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  “No life support?” she whispered.

  “Bastards,” he muttered, and he grabbed her again by the arm and pulled her forward. “Come on!”

  They ran. Long steps, leaping steps, made possible by the lo-G of the docking ring. Ahead of them two air locks yawned wide; he motioned her past them. “Not those.” It seemed to her that over the pounding of her heart and the slap of her feet on the metal mesh flooring she could now hear something else: footsteps behind them, coming closer. Voices. Corporate raiders?

  Run! her own voices urged, terrifying in their unity.

  She ran.

  By the time they reached the place where the pods were docked she was out of breath, and her legs ached from the unnatural strain of the lo-G run. She watched as her tutor readied the nearest pod for flight, noting with cold misgiving that it was a singler. He was sending her off alone, then. To where? For what?

  Not alone. She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t go.

  Trust him, the voices urged.

  “Get inside, Jamie.”

  He was her tutor, her friend, the closest thing to a father she’d ever had. She wanted to trust him. But to go out there alone, without a word of explanation ... “Where are you sending me?” she begged. “What’s happening?”

  With a muttered oath of frustration he grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. This close, she could see that the wound on his face was some kind of burn. Blood dripped from the edge of it down the side of his face, soaking into his collar.

  “Listen to that!” He nodded back the way they had come, toward the voices that were steadily approaching. “They’re here because they want you, Jamie. Do you understand? They want your brain and what’s in it, and they don’t care what they have to do to get it. Which is why my job was—”

  He stopped suddenly. A muscle in his jaw clenched tight.

  “To help me?”

  His eyes met hers, then looked away. “My job was to kill you,” he said hoarsely. “And God help me when Shido finds out I didn’t.” Gently but firmly he pushed her toward the pod. “Now go, Jamie.”

  Shaking, she clambered into the tiny vehicle. As she settled herself uncomfortably into its curved foam mattress, she could hear the distant sounds growing closer. Any minute now the enemy would come around the curve of the docking ring and see them. Any minute.

  “Why?” she begged him.

  “No time for that now.” He was setting the controls on the pod manually, his head still bare of any interface. “You’re carrying a program that’ll explain it all to you, all in the proper time. I made sure of that.”

  “Where are you sending me?”

  The footsteps were closer now, and shouted words could be heard to echo down the corridor. That way! Check the locks, sir? Hurry!

  “Up-and-out,” he said, keying in the final instructions. “There’s a metroliner on its way out of the Sol System now; you should be able to catch up to it in this.” He added hurriedly, forestalling her objection, “It’s the only place you’ll be safe, Jamie. Trust me.”

  Trust him, the inner voices chorused.

  “I do,” she choked out.

  “I altered the launch records; if they manage to track you at all they’ll think you went to Earth. By the time they discover that lie for what it is you’ll be well out of their reach. Here’s the data you’ll need.” He reached into the pod and pressed a small case into her hand; his own flesh was sweating. “Read through it as soon as you can, so that it’s familiar to you.” He hesitated, and for a moment she thought he was going to lean forward to kiss her good-bye, or pat her on the shoulder, or ... something. But instead he reached up to the door of the tiny vehicle and began to close it. “I’m sorry, Jamie. Forgive me.” He hesitated, then whispered, “Forgive us all.”

  The pod door snapped shut, sealing her inside the small vehicle. The voices beyond the door were muffled, as were several loud noises which followed, that might or might not have been explosions. Then absolute silence enveloped her as the air surrounding the pod was pumped out, leaving it in vacuum. She forced herself to breathe steadily as the pod began to move, feeling the mattress that surrounded her conform to her shape as the lauching programs kicked in. PHASE THREE STRESS, her wellseeker warned. ACTION?

