ripped that they should be burned instead of washed out and stitched.

Not only that, but lately they hadn't been getting along very well. She'd been upset when she discovered that he'd purchased stock in Morgan Goldstein's company. He'd tried to explain to her that Janus stood to make a lot of money from the development of Albion, and now that Coyote had opened trade with Earth there was no reason why their family couldn't take advantage of this. Yet she seemed to disregard everything he said; the last time they'd duked it out, she'd accused him of selling out his principles, of betraying the very things for which he'd fought when he was Rigil Kent. That had hurt, perhaps more than he cared to admit.

Dammit, Carlos thought. I love her dearly, but she's a grown woman. If she's going to feud with me, maybe she ought to stop living at home with her parents.

This even as he rapped on the door. "Susie? Breakfast. Rise and shine." No response. He tried again. "Time to get up." More silence. He turned the knob, gently pushed open the door, peered inside.

Her bed was still made; it hadn't been slept in since yesterday. Her jacket wasn't hanging on the hook next to the dresser, and the calf boots she customarily wore when she was in the outback were missing as well.

"Susan?" Wendy's voice from the main room. "Is she there?"

Carlos strode across the bedroom to her desk. Her field journal, which she always carried with her when she was on an expedition, lay next to her lecture notes. Strange. He opened drawers. No satphone; she'd taken that, though. He turned to the closet. Yet here was her pack . . .

"Where's Susan?" Wendy had left the table, come to the bedroom door; there was motherly concern on her face. "She's not—?"

"No." Carlos took a deep breath. "Gone." Rubbing his eyes with his fingertips, he struggled to put everything together. Susan was missing; she'd disappeared sometime during the night. She had taken her jacket, her heavy boots, her satphone . . . but no pack, no journal.

"Something's going on here." He looked around at Wendy. "I don't know why, but I've got a feeling about this."

STARBRIDGE COYOTE / 1324

"Chief? We've got a skiff requesting permission to dock with us."

Hearing the voice in his headset, Jonas Whittaker looked away from the galley microwave where he'd been patiently waiting for his lunch to warm up. He tapped the mike wand. "Repeat that, please? You said something about a skiff?"

"Uh-huh. Identifies itself as the EAS Virginia Dare, from the Drake." The com officer hesitated. "I don't see anything on the schedule about any craft coming up today."

The oven beeped, signaling that his Swedish meatballs were ready. "We don't, the last thing I checked. What does the pilot say they're doing here?"

"He hasn't given a reason. Just wants permission to rendezvous and dock."

Jonas held on to a ceiling rail as he opened the oven and pulled out a plastic-covered tray. Wincing as it burned his fingertips, he hastily transferred the tray to the table and clamped it down. This was weird . . . "Can you patch me through, please? I want to talk to the pilot." A long pause, then a soft click in his headset. "Hello? With whom am I speaking?"

"Lt. Commander Jeffery Thomas, executive officer of the Drake." The accent was British, the tone formal and precise. "May I ask the same, please?"

"Jonas Whittaker. Chief of operations, Starbridge Coyote. Mr. Thomas, we haven't heard anything about receiving a skiff from the Drake. Why are you here?"

"Ah, Dr. Whittaker. Pleasure to make your acquaintance." The voice thawed a little. "Many apologies for the confusion. We're not coming directly from the Drake, rather, but from Albion. I thought someone was supposed to have gotten in touch with you about arranging for a visit."

Jonas pushed himself away from the table, glided across the galley to the porthole. This section of the gatehouse faced away from Bear, so he was able to see Coyote. The moon was a green-tinted scimitar, its nightside turned toward Bear; among the stars he could make out a pair of red and blue beacons that flashed in sequence. The formation lights of an approaching skiff, less than twenty-five nautical miles away.

Sure took their sweet time about giving us a shout. "No one contacted us," he said. "There must be a mistake. We don't normally allow tours."

"I understand, Dr. Whittaker, and I'm sorry for the inconvenience. It's just that . . ." A slight pause. "You see, we have U.N. delegates aboard. We've been trying to keep this as hush-hush as possible, so that's probably why someone neglected to contact you. I hope you understand."

Jonas closed his eyes. That's all he needed: some VIPs barging in, demanding that he and his crew drop everything they were doing to give them a tour. And just when they were getting ready for another hyperspace transition, this time for the passage of the new EAS ship. Didn't these people have any idea how difficult it was to . . . ?

"Dr. Whittaker?" Thomas again. "We're on final approach. If there's some sort of problem, perhaps we can reach Ambassador Vogel, ask him to clarify the situation."

"No, that's all right." Dieter was a jerk; the less Jonas had to deal with him, the better. He turned away from the porthole. "Permission granted . . . but Mr. Thomas, please be advised that we're making an exception. The gatehouse is no place for tourists."

An embarrassed chuckle. "Understood. We'll try to keep it brief and not to get in the way. Virginia Dare over and out."

A second later, the com officer came back online. "Sorry, chief. I know it's the last thing you want to—"

"Can't be helped, Sam." Jonas regarded his lunch for a moment, then glided back across the compartment to remove it from the table. "Better let me take care of this," he added, opening the fridge and pushing the tray inside. "Maybe I can get rid of these guys quick so we can get back to business."

A laugh. "All yours. We'll tidy up a bit before they get here."

"Please do. Out." Jonas tapped his mike again, then, regretting the lost chance to enjoy one of the better frozen entrees the station had in its larder, he pushed himself toward the hatch leading to the access shaft.

It had been nearly a full Coyote year— a couple of months shy of three Earth years— since the starbridge had become operative, and still Jonas found himself spending much of his time aboard the gatehouse. Too much time, really. By all rights, he should have retired by now; he'd worked hard to train his five-person crews, which alternated each month between two teams, each with their own managers. He had a nice place in Leeport, a rough-bark cabin on the West Channel where he could sit on the front porch, drink ale, and watch barges moving up and down the river . . . a far cry from floating around in a tin can, eating frozen crap as he waited for the next vessel to pop out of hyperspace.

Yet Jonas was proud of his creation. Although he was always careful to say that he'd stood upon the shoulders of giants— Einstein, Hawking, Thorne, and others— the fact remained that he'd managed to transform theory into practicality, and in doing so had opened the stars to humankind. This is not something from which a man could easily walk away. And so he came up here as often as he could, running a hand-picked shift of technicians just so he could see the flash of light from the distant torus as the starbridge opened to allow a spacecraft to vault through hyperspace, bypassing forty-six light-years in the blink of an eye.

The day comes when I'm bored with that, Jonas thought, making his way headfirst down the narrow shaft, that's the day I start raising tomatoes. Until then, this baby's mine.

He'd reached the docking module, located halfway down the station's spindle-like structure, when Sam's voice chirped in his ear again: "Ah, chief, there's something about this . . ."

"Tell me about it," he grumbled as he pushed a button above the hatch. It irised open, revealing a spherical compartment. "Next time they send us VIPs, it'd be nice if they'd give us some advance warning."

"That's just it. I'm not sure if they did."

Grasping a rung next to the hatch, Jonas swung himself feet-first into the ready room. Four airlocks on each side of the compartment: two leading to docking collars, the other two direct to space. Suit lockers and equipment racks lined the curved walls between the airlock hatches. A small compartment, without much room to maneuver.

"C'mon, Sam, I don't got all day." Jonas did a somersault that oriented himself toward Hatch 2, then peered through a porthole the size of a saucer. Through the collapsed accordion-tube of the docking collar, he could see the approaching skiff. The ring of its dorsal hatch was lined up precisely with the collar; a brief flare every now and then from RCRs corrected the skiff's trajectory. "What's the problem?"

"Look, I don't know if it means anything, but I just checked the Drake's crew and passenger manifest, and I didn't find any U.N. diplomats registered—"

"You're right. It doesn't mean anything. VIPs don't always use their titles." The skiff drew closer. Whoever was flying that thing had a nice hand at the stick. No back-offs or second tries, not one wasted motion. Smooth and steady.

"Maybe so, but I don't find any crew by the name of Jeffery Thomas, either. He said he was the executive officer, right? According to my records, the Drake's XO is Milos DiNardo."

"Could be a mistake. Check to see if—"

"I did. That's according to the current manifest. The one for the last time the Drake came through lists Jeffery Thomas as the exec, but—"

"So they got things screwed up." He let out his breath in exasperation. "Look, I don't have time for this, and neither do you. Let's just get these guys in and out of here, then we can get back to what's important." Like lunch. He was hungry and, God help him, he'd actually been looking forward to those Swedish meatballs.

"Will you listen to me? Please? I just checked the log for the most recent advisories . . ."

Gatehouse crewmembers seldom looked at text messages from Coyote. For the most part, they were routine reports: global weather forecasts, landing conditions at Shuttlefield and New Brighton, technical data meant to be loaded directly into the comps. There was the daily mail from family and friends, which the crew read when they weren't doing anything else, but otherwise most messages was stored in memory until someone found time to weed through all the junk.

"Yeah, and . . . ?" The skiff blotted out the sunlight. The station floodlights reflected dully from its hull, then the collar expanded to mate with the craft's airlock ring. A moment later there was a dull jar as the docking cradle closed around the skiff.

"There's a flash advisory from Liberty. Says that a skiff was stolen from Shuttlefield at about 0330 this morning. Want to guess which one it was?"

Everything the com officer had told him suddenly fit together. "Aw, crap," he muttered. "You gotta be kidding."

"Does it sound like I'm kidding?" In the background, someone was yelling. Kendrick, probably; the traffic officer was on duty the last time Jonas went topside. "Whoever's on that shuttle, it's not who he says he . . ."

Jonas glanced up at the panel above the hatch, watched the lights go green. The sleeve was beginning to pressurize. "Keep that hatch shut!" he snapped. "Don't release the bolts until I say so!"

"No can do. They still can open it from inside."

"Then see if you can disable it somehow! And get someone else down here!" Jonas backed away from the airlock, began to look frantically around the ready room. Suits, helmets, gloves, a first-aid kit . . . nothing that could be used as a weapon. Didn't anyone ever think that we might need a stunner up here? Of course not. This was a space station. Who the hell would want to hijack a space station?

"Jodi and I are on the way down, chief." Maurice's voice on the comlink. "Hold the fort till we get there."

Good. The last time he saw Jodi and Maurice, only fifteen minutes ago, they were in the crew quarters. That was only three decks up, less than a hundred feet away. Of course, neither of them had been fully dressed; Jodi's hair was still wet, and both she and Maurice were wearing robes, indicating that they'd just spent some quality time in the shower together. They'd have to put on their jumpsuits first. And with both Sam and Kendrick in the com center . . .

He remembered the nearest fire extinguisher, located in the access shaft about ten feet away. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it would have to do. Jonas pushed himself through the ready room hatch, hastily pulled himself up along the ladder until he reached it. The tank was fastened tight against the bulkhead; he had to brace his feet and back against the tunnel and haul at it with both hands until it snapped loose from its breakaway straps. God help them if there was ever an actual fire in this place.

"What's going on down there?" Ninety feet up, Maurice was emerging from a hatch, wearing drawstring pants and a T-shirt that looked as if he'd just pulled them from the laundry sack. "If this is some kind of—"

"Shut up and get down here!" Tucking the fire extinguisher under his left arm, Jonas pushed himself feet-first toward the ready room hatch. Too late, he realized that he'd left it open. He should have closed it behind him. But that shouldn't matter. He'd been gone only a minute. Ninety seconds, tops. There was no way . . .

His feet had barely gone through the hatchway before a pair of hands— not hands, really, but metallic claws, ice-cold and unyielding— grabbed his ankles. Jonas didn't even have time to yell before he was yanked through the manhole. The back of his shirt ripped against the hatchway, then he was slammed against the wall by something stronger than a mere mortal.

