R. GARCIA Y ROBERTSON

BIRD HERDING

The brain is not an organ of thinking, but an organ of survival like fang and

claw. It is made in such a way that we accept as truth that which is merely

advantage.

--Albert von Szent-Gyorgyi

Nobel Prize Winner in Physiology 1931

Pawn Opening

NEAR TO NOON, DEFOE'S Moropus gave out beneath him, pitching him face first into

hot red sand. He came up spitting grit, staring at the big dead retrobred beast

-- half-horse, half-rhino, with thick hide and clawed feet. The things looked

indestructible. Dumb, mean, and ugly, but immensely durable. Defoe never thought

one could be ridden to death.

He struggled to his feet, resisting the temptation to collapse next to his dead

mount. Sweat poured out of him, and his still-suit whined in protest. If Ariel's

pull were not a relaxed .5 g, he would never have gotten up. Bare existence had

become a grueling struggle Defoe was bound to lose. He had ridden for hours

under a searing noontime sun, long enough to kill his Moropus. This far into

Dayside, the red sun Prospero looped around a point just short of the zenith --

making it always near to noon. Never dawn or dusk.

Defoe glanced back at his pursuers. Dots on the shimmering red desertscape, two

dozen of them, growing larger as he watched. Defoe did not need his macroscope

to know what they were. SuperChimps, Pan troglodyte supreme, mounted on

Moropuses. Just like he had been. Normally you had nothing much to fear from

Chimps -- except that they might drop your baggage, or overcook the eggs -- but

nothing was normal on Ariel. Not now anyway.

Unless Defoe did something quick and ingenious, he would end up as dead as his

Moropus. As dead as the crew at Subsolar Station. Stripping water and emergency

rations off his pack saddle, Defoe strapped his medikit to his arm and started

running. Setting his adhesive boots on REPEL, he fairly flew in the light

gravity, aiming for a pile of pink boulders rising out of the plain ahead.

A surprising number of life's mishaps could be solved by sheer blind panic,

running so fast and so far that the problem got lost, or discouraged. This did

not look like one of those times. But win or lose, it never hurt to put distance

between you and your troubles.

Glancing over his shoulder, Defoe saw the Chimps gaining. He redoubled his

effort -- spurred by the horror he had seen at Subsolar Station. Rampaging

SuperChimps had beat the crew to death with coolant pipe, torque wrenches, and

other odd bits of station equipment. The station crew had not been much to begin

with -- typical empty-headed Settler types, pushy opinionated Humanists,

boastful and intolerant but they did not deserve to be beaten to death by a

bunch of over-evolved chimpanzees. Not much anyway. And Defoe himself had been a

total bystander, peaceably delivering a cargo to Subsolar Station. Then, wham,

all hell broke loose. Had he not hopped a spare Moropus, he would have been as

dead as his hosts.

Despite the light gravity, and the kick of his boots, he felt his body slowing.

Lungs labored in the kiln-like air. Thighs ached from hours of riding. Total

collapse loomed. He told his medikit to take away the pain, pushing his body to

its chemically enhanced limit. Defoe did not carry a gun, or any sort of weapon.

He was a pilot for Priscilla's sake. A noncombatant, with a rare and valuable

skill. Ideally a pilot should be sacrosanct and untouchable. A sort of flying

nun. But here-and-now nobody played by the rules. Least of all these monkeys run

amok.

Hitting the boulders, he switched his adhesive boots from REPEL to GRIP, running

straight up the rocks. Porous stone absorbed the slap of his boots, making the

sprawling volcanic rockpile soundless as a cemetery. Bounding from boulder to

boulder, he sprinted for the high silent heart of the pile. Overgrown monkeys on

Moropuses could never match his speed over broken ground.

But they did not have to. The boulders did not go on forever. This jumble of

pinkish lava and rusty cinder block stopped at the plateau edge. There cliffs

plunged downward, disappearing into the cloud plain covering Ariel's

super-heated surface.

Ninety percent of Ariel remained absolutely uninhabitable, smothered by thick

untamed atmosphere. Ruthless terraforming had created a rudimentary biosphere

based on high plateaus and mountaintops. Lower elevations were still a seething

cauldron of burning winds and greenhouse gases. The Subsolar Plateau was the

largest habitable feature on the planet, a huge tidal bulge thrust up into the

biosphere. Unfortunately Defoe had come to the end of it.

Headlong flight could not take him much farther. Chest heaving, he flopped down

behind an ATV-sized boulder. Taking a hurried drink, he broadcast a mental call

for help -- his first MAYDAY signal since the Moropus collapsed.

He got no answer. Medusa and Cape Colony -- the high-boost starships that had

brought him to Ariel -- were on polar orbits, low over the Twilight Belt. Well

below the horizon at this longitude. And the transceiver in his head was limited

to line-of-sight. His cerebral microchip did not have the watts to bounce a

signal off Ariel's high patchy ionosphere; not with Prospero straight overhead.

Normally the planetary Comnet would boost his signal to a beanstalk station,

putting him in instant touch with anyone in the system. But the Comnet had

crashed at the same time the Chimps went crazy -- something too convenient to be

coincidence.

Closing his eyes, he scanned the available channels, starting with the closest

-- his pursuers. The Chimps all wore mini-cam headbands, standard station

equipment in case they got lost or strayed. None of them had discarded their

headbands, or even bothered turning them off. lust like Chimps, staying

conscientiously plugged in while going berserk. Defoe got a choice of two dozen

Chimp's-eye views of the chase -- which might be an advantage when they got

closer. Right now he saw boiling dust, broken by the rear ends of the lead

Moropuses, each topped by the back and butt of an angry SuperChimp. Neither

helpful nor encouraging.

A few klicks above and behind him, he picked up an open channel, a pair of bird

herders, winged shepherds with a tame roc to carry their gear. Defoe punched a

call through. No reply. He tried Universal, pidgin Old Speak, even plain

English; but these bird herders were not buying. Their communicators might be

turned down. More likely neither felt like answering. A lot of locals did not

respond to offplanet accents --ignoring calls for help, attempts at

conversation, even Settlers standing a couple of centimeters in front of them

shouting in their faces. If you don't like having us around -- pretend we are

not here.

Farther out he contacted a semi-rigid, a moronic robo-freighter plying the edge

of the plateau. Defoe tried to con the airship into dropping ballast and rushing

to his aid -- but the simple-minded control circuitry refused to even boost his

signal.

Beyond the airship lay nothing. Just the Great Reach. Thousands of klicks of

empty air and burning waste, stretching out over the horizon toward Freeport,

Aloha, and other islands of habitation in the Twilight Belt. And orbiting above

that Belt was the ship Defoe had come in, the AMC Medusa -- an armed merchant

cruiser stocked with enough antimatter warheads and orbit-to-surface missiles to

depopulate the planet. Tantalizingly out of reach.

He shifted back to the Chimps, finding them frighteningly close. A couple had

reined in to inspect his dead Moropus, while the rest dismounted and fanned out

to surround the rockpile, lust being Chimps did not make them stupid. Or

pushovers. Not for the first time Defoe questioned the wisdom of mixing human

and chimpanzee DNA -- sympathizing with the Humanists who wanted the biological

clock turned back, sterilizing all "bioengineered beings" and post-Atomic

species. Being clubbed to death by a bunch of brainy monkeys did seem to imply

that evolution had taken a wrong turn.

Suddenly, in a burst of static, the Coronet sprang back on. Salvation. Defoe

barely believed it. One moment he was lying clinging to a rock watching death

draw closer and moaning over man's fate -- a nanosecond later he was plugged

back into the cosmos. Finally able to phone home.

Appropriately Defoe recognized a religious channel. Figures they would be first

on line. Always pushing the message. Open your heart to the King. Elvis Saves.

The entrance logo was a stylized cloud-draped mansion in the sky, with shady

oaks and white pine pillars. GRACELAND was welded to the wrought iron gate.

Defoe wafted in. Towering stained glass windows showed scenes from Wild in the

Country, Blue Hawaii, and Girl Happy. Music welled up. Right on cue, the King

himself strutted down a wide white staircase, a guitar slung on his hip -- each

step timed to the beat of "Blue Suede Shoes." Spots played over him, backed by

deafening applause, as if he were wading into a sports arena filled with 50,000

screaming faithful. At the foot of the stairs he did a one-handed flourish,

finishing with a judo chop. Music stopped. Cheering ceased. Elvis struck a pose,

a sly mocking smile on his full lips. Dark tousled hair fell onto his broad

forehead, "Welcome to Graceland. Let the King be with you."

All this was wasted on Defoe, who wasn't a Believer. Or even a fan. He did not

need spiritual comfort from a deified rock star. "Clear the channel. This is a

MAYDAY." Defoe bore down on the last word.

Elvis's virtual smile widened. He gave his head a sorry shake, "Don't worry,

son. We'll get you out of this. Believe me, the King's seen worse. Lots worse."

"Damn you, clear the channel." Religious messages were supposed to give way to

emergency signals -- even on Ariel.

But the King refused to fade. "And you won't die either. Not now anyway." His

smile turned wry, "Not that dyin's so bad. We all die someday. I did. Though

millions would not believe it. But hey, you don't see me cryin'." He hit the

guitar, strumming a couple of bars of "Heartbreak Hotel."

"Death's the great adventure," Elvis declared. "And it's done me fine. You just

don't look ready for it."

Defoe could not believe it. Trapped in a virtual sermon, with no sign that his

ersatz Elvis meant to clear the channel. "Get lost," he shouted aloud.

"No way." Elvis laughed. "The King ain't leaving you. Not in a fix like this.

You got a bunch of bad-ass Chimps breathing down yet neck."

Defoe flashed back to the bad-ass Chimps, who were working their way into the

rocks. Time to move. Not wanting to be caught in a 3V trance --communing with

the long dead -- Defoe cut the signal, took a swig of water, and shifted to his

right. Keeping his head down.

Thanks to the mini-cams he could see the Chimps without them seeing him. His

best hope was to work his way around them and steal another Moropus. There were

two dozen of them -- and only one of him -- but he could tune in on them

whenever he wanted without their knowing it. Clearly the Chimps did not realize

he could see through their headcams. (Otherwise they would have turned them

off.) Smart? Maybe -- but still Chimps.

Damned smart Chimps as it turned out. Instead of looking in every nook and bolt

hole, they threw a wide net around three sides of the rockpile, quickly working

their way inward. If he had been hiding at the edge of the pile, he might have

gotten through a gap between the Chimps. But it would have done him no good. The

pair checking out his mount came up to stand guard over the Moropuses. Either

Chimp outmassed him more than two to one in a tussle. And both of them were

mounted on huge rhino-hided claw-footed monsters. Not the odds he liked.

"Give 'em Hell, boy." Elvis materialized just behind his right shoulder --

dressed in a white high-collared jacket over wide bell bottoms with a gold belt

sporting a big thunderbird buckle. He wore tinted shades in the noontide glare.