  There was a sudden jerk as the pod was launched, like being kicked in the chest with an iron shoe. The mattress cradled her, absorbing the impact. ADJUST, she told it, visualizing the key icon in her mind’s eye. Deep within her brain the image triggered a flurry of electrical activity, biological and mechanical, and her brainware, which was a combination of both, took control. Her pulse slowed. Her blood pressure lowered. A thousand and one symptoms of stress released, dissolved, dissipated.

  Outside the small window—a token hole no larger than her face, its purpose not to afford a useful view as much as to counteract the effect of close confinement—she could see Shido Habitat falling away behind her, its sunward surfaces gleaming with liquid brilliance. Beyond it was the blue-and-white crescent of Earth, home to nearly ten billion souls. It and its habitats were the only home she had ever known, and now she was leaving them forever. The pain of it was a cold knot in her heart, only partly ameliorated by the flood of healing chemicals her brainware had loosed into her bloodstream. She could have asked it to do more for her, but she didn’t. What did a brainware network know about despair? How could it “adjust” for the nameless agony of losing everything and everyone you valued all at once, and not even knowing why?

  “Oh, God,” she whispered. Tears streamed down her face. TEAR DUCT OVERFLOW, the wellseeker informed her. ACTION? She wiped away the wetness with a shaking hand. There was a flash of light from the direction of Shido Habitat, but the satellite was behind her ship now, and so she couldn’t make out its cause. What’s going to happen to me? She hoped to God that her tutor was going to be okay. She knew, deep in her soul, that he wasn’t.

  My job was to kill you.

  Undetected, unpursued, the tiny pod fled Earth’s crowded skies, and headed toward the up-and-out.

  There are those who would pay a fortune to discover how our outpilots navigate the ainniq, and many have devoted their lives to trying to guess the Guild’s secrets. Among such investigators there are two conflicting schools of thought:That the skills of the outpilots are a side effect of their unique genetic heritage, and cannot be duplicated by other races.

  That in fact it is some secret knowledge which makes the outships possible, and were others to discover Guera’s secrets, they could perhaps duplicate her success.

  Both are correct, of course.

  Not that this will help them.

  GUILDMISTRESS ALMA SARAJEVO

  “A Legacy of Silence”: Keynote address to the 274th Guildmaster Conclave; Tiananmen Station

  OUTSHIP: ORION

  ... MAYDAY ... MAYDAY...

  The station was so close now that its outer surface filled the screen, the docking port a gaping black cavern just ahead of them. The inpilot trembled as he balanced controlling icons in his head, struggling to bring the freighter in line with the grappling braces. “Approach verified,” he said at last. A small triumph. Three red lights on the console before him were blinking wildly, indicating systems that had gone down, but for now it looked like he had managed to work around them. Thank God for that, the freighter’s captain mused. Otherwise they might as well kiss all their precious cargo good-bye, and their asses along with it.

  “Clearance is ... acceptable.” The beads of sweat on the inpilot’s brow had merged into a tiny rivulet that trickled down the side of his face even as the freighter slid into dock. Too fast, too close; the captain could almost hear the screech of surfaces grinding together as the braces passed mere inches to port. There were four lights blinking now on the control panel, and according to the readout the damage for all those systems originated in the outbridge. If he turned up the sound on his sensor relay he could hear noises from within that chamber, banging and screaming and a high keen
ing sound that might or might not be of human origin. His outpilot had gone off the deep end, that was sure. The only question was how much damage he had done in this fit of his, and how much more he would get a chance to do before his Guild got him under control.

  ... GUILD EMERGENCY IN DOCKING BAY 306 YELLOW, SUPPORT TEAM REPORT IMMEDIATELY... REPEAT, GUILD EMERGENCY IN DOCKING BAY 306 YELLOW...

  “We’re in.” The inpilot leaned back with a sigh as the braces took hold; the freighter shuddered briefly as they pulled it into proper alignment with the docking seals, then was still again. He tipped back his headset, letting the cool air inside the ship dry the sweat that had pooled beneath it. “Thank God.”