Jonas looked up, saw a skeletal face peering at him, one ruby eye gleaming at him from within a dark hood, the other covered by a patch. A Savant. He'd heard of these beings, seen their pictures yet hadn't met any since his revival; they'd come and gone during the years he'd spent in biostasis, becoming creatures that most people in this time spoke about only in tones of dread.

Oh, hell, he thought, I'm dead . . .

"Relax. We don't mean you any harm." The voice that emerged from the Savant's mouth grille was oddly soothing. "Did you think there was a fire here?"

"No, I . . ." Then Jonas remembered what he was holding. "Oh, yeah. We thought . . . I mean, we weren't sure, but . . ."

"He wasn't trying to put out a fire." From behind the Savant, another voice, in the direction of the airlock hatch. Before it'd belonged to Jeffery Thomas, yet even though Jonas knew now that this identity was false, nonetheless it seemed familiar. "Take it away."

A young woman came up beside them. As she removed the fire extinguisher from his hands, Jonas recognized her: Susan Montero, daughter of the president of the Coyote Federation. What in the world was she doing here?

"Chief? Do you copy?"

Jonas started to reply before the Savant ripped the headset from him. "Two more coming," he said quietly. "Get ready."

The Savant pulled away from the compartment hatch, and that was when Jonas saw the third person who'd emerged from the airlock. His hair was longer, and a beard covered much of his face, but Jonas instantly recognized him: Jonathan Parson, the second officer of the Columbus. It had been fifteen months, by the LeMarean calendar, since they'd last laid eyes on each other, yet Parson didn't seem at all surprised to see him. A tight smile and the briefest of nods by way of greeting, then Parson moved to the one side of the hatch, with Susan taking up position on the other side.

"Chief?" Maurice's voice echoed down the access shaft. "Are you okay?"

Jonas caught a glimpse of the stunner in Parson's hand. He opened his mouth to yell a warning, but the Savant clamped a claw across his face. An instant later, Maurice came through the hatch. Seeing Jonas held captive by the Savant, he barely had a second to react before Parson leveled the stunner at him and fired.

Maurice spasmed as the charged wires hit his body, then he went limp. From somewhere close behind him, Jodi screamed. "Get her!" Parson snapped. He tossed the stunner to Susan, then hauled Maurice out of the way.

Susan caught the gun, then dove up the shaft. A brief commotion, then Susan's voice came back to them. "She's down . . . but I think they've shut the top hatch."

"They're onto us." Parson reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a roll of duct tape. "Bring the girl down here," he said as he pulled Maurice's hands behind his back and began to lash his wrists together. "Manny, let go of Dr. Whittaker . . . but keep him under control."

The Savant released Jonas from his steel grip, but continued to hold on to his shoulder. "What the hell are you—?" Jonas began.

"You'll find out soon enough." Parson paused to help Susan drag Jodi's unconscious body from the shaft, then he proceeded to bind her as well. "How many more up there?"

Jonas swallowed. "Six."

"You're lying." Parson glanced meaningfully at the nearest airlock. "Don't make me do something I don't want to."

"Okay, okay. Two." Jonas fought to remain calm. "Look, don't hurt them. They're not—"

"We won't hurt anyone so long as you cooperate." Parson passed Jodi over to Susan, then he took the headset from Manny. "Here's what I want you to do," he continued, holding out the headset to Jonas. "I want you to talk to those two guys upstairs, tell them—"

"They're already making contact with the ground." At least that was what he presumed Sam and Kenny were doing.

"Not my concern." Parson thrust the headset into Jonas's hands. "Right now, though, what I want them to do is open the hatch, let us come in. If they go along with us, I swear that no harm will come to anyone."

"Yeah, I bet."

"That's a promise." Parson's gaze became a cold stare. "But if they don't go along, then we're going to have to start treating you and your crew as hostages. And believe me, you don't want us to do that."

Another meaningful glance at the nearest airlock hatch. Jonas's imagination conjured unwanted visions. On one hand, he didn't believe that they'd seriously consider spacing anyone. On the other, until now he would have considered it just as unlikely that someone would manage to hijack an EAS skiff, fly it up to the Gatehouse, and overcome three-fifths of its crew. He could refuse, and gamble with the lives of his team, or . . .

"Oh, hell." He pulled on the headset, tapped it once again. "Sam, you copy?"

"Chief! What the hell's going on down there?"

"Sam, we . . ." He took a deep breath. "Look, we've got a situation. Maurice and Jodi—"

"Are they all right? We heard Jodi scream, then Ken shut the—"

"I know, I know. They're all right. Sam, we—"

"I've radioed Liberty, told 'em we're—"

"Sam, shut up. Please." Jonas felt his heart hammering against his chest. "Maurice and Jodi are fine. So am I, but . . . look, we've got a major problem here, and it isn't going to get better unless you open the hatch and let us come up."

A long pause. "I don't know . . . I mean, I can't . . ."

"Look, just do it." He sighed, shut his eyes for a moment. "On my authorization. If anything goes wrong, it's all my fault. But they've got . . . they've got me and Jodi and Maurice, and I don't think they're taking no for an answer. So . . ."

"Boss, I don't—"

"Damn it, Sam!" He found himself becoming impatient. "Just pop the hatch, all right?"

A click as the comlink went dead. Everyone in the ready room froze in place, waiting to hear or see what happened next. For nearly a minute, there was nothing but silence. All right, Jonas thought, they've already sent a message to the ground. Now what would they do next? What would I do if . . . ?

Of course. He tried not to smile. Sam was a smart guy, and so was Kendrick. They'd take precautions.

From somewhere far up the other end of the access shaft, there was the hollow sound of a hatch being opened. "Come up," Sam said. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"Thanks. So do I." Jonas clicked off, then turned to Parson. "Okay, you're in . . . but I'm holding you to your word."

Parson slowly let out his breath. He looked just as relieved as his captive, and so did Susan; the Savant was unable to register any emotion. "You've got my word. If this works out, no one will be harmed." Then he smiled. "Who knows? Once this is all over and done, maybe you'll thank me for it."

"For what?" Jonas raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Taking us hostage?"

"No. For saving the world."

LIBERTY / 1429

Government House was a two-story, wood-frame structure, located in Liberty town square next to the grange hall. Built of Great Dakota rough bark, with a clock tower rising from the center of its faux-birch shingled roof, it resembled a town hall from nineteenth-century America. The flag of the Coyote Federation hung over the front door, but other than that the only ornamentation was the life-size statue of Captain R. E. Lee, carved from a block of granite quarried from the Eastern Divide, that stood in the center of the square.

The office of the president was on the second floor, its window overlooking the square. Wendy stood at the window, her hands clasped together before her as she gazed down at the statue. There was a framed photo of Captain Lee above her desk, yet the artisans who'd rendered his likeness had captured him with such verisimilitude that it almost seemed as if he stood outside the building, holding vigil upon the colony for which he'd given his life. More than once since she'd become president, she'd sought solace by pondering his image, carrying on silent conversations with the man who'd led the original Alabama colonists to the new world.

Yet it wasn't the statue that caught her attention now so much as the young man who loitered beneath it. Wearing a catskin hat, the collar of his jacket pulled up against the autumn wind, he nervously strolled back and forth, occasionally glancing up at the clock tower before looking away again, almost as if afraid of being observed. She couldn't see his face beneath the wide brim of his hat, but there was something about him that seemed vaguely familiar. Almost as if . . .

"Madam President?"

"Yes, Tomas?" She turned away from the window. Her aide stood just inside the door, a sheet of paper in hand. "They've heard something?"

"Not exactly, no." Tomas hesitated. "There's been no voice contact with the Gatehouse since the duty officer said he was opening the command center hatch. A minute ago, though, we received a text message."

"Let me see it," Wendy said. Tomas walked across the room toward her. "Who else knows about this?"

"Only the guys in the com office." Tomas paused. "Should I get your husband?"

"Yes, please. But don't let anyone else know." When she'd heard that the Gatehouse had been taken over by forces unknown, the first thing Wendy had done was post a Proctor at the door of the communications office on the first floor. She knew that she couldn't keep this a secret very much longer, yet the last thing she wanted were unconfirmed rumors. Sooner or later, the Council would have to be informed, but until she knew exactly who'd assumed control of the Gatehouse, the fewer people aware of the situation, the better.

Tomas handed her the printout, then hurried off to find Carlos. Unfolding the paper, Wendy read:

11.68.14 (CY) 1427 EST / 21932 / UNCODED

FRM: STARBRIDGE COYOTE / GATEHOUSE (ID UNAVAILABLE/UNCONFIRMED)

TO: CFCOM / LIBERTY (ID 128294 CONFIRMED)

CLASS: T/S

SUBJ: (NONE)

BEGIN MESSAGE

WE HAVE ASSUMED CONTROL OF STARBRIDGE COYOTE. ALL GATEHOUSE PERSONNEL HAVE BEEN SUBDUED BUT NONE HAVE BEEN HARMED. NO DANGER WILL COME TO THEM UNLESS FORCE IS THREATENED AGAINST US. WE ALSO ASSUME RESPONSIBILITY FOR THEFT OF EAS VIRGINIA DARE. NO HARM DONE TO CRAFT OR CREW. THIS IS A POLITICAL ACTION, UNDERTAKEN BY FELLOW CITIZENS OF THE COYOTE FEDERATION ON BEHALF OF ALL. STATEMENT OF DEMANDS TO BE DELIVERED SOON BY COURIER. ANY ACTION TAKEN AGAINST OUR COURIER WILL BE CONSIDERED HOSTILE AND WILL BE MET ACCORDINGLY.

WE INTEND NO HARM TO ANYONE, BUT WE WILL TAKE APPROPRIATE MEASURES UNLESS OUR DEMANDS ARE MET BY ALL CONCERNED. RESPOND VIA SAME SATCOM FREQUENCY OR THROUGH OUR COURIER.

END MESSAGE

Wendy read the printout twice, then slowly let out her breath. She wasn't very much surprised; in fact, this was what she'd anticipated. No one knew who was responsible, yet she'd had little doubt that it was the same persons who'd stolen the Virginia Dare. This only confirmed her suspicions.

But who'd do something like this? And for what purpose?

Footsteps in the hall, then Carlos marched into her office. "You've heard from the Gatehouse?" Wendy nodded, then handed him the message. Her husband quickly scanned it. "Oh, hell. I was hoping that it might be—"

"A hoax?" Wendy turned away, walked over to a side table. "You should know better. Jonas isn't the type to pull a practical joke." She poured herself a drink from the pitcher of ice water she kept there. "Have you reached Ana?"

"Uh-huh. She's on her way." Anastasia Tereshkova had been aboard the Raleigh, the passenger shuttle that landed in New Brighton yesterday; now that she had her own place in Albion, she tended to stay there between missions. "She's good and pissed, I can tell you that."

"I don't blame her." Which was why Wendy had him get in touch with her. No harm in taking advantage of Carlos's friendship with the Drake's commanding officer. "I take it that she's put her ship on alert."

"I didn't ask, but yeah, that's a safe bet." Carlos looked at the letter again. " 'Statement of demands to be delivered soon by courier.' I don't get it. Why didn't they just contact you personally?"

"No idea." Wendy idly spun the six-inch globe of Coyote that rested on her desk. Handcrafted by a Colonial University electronics professor who dabbled in cartography and mounted upon a pewter miniature of a boid, it was a one-of-a-kind piece, presented to her as an inauguration gift. "We'll find out soon enough. Where's Tomas?"

"Don't know. Last time I saw him, he was heading downstairs."