"Too bad you don't know karate."

Too bad. The King's hovering presence came from a 3V signal beamed to his

auditory cortex and the peripheral area of his left optical lobe. Defoe tried to

block it, but megarams of memory backed the channel, boosting the signal,

dodging his defenses, tearing through encryption. If Defoe wanted privacy he had

to shut down his transceiver, then purge the system bit by bit. He needed his

virtual senses far too much for that.

"Did you know I'm a black belt?" Elvis whirled around, coming out of the spin in

a black karate gi, knees bent, hands flat and casually extended. "Ninth degree."

He karate chopped empty air.

Some help. He'd hit like a holo. No Chimp could even see the King. Their

headcams were to let humans look in on them -- not to entertain the wearer.

Right now they showed the Chimps moving more slowly, back in visual contact with

each other. Now they were looking in every nook and cranny. They had guessed --

correctly -- that Defoe would be hiding in the highest part of the pile, where

it backed against the plateau edge.

"There's only one way to go," Elvis nodded at a tall pinnacle overlooking the

cloud-filled drop behind him. Not a chance, thought Defoe. The mere idea of

fighting with that drop at his back made him queasy.

The Chimps gave him no choice. Through the headcams he saw them close in, slowly

and methodically. Flankers reached the rim on either side, cutting off his last

slim hope of escape. The rest combed forward, searching as they came.

Unimaginative but efficient. The plodding end game of competent players sure of

their advantage. If he stayed where he was, he would be overwhelmed. Retreating

to the pinnacle at least forced them to come at him one two-hundred kilo

SuperChimp at a time.

Defoe broke cover, skipping over boulders in his sticky boots. His virtual

companion stayed with him. "Nervous, aren't you?"

He did not bother to answer. Nervous? No way. Scared witless was the correct

term. Shaking with exhaustion after hours in the saddle. So wobbly on his feet

it took powered boots to keep him upright.

"Nervousness is natural," Elvis assured him. "I used to get totally torqued

before a performance. So torqued I could hardly talk. I'd be standing in the

wings at the Vegas Hilton, heart pounding a mile a minute, shaking like a wet

dog. But I always did fine. Know why?"

Leaping from rock to rock, Defoe did not know and cared less. He scrambled out

onto the pinnacle, a thin point of stone poking out over the clouds.

"Because I could never do a half-assed show. I had to go out there and be the

absolute best. King of Rock and Roll. That's the secret. Give it everything, and

you'll do great."

The rockpile ended. Empty space yawned at Defoe's feet. Telling his boots to

brake, he tottered to a stop atop the pinnacle, surrounded on three sides by a

sheer drop into boiling cloud cover. Kilometers beneath him lay Ariel's

incandescent surface. Even in a still-suit the surface heat would broil him

beyond recognition -- assuming he was unlucky enough to survive the fall.

He turned about to check on the Chimps. Three of them picked their way along the

rim toward him. Four more emerged from the rocks, followed by a fifth. With his

adhesive boots he could head down the cliff face, but to where? The surface was

uninhabitable, and the Chimps would rain rocks down until they knocked him off.

Elvis stood next to him, feet set in empty air, still wearing the black karate

gi. He asked, "Are you ready?"

Defoe shot him a dirty look. Chimps clustered at the knife-edge leading to the

pinnacle, pointing and pant-hooting. Several picked up stones, jagged igneous

missiles that would zip like cannon shells in one half gravity.

"I mean really ready?" Elvis's eyes were alight. His voice had that easy drawl,

part of his cool persona, like his smile. But his eyes were tuned to his body

language, piercing and driven.

Ignoring his virtual tormentor, Defoe told his boots to grip, wondering how in

the hell he would dodge the rocks. The Chimps might be bigger and stronger, but

they were barefoot. If he could just make them come at him, he could pitch them

off as they came on one at a time. All two dozen of them. What a hoot.

"'Cause now's the time." Elvis raised his right hand, circling his index finger

over his head as though cueing the music. "Here's your honky tonk angel,

straight from heaven."

Defoe felt a rush of wings. He looked up. A fresh-faced young woman swept past

on silver wings. Long red hair streamed behind her from beneath a jaunty green

cap. Defoe recognized one of the bird herders who had ignored his calls for

help. She wore a green bolero jacket over a gold and black harlequin flight

suit. Her wings were eight-meter power-assisted Falcoform Condors, with black

solar strips on the upper surfaces.

And the roc was with her. The huge condor-like bird landed atop the pinnacle

alongside him. She was an outsized female, colored slate green, with a

twenty-meter wingspan, an enlarged braincase, and a tall aquiline beak. Best of

all, her pack saddle was empty. The giant bird bent down, bringing her saddle

closer to the ground.

Elvis grinned with delight. Lowering his finger, he pointed straight at Defoe,

"Gotcha!" He disappeared.

Astonished, Defoe stood there, boots stuck to the stone. The young bird herder

banked and turned back toward him, shouting, "Climb aboard the bird." She had a

criminal ID number tattooed to her left cheek, the sort used by Settlers to mark

a convict serving a long sentence. Or slated for lethal injection.

Telling his boots to let go, Defoe scrambled onto the roc's saddle, seizing the

head-bar. The roc took off, accompanied by the red-headed honky tonk angel with

a felon's tattoo. SuperChimps were left staring up into space, hooting to each

other as Defoe dwindled overhead.

Gambit Accepted

SWEATING WITH RELIEF inside his still-suit, Defoe just wished he were aboard

something more stable. Rocs began as brainy, over-sized condors, bred on Old

Earth to compensate for species lost in the late preAtomic extinctions. On light

gravity worlds like Beta Hydri IV, they evolved into the huge man-carrying

flying mare beneath him. A bioengineered wonder. But Defoe was a pilot --

instantly obeyed by space craft, hovercars, and whatnot. He hated clinging to a

pack saddle, unable to give commands. Or even ask questions. Winging over the

cloud plain --headed who knows where -- with nothing but the swaying beat of a

living being between him and a long fall.

He tried to quiz the redhead in charge, but she refused to answer, flying

silently ahead of him. Her pennant of scarlet hair streamed back from beneath

her green visor-cap. Defoe told his augmented memory to conjure up her face.

Instantly she hovered before him in 3V, just as he had first seen her. Grass

green eyes full of innocent determination framed a stub nose above wide soft

lips. Which made the numbers on her cheek really stand out. Defoe recognized

conviction codes for impossibly serious offenses. Murder. Armed terrorism.

Sabotage. Willful defacement of property. A short synopsis of the penal code

stenciled across her cheek. Ridiculous. A prank. Like a pin through the nose. A

convict's tattoo to shock the old folks. Yet she did not seem the type. Grave

honesty lurked in her alert gaze. She already looked a shade older than she

should have. Whatever the answer to her riddle, she was not giving it. She was

not even returning his calls.

Telling the image to fade, Defoe closed his eyes. Hours aboard the Moropus had

his body screaming for rest. Clipping himself to the pack saddle, he drifted

off, letting the roc's swaying beat rock him to sleep.

He dreamed of Graceland. Defoe recognized the lead-in to the religious channel.

Once again he wafted through the wrought iron music gate into the cloud-draped

mansion. But this time there was no Elvis.

Priscilla Queen of Heaven waited for him on the white stairs. He recognized the

flowing brown hair and keen expressive eyes that adorned holos and icons

throughout Human Space. How could a pilot not know Saint Priscilla. Her father,

Colonel Beaulieu, was the patron saint of Defoe's profession. Her Betrothal,

Wedding, and Daughter's Name Day w December 25, May 1, and February 2 -- were

all interstellar holidays. Besides, this was Graceland. Who else could she be?

She did not look enough like Elvis to be Mother Gladys or Lisa-Marie.

Flanking her were two of Elvis's step-brothers -- archangels in their own right

t bodyguard Dave and preacher Rick. Dave wore a white karate gi, and had

searching "head hunter" eyes, accustomed to spotting trouble in a crowd of

admirers. Rick had longer hair, a wide smile, and wore a preacher's shining

"suit-of-lights."

Priscilla smiled, speaking English with the firm confidence of Elvis's destined

mate, a woman picked for greatness. "You will go to Shangtu."

"To Shangtu?" It was a greenie port halfway around the plateau.

"Yes, Shangtu." Priscilla had the patience of a goddess. "When you get there, go

to the House of Ro Dae Ho."

"The House of who?" It was unfair of them to come at him in his sleep. Defoe

replayed the words in his head. In Old Speak it sounded like "House of Rodeo."

"The house of Ro Dae Ho," Preacher Rick repeated, drawing out the syllables.

"Folks there call him Uncle Ho."

"How will I get there?" Defoe lay slumped on the back of a strange roc, headed

where the bird willed. What gives here? Why Shangtu? Why Ro Dae Ho? Why him for

that matter?

Rick chuckled at his confusion, "Don't worry, you'll get there."

"Safely," Priscilla added.

Good news there. Defoe opened his eyes, blinking in harsh Prospero light.

Graceland had vanished. During his chat with Saint Priscilla, the roc had

rejoined the bird herder's flock. Defoe found himself surrounded by big banded

geese in a staggered V formation, skimming along the edge of the plateau, riding

updrafts off the superheated surface.

Ahead of the flock flew a Bat-boy, a meter long semi-human with leathery wings

stretched between long-fingered arms and stunted legs. Half-gliding,

half-swimming, the undersized grotesque used big whole-body strokes to power

himself through the air. Pointed ears, an impish face, and a short tail attached

to the interfemoral membrane made him one of those overly engineered beings the

Settlers despised.

Twice Defoe spotted wild rocs eyeing the flock from sunward, hoping for a goose

dinner. Each time the bird herders turned them back. Farther along, a Wyvyrn

rose out of the clouds along the cliff face -- a segmented omnivore bigger than

a flock of rocs and twice as menacing. More flying megafauna from Beta Hydri IV.

The Wyvyrn paralleled them, making no move to close. Even a hundred meter

multi-winged monster armed with hideous fanged mandibles was wary of humans. Or

quasi-humans. Genus Homo was easily the most dangerous and adaptable lifeform

for a thousand light-years in any direction. Able to devastate whole planets

when the need arose.

The bird herders brought their flock down on a flat green volcanic mesa dotted

by mossy rain pools choked with sedges. Piles of goose droppings marked a

familiar feeding ground. Dismounting from the roc, Defoe looked for someplace to

sit not slick with goose shit. Finding a fairly clean spot at the cliff edge, he

sat and stared down at the cloud forest clinging to the flanks of the mesa.

Kilometer-tall trees topped by bright parasitic flowers poked through the mist

beneath him. The Wyvyrn circled at a respectful distance.

Shedding her wings, the young woman settled in beside him, saying in English,

"Sorry for not answering your calls."