  “Yeah.” There were five lights blinking now, and God help that fucking Guild bastard if any of that meant there was permanent damage to his ship. “You feed ’em the protocols. I’m going to go find out what the hell happened down there.”

  ... MAYDAY... MAYDAY...

  The captain could hear the seals hissing as he exited the inbridge, ship’s pressure stabilizing to match that of the docking ring. At least that system was working, he thought grimly. At least his twenty-three pods of valuable merchandise had made it here in the right number of pieces, albeit they trailed out behind their lead ship like a snake with muscle spasms. It could be worse, he told himself. It could be a thousand times worse.

  He also thought: I’ll kill the Guild bastard.

  The door to the outbridge was sealed, of course; Guild pilots liked their privacy. Through it, he could hear some kind of banging, and that strange, high-pitched keening. He fumbled with the code panel set to one side, feeding it an override combination. Nothing happened. Damn! He tried another code, a secret priority combination that should have been able to override anything on the ship. Still the damned door didn’t budge. Whatever that bastard Guildsman was up to, he had locked himself in but good.

  In the distance he could hear the main air lock opening now, sharp voices asking directions, footsteps approaching. Guildsmen appeared, two of them, and their expressions were anything but sympathetic. “He’s locked himself inside,” the captain said as they approached, trying to sound belligerent rather than frightened. These two men, with their painted faces and black Guild robes, could make or break him at will. If they decided he had mistreated his outpilot, or otherwise broken Guild contract, there’d be no more transnodal shipping contracts for him. They’d see to it that he was stuck at this fucking station till hell froze over, if not longer. “Right after we pulled in, he seemed to have some kind of fit—” One of the men pushed him roughly aside and pulled out an instrument from the folds of his robe. “He’s damaged ship systems—”

  The instrument flared; the control panel by the door burst into sparks and smoke. “Wait a fucking minute, that’s my ship—” The Guildsman turned to the door, adjusted his instrument, and fired again. The solid surface began to shiver and melt and give way, until at last there was an opening large enough for a man’s arm to thrust through. The Guildsman did just that. Smoke rose from his black sleeve where it rested against the door as he fumbled with something beyond that barrier, or perhaps inside it—and then it moved suddenly and he pulled back, just in time for it to open without yanking his arm off.

  Inside the outbridge there was blood, blood everywhere, on the floor and the control module and even splattered across the ceiling. In the midst of it all a naked man thrashed and moaned, and it was clear now that the strange sounds picked up by the sensors had indeed come from him. He was human in shape, the captain noted, fury giving way to fascination for one brief instant. There were those who claimed that the Guerans were Variants in body as well as mind, but it sure didn’t look like that with this guy. As the two Guildsmen ran to their crazed comrade and struggled to get hold of him, the captain edged closer, trying to get a better view.

  The man was naked, his black uniform torn open and peeled back to reveal pallid skin. His face was painted with fine black lines according to Gueran tradition, but the pattern had been so smeared with blood that there was no making out what it was. And as for the body itself ... that was covered with a network of crisscrossed mutilations, jagged tattoos and scarifications that depicted images out of nightmare, staring eyes and barbed wheels and a hand with blood pouring out of its center. There was real blood pouring from the man’s left arm, where he had apparently ripped the skin open with his own nails and teeth, and as the first Guildsman pressed a trank gun to his neck, his inarticulate screaming at last became words, “It’s inside me! They put it inside me!” Madly he struggled to claw at his arm again, to dig even deeper; the Guildsman tried to get hold of his wrist even as the tranquilizer hissed into his veins. “Got to get it out!” he sobbed.

  And then the trank kicked in, and his struggles ceased. His reddened eyes turned upward, then closed. His flailing limbs shuddered, then lay limp and still. The nearer Guildsman looked up and saw the captain standing there; his painted countenance scowled.