"I need for him to . . ." She stopped, remembering that this was something that Carlos could do just as well. Perhaps even better, since he'd once been president himself; his word would carry weight. "We should alert the Council members. Convene an emergency session."

"So soon?" Carlos frowned. "We still don't know who we're dealing with. Why—?"

"Because we can't keep this secret any longer." Wendy turned away from the desk. "It affects everyone. If we keep the representatives in the dark any longer, they might—"

"Madam President?"

She looked around, saw Tomas standing in the doorway. For the first time that day, her aide appeared agitated; indeed, it was rare that he wasn't utterly calm. Yet now there was someone behind him: the young man she'd spotted hovering around the town square.

"I think this is the person you're expecting," Tomas said.

Of course. That was why he'd been keeping an eye on the clock tower. "Thank you," she said quietly, then raised her left hand to the bridge of her nose, as if to rub an itch. "Bring him in, please."

Her gesture was a prearranged signal: get the Proctor now. No one who'd served as president had ever felt the need to have a personal bodyguard, yet nonetheless Chris Levin had insisted that a blueshirt be assigned to Government House at all times. But Wendy need not have bothered, for as soon as the young man stepped into the room, she saw that he hadn't gone unescorted; the Proctor on duty was close behind, his stunner already drawn from his holster.

Tomas stepped aside, allowing the young man to enter the room. As he came in, Wendy barely had time to notice her husband's astonishment before the visitor removed his hat. Even then, she didn't immediately recognize him.

"Oh, lord," Carlos murmured. "Hawk?"

"Yeah, it's me." Embarrassment crept onto the young man's face. "I'm sorry, but—"

"There has to be a mistake." Carlos turned to Tomas. "This is our nephew. There's no way he'd . . . I mean, he couldn't . . ."

"He arrived just a minute ago, asked to see the president." Tomas glanced at Hawk. "Said that he was acting as a courier, and that it was important that he see her at once."

The blueshirt stepped closer to Wendy as if to protect her, but she waved him off. They had nothing to fear from their own kin . . . or at least so she assumed. "You have something for me?"

Without a word, Hawk reached into his jacket, pulled out an envelope. As reluctant as he was about meeting his aunt's eyes, he was even more nervous about handing the letter to her. Wendy kept her expression neutral; this was her nephew, but just now she had to put personal considerations aside. Tearing open the envelope, she withdrew a folded sheet of paper, read the handwritten message:

Madam President, and whoever else it may concern:

By now, you know that we have assumed control of Starbridge Coyote. With luck, the Gatehouse personnel have not been harmed. Although we are holding them prisoner, they are not being treated as hostages. It is not our intent to do so, and unless any direct action is taken that would put their lives or our own in jeopardy, they will remain safe.

Upon witnessing the events of the last year, we have reached the conclusion that the existence of the starbridge poses a clear and present danger to Coyote— not only its human colonists, but also the native inhabitants. We believe that further colonization of this world, along with the unchecked exploitation of its natural resources, will inevitably result in the same environmental destruction that brought Earth to ruin.

We cannot allow this to happen. Unless they are stopped, the governments and corporations of Earth will destroy the place we've come to cherish as our home. The construction of the starbridges, and the subsequent trade and immigration agreements, were done without consideration of their impact upon Coyote's indigenous life. Since they're unable to speak for themselves, we've taken it upon ourselves to act on their behalf.

Our demands are simple:

1. The annulment of all treaties and agreements made between the Coyote Federation and all governmental or corporate entities based on Earth, regarding immigration and trade.

2. All official representatives of the European Alliance and other Earth-based countries and coalitions, along with representatives of all Earth-based companies and governments, must leave Coyote within the next 81 hours, or three Coyote days.

3. All claims to government territory or private property held by said countries, coalitions, or private companies must be relinquished at once, to be returned to the Coyote Federation as unclaimed land.

If these demands are not fulfilled to our satisfaction, then we will have no recourse but to destroy Starbridge Coyote, and therefore bring an end to any contact between Coyote and Earth for the immediate future.

Please do not doubt that we have the ability to accomplish this, or that we will hesitate to do so. You may respond either through direct communication via satphone, or through our designated representative.

We await your prompt response.

— Jonathan Parson (Lt. Com, ESA, ret.)

Manuel Castro (WHU Council of Savants, ret.)

Susan Montero (faculty, Colonial University, New Florida)

Wendy's hands shook as she read the last signature. "Oh, dear God," she whispered.

"What's going on?" Carlos stepped closer so that he could read the letter. Wendy let him take it; her legs weak, she staggered to the nearest chair, clung to it for support.

Susan. When she'd turned up missing that morning, Wendy had hoped that it was only a coincidence that her absence was concurrent with the disappearance of the skiff. Now she knew better. Her daughter— her own daughter— was involved in this. She was aboard the Gatehouse, and . . .

"What the hell are you doing?" Carlos threw aside the letter, lunged straight at Hawk. Grabbing the young man by the collar of his jacket, he slammed him against the wall. "Who do you think you are?" he shouted, so violently that saliva landed upon Hawk's face. "What are you—?"

"Stop it!" Wendy rushed toward them. "It's not his fault! He didn't—!"

"Susan's up there! Doesn't that mean anything to—?"

"You know it does!" Wendy hauled Carlos away from Hawk. "Now cut it out!"

Hawk cowered against the wall, his eyes wide with fear. Tomas, stunned by what he'd just seen, stood frozen nearby, unable to decide what to do next. Even the blueshirt had been caught by surprise; he'd drawn his stunner, but didn't know what to do with it. If what had been stated in the first communiqué was true, though, Wendy couldn't allow any harm to come to her nephew. Too many lives were in the balance.

"Calm down," Wendy whispered in her husband's ear. "It's going to be all right. Everything's going to be fine." In her arms, Carlos was trembling with rage, yet he let out his breath, slowly nodded. He knew what was at stake.

"I'm sorry." Hawk's voice quivered in the terrible silence. "I didn't know . . . Aunt Wendy, I didn't think . . ."

"No, you didn't." Wendy released Carlos, walked back to him again. It took all her self-control to keep her anger in check. Carlos had lost his temper; it wouldn't do any good if she lost her own as well. "How did she get into this? How did you—?"

"She's doing what she thinks . . . what she believes needs to be done." Hawk picked himself off the wall. "No one made her do this, or me either. If someone doesn't take a stand, do something that will make everyone wake up, see what's happening here—"

"You should've come to us." Carlos bent down, picked the letter off the floor. "We could have talked about this. We would've listened."

"She tried that already. You didn't want to listen." A trace of a smirk. "Or maybe you were too busy figuring out how to get rich."

"What are you saying?" Carlos shook his head. "I don't know what you're—"

"Oh, c'mon." Hawk's eyes became defiant. "You think we didn't know about the deal you made with Goldstein? As soon as you left office, you invested in his company. Hell, you probably worked this out even before you left Earth."

"That's not true. We're only trying to—"

"We don't have time for this." Wendy turned to Tomas. "Find Ambassador Vogel, get him over here right away. He needs to know what's going on." Tomas nodded, then hurried to the door. The EA consulate was only a few blocks away; the last time Wendy checked, Dieter was in town. She returned her attention to Hawk. "Who's in charge up there? Is it Susan?"

"No one's in charge. This is a unanimous—"

"Don't give me that." She took the letter back from Carlos, glanced at the signatures again. "There's three names here . . . Susan, Manny, and this Parson character. One guy's the boss. Who is it?"

Hawk said nothing. He put his hands in his pockets, gazed up at the ceiling as if studying the woodwork. "Let's get something straight," Wendy said, stepping closer so that he couldn't ignore her. "Right now, I don't care if you're family. So far as I'm concerned, you're involved in a criminal conspiracy. That means I can have you locked up for as long as I damn well please."

"You can't do that. I have the right to see the magistrates."

"Yes, you do. But you're also a material witness, and under Colony Law I have the authority to keep you confined until you produce the information I need." She paused. "I saw you hanging around outside just before we received the first message. You were watching the clock, and I bet you're carrying a satphone, too, because that's how you knew when to deliver this letter." She nodded toward the Proctor standing nearby. "But I can have him search you until he finds that phone, and I can also have him put you in the stockade with some of our finest. I'm sure they'd love to meet you."

She was bluffing. She could order the Proctor to put him under arrest, but there was no way that she was going to submit him to rough treatment, or deny him a hearing before the magistrates. She had the lives of those aboard the gatehouse to consider, though, and right now she was willing to bend the law a bit. Hawk was scared; she could use that to her advantage.

Wendy took a moment to let her words sink in. "So what's it going to be?" she added, her eyes locked on his. "Ready to give it up, or do I feed you to the tough guys?"

Her gambit worked. Hawk's lower lip trembled, his gaze wavering between her and the Proctor. "Jon's the leader," he murmured at last. "He's calling the shots."

"Uh-huh." Wendy glanced at Carlos, and he quietly nodded. He was just as relieved that Susan wasn't the ringleader. "And how do they intend to destroy the starbridge? Do they have a bomb or something?"

"They'll deorbit it. Manny knows . . . at least, he says he knows . . . how to gain access to the reaction control system. They'll boost it out of orbit, send it into Bear's rings."

That made sense. The starbridge was positioned in Lagrangian orbit around Bear, held in place by the gravitational pull of both the jovian and Coyote, with RCRs on the ring periodically firing to maintain that delicate balance. If the comps were reprogrammed to misfire in the wrong direction, then the torus would lose orbit, fall toward the planet. Bear's rings would do the rest; chunks of ice the size of this building would destroy the starbridge as surely as if it was a birthday piñata caught in a hailstorm.

"Thank you. You're doing fine." Wendy held out her hand. "Give me your satphone." Hawk hesitated, and she snapped her fingers. "Now."

Hawk reached under his jacket, unclipped the unit from his belt. "The frequency is preset," he said. "All you have to do is—"

"Push the recall button." Wendy took the phone from him. "The next time you talk to Parson, I'll be on the line, too." She turned to the Proctor. "Take him to the conference room, and put a guard on him. He gets food and water, and a walk to the privy when he needs it, but at no time does he leave anyone's sight. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am." The blueshirt stepped forward, took Hawk by the arm. The young man didn't protest as he was led away; an apologetic glance over his shoulder at his aunt and uncle, then the Proctor closed the door behind them.

"Oh, God." Carlos collapsed against her desk, rubbing his fingers against his closed eyes. "What did we do wrong? Why did Susan think we—?"

"We'll work that out later." Wendy's skull thrummed with the beginnings of a headache. "Dieter's going to be here any minute, and so's Ana. I'm going to have to explain everything to them, and tell 'em what we're doing to take care of it."

"Yeah. I know." Carlos glanced at her. "Got any ideas?"

Wendy gazed the globe on her desk. "I think so," she said softly. "Ready to take a ride?"

"Where?" Then he caught her meaning. "Yeah. Sure."

She forced a smile. "Thanks. I was hoping you'd say that."

EASS FRANCIS DRAKE / 1749

"Raleigh, you're clear for rendezvous and docking." The voice of the Drake's com officer was a thin buzz in Anastasia Tereshkova's ear. "CM field inactive, deck crew standing by."

"We copy, Drake. Raleigh out." Ana glanced at the pilot. "All yours, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, ma'am." The shuttle pilot didn't look away from the controls as he gently turned the yoke, firing maneuvering thrusters to bring the shuttle in proper alignment with the vessel below them.

Ana gazed out the cockpit's starboard window, watched as the Drake swung into view. The enormous doors on its upper hull were already open; for a moment she caught a glimpse of the shuttle bay, a florescent circle illuminated upon the landing deck, then it vanished as the pilot brought up the shuttle's nose, matching vector with the starship. A faint whine as the landing gear doors opened, then he fired vertical thrusters and began final descent.