She ran a thumb along the numbers on her cheek, "There's a price on my head."

Literally. "In fact, it would do me good if you could keep off the air." She

said it plainly and simply, putting her freedom in his hands, asking him to keep

communications silence.

Making Defoe feel like an oaf. "Of course. I'm sorry. I should have known..." He

had a lot to learn about criminal conspiracy -- which is what this was fast

becoming.

"Thanks." She held out her hand. "The name's Llenor."

"Defoe. Dan Defoe." They shook. Her grip felt firm and real, lingering a shade

longer than needed. He thanked her for picking him up.

"Don't mention it." Llenor grinned, still holding his hand. "I really mean that.

If anyone asks, you never so much as heard of me."

Defoe nodded. "I owe you that." Under Settler Law he would be aiding and

abetting, but like any sensible vacuum hand he steered clear of arguments among

Dirtsiders.

Llenor let go of his hand. His palm tingled, thrilled by the contact. "Why did

you come for me?" he asked.

Her grin widened. "Someone up there likes you."

Right, leave it to the King. Llenor looked like a Believer, absurdly naive and

ready to do right. Too bad. She seemed so sane otherwise. But why all the

heavenly interest in him? Defoe could not think of any good deeds he had done of

late.

Llenor studied him intently, perhaps wondering what Elvis had gotten her into.

"How did you get hung out like that?"

Defoe told his tragic story, such as it was. His trip to Subsolar Station. The

Comnet crash. The SuperChimps going berserk. The long chase on Moropus-back...

Llenor showed genuine concern. Cocking her head every so often, to listen to

inner voices. Or incoming calls. When he was done, all she said was, "You're a

pilot? So am I." She sounded pleased.

"Really?"

"Atmosphere work only," Llenor admitted wistfully. "I've never been outsystem,

or even offplanet." And most likely she never would. Beyond the wild fringes of

the Subsolar Plateau she was a marked young woman, liable to be arrested or shot

on sight. "Did you think I herded birds for a living?"

Digits on her face said she was a saboteur and kidnapper, but Defoe refrained

from pointing that out. He switched the subject instead. "Any idea what made

those Chimps go crazy?"

She shrugged, "Maybe it's the way Settlers treat them."

"What do you mean?"

"You know. Sterilizing them. Caging and dissecting them. Gassing them when they

get too old or sick to work..."

"Treating them like animals?"

"Exactly."

"But they always put up with it before."

She shot him a quizzical look, "You expect them to tell you ahead of time? Like

present a petition? They're Chimps, remember?"

Right. Chimps were animals. You were not allowed to mistreat them, not in public

anyway. But under Settler Law killing one could not be called murder. If it was

your Chimp-- and you did it humanely-- you would get off without even a fine. "I

suppose you treat your Chimps differently."

Llenor gave a don't-make-me-puke grimace. "We don't own each other. That's what

separates us from the Bugs." Bugs, aka "Sculptorian Symbiots," were generally

held to be the lowest form of intelligent life.

She shook her head. "When Elvis was a boy, back in the pre-Atomic, white people

used to buy and sell black people." Llenor said it softly, as if she were

ashamed at how ignorant humans could be. "That was before Lisa-Marie married

Saint Michael, bringing love between the races."

Let's hear it for Lisa-Marie. And Saint Michael. Defoe stared at her. Llenor had

that guileless, Outback idiocy by the bucket, believing in Elvis and Priscilla,

and Mother Gladys. She was probably a sucker for fair play, and giving everyone

a break. No wonder Settlers wanted her dead. The big surprise was that none of

the sentences stenciled on her cheek had been carried out -- yet.

"So what's next?" he wondered.

"I'm taking you to Shangtu." She said it as if she did not like their

destination. Shangtu was not a settlement, but well within reach of Settler Law.

She was putting herself in real peril, just for some offplanet stranger.

"You don't sound happy to be headed there."

Llenor laughed, "Would you be, if you were me?"

"Then why are you doing it?" There were safer ways of seeing he made it home.

"Because that's what the King wants."

Right. What Elvis wants, Elvis gets. Clearly Llenor was not the type to be

talked out of doing right. Defoe did not even try. If she meant to risk her life

for religion, that was her mistake. As soon as he got to Shangtu, he would punch

a call through to Medusa and arrange a pickup. Llenor would have to look out for

herself. Which was too bad, since he hated taking advantage of women, children,

and pious innocents.

Feeling a touch guilty, he told her, "Thanks. I owe you a lot." He meant it.

Even if Llenor left him sitting alone on this goose-shit mesa he would be deep

in her debt.

She looked him over, then shrugged. "No sweat. You seem like the sort worth

having around." The way she said it sounded a warning. Llenor was not really so

blase about this. Not as nonchalant as she tried to look. Defoe put it down to

nervousness, having to trust her freedom to a total stranger. All on Elvis's

say-so.

Another pair of Bat-boys arrived. He could see what upset the Settlers. The

stunted misshapen creatures with wings, tails, and furry faces could hardly be

mistaken for human. And could never lead "normal" lives. Otherwise they looked

happy, greeting each other by cracking jokes in Old Speak. Their thin flexible

wing-skin formed the perfect flying organ, and a thumb and two extra fingers on

their wing hands let them pick things up and preen each other. Creating them may

have been a crime, but they might not see it that way. Hell, they might even

enjoy life.

Seemingly discouraged at seeing more semi-humans, the Wyvyrn spiraled back into

the cloud forest in a single swirling movement, disappearing like water down a

drain.

Llenor turned the goose herd over to the Bat-boys, then nodded toward the roc.

"Let's get going." Defoe mounted up and they headed out, letting the green mesa

dwindle behind them.

An hour or so in the air, and he spotted a gleaming spark on a converging

course. Incoming signals IDed it as the robo-freighter he had tried to relay

through. Distance narrowed, and Defoe realized why his earlier relay had been a

bust. Instead of a dowdy semi-rigid he saw a quarter-kilometer long fusion

powered airship, with twin falcon figureheads. Tall English lettering on the

silver lifting body hull identified the Princess Lisa-Marie.

Llenor gave a landing sign, and the hangar doors swung open. The roc flew in and

alighted. Defoe leaped down, delighted to have a deck beneath his boots. Feeling

almost home. Llenor landed behind him.

Drawn up on the hangar deck was the weirdest excuse for a crew he had ever seen.

Half-filling the hangar was the Wyvyrn he had met earlier --or one just like

it--curled up with its wings folded back along its body, its head segment raised

to face the hangar door. Something about a Wyvyrn's big, fanged mandibles made

them always seem to be smiling, like a Chinese dragon silently laughing at a zen

joke. A naked Neanderthal bossed a gang of SuperChimps in rigger's harnesses,

leading the roc to a perch, seeing it was fed. Overseeing the whole show was a

small blonde woman with an angelic smile, wearing a powder-blue uniform and a

big machine pistol strapped to her hip. A Valkyrie so beautiful she made Llenor

look like a boy.

Defoe shook his head in wonder. Welcome aboard the Princess Lisa-Marie. It

looked to be one wild flight.

Llenor did the introductions. The Wyvyrn was the ship's flight officer. The

closest thing it had to a name was a single unpronounceable syllable -- "Qiip."

No one bothered to name the Chimps, since they did not belong to anyone, and

never had trouble telling each other apart. But the Thai bossing them was the

ship's bosun, "Wha-tsoph-ki."

"And this is Amanda." Llenor indicated the dazzling blonde Valkyrie with the

machine pistol. "She's chief of onboard security, and can show you to a cabin.

Get some rest," Llenor advised. 'I'll be on the forebridge, at least through the

noon watch." Clearly she had a captain's itch to get back to piloting.

Defoe found it fairly painless to be in Amanda's care -- like having a Feelie

star show him to his cabin. Flat black slidewalks swept them down art deco

corridors shining like chrome mirrors. Amanda apologized for the lack of

amenities. "There's no steward. Princess Lisa-Marie's a working ship, not a

five-star liner. So don't ask the Chimps for service--they won't know what you

are talking about."

"My last berth was on a warship," Defoe admitted. The Medusa did not have

steward service either.

Amanda nodded, "Should be right at home."

Once he was alone in his cabin, Defoe struggled out of his still-suit and

sweat-soaked body stocking. Stuffing the body stocking into the laundry slot, he

got back a pair of ship's coveralls. Flopping down on the futon, he told the

galley to fix dinner. Ariel did not have normal days or nights -- but since it

was the morning watch, he got served a heaping breakfast; soy and eggs, with

yeast strips, high-fiber toast, honey grits and pancakes smothered in fruit

puree. Defoe topped it off with a relaxing shower and a sound sleep. Whatever

came next, it would be far better to face it fed, clean, and rested. This time

he got no call to Graceland.

"Good morning." Someone giggled, in stereo. "No, silly, it's good afternoon."

Opening his eyes, Defoe instantly thought he was hallucinating. Or at least

seeing double. Standing in the open hatchway to his cabin was a broad

shouldered, buxom young woman with two bottle-blonde heads.

"Hi," said the left head. "My name is Norma."

"And I'm Jean," added the other.

"But you can call us Marilyn." They said the last bit in unison, obviously a

practiced line.

He sat up on his futon, trying to put the two smiling heads together with the

body--which had only the usual number of arms, legs, etc. They-she had on tight

blue pants and a shapeless black top a size or so too small. "My name's Defoe."

That much he was sure of.

They laughed together. "We know."

"We heard there was a man aboard..."

"...and had to come see."

"It's an honor."

"Exciting."

Norma seemed to speak first. With Jean adding something, or finishing the

sentence. Glad he never trusted cabin locks, Defoe swung his feet off the futon,

and started pulling on his boots. He was already wearing the ship's coveralls.

Checking his internal chronometer, he found it was nearly thirteen o'clock, well

into the noon watch. "There are no men on the ship?"

"Not really."

"Unless you count Thals."

"Or Chimps."

"Or Lucifer."

"Come, we'll show you."

He stood up, already feeling on stage. Marilyn led Defoe to the keel slidewalk,

happy to have him in tow. Charmingly barefoot, Norma and Jean timed everything

perfectly, walking, talking, and swinging their hips together. No mean feat,

since each head controlled a different side of their body. Norma gave brisk

orders to hatches and slidewalks, while Jean flirted with him over her shoulder.

The forebridge was a Humanist nightmare. Everyone was human, more or less -- no

SuperChimps or retrobred Neanderthals. But nearly everyone was cloned in some

whimsical fashion. Llenor had an identical younger sister with her, named Evie.

Both turned out to be clones of their maternal grandmother. And she also had

twin cousins, Lilith and Lucifer -- female and male copies of their mother.

Norma and Jean fit right in, making Defoe feel more than ever the odd man out.

