"Together with this bitch you're in love with!" Zehava spun to face the casket, reaching for the controls. "Take her with you!"

Yemm fired as Dumarest lunged towards her, aiming for his elbow, hitting the woman instead. A wound masked by a gust of sparkling vapour which fumed from the opening lid to expand in a scintillating cloud. Dumarest slammed shut his helmet, seeing Zehava stagger, a burned hole marring her forehead, twisting as she fell towards him. A numbness touched his face, stung his eyes, caused him to stumble and Yemm, immune to the vapour, to miss as he fired again. Dumarest straightened, lifting the dead woman, using her as a shield. Throwing the body as Yemm burned dead flesh and, too late, tried to jump clear. Dumarest closed the gap between them, hands reaching, striking, feeling the snap of bone as he broke the neck.

Within the casket, wreathed in sparkling vapour, the woman stirred, rose, smiling as she opened emerald eyes.

Kalin!

His love, resurrected and reaching for him with inviting arms.

An illusion induced by the touch of vapour he had inhaled. One compounded by a dizzy nausea as he ran from the hold, the sparkling vapour, the dream of love which had haunted him for so long. The bait of the trap now about to close around him.

The opening of the casket would have commenced the cycle activating the drive. The only hope of escape lay in speed.

Dumarest raced to the emergency hatch, pass through it and stared at the other ship. The line which had connected the two vessels had vanished. Yemm's work, the reason why he had destroyed the suit-line and reaction pistol. As he had destroyed the radio with his second shot leaving Dumarest with no way to summon help and only one way to reach safety. He crouched, flexing his knees, aiming at the distant bulk of the Geniat, the dark patch of its open port. With all his strength he kicked himself into the void.

Watching the growing bulk of the vessel he knew he would miss.

His suit carried nothing he could remove. To flail his limbs would generate axial motion and nothing else. To change direction he needed reaction mass; something to throw so as to move in the opposite direction. Staring at the port he judged space and time, watching as the dark blotch moved relentlessly up and to one side. He would barely miss the hull, but it was enough to send him to drift for eternity.

He ignored the sick tension of his stomach, the dryness of his mouth, concentrating on the thin hiss of air as it passed from the tanks into his suit. Adjusting the valves he increased the flow and felt the pressure hard against his ears. Twisting he rotated his body and watched a moving vista as he waited for the critical moment.

The bulk of the ship passed before him, the open port, the emptiness of space. The ship again, the port, again the void.

Dumarest counted the time of rotation, noting his position in relation to the port, his apparent velocity. Waiting until he dared wait no longer then, with a twisting wrench, unlocked his helmet and tore it free.

Air gusted past his head to dissipate in the void. Mass which acted as a weak blast to send him towards the ship, the open port. A haven which he approached far too slowly. The helmet was added mass. Dumarest threw it from him, twisting to face the port as it came close, grabbing desperately at the rim. Blood roared in his ears as he pulled himself into the vestibule and twice he missed the handle. At the third attempt he found it, pulled it down, fell to roll in agony as the outer door closed, air blasting from vents to fill the compartment, his starved lungs.

Chapter Fifteen

The cabin held soft memories, as silken as the flesh he had touched, as sweet as the taste of yielding lips. Lying on the bunk, Nadine at his side, Dumarest looked at the drifting swathes of color from her crystal lamp. Shifting hues designed to induce calmness leading to sleep, but for him they did the reverse, painting images which illuminated the bulkhead as they burned in his memory.

Chapman's anger at having lost his salvage. The Evoy had vanished before Dumarest had returned to safety and he had said nothing of the bomb he had planted and would have detonated had the captain insisted on pandering to his greed. Zehava's betrayal and he wondered if all her passion had been pretense. It was possible, hate and love were, at times, very close and her final action had revealed a latent jealousy. To destroy someone she could never have and made sure he would never get.

The cycle moved on, turning the cabin into a place of magic, of untrammeled fantasy. He followed a band of emerald and was reminded of eyes. Of scarlet which was the hue both of hair and blood. Pearl was translucent skin. Blue the color of skies in which fleecy clouds drifted in regal detachment. Green became precious patches of grass. White became silver shining from a swollen moon.

Images of home, but soon they would be more than that.

"Earl?" Beside him Nadine whispered his name as she moved to press tighter against him. A woman still almost asleep. One hovering on the edge of nightmare. She reared, gasping, crying his name.

"Earl! My God! Your face!"

One carmined with the blood oozing from ears and nose, lips and eyes. Minor wounds from burst capillaries which had quickly healed, but which had given him the mask of a demon. One from which Badwasi had recoiled when warned of potential danger. Which had forced Chapman to accept his version of the truth. Which had enhanced even further his reputation among the Kaldari.

"Easy." He stroked her hair, soothing her with touch and words as he would calm a frightened animal. "It's all right now. It's all right."

"I love you, darling. I shall always love you. I know I'm not like that woman in the casket but -"

"Later." His fingers rested on her lips. "We'll talk later. Go back to sleep now. Sleep…sleep…"

She sighed, yielding to his voice, the hypnotic compulsion of the swirling colors. A woman in love. One in whom restraints had been shattered by the impact of raw emotion and violent action. Spurs which had driven her from her paranoid fears to gain a new understanding. To reveal an unexpected beauty.

Why had she mentioned Kalin?

No, not Kalin, the facsimile in the casket. Only he had melded the two into one, demonstrating his weakness, his need. Things the Cyclan had used with calculated intent.

Yet was scarlet hair so important? Translucent skin? Emerald eyes? Long ago the woman who had worn that shape had taught him that outer appearance held little value. That the inner self transcended the superficial gloss of outer beauty. Would the facsimile have stood beside him? Worked for him? Saved him as Kalin had done?

Dumarest knew the answer as he knew it was long past time to bury the ghost which had haunted him for so long. The woman who had been a companion he would never forget had worn a lovely shell. The product of her use of the affinity twin, the secret of which she had passed to him at the end. But no shell could ever restore the woman who had worn it. Nothing ever replace the dust she had become. The dead should be left to rest. Ghosts should not be mourned when the living had so much to give.

Dumarest looked at Nadine where she lay at his side. Death had come too close and he had turned to her driven by a basic need. She had responded, asking no questions, making no demands. Guessing his trauma. Sensing his pain at rejection. Knowing his need of reassurance, of relief. Calming him when, again in nightmare, he had drifted in the void, stomach knotted with helpless fear, living only because he had reacted without fear or hesitation.

Subconsciously taking a gamble in which a quick end was balanced against potential survival. A gamble he had won as he had won so many others. Yet the biggest was still to come.