"Are you all right back there?" Ana asked, not taking her eyes from the crosshatch on the center comp screen. "There's going to be a—"

"I know," Carlos said from the passenger seat behind her. "And stop asking me that. This isn't the first time, y'know."

"Sorry." She took a moment to look back at him. Carlos calmly gazed out his porthole, watching the final stages of docking. "I should warn you," she added, "it's a little different from what you've done before. Once we're within three meters of touchdown—"

"You reactivate the field, let gravity do the rest." Carlos took hold of his armrests, then uncrossed his legs and braced his feet. "No problem."

Ana shrugged, returned her attention to the docking procedure. The pilot was murmuring under his breath, carrying on a subvocal conversation with the bay control officer. Through the cockpit windows, the leading edges of the bay doors yawned open on either side of the shuttle. A quick view of the Drake's forward section, with command deck as a camelback hump above the bow, then the shuttle bay rose up around them, figures within the observation cupola carefully monitoring the landing operations.

Gravity came upon them as an invisible hand, materializing from the Millis-Clement field to snatch at the shuttle. A brief rumble as the pilot fired thrusters to brake their descent, then a swift jolt as the Raleigh's wheels touched down. Contact lights flashed, an alarm buzzed; the pilot shut off both, then ran his hands across the controls, rendering the shuttle cold and inert.

"Docking complete, Captain," he said. "All systems safe, bay doors being secured."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Tereshkova looked up, saw that the doors were already rolling down. She touched her jaw, opening the comlink again. "Bridge, this is the captain. Belay repressurization of landing bay. Prep shuttle for sortie and extend gangway, please." She looked back at the pilot. "Think you can handle another rendezvous and docking in four hours, or would you like to be relieved?"

"No problem, skipper. A bite to eat and quick lie-down, and I'm all yours."

"Good man. Be back here in three and a half." Tereshkova patted his shoulder, then unbuckled her harness. "Mr. President, if you'll follow me . . ."

"Four hours?" Carlos was astonished. "Don't you mean ten?"

"Drake's not a shuttle. We can make it to the starbridge in less than half the time, if we use main drive." She smiled at him. "And I think you'd like to see your daughter soon as possible, nyet?"

"Da. Thank you." Carlos unclasped his harness, stood up. "All yours, Captain."

The pressurized gangway led from Raleigh's lateral hatch to Deck 2 of Drake's aft section. An ensign waited for Tereshkova just outside the airlock, the captain's tunic in one hand and a datapad in the other. Ana took a moment to exchange the shagswool sweater she'd worn since leaving Shuttlefield for the top part of her service uniform— when she got a chance, she'd return to her quarters and put on the rest of her outfit— and took the pad from the ensign. A quick glance at its screen told her that the Drake was exactly as she'd left it, save for the absence of twelve crew members on shore leave. No time to wait for them to come back aboard, yet she smiled when she saw that one of them was her executive officer. If not for the fact that Milos's predecessor had requested paternity leave just before the Drake left Highgate, Starbridge Coyote might have been taken without warning. Not that it made that much difference now.

"Ana?" Forgotten for the moment, Carlos caught up with her and the ensign as they headed down the narrow corridor. "Where are we going?"

"Command deck. Unless you'd rather wait in the wardroom." He shook his head. "Then follow me." She paused, then stopped and turned around. "And no offense," she added, her voice low, "but while we're here, I'd appreciate it if you'd address me as Captain."

"Of course. Sorry." Carlos stood aside to let a crewman brush past them. "And thanks for not leaving me in the shuttle. I want to . . . I need to see what's—"

"I understand." Tereshkova briefly touched his shoulder, hoping that the ensign following them wouldn't notice the familiarity, yet he'd deliberately looked away, making this none of his business. "Just remember," she added, "this is diplomatic courtesy. You're now aboard an EA starship. Your status as former president of the Coyote Federation—"

"No special privileges. Right." A smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Believe me, I appreciate it."

Trailed by the ensign, Tereshkova led Carlos through the ship's forward section, making their way through narrow passageways until they reached the ladder leading to Deck 3. At the top was a sealed hatch. Tereshkova paused to press her thumb against the lockplate; the diode flashed from red to green, and she pushed open the hatch and walked in.

Drake's bridge was a split-level compartment, with the propulsion, life support, engineering, communications, and weapons stations on the upper deck and the navigation and helm stations on the lower deck. Her command chair, high-backed and fitted with a moveable lapboard, was positioned behind the railing separating the two levels; from here she could see not only the helm and nav stations, but also the broad, wraparound windows that offered a 120-degree view of the ship's bow, along with the data screens arrayed along the rail. The ceiling was low, with hand rungs among the electrical conduits and florescent panels; the lights had been turned down, so the compartment was illuminated mainly by the blue glow of comp screens. The only sounds were the quiet voices of the bridge officers, and the ever-present hum of the ship's engines.

The command deck was utilitarian and cold, and not just a little cramped. In times past, Ana had regarded the Drake as her home. She was still comfortable here, but now that she had a cabin on Albion— three rooms, including a den with a fieldstone fireplace in front of which she could curl up with a good book, and a bedroom where she woke up every morning to the sound of roosters crowing— she'd come to regard her role as the Drake's commanding officer as being less of a calling than a distraction. Retirement was a temptation; lately, she found herself thinking about tendering her resignation. It wasn't too late to consider finding a husband, perhaps even having children.

But for now . . .

"Welcome back, Captain." Her first officer, Luigi D'Costa, stood up from the command chair as she walked in. "Hope you enjoyed your holiday."

"It could have lasted longer, thanks." The other officers on duty acknowledged her arrival with brief nods before returning to their jobs; she didn't require anyone aboard to salute her. "May I introduce our guest? Carlos Montero, former president of the Coyote Federation."

"Pleasure, Mr. President." D'Costa offered a courteous bow, which Carlos returned in kind. "There's not much room here for passengers, I'm afraid, but . . ."

"That's fine. I'll just stand over here." Carlos leaned against the rail. He obviously thought he was being out of the way, yet as Ana took her place in the command chair she saw that he was blocking her view of one of the overhead screens.

"Bring a seat up from the crew mess," she quietly said to the ensign. "We'll bolt it down somewhere." The ensign nodded and left, and she turned to D'Costa again. "What's our status? Any further contact with the Gatehouse?"

"None, ma'am. We transmitted a text message, informing them that we're on our way with a government negotiator aboard—"

"You didn't identify him, did you?"

"No, ma'am, as per your orders. We haven't received any response, other than a text-message reiteration of their demands."

"Hmm. Well, then . . ."

"One more thing, Captain." D'Costa handed a pad to her. "Before we lost contact with the Gatehouse crew, there was a transmission from Highgate, via hyperspace com channel. It was meant as an advisory to them, but a duplicate was sent to us as well."

She took the pad from him, but didn't look at it. "Tell me what it says, please."

D'Costa nervously glanced in Carlos's direction. "Captain, it's a priority ESA message. Classified."

She hesitated. Most hyperspace messages from the European Space Administration were fairly routine— lists of incoming immigrants, for instance, or requests for scientific information about the 47 Uma system— yet now and then a classified communiqué was sent to the Drake that was not meant to be divulged to the Coyote government. And for good reason. The ugly truth was that, although the Alliance had signed a U.N.-brokered treaty with the Coyote Federation, neither side fully trusted the other.

In this instance, though, a particular message had been so important that Starbridge Coyote was notified as well as the Drake. "Coded?" she asked quietly, and D'Costa shook his head. Carlos was listening intently. There was no way she could evict him from the bridge without raising his suspicions . . . and after all, he was a diplomatic emissary, not to mention a personal friend. "Go ahead. What did it say?"

"The Magellan is due to arrive at 2300 CST." D'Costa let out his breath. "Shakedown cruise, nothing more. No passengers, no freight . . . a dry run."

"Oh, hell." She raised a hand to her eyes, gently kneaded the bridge of her nose. She'd been expecting this, of course, but not so soon. And who the hell at ESA decided not to inform her people until the last minute?

"Another ship?" Carlos stared at her. "You didn't—"

"Later," she said quietly, holding up a hand. "I'll tell you in a minute." She looked at D'Costa again. "Do you think the fly-through has been programmed into the Gatehouse AI?"

"I don't see why not. That's probably why they were notified the same time we were. If Dr. Whittaker received the transmission—"

"He probably did. Something like this, he wouldn't have ignored." She let out her breath. "Damn it. Of all the times . . ."

Carlos moved closer to her. "Captain, you can't keep me in the dark like this," he said quietly. "Is there something I should know?"

"Just wait!" she snapped. Carlos shrank back, and D'Costa glared at him. "Inform Ambassador Vogel that the Magellan is scheduled to arrive soon," she went on. "I'll leave it to him to inform the proper colonial authorities." She tried to ignore the fact that the president's husband was standing next to her. Better let Dieter take care of this himself; diplomacy was his game, not hers, and she had more important issues to consider just now. "Has the hyperspace relay channel been shut down?" D'Costa shook his head. Good. That was something in their favor. "Then inform them what's happening here, and let them know that I . . ."

She stopped to think for a moment. "Advise them that the situation is critical, and that I believe that the Magellan fly-through is a bad idea at this time and should be delayed." D'Costa hurried away, heading for the com station. Ana leaned forward to peer over the railing. "Ms. Jones, are we alive this evening?"

"Yes, ma'am. Wide awake and ready to travel." The young woman seated at the helm grinned as she glanced up at her.

"Excellent. Mr. Rollins, I trust you've plotted a trajectory for the Gatehouse."

"Plotted and programmed, ma'am." The navigator's hands hovered above his board, ready to do her bidding.

"Then take us there. Full thrust until we reach cruise velocity, then engage the main drive."

Jones's eyes widened. "Main drive? Captain . . ."

"I want us there soon as possible. Work out emergency braking maneuvers, even if we have to drain the reserves." This was no idle request; in order to decelerate from the high velocity of the diametric drive, Drake would have to dump most of its deuterium fuel straight into the fusion reactors. Risky business, but it would cut their ETA from ten hours to less than four. They'd limp home on dry tanks, if they had to. "Tell me now if it can't be done."

Jones took a moment to run some figures through her comp. She traded a cautious glance with Rollins, then looked at her captain again. "We can do it, skipper. On your mark."

"Roll with it." Pulling up her lapboard, Tereshkova activated the intercom and the flight recorder, then pressed her jaw. "All hands, this is the captain," she said. "Sounding general quarters. Repeat, general quarters. Prepare for deorbit and max thrust in sixty seconds, with main drive engagement in ten minutes. This is not a drill."

Orange lamps flashed to life along the ceiling as bridge officers snapped their seat belts into place. She studied the screens, quickly analyzing the graphs and bars of information that scrolled down them. All systems operative. No signs of trouble. Her people knew their jobs, even if they had to scramble to—

"Ana? I mean, Captain . . . what are you doing?"

She'd forgotten about Carlos. Obviously bewildered, he anxiously watched the activity around them. The ensign hadn't yet reappeared with the seat she'd requested, and now that they were on GQ he was doubtless at his station.

"Getting us to your daughter, soon as possible." She tried to reassure him with a quick smile. "Don't worry, the field is still active. We won't pull more than a half-g or so. But you might want to hold tight."

Carlos fastened his grip upon the railing, turned his back against the windows. He understood that Drake was about to rip out of orbit. "You still haven't told me what's going on. What is the Magellan? Why is it—?"

"There's much I need to tell you, but . . ." She shook her head. "Trust me, please," she added quietly. "I'm trying to do what's right."

"All right. I understand." He paused. "But for whom?"

She couldn't answer that. The flight recorder was active; the truth might incriminate her. "Just hold on," she murmured, then she snapped her belt around her waist. "Helm, are we ready?"