But Princess Lisa-Marie was still a ship. Lilith and Lucifer were watch

officers. Marilyn turned out to be training as a comtech. Little sister Evie was

the cabin girl. And Llenor was a hands-on Captain, liking to stand on the

forebridge with her family around her, seeing the air ahead, telling Lisa-Marie

what to do.

Not being the type to fly from his cabin, Defoe liked watching her work. Hitting

a sharp temperature inversion, she lost her superheat and had to tilt her

turbofans for the vertical thrust to ride over it. Seeing her at the helm

reminded him of how long it had been since he'd conned his own ship. Plying a

shuttle from surface to orbit was not near the same thing.

"Did you sleep?" she asked.

"Famously."

He tilted his head toward Marilyn, having a four-way talk with the Twins.

"Until..."

Llenor laughed, "Marilyn can be a shock first thing in the afternoon. But she's

super on long watches. Won't let anyone sleep. Two heads, two hearts, and one

body keeps you on your toes."

And a double set of hormones. "She got me out of bed," Defoe admitted. "Where

did she come from?"

"She escaped from a Freeport brothel. Lisa-Marie tends to collect misfits."

Like me, Defoe thought. Clearly Llenor was always doing Elvis's work. How could

she not? He asked what she was carrying, besides misfits.

"Offworld robotics, and smuggled pharmaceuticals. Too hot and pricy for Shangtu.

We'll have to move them further along the plateau." She stayed justifiably vague

about future plans. What Defoe did not know could not incriminate him.

Flying over rolling cloud plain, they talked the watch away. Intensely curious

about the greater cosmos, Llenor loved his offworld stories. He could feel her

eager sense of wonder, confined by the need to live in hiding on her

birth-planet. And it was plain she liked him, hanging on his stories, laughing

at his jokes, inviting him to be less of a stranger.

From time to time she would stop to tune in on telemetry, or inner voices. Defoe

watched her out of the comer of his eye, "taking care of business." Suddenly

turning serious. Seeing to her ship. Making command decisions. Receiving

scrambled 3V messages, but never sending.

Far from feeling slighted, Defoe liked that serious side of her. He too was a

pilot, trained to set things aside -- even important things -- to see a job done

right. When the watch was over, she treated him to a ship's tour that took up

both dog watches. By the time they were done, Defoe felt like "captain's pet." A

cushy billet for someone whose life depended on Llenor's good intentions.

Only later, lying in his cabin, did Defoe have second thoughts. What he was

getting into with this earnest young Believer? He liked Llenor. Who wouldn't?

She was honest and generous. Intensely fair, and not too demanding. But what

future could there be between an itinerant space pilot and an outlawed clone

caught in some doomed struggle with the planetary authorities? Not much. Best he

ignore any budding feelings and just get to Shangtu.

His misgivings were soon confirmed. At the end of the next morning watch Amanda

appeared at his door. She had not said a word to Defoe since showing him to his

cabin. Not surprising. Scuttlebutt had it that the silent blonde security

officer was "same sex oriented." Clearly Defoe did not interest Amanda, so long

as he behaved himself.

Which he apparently was not doing. The security officer sat him down on his

futon, saying, "I have something to tell you."

"What's that?" Defoe could not help liking Amanda -- and not just because she

was knock-dead gorgeous. They had two big things in common. They both preferred

women--always a good starting point. And Amanda was the only other

unreconstructed human aboard. Everybody else was some sort of bioconstruct. A

clone. A Chimp. A Thai, or worse. That she was a gun-toting lesbian did not seem

a serious difference hundreds of light-years from home.

"Don't do anything to hurt her."

"Hurt who?" Defoe was being ridiculously inoffensive, trying hard to stay on

everyone's good side, especially the Captain's.

"Llenor. She likes you. Heaven knows why."

"Okay. I'll try." Defoe did not mean to hurt anyone, least of all Llenor.

"You better do more than try." Amanda said it with a smile, sitting on his

futon, her pistol safely holstered -- but her warning came through in the clear.

Scuttlebutt also had it that the security officer was an ex-merc on permanent

AWOL, who had killed more men than a slew of bad landings, and was charged with

numerous serious offenses. A ship run by women barely needed an intercom --

Marilyn alone could be a font of information.

Defoe ventured that Llenor seemed well able to care of herself, being smart and

competent with a quarter-kilometer of airship at her command.

Amanda shook her head, "Looks are deceiving."

"Really?"

"Take those tattoos on her face. They don't mean shit."

Defoe said they seemed fairly serious.

"Right." Amanda sniffed. "You've seen her. Talked to her. Do you think she's a

killer? A terrorist?"

"No." Defoe had never seen a less likely suspect.

"She's innocent as they come."

Defoe had seen enough Settler Law to believe that they routinely got the wrong

person. "Is that why the sentences weren't carried out?"

"They weren't carried out because I went to a deal of trouble to spring her from

the Port Myrine brig. Understand?"

"Sort of." Defoe began wondering if he had landed in the midst of some "thing"

between the Lisa-Marie's Captain and security officer.

Amanda coolly read his thoughts. "I'm not in love with her. Not the way you are

thinking. Llenor is special. Sure, she's the Captain. But we all look out for

her. I do. The Twins do. Everyone does, right down to Evie and the Chimps. Why

do you think Marilyn came to check you out that first day? You're not that

pretty."

And he thought he had been such a hit, turning two heads at once. "I guess I

understand."

"Do you really? I doubt it. Llenor was framed for a bombing at the Helium Works

Bugville below Port Myrine. Xenophobes killed a couple of Hive Queens, a whole

bunch of Bugs, and a woman pulling security. Does that sound like her?"

Defoe shook his head. Xenophobes were Humanist fanatics, hating anything more

than two shades different. Llenor hardly fit the description, being a

bioconstruct herself. One who surrounded herself with outcasts and treated

Chimps like they had rights. But common sense arguments were rigorously excluded

under Settler Law.

Amanda's look turned colder. "The woman she supposedly killed was my lover, Kia.

Do you think I'd turn outlaw for Llenor, setting her free and watching over her,

if there were the slightest doubt of her innocence?"

Defoe nodded. Amanda acted dead serious about the law -- more so than most

security officers -- and not ashamed to take it into her own hands. "I see your

point."

"It gets worse. The last guy she fell for was the jerk who set her up."

"That's terrible." Defoe really meant it.

"Especially for him. He got fried."

"Oh."

"Don't make me kill you too," Amanda advised.

Defoe swore he would do his best. Suddenly he was godawful anxious to get to

Shangtu. And not because Amanda might be forced to fry him. Llenor was the one

who worried him. Hearing her story had him caring for her t more than was

healthy. Unless something soon separated them, things could swiftly get out of

hand.

But by the noon watch they were back together, this time on the upper deck,

watching the plateau edge slide by to starboard. Clouds piled up by prevailing

winds filled the gullies in the cliff face. Sitting alongside Llenor, with

nothing to do but enjoy the cloudscape, was like visiting some neighboring

dimension. A parallel world containing just the two of them. Without worries or

cares. A world not at all like Ariel, but having many of the same elements --

the plateau, the cloud plain, the Lisa-Marie, and the two of them. A world with

no past, and definitely no future.

Llenor looked at him. Her long red hair danced in the slipstream, strands flying

in front of her freckled face. "What's got you worried?"

Defoe nodded. "I'm not sure I should be doing this."

She smiled, "It's a free planet." Llenor sounded fully aware of the irony. Ariel

was free only by default, a raw chaotic wilderness, marginally terraformed,

mostly lawless, and utterly untamed. But Defoe heard a hint of challenge in her

voice. She believed her home planet was free, for those willing to make it so.

He knew now why she never talked about home or the numbers on her cheek --

sensing her deep hurt and homesickness. Sister Erie had told them they had kin

on Atoll in the Twilight Belt. No father of course. But a mother, plus aunts and

cousins they could never be with -- not even for virtual visits. The best

scrambled signals could still be traced.

That did not stop Llenor from asking about his past. She craved personal

information -- as if compiling a file for after he was gone. Where had he been?

Where was he born?

"On Old Earth," he told her. A long, long time ago.

"Like Elvis?"

Defoe laughed, "Just like Elvis."

Llenor laughed too. An obvious absurdity. No one could be just like Elvis. She

took her religion seriously -- but laughing was allowed. A big part of the Elvis

gospel was, "Ya gotta have fun." An electronic religion based on romantic

unreality and hedonistic intimacy.

She reached out. "I've never touched anyone from Old Earth before." Their hands

touched, just fingers at first, then palm to palm. Then their fingers

interlaced. They went on talking, neither letting go. Neither acknowledging that

they were holding hands.

Llenor had no intention of bringing the Princess Lisa-Marie any closer to

Shangtu. Too much traffic went in and out of the port, making it impossible to

maintain their robo-freighter disguise. Instead she planned a low-profile

approach on roc-back from the plateau side.

Defoe wanted it even more low-profile. "Just drop me on the plateau edge. Once

you are clear I can call for help." Hell, he could always walk to Shangtu.

Llenor stubbornly shook her head. Priscilla Queen of Heaven wanted Defoe

delivered to Ro Dae Ho. Llenor meant to see it done. Dropping him on the edge of

the desert was not nearly good enough. Defoe could hardly believe that a couple

of days ago he did not much care what happened to Llenor once he was safe. Now

he cared too much.

They left the Princess Lisa-Marie on Wyvyrn-back. Qiip the flight officer took

them as far as the plateau edge, with the roc following. There they had a quick

final conference. Defoe tried to convince Llenor to go back with Qiip. "The roc

can take me into Shangtu."

"Right. Have you ever soloed on a roe?"

Defoe admitted he had not.

"And how would I get my bird back?"

He gave in and got aboard. Llenor donned her wings and they took off, soaring

over the rolling dunes. Kilometers of red-blonde sand slid silently beneath the

roc's wing tips. Then suddenly, the desert dipped down and disappeared, turning

into green terraced rice fields. Clouds boiled out of a central canyon choked

with tall trees. Shangtu itself floated above the canyon, a bit of heaven

anchored by colossal steel cables. Shaped like a huge squat pagoda, the port sat

atop a giant aerostar, a relic from days when only Ariel's uppermost atmosphere

was habitable. Skycycles, fliers, and ultralights darted in and out of landing

pads spaced around the flattened pagoda.

Ro Dae Ho had a private landing pad, surrounded by hanging gardens and tinkling

bells. Ho himself was there to greet them, the first hint that their coming was

hardly a surprise. He was a wispy oriental wearing dragon pants and a black

happi coat, with a shaved head, pale olive skin and a long white beard. A young

green-skinned hermaphrodite hung on his arm.

"Greetings, greetings." He bowed to both of them. "Please enter my poor house."

Chimp gardeners took charge of the roc. Defoe and Llenor followed their host

through a carved gate, around a dark lacquered spirit screen, past two Bug

Warrior bodyguards hired from a local hive. Light from paper lanterns gleamed on

their recoilless cannons and dark armored carapaces.

