He found Quinn and Thorne both in the pilot’s compartment, along with Kimura the Yellow Squad commander. Quinn had taken over the shuttle’s communication station, her gray hood pushed back, sweat-soaked dark curls in disarray.

“Framingham! Report!” she was crying into the comm. “You’ve got to get into the air. Bharaputran airborne reinforcements are almost on top of you.”

Across the flight deck at the station opposite Quinn’s, Thorne monitored a tactical holovid. Two Dendarii colored dots, fighter shuttles, set upon but failed to break up an array of enemy shuttles passing a ghost city, astral projection of the live city turning below them. Mark glanced out the window past the pilots’ shoulders, but could not spot the originals in the sunlit morning smog. We have a downed-man recovery in progress, ma’am,” Framing-s voice returned. “One minute, till the squad gets back.”

“Do you have everyone else? Do you have Norwood? I can’t raise his helmet!”

There was a short delay. Quinn’s fists clenched, opened. Her finger-were bitten to red stumps.

Framingham’s voice at last. “We’ve got him now, ma’am. Got everyone–the quick and the dead alike, except for Phillipi. I don’t want to leave anyone for those bloody bastards if I can help it—” We have Phillipi.”

“Thank God! Then everyone’s accounted for. We have lift-off now, Captain Quinn.”

“That’s precious cargo, Framingham,” said Quinn. “We rendezvous in the Perigrine’s umbrella of fire. The fighter shuttles will guard your ass.” In the tac display, the Dendarii dots peeled away from the faltering enemy and left them behind. “What about your wings?”

“We’ll be right behind you. Yellow Squad bought us a first-class ticket home free. Home free is Fell Station.”

“And then we head out?”

“No. The Ariel took some damage, earlier. We’re docking.”

“Understood. See you there.”

The Dendarii formation came together at last, and began to boost hard. Mark fell into a station chair, and hung on. The fighter shuttles were more at risk from enemy fire than the drop shuttles, he feared, watching the tac display. One fighter shuttle was distinctly lagging. It clung close to the Yellow Squad’s craft. The formation slowed itself to its wounded member. But for once, things ran to plan. Bharaputran harriers dropped reluctantly behind as they broke ’f the atmosphere and into orbit.

Quinn rested her elbows for a weary moment on her console, and hid her red-and-white face in her hands, rubbing tender eyelids. Thorne sat silent. Quinn, Thorne, himself, all bore broken segments of that ribbon of blood. Like a red ribbon, binding them one to another.

Fell Station was coming up at last. It was a huge structure, the largest of the orbital transfer stations circling Jackson’s Whole, and House Fell’s headquarters and homei city. Baron Fell liked holding the high ground. In the delicate interlocking network of the Great Houses, House Fell probably held the most raw power, in terms of capacity for destruction. But raw destruction was seldom profitable, and coup was counted in coins, here. What coin were the Dendarii using to buy Fell Station’s help, or at least neutrality? The person of Baron Bharaputra, now secured in the cargo bay? What kind of bargaining chips were the clones, then, small change? And to think he’d despised the Jacksonians for being dealers in flesh.

Fell Station was just now passing out of the planet’s eclipse, the advancing line of sunlight dramatically unveiling its vast extent. They decelerated toward one arm, giving up direction to Fell’s traffic controllers and some heavily armed tugs which appeared out of nowhere to escort them. And there was the Peregrine, coasting in. The drop shuttles and the fighter shuttles all gavotted around their mother ship, coming meekly to their docking clamps. The Peregrine itself eased delicately toward its assigned mooring.

With a clank of the portside clamps and the hiss of flex-tube seals, they were home. In the cargo bay, the Dendarii expedited removal of the wounded to the Peregrine’s infirmary, then turned much more slowly and wearily to tie-down and clean-up chores. Quinn shot past them, Thorne close on her heels. As if pulled by that mortal red ribbon, Mark followed.

The goal of Quinn’s mad dash was the starboard side shuttle hatch, where Framingham’s shuttle was coming to dock. They arrived there just as the flex-tube seals were secured, then had to stand out of the way as the wounded were rushed out first. Mark was disturbed to recognize Trooper Tonkin, who had accompanied Norwood the medic, among them. Tonkin had reversed roles, from guard to patient. His face was dark and still, unconscious, as eager hands hustled him past and shifted him onto a float pallet. Something’s very wrong, here.

Quinn shifted impatiently from foot to foot. Other Dendarii troopers started to exit, herding clones. Quinn frowned, and shouldered upstream past them through the flex tube and into the shuttle.

Thorne and Mark went after her into free fall chaos. There were clone-youths everywhere, some crying, some violently sick—Dendarii were attempting to catch them, and get them towed to the exit. One harried trooper with a hand-vac was chasing floating globs of some child’s last meal before everyone had to breathe it. The shouts and screams and babble were like a blow to the mind. Framingham’s bellows were failing to speed a return to military order any faster than the terrorized clones could be removed from the cargo bay.

“Framingham!” Quinn floated over and grabbed him by the ankle. “Framingham! Where the hell’s the cryo-chamber Norwood was escorting?”

He glanced down, frowning. “But you said you had it, Captain.” What?”

“You said you had Phillipi.” His lips stretched in a fierce grimace, “Goddammit, if we’ve left her behind I’ll—”

We have Phillipi, yes, but she’s—she was no longer in the cryo-chamber. Norwood was supposed to be getting it to you, Norwood and Tonkin.”

“They didn’t have it when my rescue patrol pulled them out. We them both, what was left of ’em. Norwood was killed. Hit through eye with one of those frigging projectile spine-grenades. Blew his head apart. But I didn’t leave his body, it’s in the bag over there.” Command helmets draw fire, oh yes, I knew that… . No wonder Quinn hadn’t been able to raise Norwood’s comm channels.

“The cryo-chamber, Framingham!” Quinn’s voice held a high pitch anguish Mark had never heard before.

“We didn’t see any goddamn cryo-chamber, Quinn! Norwood and Tonkin didn’t have it when we got to them! What’s so frigging important about the cryo-chamber if Phillipi wasn’t even in it?” Quinn released his ankle, and floated in a tightening ball, arms and legs drawing in. Her eyes were dark and huge. She bit off a string of inadequate foul words, grinding her teeth so hard her gums went white. Thorne looked like a chalk doll.

“Thorne,” Quinn said, when she could speak again. “Get on the comm to Elena. I want both ships on a total security blackout, as of now. No leaves, no passes, no communications with Fell Station or anybody else that isn’t cleared by me. Tell her to get Lieutenant Hart over here from the Ariel. I want to meet with them both at once, do not over comm channels. Go.”

Thorne nodded, rotated in air, and launched itself forward toward the flight deck.

“What is this?” demanded Sergeant Framingham. Quinn took a deep, slow breath. “Framingham, we left the Admiral downside.”

“Have you lost your mind, he’s right there—” Framingham’s finger sagged in mid-point at Mark. His hand closed into a fist. “Oh.” He realized. “That’s the clone.”

Quinn’s eyes burned; Mark could feel them boring through to the back of his skull like laser-drills. “Maybe not,” Quinn said heavily. “Not as far as House Bharaputra needs to know.”