"On your mark, Captain." Jones's right hand held steady above her panel.

"Mark."

STARBRIDGE COYOTE / 1828

Susan listened for another moment to her headset, then turned her chair away from the com station. "Bad news. We're going to have company soon."

Jon was standing watch over Whittaker, who was seated on the other side of the command center, his wrists still bound together. They both looked at her. "The Drake?" Jon asked, and she nodded. "What's going on?"

"It broke orbit about five minutes ago. Their com officer says the negotiator's aboard. They still want to speak to us, but—"

"So why don't you?" Whittaker asked. "Might as well. After all, they've received your demands. No point in—"

"We'll talk to them when we're ready." Jon was more nervous than his captive. Indeed, Whittaker had finally relaxed a bit, now that he knew that no one was going to harm him. The rest of the Gatehouse crew had been confined to their quarters; they had plenty of food and water, but Jon had carefully searched the compartment, removing anything that might conceivably be used as a weapon, before he sealed the hatch from the outside, using hemp rope he'd brought up for this purpose to bind the lock-lever to a rung of the access shaft ladder.

"Maintain silence," Jon went on, clinging to a ceiling rail, "but keep monitoring that channel. I expect we'll hear from them before they get here." He glanced at his watch. "Should be about four, maybe five hours."

"That soon?" Susan was surprised. "But it took ten hours for us to—"

"We came in on a skiff, remember? If I know Tereshkova, she'll engage the main drive. That'll get her here sooner." Pulling himself hand-over-hand across the compartment, he extended the stunner to her. "Keep an eye on him," he said, then he went over to Manny. "Any luck yet?"

"Luck's not a factor. Only probability." The Savant stood before a console, his feet held in place by a pair of stirrups. A thick cable led from his chest to a dataport; his claws tapped against the keyboard as information flashed across a comp screen faster than the human eye could follow. "I haven't cracked the password, if that's what you're asking. Given enough time to run all the possible permutations—"

"How much time?"

"Best estimate?" The slightest of pauses. "Seven hours. Perhaps eight."

"Not good enough. The Drake will be here by then."

"Then we're back to probability." Manny continued to work, the quantum comp in his chest processing all feasible alphanumeric configurations within nine decimal places. "Or luck, if you prefer."

"Dammit, Manny . . ."

"This conversation has involved three megabytes of my capability. That's about two hundred fewer computations per second. A quick game of chess would be less time consuming, and it might help calm you." Manny tapped a couple of keys out of sequence, and a chessboard appeared on one of the screens. "Black queen's pawn forward two. Your move."

Whittaker snickered. He tried to hide his amusement by looking away, but Susan heard him, and so did Jon. He pushed himself off the ceiling, sailed across the compartment to where Whittaker was seated. "Look, are you going to tell me—?"

"Not a chance." Whittaker grinned at him. "Like your friend says, you roll the dice, you take your chances."

Jon slapped a hand against the ceiling, then pushed himself back across the room to where Manny continued to work.

Susan shut her eyes. Taking over the Gatehouse should have been the hard part, but it wasn't. Just before the crewmembers on duty in the command center surrendered, one of them managed to encrypt all major command functions behind a nine-figure password. The fact that she and Jon had been forced to stun both of them hadn't helped the situation either; an hour had passed before they'd regained consciousness, and since then neither one had been cooperative. Like Whittaker, they'd come to realize that any threats to shove them out the airlock were empty at best. All they had to do was wait until the Drake arrived.

It's all going wrong, she thought. How did I ever let myself get talked into this?

Desperation, yes. She'd seen firsthand the effects of global colonization: the clear-cutting of forests, the burning of savannahs, the slaughter of wildlife habitats, the threatened extermination of the chirreep. That, and anger at her father: he'd turned a blind eye to what the Thompson Wood Company was doing to the Black Mountains, then he'd used his presidency to negotiate the rape of her world, and finally he'd invested in Janus even as it made environmental destruction into a profit-making enterprise.

Rebellion ran strong in her family. Her grandfather helped Captain Lee hijack the Alabama, and her father led guerilla raids on Liberty. When Jon proposed his scheme, she hadn't hesitated to go along with it. Outrage wasn't her only motivation, though, but also love . . . and not only for Coyote.

No one in her family knew that, all those times she'd gone to Great Dakota, ostensibly to conduct university research, she'd actually been visiting the camp Jon and Manny had built in the Black Mountains. At first, she'd thought she'd only been helping them learn more about the chirreep, yet only recently she'd come to realize that something else had drawn her.

Like it or not, she'd fallen in love with Jonathan Parson. She still didn't know whether the feeling was mutual— they'd spent a few nights in bed together, but she'd told herself that this had only been casual— yet she'd been unable to confess her feelings toward him, and even now she wondered if he had any toward her. Nonetheless, she loved him. And now she wondered if she'd let her emotions take her into something she'd never intended.

Damn it, if only her father had listened . . .

"You don't know what you've gotten yourself into, do you?"

Startled, she looked around at Whittaker. The physicist quietly gazed at her, a knowing look in his eyes. He'd spoken quietly, so that the others couldn't hear him.

"What do you—?"

"You know what I mean." Whittaker nodded toward Jon and Manny. "You're a smart girl. You know you don't have a chance. In a few hours, you're going to have visitors . . . and believe me, they're not going to take no for an answer."

"I'm not worried about the Drake." She looked away. "They won't try anything if they think we're keeping you and your friends hostage."

"I thought you said we weren't hostages."

"I mean . . ."

"Yeah, sure. I know." Whittaker shook his head. "But the Drake's not your problem. You've got a bigger one than that." She looked back at him, and he nodded. "Maybe Mr. Parson can negotiate with Captain Tereshkova. You're not going to be dealing with her, though, or anyone else you know."

Susan stared at him. "Come again? I don't . . ."

"Yes, please," Jon said. "Tell us more."

Susan looked up, saw that Jon had overheard them; he kept his distance, yet carefully listened to their conversation. "You've got something to say, Dr. Whittaker?"

"Might as well." Whittaker no longer bothered to keep his voice low. "No point in hiding it. In about four and a half hours, the starbridge is going to open, and a ship is going to come through . . . the Magellan, sister ship to the Drake, on her first shakedown cruise."

"How do you know this?" Jon asked.

"Received final confirmation from Highgate only a few hours before you showed up. That's when we entered the activation program into the station AI." Whittaker shrugged. "It's all preset. The comps do the rest, right down to charging the torus at precisely the right moment. All we do here is sit back and watch."

"Then we send them a message, tell them to back off."

Whittaker shook his head. "You'd have to open a hyperspace channel, and for that you need the password." He grinned. "Of course, the Drake can do that . . . and I have no doubt that Captain Tereshkova is already in touch with them. But as far as you're concerned—"

"Then we'll shut down the starbridge. Prevent them coming through."

"Jon . . ." Manny turned half around. "We can't do that either. Not without the—"

"Oh, bloody hell!" Jon slammed a fist against a console. "What's the password? Give it to me, or I'll—"

"Do what?" Whittaker remained passive. "March me into the airlock? Space one of my crew?" Again, he shook his head. "You're not a killer. None of you are. And you know it, too."

A long moment of silence within the command center. No one knew what to say next. Susan stared helplessly at Jon; he swore under his breath, turned away from her. Manny returned his attention to the console, diligently continued to try to crack the password. It was all for nothing. The entire effort had been doomed from the beginning. They should have realized this.

A double-beep in her headset. Ignoring Jon's orders to maintain radio silence, she prodded its lobe. "Coyote Gatehouse," she murmured. "Go ahead."

"Susan? Sweetheart, is that you?"

Her eyes widened. Her father's voice.

And she knew, even without having to look at the com station, that the source of transmission was the Drake.

LIBERTY / 1917

Night had fallen outside the windows of the second-floor conference room when the Proctor opened the door and let Wendy in. Hawk was taking a nap at the table, his head resting on his arms; he sat up as she walked in, but he didn't speak to her, only regarded her with sullen eyes. "Thanks," Wendy said. "I'll let you know if we need anything." The blueshirt nodded, then closed the door behind her. "Doing okay there? Have you been treated well?"

Hawk gave an absent shrug. Wendy glanced at the dinner tray on the other side of the table; the water glass was empty, but the chicken sandwich and fried potatoes had gone untouched. "Doesn't look like you have much of an appetite," she said. "If you want something else . . ."

Another shrug. Hawk made a pretense of gazing at a watercolor landscape framed on the wall beside the door. "Guess not," Wendy murmured, then she pulled back a chair across from him and sat down. "But, y'know, if the silent routine is supposed to impress me, you're not getting very far. And it's not going to do your friends any good."

A hint of a sneer before he looked away again. He'd been here for nearly five hours now, without anyone visiting him other than to deliver dinner. Long enough for him to mentally rehearse any number of responses to the next person to come through the door. She should have talked to him earlier, but she'd been busy all afternoon, meeting first with Dieter Vogel, then with the Council representatives. Yet when she hadn't been engaged in diplomacy and politics, she'd been working on how to deal with her nephew. And, unlike Hawk, she'd had the advantage of not working in a vacuum.

"You know," she went on, "your cousin's in a lot of trouble. Same for Parson and Castro. Bad enough that they took control of the Gatehouse, but if they'd just give up now, things would go a lot easier for them. I'd be willing to work out something with the magistrates . . . probation, community service, something on those lines. Same for you, if you'll cooperate."

No reaction. Hawk continued to study the painting. "But the longer they hold out, the more impatient other folks are likely to get . . . the EA, for starters. They built the starbridge, after all, and they negotiated treaties with us in good faith. If they believe that we can't be trusted to hold up our side of the bargain, then they may take measures to make sure that it remains operational. Do you understand?"

Hawk sighed, pretending to be bored by all this. Yet Wendy had anticipated such a reaction. "Maybe not. Or maybe you do, but you just don't care. It's even possible that you think I'm lying. If I was in your position, I'd probably think the same thing. But here's the truth."

Leaning forward, she looked him square in the eye. "There is no way we're going to agree to your demands. All treaties are going to remain intact. No agreements are going to be annulled. No one is going to be sent back to Earth. Even if your friends destroy the starbridge, we won't renege on our promises. That's a fact."

Wendy slipped a hand into a pocket of her skirt, pulled out the satphone the Proctor had taken from him a few hours earlier. "Call them yourself, if you want," Wendy said, sliding the unit across the table to him. "Maybe you'd like to give them the bad news. Doesn't matter. Your uncle is aboard the Drake, and in a few hours he'll reach the Gatehouse. No doubt he's already in radio contact. Maybe Susan will listen to her father, maybe she won't, but the message will remain the same. No deals. No compromises. Comprende?"

Hawk flinched as the satphone came to rest next to him. His hand twitched, as if he wanted to pick it up yet couldn't bring himself to do so. His resolve was crumbling, though, and now it was time for her to play her trump card.

"Mind if I have this?" Wendy reached over to the tray, picked up half of the chicken sandwich. "Haven't eaten yet, and I'm starving." Ignoring the ravenous look in his eye, she took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. "Shame to let it go to waste. Oh, by the way, want to come clean about what happened to your father?"

Hawk's face became ashen, and he quickly looked away. "I called your mother, had a long talk with her," she went on, keeping her voice casual. "Your uncle and I heard that Lars went missing a few weeks ago, of course, but until today I hadn't gotten the full story. That the two of you had gone up into the mountains looking for chirreep, but only one of you had come back. You'd said something about you and him getting lost up there, and how he'd fallen into a ravine."

"A sinkhole." Hawk's voice was hollow. "There was a sinkhole, and he fell in."