Ro Dae Ho's poor house turned out to be a light-weight mansion with rice paper

walls supported by slender columns. Flowers bloomed in unexpected spots --

scarlet peonies and blue-white forget-me-nots. The place was set for a feast,

another sign Ro Dae Ho knew they were coming. Uncle Ho, as he asked to be

called, raised a glass of rice wine in honor of his guests. "Eat, drink, and

enjoy. Never talk on an empty stomach."

Defoe looked to Llenor. She should already be gone. Every second in Shangtu

compounded her risk. But she smiled, as if to say, "What's the harm in one last

supper?"

Enthusiastic green-skinned serving girls in skimpy sarongs showed them to the

seats of honor. Laughing and giggling, they tucked Defoe's knees beneath the

table, their smooth leaf-green skin smelling of musk. Shangtu's population

hosted a symbiotic green algae in their skin and germ plasm. Under the perpetual

daylight of the Subsolar Plateau the algae pumped glucose directly into their

bloodstreams, promoting shaved heads and nudity -- saving on servant upkeep.

Food arrived, first a long series of delightful soups and hors d'oeuvres --

which easily satisfied Defoe. lust when he thought they might be done, the meal

itself appeared, dish after dish in big covered pots. He looked uneasily over at

Llenor. This was taking way too long, but it seemed useless to protest. More

rice wine went around. The teenage hermaphrodite settled into Uncle Ho's lap.

Defoe's two pretty servers made a game of slipping food onto his plate. He felt

like he was on a double date, where "No" meant "Yes" and food had taken the

place of sex. When he managed to fend them off, Uncle Ho himself would lean

around the hermaphrodite and dip his chopsticks into a pot, offering Defoe

"something really special." The two towering Bug Warriors watched over the meal

like a pair of high-tech samurai.

Sweets came, and the pots were cleared away. Freed from his servers, Defoe took

a moment to uncramp his legs, walking about a bit with Llenor. "This looks to be

about over."

She laughed. "That's not how they do things in Shangtu. Sweets mean the middle

of the meal." She squeezed his hand, "A couple more dishes and I'll be gone."

Defoe sat down. Another course arrived. As he raised chopsticks to his lips a

scrambled call came in. ("Sit tight and keep your head down. We're coming in.")

He jumped up, spilling his chopsticks, shouting to Llenor, "Get the hell out of

here." She was already on her feet.

Uncle Ho must have heard the call too. Shoving the hermaphrodite off his lap, he

politely advised the servants to take cover, then hustled Defoe and Llenor past

the spirit screen onto his private landing pad. Bug Warriors thudded behind

them, venom spines erect.

Chimps had the roc ready. Llenor struggled into her wings. Uncle Ho handed her a

plastic stinger, saying, "As soon as you clear the city, dive for the cloud

forest." Nodding grimly, she pocketed the stinger, then turned to Defoe.

Her grim look dissolved. No need to worry about when they would part, that had

been taken from her hands. For the first and likely last time he kissed her.

Even in the midst of that mad moment, the kiss blanked out everything else. Fear

and alarm vanished. The fresh newness of her mouth surprised him, framed by her

upturned face and windblown hair.

Dark shapes were coming down. Out the corner of his eye, he saw mini-profile

parasails dropping toward them, the same type used by Medusa's marine

contingent. Breaking contact, he begged her to run. Without saying good-bye, she

scrambled aboard the waiting bird. The roc took off, flapping for altitude.

Gunfire rattled overhead. Bug Warriors flung back covering fire. Suddenly

remembering he was a non-combatant, Defoe threw himself onto the deck. Shooting

got louder, and closer, ricocheting around him. One Bug took a direct hit. A

cannon shell in the thorax sent it spinning off the edge of the pad, still

firing madly.

Defoe looked up. Uncle Ho lay half a meter away, eyes clamped shut, hugging the

landing pad. Horrified, Defoe searched the sky for Llenor. He spotted her roc,

tumbling toward the lower levels of the Shangtu pagoda, her pack saddle empty.

Then he saw Llenor in a stoop, wings swept back, with a couple of power-assisted

parasails spiraling after her.

He leaped to his feet, opening his mouth to shout something useless. His legs

promptly buckled under him. Anesthetic gas. Defoe recognized the symptoms of the

non-lethal incapacitant. The landing pad reeled and tilted, then slammed into

him. Hard.

"If you are looking for trouble, you've come to the right place."

--Elvis, Christmas Special 1968

Poisoned Pawn

DEFOE AWOKE on his back, staring up at a hairy, high-browed face with little

furry ears. Huge white fangs curved down from beneath big cat's eyes. He blinked

and tried to rise, saying, "Boy! Am I glad to see you."

"Same to you," the being above him replied. He was a SuperCat. Homo smilodon.

With burly shoulders, tawny fur, human limbs and torso, biped stance and a short

bobbed tail. He wore body armor and carried a recoilless assault rifle. Fixed to

his nose was a filtration mask. Called Rowlf, he commanded the Medusa's marines.

Holding out a humanoid hand, the SuperCat helped him to his feet. Defoe found he

had a medikit strapped to his arm, neutralizing the anesthetic. Bug warrior

parts were scattered about the landing pad. Ro Dae Ho lay sleeping peacefully --

not knowing how lucky he was. Defoe's internal chronometer told him forty-one

minutes had passed. Needless to say a lot had happened. Way too much from what

he could see.

He broadcasted a frantic call to Llenor.

No answer.

Defoe prayed to Saint Priscilla that did not mean she was dead -- the most

logical explanation. He remembered how the Queen of Heaven stood on the great

white steps at Graceland, promising to see him safely to Shangtu. But Priscilla

said nothing about Llenor. How hideously unfair. Llenor was the Believer. The

one Elvis ought to be looking out for. If there was an Elvis. There is nothing

like gunfire to make you get religion.

Rowlf hustled him past the spirit screen into Ro Dae Ho's poor house, which now

more closely fit its description. Paper walls were shredded. Pots and dishes lay

overturned. Rice squished underfoot. Uncle Ho's young hermaphrodite was sprawled

dead on the floor, alongside a green-skinned serving girl. Both had been shot

through the head at close range. Beside the girl lay a shattered vase and a

spray of blue-white forget-me-nots.

Two SuperCats were holding down an angry young man with a crewcut, wearing body

armor and a gray Militia uniform. That was something utterly unexpected. Defoe

wondered where the Settler had come from, and why two SuperCats were practically

sitting on him. "What happened here?"

Rowlf nodded his fanged head at the angry Settler. "He saw that greenie with

tits and a prick and went berserk. He shot him-her, then shot the girl before we

could disarm him."

Defoe stared stupidly at the carnage, so used to hearing Old Speak that the

SuperCat's Universal barely made sense. Seeing him standing there, the young

Settler shouted, "Tell these mutant bastards to let me go."

Shaking off his surprise, Defoe knelt next to the Settler, putting his hand on

the man's shoulder. This time he remembered to use Universal. "I've got a

suggestion for you. Homo sapien to Homo sapien." The young Settler glared up at

him. If they really did share DNA, it would be a distinct disappointment.

"Do what these Cats say," Defoe advised, "and don't call them names. Otherwise

they are going to give up, and just blow out your brains."

The Militia man squirmed in the SuperCat's grip. "Make them give me my gun

back."

Defoe shrugged, "They aren't likely to listen to me."

The Settler cursed and called him a traitor. Defoe guessed he had been added to

the man's must-kill list.

"Get him up," Rowlf ordered. "We've got to go. There's a hovership waiting to

take us to a landing zone at the edge of the desert." SuperCats dragged the

struggling Settler to his feet and they headed down a ramp toward Ro Dae Ho's

front door. Waiting at the bottom of the ramp were four more SuperCats, with

assault rifles trained at the doorway. Firing erupted from the corridor beyond.

"We're going out," Rowlf told him. "Take this, there might be trouble."

Defoe wanted to say things had gone way beyond trouble, but he stopped, shocked

by what the SuperCat had handed him. It was a plastic stinger, just like Ro Dae

Ho had given Llenor. Not at all regulation issue for the Medusa's marines. He

stared at the weapon. "Where did you get this?"

"Off a female." Rowlf peeked through the doorway into the corridor, sizing up

the situation. Two dead SuperChimps lay face down in the hall.

"What sort of female?" Defoe demanded.

The SuperCat glanced back at him. "Your sort."

Defoe hoped to heaven Rowlf did not mean off her body. "Is she okay? Where can I

see her?"

"She's alive -- if that's what you mean. And headed for the hovership and the

LZ. You'll see her when we get there."

Defoe said a swift thank you to Saint Priscilla, or Elvis, or whoever looked

over Llenor. She was alive. And he would be seeing her, or so the SuperCat said.

Almost too much to be believed. Especially since she still did not answer his

calls.

Stepping over the two dead SuperChimps, they headed out into the halls of

Shangtu pagoda. As they worked their way down the ramps to the lower levels,

Defoe saw more dead Chimps. Mostly shot from behind, as though they had been

running. He also saw more Militia in body armor waving big recoilless assault

rifles -- not at all pleased to see SuperCats with one of their own in custody.

Defoe did not like the Settlers' hard looks, or the shells that kept flying

through Shangtu's paper walls. "What is all the shooting for?" Aside from the

occasional fragmented Bug Warrior, he saw no sign of resistance.

"The Militia's been shooting SuperChimps."

"What in hell for?"

Rowlf kept staring straight ahead, over the sights of his recoilless rifle.

"They are worked up about what happened at Subsolar Station."

"Shangtu Chimps did not do that."

"I don't think they care."

Defoe could not fathom that attitude. He could understand killing the Bug

Warriors. You had to do that. Bugs could not be reasoned with. Given orders to

shoot, they would keep firing until they ran out of ammunition, then go down

swinging the empty weapon. It took a cannon shell to convince them to cease

fire. But Chimps were different. Chimps were, well -- Chimps. Sure they could be

dangerous; more so than Defoe had ever imagined. But they were not near as

deadly as Homo sapiens. "Man the wise" had a history of mass slaughter that

stretched back over a thousand millennia and hundreds of light-years.

"That's stupid," he told the SuperCat. "I was at Subsolar Station. I'm the sole

human survivor."

Rowlf replied with a toothy grin, "Congratulations." He had his share of human

genes, mixed with those of old-time carnivores. "Maybe the Militia will give you

a medal."

"What are Settlers even doing here?"

"They are taking over Shangtu. We just came to get you out."

Thank Elvis for that. Shangtu could look forward to hard times. There were no

more than a handful of folks aboard Shangtu pagoda that the new owners

considered "really" human. And this SuperChimp massacre would set the tone for

their dealings with Thais, clones, greenies, and other "bioconstructs." He shook

his head. "Let's get to the landing zone." And Llenor.