  “This is Guild business!” He stood and moved so fast that the stunned captain hardly saw it; a gloved hand slammed hard into his chest and sent him stumbling back into the corridor. The Guildsman returned to his duties then, as quietly and as calmly as if nothing had happened at all. For a moment the captain just stood there, stunned, fuming. They had no right. They had no goddamn right! But you didn’t argue with Guildsmen. You just didn’t. Not even when they blasted through a door of your freighter. Not even when their crazy pilot fucked up the controls of your ship, and God alone knew how bad the damage was or how much it would cost to repair. You just didn’t argue with them, not ever.

  They were carrying the wounded man now, wrapped in his torn black robe like a shroud. A clearflesh bandage had been slapped on his wound to stop the bleeding, but they’d have to cut it off later to fix the damage; right now the arm looked like so much shredded meat. The outpilot was muttering unintelligible things and now and then his body spasmed as if in some unspeakable agony, but on the whole the tranquilizer seemed to be working. Thank God for that, anyway.

  The captain took a quick look inside the outbridge, darkly assessing the magnitude of the damage; then he hurried after the Guildsmen. They had been met by two more of their kind at the air lock, to whom they were handing over their bleeding charge. A number of the freighter’s crewmen had gathered to watch, but none dared come too close; it wasn’t unknown for the Guild to blacklist men who got in their way, so that no ship carrying them could ever hire an outpilot. A hell of a threat.

  The Guildsman who had first entered the ship turned to the captain. “We’ll have to go over his log to find out what happened. We’ll let you know as soon as possible whether or not you’ve been cleared of responsibility.”

  “What about my ship?”

  The Guildsman glared. His kaja-pattern, sharp and predatory, made his expression five times more fierce than a mere human glare could ever be. “He brought you through the ainniq? Back into safespace?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Your cargo is intact? Your people are unharmed?”

  “Yes, but the damage—”

  “He satisfied Guild contract.” He turned away sharply, dismissively. “The ship is your problem.”

  And then he was gone. They all were gone. There was only the captain and his crew left, and a few thin drops of blood marking the path the Guildsmen had taken back to their headquarters.

  “Sir?”

  Shaking with rage (and with fear, though he’d never admit to the latter) he turned his attention back to his crew. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up before we unload,” he said sharply. “You and you, see to the outbridge. You—” he pointed to his first mate, “—run a diagnostic and find out what the hell he did to our control system. Get me a printout and damage cost estimate within the hour.”

  “Yessir.”

  Damn the Guild. Damn their arrogance, damn their greed ... damn, most of all, their power. That more than anything.

  “Bastards,” he mutte
red.

  And then Mankind took his machines and he split the skies asunder, and he sent into God’s heavens his ships and his machines and all the unclean things of the Earth.

  He set foot upon the planets which God had not meant for his use.

  He painted the heavens black with his pride and his arrogance.

  He angered the Lord in those and a thousand ways, until the Lord spake unto him, and said,

  Behold, I gave you Babel, and you did not heed My warning.

  You built a Tower unto the skies and I divided you into myriad peoples, that you might know shame and be humbled before your God.

  Now you build something greater than a tower, that intrudes into My very heavens.

  Now I shall divide you again, but not merely by speech, nor by color.

  Now you shall be not one species but many, and each shall hate and fear the others, and the seed that is shared between them shall be barren. So shall you be divided until the end of time, that you may remember My wrath.

  And he set the mark of Hausman into their flesh, so that all might know their shame. And those who were loyal to His name, who remained upon Earth, were untouched by his curse, and might bear children as they chose, for such was the sign of His favor.

  Colonies 11:21-30

  METROLINER: AURORA

  THREE DAYS in a pod. There was barely enough room to turn around, not nearly enough space to work out her cramped muscles and stretch a bit. A singler pod was meant for trips to other habitats, and maybe—just maybe—a rare jaunt to Earth. It wasn’t designed for spending three days in space, and people weren’t designed for spending three days in it.