"That's it. He fell into a sinkhole." Wendy took another bite from the sandwich, brushed crumbs from her mouth. "Then you managed to find your way back to camp, but somehow you couldn't remember where that sinkhole was."

"It was dark." Hawk's hand trembled as he nervously pushed a lock of hair away from his face. "We got lost up there, and we were trying to find our way down the mountain when—"

"The ground just opened up and swallowed him." Wendy smiled. "Sure. 'And only I survived to tell thee—' "

"It's the truth, I swear."

"Swear all you want. I still have my doubts." She tossed aside the rest of the sandwich. "Your father's been living in the mountains since before you were born. He probably knows them better than I know the streets of town. Even in the dark, you think he'd lose his way and fall into a sinkhole he'd never seen before? I doubt it . . . just like I doubt that you'd manage to find your way back to camp, then conveniently forget where you lost your father."

Pushing back her chair, she strolled over to the window. "Marie tells me you vanished from camp shortly after that. Strange, isn't it . . . your father's missing, perhaps even dead, and suddenly you disappear. No one sees you again until this afternoon."

"I had to . . . I had to get away." The bravado had vanished, and he seemed to be disappearing into his seat. "I don't know what happened to him. He just . . . he just . . ."

"Hawk, listen to me." She turned away from the window, looked straight at him again. "I knew your father from way back when. He and your uncle were in the war together, and Carlos didn't trust him even then. I hate to say it, but I know what sort of a person he is. There isn't a decent bone in his body. There's no one he hasn't hurt . . . your mother, your sister, even you."

Hawk's lower lip trembled. Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes. Wendy pretended not to notice, although part of her wanted to take him into her arms. Instead, she sat down in a chair next to him. "If you did what I think you did . . . what your mother thinks you did . . . then you must have felt you had a good reason," she said quietly. "That's something you'll have to work out with your own conscience."

She paused, hating herself for the way she was manipulating him. "But if you tell me everything that I need to know, then I'll talk to the magistrates, let them know that there were mitigating circumstances. It doesn't have to be so—"

"They're not going to destroy the starbridge." Hawk snuffled, wiped his eyes with his hand. "It's just a bluff. All they want to do is get people's attention, make them see what's happening here. That's all."

She let out her breath. "Good. That's what I needed to hear. Now, can you tell me—?"

"I hated him. I know he was my father, and I tried to love him, but . . . oh, god, I hated the bastard. That's why . . ." He paused. "You can understand that, can't you?"

He'd killed him. Her worst suspicions had been confirmed. Wendy knew that she should be horrified, yet instead she found herself thinking of her own father, how he'd betrayed everyone he'd known, including herself. "Better than you know," she said, nodding her head. "Better than I can ever tell."

Then she moved closer. "Now, talk to me."

STARBRIDGE COYOTE / 2231

The airlock opened, and Carlos found himself staring at the muzzle of a stunner. "Easy, now," he heard Parson say from the other side of the hatch. "Come out slowly, and keep your hands where I can see them."

Hardly the most courteous of receptions, but not unexpected. Parson's instructions had been specific; Carlos was to come aboard alone and unarmed, and if anyone else was in the airlock when it was opened, the hatch would be immediately shut and the depressurization cycle would be initiated. Carlos raised his hands above his head, then slowly turned, allowing Parson to see that he was the only one inside the airlock.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"A little." Parson moved out of the way. "All right, come on in . . . but don't try any surprises."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Grasping the rungs on the inside of the hatch cover, Carlos slowly pulled himself into the ready room. Parson was alone as well; he carefully backed away, keeping Carlos at arm's length while never letting the stunner waver from his guest.

"Close the hatch and secure it," he said. Once Carlos had done so, Parson gestured toward a hand rung on the far side of the compartment. "Grab that," he said. "Keep your eyes straight ahead. Any sudden moves . . ."

"I got the idea." Carlos took hold of the rung, looked at the bulkhead while Parson gave him a one-handed pat-down. It occurred to him that Parson couldn't do this in microgravity without anchoring himself; he must have put the stunner away for a moment in order to grasp another rung with his free hand. Carlos's legs floated free; a good, swift backward-kick would catch Parson in the groin or the stomach, perhaps give him an opportunity to grab the stunner. Parson may be half his age, but Carlos had years of combat experience; he was certain he could take him, if he wanted to do so.

Yet he wasn't about to take that risk, any more than he'd gone along with Ana's suggestion to put a couple of her men aboard the Raleigh, and have them secretly exit the shuttle through the lower cargo hatch. He was there to negotiate with the hijackers, not double-cross them. Besides, his daughter was aboard; he dared not do anything foolish while Susan was in harm's way.

"All right, you're clean." Parson finished frisking him, then pushed himself away. "Now tell the pilot to undock and return to the Drake."

Carlos turned around. "That wasn't part of the deal."

"It is now." Parson nodded toward the airlock. "Do it, or you can climb back in and shove off."

Carlos hesitated, then tapped his headset lobe. "Lieutenant? Mr. Parson wants you to leave."

The pilot's voice came through his earphone. "I'm sorry, Mr. President, but I'm under orders to remain here until—"

"Do as I say." When he didn't hear a response, he went on. "I'll take responsibility. Go back to the Drake and wait for me there. Do you copy?"

A brief pause; no doubt the pilot was checking with Ana, who was probably monitoring this exchange from the Drake's bridge. "Yes, sir. Raleigh preparing for departure."

Keeping his stunner on Carlos, Parson pushed himself over to the airlock. He depressurized the sleeve, then peered through the airlock window. A few seconds later, a vibration passed through the hull as the shuttle detached itself from the docking collar; Carlos didn't need to look outside to know that the Raleigh was moving away from the Gatehouse.

"Little nervous, aren't you?" He tried to keep his tone casual. "You don't need to keep me at gunpoint, you know. Nothing's going to happen to you."

"Thanks for the assurance, but I think I'll keep it handy. Susan tells me you used to be quite the fighter in your day." Parson prodded his jaw. "We're safe, Manny. Is the rest of the station secure?" He listened for a moment. "Very good. We're coming up." He nodded toward the compartment hatch. "After you, Mr. President."

They made their ascent through the access tunnel in silence. As they passed the hatch leading to the crew quarters, Carlos noticed the straps fastened around the lock-lever. The rest of the crew was probably confined to that deck; Parson hustled him quickly past the hatch. He should have relaxed by now, yet he seemed to be even more edgy than before.

Can't blame him, Carlos thought. The cards are stacked against him. And he doesn't know it yet, but I've already called his bluff.

The first person Carlos saw upon entering the command center was Manuel Castro. It had been many years since the last time he'd seen the Savant; although he was supposed to be ageless, his threadbare black cloak, his eyepatch, and the scuffed surfaces of his metallic form somehow gave him the appearance of an old man. He stood beside the hatch, his feet fastened to the deck by a pair of stirrups. "Mr. President, welcome. I hope your trip here was—"

"Fine, thank you." Carlos gazed past him. Susan was on the other side of the compartment, holding on to a ceiling rail. Seated next to her was Jonas Whittaker, secured to his chair by a lap-strap, his wrists taped together. She immediately looked away, yet there was no way she could hide the embarrassment that spread across her face. She was an adult now, yes, but in that instant she became a child who'd been caught doing something wrong, and now anticipated the wrath of an angry parent.

Yet he wasn't angry, only afraid. She'd made a mistake; he had to get her out of this before matters became worse. As they would, very soon. He caught a glimpse of a chronometer on the nearest panel: 2238:43. Little more than twenty minutes remaining.

"So, Mr. President, here we are." Parson came up the shaft behind him, his gun still held at his back. "Let's hear your proposal."

"I'd take it as a sign of good faith if you'd put that thing away." Carlos turned around, looked Parson in the eye. "You don't need it. I promise that I won't try to attack you."

"Sorry, but—"

"When my father makes a promise, he keeps it." Susan's voice was quiet. "Put it down, Jon. Please."

Parson hesitated, then slipped the stunner into his jacket pocket. Carlos tried not to look relieved; he gave Susan a quick nod, but refrained from smiling. Castro pushed himself over to a console beneath the windows, where he picked up a cable dangling in midair and plugged it into a chest socket.

"You're right," Carlos said. "I told Susan that if you'd let me aboard, I'd have a proposal that would put an end to this."

"Don't give 'em anything!" Jonas snapped. "They don't have the passwords to—"

"Shut up!" Parson's face turned red. "It doesn't matter if we have them or not. We can still destroy the station anytime we—"

"I think not." Carlos slowly shook his head. "If you had a bomb, maybe, but you don't. And without access to the comps, you have no control of the RCR system."

"We'll soon have access." Castro didn't look away from the console; his fingers continued to work at the keypad. "I've been processing all possible alphanumeric permutations. Within another hour or so."

"You don't have that much time, and you know it." Carlos glanced at Jonas. "I'm sure he's told you already that the Magellan is due to arrive at 2300. The comps are already programmed to open the starbridge, and Ambassador Vogel has already used the hyperspace comlink to inform her captain of the situation. I doubt he's going to be in any mood to negotiate."

Jonas had an ill-disguised smirk, and Parson seemed to be chewing his lower lip, but Susan had gone pale. Ignoring the other two, Carlos used a ceiling rail to pull himself hand-over-hand across the command center. "It's all right," he said, reaching down to touch her shoulder. "I understand. You thought you were doing the right."

"Don't tell me what I think!" She angrily swatted his hand away. "You don't know what I'm thinking! You never did!"

Carlos felt something cold wrap itself around his heart. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . ."

"Then what do you mean?" Anger seethed within her eyes as she glared at him. "Come here to gloat, tell us . . . tell me . . . that this is pointless? Now we're supposed to give up, let your friends do what they want?" Turning away, she gazed out the window at the distant starbridge. "God, I wished we'd destroyed that thing. It would have made things a lot more simple."

Her words stung, yet Carlos knew he had to be steady. If he couldn't deal with her on her own terms, then at least he could be truthful. "You wouldn't have done that. It was a bluff. We know that now."

"Oh, hell," Parson murmured. "Hawk talked, didn't he? You forced him to—"

"We didn't force him to do anything," Carlos said, "but, yeah, he talked. He told us that your aim was never to destroy the starbridge, only to shut it down for a while." He allowed himself a slight smile. "You know how much depends on it. If it's gone . . ."

"Coyote becomes isolated again, and Earth is left to rot." Pushing himself off a bulkhead, Parson floated across the compartment toward him. "But I know this world, Mr. President."

"Carlos . . . let's skip the formalities, shall we? And believe me, I know Coyote better than you do."

"Sure, but somehow you forgot what this place is about." Parson shook his head. "It's not supposed to be another Earth. We can't allow it to go the same way. I've seen what's happening down there. Forests leveled, native habitats demolished . . ."

"The chirreep threatened with extinction." Susan's voice trembled. "They're an intelligent species, Papa. They've got a language, a social structure . . ."

"I was the first one to find them, remember?" Carlos raised a hand. "Look, I agree we need to find some sort of balance, but we still need to—"

"Nice talk," Parson said, "but that's all it is, right? Talk, and more talk. But the fact remains that, when you were president, you negotiated a trade agreement with the EA that allowed them to establish a colony on Albion. And after you left office, you made a private deal with Janus, invested in . . ."

"They needed local investment so they could build a viable colony." Carlos felt his face grow warm. "It wasn't about making money. It was about putting up homes for everyone who comes here."

"Sure." Susan looked at him askance. "And profit never entered anyone's mind."

"If it builds homes, why not?" He gazed at her in disbelief. "What would you have us do? Drop a thousand colonists on New Brighton, let them fend for themselves? That's what the Union did when they established Shuttlefield." He pointed to Castro. "Ask your pal what that was like. He should know . . . he was lieutenant governor."