The main landing deck jutted out from the lowest level of the pagoda. Llenor's

roc lay on the pad, turned into an untidy pile of feathers by the fall. A

hovership waited to take them to the LZ, surrounded by more Militia with guns

leveled.

Defoe's heart sank. They had Llenor. Her green sleeveless jacket and harlequin

flight suit stood out among the gray Militia uniforms. Her wings had been

stripped off, and her hands were cuffed behind her back. They had covered her

head with an isolation helmet, keeping her from sending or receiving signals.

An argument ensued. The Militia meant to keep Llenor, and wanted their man as

well. Rowlf said he did not care about the local female meaning Llenor -- but he

was not giving up his prisoner until his team was safely aboard the armored

hovership. A minimum precaution in the face of angry Militia, who hated

SuperCats as much as they hated Chimps and greenies -- maybe even more. Defoe

heard the warning snicker of safeties going off.

Seeing the conquerors of Shangtu about to shoot it out right there on the main

landing pad, he seized Rowlf's furry arm, "Let me talk."

"Talk all you like," the SuperCat snarled. "But I am not giving up this man

until we are aboard the hovership."

Fair enough. Defoe turned to face the Militia Captain. She was black-skinned

with a pearl stud in her nose and dreadlocks hanging below her helmet. "Your man

is under arrest for murder."

"Murder?" The Militia woman looked dumfounded.

"He killed two people back up there on the pagoda."

"That's right," Rowlf snarled. "You can shoot Chimps, but not greenies."

Defoe wished the SuperCat would butt out. He had just blown half their case. The

Militia would hardly call killing a couple of greenies murder, not with

SuperCats for witnesses.

"This is a military operation," the Militia Captain protested figuring that

excused random deaths among defenseless bystanders.

"Right. And your man will face a military court aboard the Medusa."

"Who are you to decide this?" the woman demanded.

"Daniel Defoe, pilot first class, assigned to Medusa."

The Militia Captain's resolve crumbled. Standing up to furry fang-toothed

mutants was one thing. Trying to take a prisoner away from a Medusa officer was

entirely different. The Settlers needed the Medusa. She was the closest thing to

a warship insystem -- their prime backup on a planet teaming with objectionable

types. Without the merchant cruiser, and her arsenal of anti-matter warheads,

the colonists were no better than a bunch of gun-armed greenies.

Seeing the Militia woman's hesitation, Defoe swiftly offered her an out, "How

about a prisoner exchange?"

"What do you mean?" she sounded suspicious.

"I will turn your man over to you, to be held aboard the Cape Colony until a

military court can be convened, if you give me the woman you have to be held

aboard the Medusa." Defoe did not much care what happened to the murderous young

Settler, so long as he got Llenor.

"Held for what?" asked the Militia Captain. "She is a convicted criminal -- her

sentence just needs to be carried out."

"So you say. But she is also part of an outlaw gang that kidnapped me. She needs

to face a military court."

He could see the Militia woman's mental programming sorting options. She much

preferred to solve the dilemma by gunning down the SuperCats and taking both

prisoners back to Cape Colony. Defoe's offer came a distant second. But a point

blank gun battle is a chancy exercise. While turning Llenor over to a military

court was practically her duty -- and way better than seeing one of her men

dragged offplanet by a gang of armed mutants.

"Agreed." She ordered her people to part ranks. They made the trade at the

hovership hatch, with Rowlf's squad covering the exchange from inside. Llenor

was hauled aboard, and the armored hatch slammed shut. They were off.

"Shit, that was close." Defoe shook with relief, barely believing they were

free.

Rowlf slid his assault rife safety back on. "You handled that enraged female

admirably."

My specialty, Defoe thought. "Why in the world are you working with them? They

would cut you down in a nanosecond. And now they have got Shangtu. That's

absurd!"

Rowlf shrugged, "That's orders." Marine commanders could not be blamed for

policy blunders, they merely carried them out.

"Damn." Defoe was happier than ever to be a non-combatant. He looked over at

Llenor. "Then I order you to take off her cuffs and helmet."

"How?" Rowlf looked quizzical. "The code keys are with that Militia female on

the landing pad."

Right. Realizing he had screwed up once again, Defoe slumped down in the seat

alongside Llenor. At least she was alive. Though right now she could neither

hear nor see what was happening around her. A blessing given the circumstances.

Reaching over, he took one of her bound hands in his. She started, then relaxed.

Their fingers interlaced. Did she even know it was him? Probably. She had that

trusting sense about things, the sure feeling that Elvis would somehow provide.

Defoe hoped the King had a plan. It would take supernatural luck to get her out

of this. They held hands all the way to the LZ. Then onto the shuttle, and into

orbit.

When the shuttle docked with Medusa, Dfoe went to an immediate face-to-face with

his skipper. She was a slim, black-haired, no-nonsense CO, with luminous almond

eyes, able to command a merchant cruiser or sit on an admiralty court. That was

no coincidence. Defoe was Medusa's chief pilot. Captain Tiffany Suzuki's main

job was to hold the balance of power in Prospero system. The colonists aboard

Cape Colony would more than double Ariel's human population. Already tension ran

high between incoming Settlers and the original indigenous human population --

not to mention the Thals, Chimps, Bugs, etc.

It was Suzuki's job to hold the ring. Medusa, with her orbit-to-surface missiles

and anti-matter warheads, was meant to overawe any possible opposition. To see

the colonists planted more or less peacefully on Ariel. Defoe was glad not to

have that job. A single trip to the surface convinced him that nothing about the

process would be peaceful. That faint hope was gone. A null program. Worse was

bound to come.

He made his report as coherently as he could, with two major omissions. He made

no mention of virtual visits to Graceland, and communing with Elvis, Priscilla,

etc. Defoe wanted to preserve some credibility with his boss. And he said

nothing about any personal feelings for Llenor. His pitch had to be untainted by

any touch of love or insanity.

Which left him relying heavily on coincidence, and Llenor's native nobility.

Captain Suzuki was at best partly convinced. "This wanted felon just happened to

fly by? And seeing you in trouble she swooped you up, risking her own freedom to

take you to Shangtu?"

"But she is not a felon," Defoe protested. "That's the point."

"So you say."

"Her actions speak for her."

Suzuki looked hard at him. Did she suspect she was talking to a man in love?

Hopefully not. His CO shrugged, "Let's call on Cape Colony."

She hologrammed them aboard the colony ship. Even virtual visits to Cape Colony

made Defoe uneasy. She was not a lucky ship. Infamously unlucky, in fact. Cape

Colony had the misfortune to make first official contact with the Bugs. Headed

for the Deneb Kaitos with a load of colonists from Tau Ceti, she had been

hijacked by Eridani slavers. The slavers had already been taken over by the

Bugs, who proceeded to weed through the captive colonists, killing all the males

and any women over reproductive age. None of the killings were out of malice.

Bugs were not capable of disliking humans -- reserving their hatred for Bugs

from other hives. They just did not see why humans needed two sexes and

nonbreeders. Eventually the Bugs were brought to heel, but not before giving

Cape Colony a very bad name.

Otherwise she was a normal high-g colony ship, a great gravity drive starship

the size and shape of a small moon, stuffed with colonists and equipment, set to

double Ariel's human population as soon as room could be made below.

The virtual conference with the colonial leaders was a bust. They might as well

be talking to Bugs. The Settler leaders knew all about Llenor. If Medusa did not

immediately court-martial her on kidnapping charges, they should hand her over

for execution.

Captain Suzuki tried to explain that they were seeking something more like a

review, with a chance for a pardon, or a commuted sentence.

Impossible. The best they could offer was to retry her, noting she had already

lost a virtual appeal to the high court on Mt. Zion. The colonists were more

concerned with laying hands on Amanda -- for jail break, hijacking, and going

AWOL. Warrants were also out for Evie, Lilith, and Lucifer, all listed as

accomplices. And for Marilyn, who had broken a valid brothel contract. (Defoe

was amazed not to see Elvis and Priscilla on the list.) Did he have any idea

where the Princess Lisa-Marie had been headed? They could not fathom why Defoe

was reluctant to turn in people who saved his life.

Luckily he was only aboard in 3V. Otherwise he would never have gotten off Cape

Colony. But it was hard to lay hands on a bolo.

He and Suzuki winked back aboard Medusa. Defoe grimaced, "That was an unpleasant

waste of time. Those fools are utterly out of it. Not even in near orbit. A new

trial from the same Settler courts. What a farce."

His Captain agreed. "Why put her through the agony? Better to just fry her

ourselves. Dump her out over Dayside, and be done with it."

Defoe stared at her. "You're all heart."

"Comes with the job," Suzuki assured him.

"Doesn't anyone in the Home Systems see the senselessness of sending gun-toting

Humanists to a world full of folks they hate?"

Suzuki shook her head. "Nobody sent them. They wanted to come here. Everyone

aboard the Cape Colony is an enthusiastic volunteer."

"Then why don't Home System authorities try to stop them?"

Suzuki shrugged, "I suppose they find them as obnoxious as we do."

"Shit." There was nothing like a sympathetic talk with the Settlers for

instilling mad helpless rage. Defoe kept thinking about Llenor, alone in the

brig. They had taken off the helmet and cuffs, but she was still locked in a

signal-proof cell waiting to die for something she did not do. While that young

colonist who murdered the hermaphrodite and serving girl was probably relaxing

in his cabin, facing at worst a reprimand. Or maybe a good conduct citation.

Defoe started pacing the command deck. "We have to do something."

"Like what?" Captain Suzuki followed him with her eyes.

"Stop them ourselves," he suggested.

"How?"

"We have the power. This ship is armed to the molars with warheads, smart bombs,

Osiris missiles, toothy marines..."

"It does not work that way," Suzuki patiently explained. "Our job is to make

sure Ariel is settled, not to see justice done. That's up to the inhabitants."

"But Ariel is already settled." By clones, Chimps, Thais, greenies, and whatnot.

"Sparsely inhabited, by whoever or whatever happened to be at hand. These people

are as much a part of a transition ecology as the giant trees and flying

megafauna. Ariel's biosphere is expanding, the surface will someday be

habitable; and Settlers already have the votes to elect any government they

want. Cape Colony is hardly the end of it. More ships are on the way."

"Yeah," Defoe agreed. "But what would Elvis say?"

"Elvis?" Suzuki laughed. "Don't try to tell me you're a Believer now."

"Not really." He stopped pacing and stared at her. "But we have to take some

responsibility. The human race has to be more than an ingenious means of

spreading intestinal bacteria to the stars."

Suzuki sighed. "You're taking this too hard."

Defoe nodded. He was taking it damn hard. Llenor was going to die for crimes he

was a thousand percent sure she did not do. People who put themselves on the

line to help him would be hunted down for their pains. And the slaughter he had

seen at Shangtu was set to spread throughout the planet. It made him want to

scream.

"You've been through a lot," Suzuki suggested.

No argument there.

"Look, I'll hold onto Llenor as long as I can," she suggested. "Maybe go through

the motions of a court martial. Meanwhile, take some R and R. Use the gig to go

to Pair-a-Dice. Come back when you feel more yourself."

He nodded. That sounded semi-reasonable, but at best it was a stall. Suzuki

would eventually turn Llenor over to the Settlers. He could see it in her face.

"And one more thing..."

"What's that?"

"Stay off the religious channel. Captain's orders. That's an electronic sham put

over on the faithful. A computer-generated religion, with hologram deities and a

simulated hereafter."

"Right." Nothing like being mothered by his Captain. "But tell me something. How

did you know I would be at Shangtu?"

Suzuki shrugged, "That was strange. The Militia started planning to hit Shangtu

as soon as they lost Subsolar Station -- to get a permanent foothold on the

plateau. Then we got a tip telling us to look for you in the house of Ro Dae Ho.

It came in scrambled using our own codes, and had everything, time, date, even

your private ID prefix. We thought it had to be from you. The attack was

adjusted accordingly."

Strange? Maybe. Extra weird was more like it. Who could have made that call? He

certainly hadn't.

Captain Suzuki arched an eyebrow, "Any explanation?"

"Someone's looking out for me." Defoe left the cabin, and then the ship.

Pair-a-Dice did not make him feel a whit better. The sprawling pleasure island

and yacht harbor occupied a geosync point attached to Freeport by the

Pair-a-Dice beanstalk. Empty space had been turned into a freeform collection of

bars, 3V brothels, Feelie palaces and gambling arcades, serving no socially

redeeming purpose except to scramble unsuspecting neurons.

Defoe stayed resolutely away from the real stuff, inhabiting the most honky-tonk

holo bars, with 3V effects too shoddy to be taken seriously. The last thing he

wanted was to end up spilling his guts to some sympathetic whore. Some lost and

likeable girl who would agree that life was totally rotten, but if he could just

find it in his heart to fuck her and forget Llenor he would feel lots better.

Instead he ended up at Any Way You Want It. The autobar served home-brewed

bourbon, and hologram hookers took the customers into chat rooms for ultrasafe

sex --with everything from orchestrated accompaniment to 3V barnyard animals.

Just the sort of absolute seediness Defoe desperately needed.

He had ordered his umpteenth bourbon when an especially lovely holo flicked into

being beside him. Turning to shoo her away, he tried to tell her he was busy

maintaining his blood alcohol. But before the sentence got half out he stopped,

staring at the holo.

It was Amanda. She was not wearing her powder blue uniform or machine pistol --

just some strategically placed sequins. But there was no mistaking that angelic

face. She nodded toward the chat rooms, "We need to talk."

Defoe found an empty cubical, sealed the door, and sat down on the futon without

bothering to remove the plastic cover. "Sober yourself up,' she told him.

Chat rooms came equipped with medikits, just in case. He strapped one on,

setting it for detox. The bourbon melted away. Instead of being drunk, he was

just miserable.

"I warned you," she reminded him.

"But it was not my fault." That sounded horribly hollow.

"Right. Otherwise you would be seeing me in person. Now what are you going to do

about it?"

"What can I do?"

"Getting falling down drunk won't help." She shook her blonde head. "Look, I had

a lover named Kia. We were crazy about each other. So much in love they had to

kill one of us to keep us apart. Don't let that happen to you."

"How can I stop it?"

"Start by going to Graceland. No better place to take your troubles than

straight to the King."

Amanda looked dead serious, though she had never seemed the religious type.

There were Graceland Shrines all over Human Space, some small and shabby, others

huge and garish. Defoe had even seen the original one on Old Earth, still

preserved at the heart of Greater Memphis. The Pair-a-Dice shrine looked nothing

like that stone and brick mansion under glass. Designed to blend with the local

decor, the Pair-a-Dice shrine was a glittering hologram copy of the legendary

Las Vegas Hilton, pulsing to the beat of "Heartbreak Hotel."

Worshipers checked in through a plush antique lobby, served by old-fashioned

elevators. Defoe was ushered straight up to the Imperial Suite. The Las Vegas

strip shone in towering neon through wraparound windows. Elvis was there, in

white and gold regalia, rings sparkling on his fingers. With him was preacher

Rick, wearing his suit-of-lights.

Elvis grinned, "Good ta see ya, son. Ready to go into action?"

"Doing what?' Defoe felt absurdly foolish, asking advice from a holo --but this

is what it had come to.

"Doing what's right," Elvis replied. "You've lost the most precious thing on the

planet...'

"We're not on a planet,' Defoe pointed out. They were in a hologram hotel on a

geosync station, connected to Ariel by thousands of klicks of beanstalk.

"Don't matter. You've lost a loving woman. Ain't nothin' in the whole cosmos as

important as that. Believe me, the King knows what that's like. People like ta

pretend otherwise, but it's women that make the galaxy go round. That's why you

have to revere and respect 'em. And be ready to do right by 'em. Llenor is some

special woman. You know that, don't you?"

Defoe said he did.

"So, are you set to do right?"

"How?"

"By going and getting her."

"And then what?" Even if he could get Llenor out of the Medusa's brig, she would

still be wanted under Settler Law. Every station, every beanstalk, every ship

headed outsystem would be closed to them. They would have nowhere to go, with

the Militia at their heels. Even Suzuki would be honor-bound to help track them

down.

Brother Rick chuckled. "I know it seems like the whole universe is against you.

But remember -- you got the King in your corner."

Fine. Easy for him to say. He was a holo in a make-believe hotel. Defoe could

not simply escape to some virtual neverland.

"That's the truth," Elvis assured him. "Get Llenor, and everything will turn out

right."

"She's in a locked cell."

Elvis smirked. "Rick will be with you. Won't you, Rick?" His stepbrother nodded.

"And we got gigarams of memory backing us. What's a few little door locks?

C'mon, son, get your show on the road."

Utter madness. But in minutes Defoe was back aboard the gig, headed for Medusa.

Rick was with him, ready for action, having exchanged his suit-of-lights for

jeans and an Elvis windbreaker. He grinned at Defoe. "Nervous?"

Defoe nodded. It was halfway through the midwatch. Things aboard ship should be

quiet. But...

"Don't sweat it," Rick advised. "Nobody will see me but you. As soon as you get

to your cabin, key into your terminal. I'll take it from there."

He nodded again. Defoe did not think they would have much trouble breaking into

the brig. The locks were keyed to keep prisoners in, not to keep ship's officers

out. It was what would happen afterward that had him worried.

"Look." Rick warmed to his sermon. "I know it ain't easy being touched by the

King. Look at me. I lost my dad -- my real dad. Everyone knows I'm Elvis's

step-brother. But that was not good enough for Elvis. He made me his brother.

His dad became my dad. An' when he took me on the road as a teenager, I nearly

lost my mom too. Sometimes you just have to do what's right, and say to hell

with the rest."

Defoe did not reply. He was blowing his bridges behind him. Giving up

everything. And for what?

A marine guard met him at the lock, muscles rippling beneath her fur. The

saber-toothed female purred happily, "Been having fun?" She was being polite;

SuperCats did not give a thin damn what Homo sapiens did off-duty.

"Just the usual." Defoe doubted she could recognize a guilty look. Biosensors

would show he was hiding something. But anyone who came back from Pair-a-Dice

without something to be ashamed of had thoroughly wasted his R and R.

He went to his cabin, doused the lights, and set the door to "Do not disturb."

As if he meant to sleep it off. Pulling his personal terminal over to the bed,

he opened it to a Pair-a-Dice channel. A silent message flashed onscreen,

"Shake, Rattle, and Roll."

Defoe eased out the door. Hiding in his flight suit was the stinger Ro Dae Ho

had given to Llenor -- and Rowlf had given to him. Rick met him halfway to the

brig. "Set the stinger for stun. There's one guard, and the lock's coded to take

your thumb print."

Defoe nodded, nervously palming the stinger in his left hand.

A SuperCat lounged by the brig lock. "What goes, human?"

"Come to take the prisoner to a face-to-face interrogation. Here's my

authorization." Holding out a memory card with his right hand, to get the

saber-tooth's attention, he triggered the stinger with his left.

A heat-seeking hornet homed in on the surprised SuperCat, knocking him out

before he could snarl a complaint.

Slinging the sleeping saber-tooth over his shoulder, Defoe thumbed the lock.

Llenor was in the first cell. There were no other prisoners--until now Medusa

had been a very law abiding ship. He thumbed the cell lock, and the door

dilated.

She shot him a very surprised look. He must have been a sight showing up at her

cell door with a Homo smilodon slumped over his shoulder, accompanied by a

grinning archangel in blue jeans and an Elvis jacket. But she had sense enough

not to shout about it, helping him lay the SuperCat down on her bed-pad.

Then he took her hand. Neither dared speak. Who knew what might set off an

alarm? But they could kiss. And did. Not a lingering first kiss, like the last

one. This one was quick and delicious. Making Defoe wish they had not wasted all

that time talking aboard the Lisa-Marie. Rick discreetly disappeared.

Giving a squeeze that meant, "Follow me," he led Llenor out of the brig, sealing

the doors behind them, headed for the control deck. Getting Llenor sprung was

the easy part -- now they badly needed somewhere to run to. Going back to the

gig was pointless; the little low-g runabout could not take them far enough.

Medusa could home in on the gig's emissions, letting Suzuki either hunt them

down or cancel his contract with an antimatter warhead. Defoe's sole choice was

to take over the ship.

Signaling Llenor to stand out of sight, he thumbed the control deck lock. The

bridge door dilated. The watch officer, a comtech named Ducey, looked up and

smiled. He never got a chance to say hello. Defoe fired as he stepped in, and

Ducey slumped in his seat. Llenor scooted through the door, sealing the lock

behind her.

Defoe immediately disengaged the autopilot, taking over control. He had to give

the crew no time to react. Hitting the manual override on DAMAGE CONTROL, he

ordered the keel companionway to decompress. Alarms dopplered through the

Medusa. Defoe sounded GENERAL QUARTERS, sending everyone scrambling to their

action stations. But with the keel companionway decompressed, Suzuki and the

control crew would have to suit up to get to the bridge.

Anxious calls came in, which he studiously ignored, using the anti-virus

defenses to seal off communications -- isolating the various action stations, as

if they were infected by an outside attack. All orders now had to come from the

command deck.

He gave everyone a couple more seconds to suit up and get to their stations,

then he started jettisoning sections of the ship. All action stations doubled as

escape pods, and in an emergency could be ejected into orbit. So far as Defoe

could see, this qualified as a dire emergency.

Llenor helped him strap the sleeping Ducey into one of the bridge escape pods.