"Would it help if I admit I was wrong?" Castro replied.

"It might." Carlos looked at Parson again. "So what choice do you have? Social collectivism? We tried that already. See where it led us."

"Study history, and see where unchecked capitalism leads you."

"Then we tighten the rules." Carlos let out his breath. "Look, this is a frontier. We're making this up as we go along. You want to protect the chirreep, save the forests, control population growth? Fine. I'm with you. But you have to work within the system, not . . ."

"We tried that already, Papa." Susan's voice was quiet. "You weren't listening."

"I'm listening now." He turned to her again. "If you were trying to get my attention and your mother's, then you succeeded. You believe something's gone wrong? Then help us fix it."

Parson folded his arms together. "Easy for you to say, now that you've got our back against the wall."

"I would've said the same thing even if you were serious about destroying the starbridge and were able to do so." Carlos shook his head. "You can't win this way . . . but if you do it my way, then you'll get a fair hearing, I promise. And I've been authorized to tell you that no charges will be filed against you if you agree to stop this right now."

"You'd do that?" Parson remained distrustful.

"If you agree to my conditions, yes. Or you can wait for Manny to crack the password."

"Actually, I accomplished this sixty-two seconds ago." Castro turned toward Jonas. "2EZ4U2GET . . . a rather clever mnemonic. Your crewman has a rare sense of humor."

Jonas gaped at him. "And you didn't tell us until now?"

"I wanted to hear his proposal." Castro looked at Parson. "I think we should accept their terms. There's no point in continuing this action."

Susan studied her father for a long moment, her expression stoical. Then, reluctantly, she nodded. Parson sighed. "All right," he murmured. "I know when we're beaten. It's all yours, Mr. President."

"Thank you." This time, Carlos didn't try to hide his relief. He gave his daughter a grateful smile. "If you'll patch me through to the Drake, please."

With a resigned shrug, Parson pushed himself over to the com panel. Susan went to Jonas, and the operations chief said nothing as she used a penknife to cut the tape binding his wrists together. Carlos turned toward Castro. "I appreciate your judgment. That was . . ."

A shrill beep-beep-beep from the ceiling speaker. They barely had time to react before there was a silent light through the windows. Whipping around, Carlos saw that it came from the direction of the distant torus.

"Starbridge's opening." Jonas ripped the rest of the tape from his wrists, then unbuckled his seat belt and propelled himself across the compartment. "Something's coming through the wormhole."

"The Magellan." Carlos glanced at the nearest chronometer: 2300:03. Right on time, and not a moment too soon. "Jon, can you get me through to the Drake?"

"Affirmative. You're on."

Carlos tapped his headset, heard the welcome hum of carrier-wave static. "Drake, this is Coyote Gatehouse, President Montero speaking. Do you copy?"

"Magellan is through," Jonas said.

Carlos looked up at a viewscreen above the windows. A camera on the torus captured an image of streamlined shape almost identical to the Drake. The arriving starship was moving quickly away from the ring, its fusion engines glowing hot against the cold darkness.

"We copy, Gatehouse." Ana's voice. "Good to hear you again. What is your situation, please? Over."

"EAS Magellan, this is Starbridge Coyote." Jonas had found a headset and pulled it on. "Do you copy? Over."

"Situation good, Captain." Carlos cupped a hand over his left ear so that he wouldn't be distracted by the chatter with the Magellan. "We've resolved the problem, and the . . ." He stole a glance at his daughter, amended his thoughts. "Our friends have agreed to release control of the station. Over."

Silence. He heard nothing for a moment. Then he overheard Jonas: "That's not necessary, Captain. The hijackers have agreed to surrender. You don't have to—"

"What's going on?" Parson demanded.

"I don't know." Carlos was just as baffled as he was. He glanced at the screen again. The Magellan was almost out of sight, yet judging from its position, it seemed as if it was heading not toward Coyote, but instead the direction of the Gatehouse. "Drake, this is Gatehouse. Do you copy? Over."

"Oh, god, no." Jonas grabbed a handrail. "Magellan, stand down! I repeat, stand down!"

"Gatehouse, this is Drake." Ana's voice again. "Magellan refuses to acknowledge that the situation has been resolved. They're moving in."

A new display on the screen: a schematic of the relative positions of the Drake, the Magellan, and the Gatehouse. The Drake was parked five miles from the Gatehouse; the Magellan was nine miles away, but rapidly closing in. Carlos grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself. "Ana, it's over! They've given up!"

"I understand. I . . ." A pause. "The EA is assuming military control of the starbridge. Magellan's captain says that he wants all personnel . . . both station crew and unauthorized parties . . . to surrender immediately and allow a boarding party."

Carlos gripped the seatback. "Ana, they can't do this. They don't have the—"

"Mr. President, the captain says that if you don't comply, the Magellan will be forced to take drastic measures." Ana's voice was terse. "Stand by. Drake out."

A sharp click, and then he heard nothing but static.

EASS DRAKE / 2305

"Captain Tereshkova, have you relayed our message to the Gatehouse?"

Ana studied the image of the Magellan's commanding officer, displayed on a miniature screen on her lapboard. Gabriel Pacino had changed since the last time she'd seen him; besides the fact that there were now captain's bars on the shoulders of his tunic, he'd cultivated a thin mustache, and there was a hint of grey at his temples. Promotion seemed to suit him well; now that he had his own ship, he'd become more self-confident than when he'd been her first officer aboard the Columbus.

"I have, Captain Pacino," she replied, her tone equally as formal, "and I'm awaiting their response. But as I've told you, President Montero—"

"Former President Montero, you mean."

"President Montero is aboard the Gatehouse. He was brought there to negotiate a settlement. And, as I've also told you, he's reached a agreement with the perpetrators. No one aboard has been harmed, and the station is intact. There's no need to . . ."

"Captain, my orders are clear. Assume control of the starbridge and take everyone aboard into custody, pending investigation of this incident." Pacino sat stiffly in his chair. Magellan's bridge was identical to the Drake's; the effect was akin to looking into a mirror, only to find someone else gazing back at you. "Your responsibility is to assist my ship with the completion of these orders."

"I've received no such instructions, Captain, and I insist that this affair has been peacefully resolved. There's no need to—"

"Ana, please." Pacino gave a rueful smile as he attempted to appeal to her through familiarity. "This is no affair, as you put it, but a major incident. One of the hijackers is Jonathan Parson . . . I shouldn't have to remind you that he deserted his command. Another is the former president's own daughter. Yet another is a savant, Manuel Castro."

"I'm aware of their identities. You've got a point?"

Pacino raised an eyebrow. "Isn't it obvious? Local control of the starbridge isn't in our best interests. The colonists can't be trusted. If they allow . . ." He shook his head. "Look, they've left us with no choice. We need to take control of the starbridge, at least temporarily, until this matter can be sorted out."

"And if they refuse to let themselves be taken into custody?"

"Then we'll forced to take drastic—"

"You said that already. What sort of measures?"

Pacino crossed his legs. "We've been authorized to use tactical weapons to take out the command center while leaving the rest of the station intact." He paused. "I'm sorry, Captain. I've been given no other option."

"I see." Ana struggled to remain stoical. "I'll relay this to the Gatehouse. Drake out."

Her hand trembled as she switched off the comlink, and for a long moment she stared out the bridge windows. The Gatehouse hovered only a few kilometers away, a fragile cylinder that once made up the core section of the Columbus. She couldn't see the Magellan, yet the navigation screen depicted its position as being six kilometers from the torus. If Pacino gave the order, his ship could open fire on the station within seconds.

She could assist the Magellan; indeed, that was what was expected of her. Or she could relay the ultimatum to the Gatehouse, then sit back and wait for events to unfold without any action on her part. Or . . .

"Captain?" D'Costa stepped closer to her. "What are your orders, ma'am?"

Damn it. I'm going to hell for this. She took a deep breath. "Mr. Rollins," she said aloud, "reposition us between the Gatehouse and the Magellan. Ms. Jones, initiate emergency thrust." She looked up at D'Costa. "Prepare for military engagement, please."

D'Costa's eyes widened, even as the helmsman and navigator turned to stare at her. "Captain, are you suggesting that we—?"

"It's not a suggestion. Please do as I say." Ana swiveled her seat around to face the rest of the bridge crew. They'd overheard her conversation with Pacino; as she expected, their faces registered shock. "Gentlemen, ladies," she said, trying to remain as calm as possible, "this isn't something I thought we'd ever have to do. The Magellan's captain has been given orders that are unjustifiable, and it falls on us to protect unarmed civilians. I realize that I'm asking a lot from you. If anyone here wishes to be relieved of duty, now is the time."

Uncertain looks flashed from one crewman to another. A moment passed, then the lieutenant at the weapons control station stood up and walked toward the hatch. Everyone else remained at their stations. It may have been out of loyalty to her, but she suspected that it went further than that. Like herself, many of her crew now lived on Coyote; they might be ESA officers, yet Earth was no longer their home. And they knew how much damage an Alliance takeover of the starbridge would cause to Coyote's independence.

"Thank you," she said. "Mister D'Costa, will you assume the weapons station, please?"

"Captain, I . . ." D'Costa sighed. "Yes, ma'am." He turned to head for the vacant seat.

"Firing thrusters, Captain." Jones's hands tapped against her keypad, activating the auxiliary engines, then she pushed a pair of bars upward. Through the windows, Bear slowly moved away, and now the Gatehouse lay directly ahead. "ETA two minutes."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Ana punched up a tactical display on an overhead screen. The two ships were only a few klicks apart from one another, with the distance rapidly closing as Drake moved to protect the Gatehouse. By now, Pacino would have noticed that her ship was in motion. Any second now . . .

"Ma'am?" This from the com officer. "Transmission from the Magellan."

"Vox only. Initiate com buffers." There was a chance that Pacino might try to transmit a virus; the buffers would prevent that kind of electronic warfare. She prodded her headset mike. "Captain Pacino?"

"Ana, what are you doing? You're repositioning the Drake."

"Yes, I am." She kept her voice even. "We're putting ourselves between you and the Gatehouse. Do not attempt to fire upon it, or we'll be forced to retaliate."

A long pause. Ana almost wished she could see his face, but she was just as glad that she couldn't. Although she and Gabriel had once enjoyed a brief affair, that had ended a long time ago; it gave her no pleasure to treat him as a possible adversary.

"Ana, don't do this." Pacino's voice was almost pleading. "It's not worth . . ."

"You've been warned, Captain. Any further action on your part will be considered hostile. Drake out." She cut the channel, the glanced back at the com officer. "Any attempt to hotwire us, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, ma'am. Buffers registered a subroutine piggybacked to that last transmission. It's been spiked."

"Good work." So Pacino was preparing for battle. Time for her to do so as well. Ana flipped a couple of switches; lights within the ceiling panels flashed to amber and a klaxon howled twice as she activated the intercom. "General quarters," she said. "All hands to battle stations. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill."

All around, seat harnesses clicked as hands swept across panels. The window shutters closed, and a glance at a status panel told her the compartment hatches were being sealed. Drake was not a warship, but nonetheless its crew had been trained for combat situations. The time to question or debate the wisdom of her actions had ended; now they could only hope for the best and prepare for the worst.

"Ms. Fleming, cut MC field," she said.

"Aye, Captain." The life support officer hit a couple of switches. The klaxon blared again, warning everyone aboard the Millis-Clement was about to be disengaged. A couple of seconds passed, then she felt her body drift upward from her seat. Ana swore at herself as she grabbed the lapboard, then she hastily buckled her harness. She'd been so distracted, she'd neglected to . . .

"Approaching Gatehouse, Captain," Rollins said. "Bearing x-ray five-point-two, yankee minus oh-nine-point four, zulu oh-niner point oh-five, distance two point two kilometers."