Then Defoe ejected him as well, emptying the ship. Leaving them alone, in a much

reduced Medusa. The armed merchant cruiser had been stripped down to her command

deck, main engines, anti-matter tanks, and armory, with its stock of Osiris

missiles. For the moment at least, Defoe had complete command of the most

powerful fighting machine insystem. Not a responsibility he craved.

"Well done, son." Elvis sat in the command couch, which was tilted back and

turned to face the cabin, an electric guitar cradled in his lap. He looked

almighty pleased. "The King himself could not have done it more neatly."

Defoe glared at the 3V intrusion. "Don't be so modest. This is what you wanted.

What you aimed at all along." He felt silly arguing with a holo.

"Close enough," Elvis admitted.

Defoe snorted. He had been had. Outwitted by a brainless holo, backed by

gigarams of computing capacity. Defoe cursed whoever first taught computers to

play chess. He turned to look at Llenor, who had her green eyes fixed on Elvis.

"How much of this were you in on?"

She tore her gaze off the King, asking, "What do you mean?"

Defoe studied her innocent-looking face, with its tattooed list of heinous

crimes. Could she have been conning him too? Defoe hated to believe it. He could

still taste her latest kiss, but did not know how much to trust her. "You really

don't know?"

She shook her head, looking genuinely mystified.

Defoe waved at Elvis lounging in the command couch, tuning his virtual guitar.

"He put us here."

"Hey," Elvis looked up from the guitar. "You did most of this yourself. A damn

good job too. The King's proud of you."

Llenor smiled quizzically, "Of course he did. He's the King."

Right. Defoe sighed. She still earnestly meant to make a Believer out of him. "I

mean he planned all this from the moment I touched down on the plateau -- maybe

even before. The Coronet crash. Chimps going berserk. The chase. You saving me.

Our trip to Shangtu. The Militia attack. Your capture. My saving you..."

"Hold on," Elvis objected, "the Militia made that attack on their own. I've got

no hold on them. And those Chimps were only supposed to spook you."

"They did that," Defoe admitted.

"But that massacre was their notion. You can't always tell what an ape will do.

Did I ever tell you about Scatter? He was just your normal ape, no human genes,

but he used to eat with a fork. Drinkin' bourbon at the table. One time..."

Defoe cut the story short. "But you did tell Suzuki that I would be at the House

of Ro Dae Ho. You set up Llenor, getting her arrested, and taken aboard ship,

forcing me to come after her."

"I don't remember anyone twisting your arm." Elvis turned to Llenor, looking

genuinely contrite. Cockiness vanished, replaced by country boy sincerity. "Miss

Llenor, I am truly sorry for what you were put through to get here. If there

were any other way, believe me, we would have done it differently."

Defoe fumed. He was seeing the King's legendary style with women, sincere,

attentive, respectful, and immensely successful.

It certainly worked with Llenor. She forgave Elvis at once. "We're here. We have

the ship. That's what matters." Then she turned to Defoe, taking his hand,

pulling him to her. The King might be irresistible, but he was still only a

hologram. Llenor wanted the real thing.

Her arm went around Defoe's waist, pressing her body against his. For all her

guileless youth, she was a ship's captain, accustomed to getting what she

wanted. She spoke softly and sincerely, "I did not plan any of this -- but I'm

glad it happened. This ship has been our greatest fear, hanging overhead, loaded

with death."

"A real sword of Damocles." Elvis grinned.

Defoe ignored him, completely taken by the woman in his arms. They were right.

Medusa and her anti-matter arsenal had become a sword hanging over everyone.

Suzuki herself said the ship would never be used to bring justice, just to see

that people obeyed. Now he had that power in his hands. What should he do with

it? Bomb the Militia bases? Threaten to blow up Cape Colony? Unthinkable. He did

not want such power. No one should have it. He stared at Llenor. "So now what?"

She looked to Elvis.

The King struck a chord on his guitar, then pretended to adjust the tuning. "I

think you know what we need to do."

She looked back at Defoe. "Take her down."

"Crash her?" Medusa was not made to enter atmosphere.

Looking up, Elvis agreed, "Only way to level the playing field. So long as this

ship hangs over the planet, no one below gets a fair shake."

Defoe had been thinking more along the lines of heading outsystem at as near to

light speed as they could go. But where would they head in a hijacked starship?

Not for the bright lights of civilization. They'd have to go deeper into the

Outback, looking to lose themselves in some untamed system.

Llenor saw no need for that. Ariel was as untamed and Outback as they come. And

what better place to get lost than on her home planet? He stared at her. Damn.

He did not mean to be a hero. Much less a martyr. Defoe did not like giving up

everything for folks he did not know, and was never likely to meet. But did he

have any choice?

He let go of Llenor. Whatever happened, he did not want to blame it on her, even

subconsciously. Llenor was already overburdened with other people's mistakes. He

settled into the co-pilot's couch, thinking how much he had wanted a ship of his

own. Now he had one.

Elvis looked over from the command couch, leaning on his guitar. "Must be a

rush."

"What?"

"Flying a ship like this."

Defoe smiled. "Makes everything else seem to be standing still." A high-g

starship literally slowed down the universe. No one could ever catch him. In a

matter of months ship-time he could be at the fringes of the galaxy, headed for

Andromeda, or the Magellanic Clouds. But that meant eternal exile. Among beings

that made SuperChimps seem like kissing cousins.

He reached out and took the controls. "Of course, near light-speeds don't muss

your hair." Medusa could take you halfway across the cosmos in living room

comfort. "The only way to get a feeling of speed is to aim her at something big,

then open the throttle."

"Like a planet." Elvis grinned.

Like Ariel. He looked at Llenor. She came over to sit on the arm of the command

couch, putting her hand on his shoulder. Defoe engaged the gravity drive,

throwing Medusa out of orbit, sending them plunging toward the planet.

"What is your point of impact?" Llenor asked quietly, showing a pilot's

professional interest.

Defoe had plenty of planet to pick from. All of Darkside was virtually

uninhabited. Even on Dayside, inhabited points were few and far between.

Wherever they hit, it would be a huge bang. The missile warheads were bad

enough, but the ship's own anti-matter tanks were even more explosive. It would

be like an asteroid impact.

He gave her coordinates for a point beyond the Great Reach, on the far side of

the Subsolar Plateau halfway to the Twilight Belt. She nodded. "Good choice."

"The nearest populated point will be the Dayside Archipelago, a quarter of the

planet away. They should be safe enough." Unlike an asteroid impact, most of the

energy from anti-matter explosion would be released as hard radiation, deflected

into space. He sat back to watch Ariel's white image grow larger in the screens,

blanking out the stars.

Elvis started strumming his guitar, plunking out the most mournful, hillbilly,

Bug hollow version of "My Darlin' Clementine:"

"Inn-ahh Can-yun,

Inn-ahh Cavv-errn,

Ex-cav-vate-in' for ah mine,

Dwell-t ah Mi-ner

For-tee-nine-er

An' his daugh-ah-t-er

Clemm-enn-tine..."

Their fall became a plummet. Medusa hit the first tenuous layers of atmosphere

and corona flared up to fill the screens. Elvis raised the beat, rapping out the

chorus in time to the "Ode to Joy" from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony:

"Oh-my-Darlin'

Oh-my-Darlin'

Oh-my-Darlin'

Clem-en-tine,

Thou-art-lost-and-gone-forever,

Dread-ful-sorrow-Clem-en-tine..."

Incandescent air surrounded the ship, cutting off all incoming signals. The King

flickered and vanished. Communications blackout. Elvis had left the building.

Defoe and Llenor were alone in the falling starship. She reached down to take

his hand, as the cabin began to bounce and vibrate around them. Soon pieces

would start to fly off.

He looked up at her, "Time we left too." He had been holding off until the last

nanosecond, making sure that nothing would pull the spacecraft out of her dive.

Unsealing an escape pod, they crawled inside. The pod was not really built for

two -- but they were not about to be separated. Being bigger, Defoe wedged

himself into the seat. Llenor climbed in onto his lap, sealing the hatch behind

her. He had to reach around her to get at the armrest controls.

Then he waited. Exiting the ship had to be neatly timed. If he ejected too soon,

there was a chance he could be tracked. Cape Colony was below the horizon, and

Pair-a-Dice beanstalk was on the wrong side of the planet -- but someone might

still be looking clown from orbit. He meant to cover his escape by waiting until

the ship started to break and burn.

Of course if he waited too long, he and Llenor would be crushed and fried.

He had to make this delicate decision with Llenor sitting on his lap. It was the

most intimate moment they had ever shared -- crammed together into a capsule not

meant for two. Defoe struggled to concentrate on the capsule, which was bouncing

about as Medusa began to break up. Now or never. He hit pod. eject, and they

went flying out of the wreck.

Great. Though that was just half of it. To be really safe, they had to eject

from the pod as well. The pod slowing for a soft landing would stand out like a

signal flare amid the swiftly failing wreckage. A sure sign someone was inside,

riding the pod down. But the two of them --using a chute pack -- would be radar

invisible, barely leaving a trace.

The pod stabilized, no longer bounced about by the disintegrating ship. As he

snapped the chute pack harness to his flight suit, Defoe realized that even

though the pod had righted itself, Llenor was still shaking. With her face

turned away, it was hard to tell if she was frightened, sobbing, or going into

shock.

Shit. What should he do? She had been through enough to drive the average person

schizo. And now he was getting ready to blow them both out of the falling

capsule. What if she panicked and could not hold on?

She twisted about to look at him. Defoe saw she was giggling. Her giggle turned

into a laugh. Leaning closer, she stopped long enough to whisper, "Love me

tender."

"I'll try," he told her. "Now hold tight." She grabbed his flight suit. Putting

his arms around her, he triggered the release, hurtling them out of the capsule

and into the screaming slipstream.

Wham. The howling rush of air hit like a wall, nearly ripping Llenor out of his

arms. Then they were falling free.

He pulled the chute release. Another thump, and they were floating down, using

the chute lines to head for the Subsolar Plateau. Far over the horizon,

somewhere on the black, burning moonscape beneath the cloud plain, a mushroom

cloud rose above Medusa's impact point.

Red-blonde sand rushed up to meet them. They hit, and Llenor bounced free. Defoe

rolled on impact, staying loose, trying not to break anything vital. Picking

himself up, he wiped grit out of his mouth, thinking, "This is where I came in."

Llenor came over and helped him out of his chute harness. Then they used the

folding shovel from the survival pack to bury their chute. Llenor carefully

divided the contents of the survival pack between them, making sure he was not

carrying more than her. Defoe realized he was going to have to get used to

having her next to him, making decisions, doing things for him that he had

always done for himself.

Setting off together under the near-noon sun, they headed for the pockets of

habitation along the plateau edge. Before they got even halfway, Princess

Lisa-Marie nosed over the horizon, looking to pick up another couple of

outcasts.