Ana glanced up at the tactical display. The Drake was between the Gatehouse and the Magellan. "Ms. Jones, match orbit with the Gatehouse and hold position, then turn our bow toward the Magellan." She turned to the weapons station. "Mr. D'Costa, arm torpedoes and open weapons bays."

"Yes, ma'am." All trace of reluctance had vanished; her first officer knew his job. "Targeting solution?"

"Drive nacelles only." With luck, she might be able to demobilize Magellan only, and cause the minimal loss of life.

"Magellan closing in." D'Costa's voice was tight. "Range three-point-two klicks, velocity—"

"Signal from the Gatehouse, Captain."

"Not now, Lieutenant." Ana tapped at her keypad, gazed up at one of the overhead screens. An external camera caught an image of the Magellan: bow-first, heading directly toward her ship. She gently slid a fingertip across a trackpad, and the image zoomed to maximum focus. Dark areas along the ship's forward section showed her what she expected: Magellan's torpedo doors had opened wide.

"Magellan has acquired us," D'Costa said. "They're locked on, preparing to fire."

"Ms. Jones, bring deflector array to maximum intensity." Drake's outer hull wasn't thick enough to withstand a direct hit, yet its electromagnetic deflectors, designed mainly to ward off interstellar dust, might foul a torpedo's internal guidance system enough to cause it to miss its mark. Or so she hoped.

"Captain, President Montero wants to speak to you. He says it's urgent."

Damn it! "Put him through, Lieutenant," she snapped, then she impatiently slapped her mike. "Mr. President, this is a really bad time."

"Ana, stop! You don't have to do this!"

"Sorry, but we're past that." She looked at her first officer again. "Mr. D'Costa, on my mark."

"Shut up and listen! There's another way!"

D'Costa's hand hovered above his board. His eyes were upon the screens, waiting to see if the Magellan would fire the first shot, yet for a moment they flickered in Ana's direction. A faint nod. Ana hesitated, then nodded back.

"I'm listening," she said. "Make it quick."

STARBRIDGE COYOTE / 2312

"Government House online." Jonas looked over his shoulder from the com panel. "You're on, Mr. President."

Grasping a ceiling rail, Carlos peered out the windows. He didn't need to check the traffic control screen to see where the Alliance ships were positioned. Drake hovered nearby, its stern turned toward the Gatehouse; several kilometers farther away was Magellan, visible by its formation lights. In the far distance he could make out the starbridge, a small silver ring floating among the stars. A stand-off in space. His hand trembled as he touched his headset mike. God, I hope this works . . .

"Wendy, do you copy?" he asked.

A slight pause, caused by the two-second delay in transmission between the Gatehouse and Coyote. "I'm here. So is Dieter. Would you like to speak to him?"

"Just a moment." Carlos cupped his hand around the mike, turned to Jonas. "Are the Drake and the Magellan patched in?" Jonas nodded, and Carlos released his mike again. "Ambassador Vogel, thank you for being here."

Another pause, then Vogel came online. "You're welcome, but I doubt anything you say will change the situation." His voice was tight, lacking the affability that had marked their earlier conversations. "My government requested that you turn the hijackers over to us and relinquish control of the Gatehouse. You've refused to do so. That leads us to believe that the Coyote Federation doesn't intend to abide by the terms of its treaty."

"We do, Ambassador," Carlos replied, "but I ask . . . I insist . . . that the Coyote Federation treat this as an internal affair. The treaty clearly states the starbridge and the Gatehouse fall under our jurisdiction, not the Alliance's. The EA has no right to assume control of the starbridge. I assume that my wife . . . that is, President Gunther . . . has explained this to you."

Two seconds went past. "She has. With all due respect, we disagree on our interpretation of the treaty." A momentary pause. "Mr. President, this is a minor incident. There's no reason why it should be exacerbated. The Gatehouse crew isn't at fault, so I have no doubt they'll be released promptly. And I assure you that the participants will be treated fairly."

"And the starbridge? How long do you intend to control it?"

The next pause was longer than before. Carlos could easily imagine the scene in the Government House communications room: Wendy and Dieter, arguing the finer points of the treaty, while aides and staff members nervously lingered nearby. Carlos took advantage of the delay to cup his hand over the mike. "You got a camera on the Drake?" he asked Castro.

The Savant pointed to a screen above his head. Carlos looked up, saw a close-up view of the EA starship. "Good. What about the port?" Castro pointed to another screen. Here was an image taken from a camera mounted on the starbridge: formation lights showing the two ships, the Gatehouse behind them, with Bear providing the backdrop. "Excellent. Keep it steady. We'll need—"

"President Montero, I've told President Gunther that we'll retain control of the starbridge only so long as we need to assure that nothing like this will happen again." Dieter's voice was terse, his promise unconvincing. "But we cannot allow something like this to—"

Wendy broke in: "Carlos, do whatever you have to do. We'll stand by you."

"Thank you." Carlos waited a second, then went on. "Ambassador Vogel . . . and Captain Pacino and Captain Tereshkova, too, since I've been assured that you're listening . . . I agree that this incident shouldn't cause a breakdown between our respective governments. However, neither should it become a pretext for the Alliance to gain control of the sole means of access between Coyote and Earth. We've fought too hard for our independence to sacrifice it now, so there's little else that we can do but prove our sincerity." He paused. "We're transmitting images from the Gatehouse and the starbridge. I assume you see them, yes?"

A couple of seconds passed. "We see them, Mr. President," Vogel said, "but what—?"

"Captain Tereshkova, are your weapons locked on the starbridge?"

Ana's voice immediately came over the channel: "Yes, Mr. President, they are."

"Fire."

A brief spark from Drake's starboard side. Carlos glanced up at the screens to see a tiny lozenge sprint away from the starship, its engine flaring as it hurtled toward the starbridge.

"Ana!" Pacino shouted. "What the hell are you—?"

"Stand down, Magellan!" Carlos snapped. "Drake, if they fire on you . . ."

"Understood, Mr. President."

He stared at the screens. Six . . . five . . .

"Captain Tereshkova!" Vogel was on the verge of panic. "Are you out of your—?"

"Shut up, Dieter!" Carlos felt a hand against his shoulder. Looking around, he found Susan standing beside him. Four . . . three . . .

Pacino: "Weapons control! On my mark!"

He wrapped an arm around his daughter, drew her close. Two . . . one . . .

On the screens, a bright flash as the torpedo detonated a kilometer from the ring. There was no sound, of course, yet Carlos could have almost sworn he heard the blast. Looking down from the screens to the windows, he caught sight of a brief, orange-red splotch, appearing less than a finger's length from the starbridge.

"Carlos!" Wendy's voice in his headset. "What are you doing?"

"Just a sec." He silenced his mike again. Releasing Susan, he turned to Jonas. "Status?"

"No major damage, so far as I can tell." Jonas was bent over the console, closely studying the ring's sensors. "Fragmentation dispersed widely enough that it didn't damage the torus. We may have to replace an antenna or two, but otherwise . . ."

"Good." Carlos sighed with relief, then unclasped his mike again. "Ambassador, you saw what happened. If the torpedo hadn't been detonated prematurely, it would've destroyed the starbridge. As it is . . ."

"Captain Tereshkova, this is Ambassador Vogel." His voice quaked with barely suppressed rage. "You're to cease-fire and surrender immediately to the—"

"With all due respect, sir, we refuse." Ana's voice was eerily calm. "This vessel is no longer under command of the European Alliance."

"Ana, don't do this." Pacino again. "We've got our weapons locked on you. If you don't surrender . . ."

"Captain, we have a second torpedo locked on the starbridge. Fire on us, and you and your crew won't go home again."

No answer from the Magellan. Carlos smiled. Ana had correctly figured out the situation. Her crew might be reluctant to open fire upon another EA vessel . . . but if they fired upon the starbridge, then both ships would be stranded far from Earth. Yet while Drake's crew would be welcome on Coyote, the same couldn't be said for the Magellan's. Pacino knew this. Checkmate.

Vogel again: "Captain Tereshkova, this is an act of mutiny."

"Yes, sir, it is." A slight pause. "Several members of my crew have had no part in this, and wish to transfer to the Magellan. The rest of us hereby resign our commissions, and hereby request political amnesty from the Coyote Federation."

Carlos's eyes widened. This was a surprise. He'd been counting on Ana's friendship to pull them through, yet he hadn't realized how strongly she had come to feel about Coyote. And apparently more than a few of her crew felt the same way.

"Do you understand now?" Until now, Parson had been quiet. "Do you see what this place does to you?"

Carlos had no time to answer that. "Ambassador Vogel," he said, "you've seen what we can do. If you attempt to take control of the starbridge, we'll destroy it. It's that simple. Order the Magellan to stand down, or we'll be forced to take drastic measures of our own."

"Then your intent is to abrogate the treaty."

"Nothing of the kind." Carlos let out his breath. "We want peaceful relations with Earth. Believe me, we do. But we refuse to let the EA, or anyone else, dictate terms to us at gunpoint. We've told you this before, and we'll tell it to you again . . . Coyote is our world, and ours alone. Do you understand?"

Silence. Glancing up at the screen, Carlos could see that Magellan parked only a few kilometers from Drake. Both ships continued to hold position, their weapons still locked upon one another. He could only imagine what was going on back in Liberty.

A tap on his shoulder. Parson had moved up behind him. "Thank you," he said quietly. "Whatever happens next, I just want to say that."

"I'm not doing this for you." Carlos glanced at Susan, found warmth in her eyes that he hadn't seen in quite some time. "You get my daughter into something like this again, and we're going to have . . ."

"Gatehouse, this is Magellan." Pacino's voice returned. "Ambassador Vogel has advised us to withdraw, pending cease-fire from the Drake. Do you copy?"

"We copy, Captain." Carlos paused. "Wendy, what's the word down there?"

"Dieter has agreed to take the matter before the council." Wendy's voice was relieved. "Magellan is returning to Earth, once . . . um, uninvolved members of the Drake crew are shuttled over." Another pause. "It's over. It's all over."

A knot between his shoulders and his neck suddenly relaxed. "We copy," he murmured. "Thank you, dear . . . I mean, Madam President."

He closed his eyes, let stale air escape from his lungs. He turned to give Susan a hug, only to find that she'd wrapped her arms around Parson. It was the first time since she'd been a teenager that he'd seen his daughter kiss another man; he didn't know whether to feel protective, angry, or merely amused . . . and decided to simply feel relief that Susan had finally found someone.

I wonder how serious this is, he thought. But there were other things he needed to consider just now. He turned to Jonas. "Get your people up here. I think they'd like to know what's happened." Jonas grinned as he released his seat belt and pushed himself toward the access hatch. Then he looked at Manny. "Savant Castro . . . ?"

"Manny, please." The Savant solemnly regarded him with one red eye.

"All right. Manny, then . . ." He shook his head. "Do you think you could arrange for a ride home?"

"That shouldn't be difficult, sir. The skiff is still docked with us, after all. And we do have a qualified pilot aboard."

"Oh, right." With all that had just happened, he'd managed to forget about the Virginia Dare. He shook his head; it had been a very long day. "Thank you . . . and call me Carlos, please. I hate it when people call me Mr. President."

Pushing himself over to a chair near the window, he settled into it. "Y'know what?" he asked no one in particular, gazing out at the distant starbridge. "I could be wrong, but I think we just had another revolution."

"They sort of sneak up on you, don't they." Still holding on to Susan, Parson turned to him. "And by the way, Mr. . . . I mean, Carlos . . . while I have your attention, there's one more thing I'd like to ask of you."

He saw the smile on his daughter's face. "I can imagine what it is," he replied.