Somehow he managed to make it to an alley, and from there to an underground highway used by automated freight vehicles. Light came from ceiling grates; the vehicles were all frozen in place, and so he wove among them, and by this means made his way back to the streets near the Redoubt.

A few minutes later he paused at the top of the hill to look back at the city. Smoke was rising from a dozen places in the towers, which were now all unrelenting gray, the illusion of faerie riches ripped away. Michael stood still for a minute, letting his breathing slow as he tried to compose himself. Then he walked through the gates into the Redoubt. Just inside the doors, he let himself slump against the walls. He'd made it.

"Dr. Bequith?"

He looked up. A slim figure clad in black stood before him. Rue Cassels was inscrutable behind her black sunglasses, but her forehead was pinched in the suggestion of worry. "What's happened?" she asked. "You look like you've run a marathon!"

"I have." He turned and put his back to the cool stone. "Rebel attack— on the city…"

"You were there?"

He started to nod, but a commotion from deeper inside the Redoubt caught his attention.

Rue Cassels pointed. Someone was shouting at the gates to the garden— several people, one yelling, "Help!"

They ran that way. The entrance to the garden was one of those giant valve doors that were the only egress from the Redoubt. A woman crouched there. "Gods and kami, gods and kami," she was saying. A small knot of people was clustered around her and something lying on the ground. These all looked like local people, Michael noted— townsmen come to trade to the large transient population that stayed in the Redoubt.

"They're on their way," said a man as he stood. At his feet a woman lay in a position that couldn't possibly be comfortable; Michael's scalp crawled as he realized she was dead.

"Linda!" Dr. Herat had appeared from somewhere. He knelt beside the prone figure and only now did Michael realize who this was. His vision dimmed for a moment from the shock.

"Dr. Ophir," whispered Rue. "What happened…"

"Shot," said the young man who had just stood. "I found her like this— it was just a minute ago! Whoever it is…" He gestured vaguely at the entrance hall, which was the way Michael had come.

"No, they must be gone by now." The woman who spoke looked around herself nervously.

Michael felt sick. Had he not gone walking in the city, he might have been with her and able to shield or hide her from the killer. Or he might have been killed as well…

He had to distance himself and so looked clinically and closely at everyone in the small crowd. Then he turned his attention to the body. Dr. Ophir's eyes were open, but her face was expressionless. She lay on her side, one arm flung back, and there was blood all over her chest and back. There wasn't much blood on the ground where she lay, but a splash of it stained the great doors that towered above her. Only a weapon could cause such a wound and not the sort of trifling rat-shooter you could buy from standard black market sources. This had punched a hole right through her chest.

Yes. This was just like that other time, when having been caught, Michael was marched through the streets by troops of the Reconquista, his message pack in the hands of the squad leader. They had passed Michael's designated rendezvous point and there in a doorway a man had lain crumpled like Dr. Ophir, with a hole in his neck and the same expression of dull surprise on his face.

And standing next to that dead man…

He turned away.

"It's the rebels," someone said. "Look, they didn't touch her satchel."

"Who is she? A visitor?"

Dr. Herat took Michael's arm and led him inside. Herat's other hand encircled Rue Cassels's arm.

"I've called Crisler," said Herat. "We'll tell him all about it. But from what you said to me the other day, Bequith, I don't think you'd fancy having to explain ourselves to the local authorities." Captain Cassels pursed her lips for a second, her head turning almost imperceptibly in Michael's direction.

"But who could have done such a thing?" she said. "Why?"

"The rebels?" It took a moment for Michael to realize Dr. Herat was asking him. He felt a surge of resentment at the implication that he might know.

He shook his head— not to deny it, but in confusion. "Why would rebels do this? — shoot one person, then run? It doesn't make sense. Unless…"

"What?"

"Unless the rebels know about the expedition."

"People know about us," said Cassels. "We got interviewed and everything."

"They don't know about Jentry's Envy, do they?" asked Michael.

"Well, we said it was a wrecked halo cycler. Nobody knew the alien bit except the people we contacted— the ones who got us in touch with the admiral."

Michael and the professor exchanged a glance. "Somebody knows," said Herat.

The captain wanted to talk to her people, so they escorted her back to her chambers. Then Dr. Herat and Michael went to find Crisler.

On the way, Dr. Herat said, "Does any of this make it easier for you to decide?"

"Decide what?"

"Are you coming along on this trip, or not?"

"I can't leave you now, after what's just happened."

"That's ridiculous, son. I can take care of myself."

Michael shook his head. It was shameful, the bombs, the people falling, and his own race through the streets— all this had made him feel alive in a way he hadn't felt in years. Something fundamental had happened today, and memories were flooding back of his brief time with the rebels: the excitement, the feeling of commitment.

There was one other memory that he could not deny, though. On the day when they had made their attack and Michael had been captured, he had been marched through the streets and had seen the body of a friend, shot like Linda Ophir had been today.

Standing next to that body, laughing with a colonel of the security forces, had been Michael's commander, Errend. Errend, free and relaxed, watching Michael being marched past after having betrayed all his comrades to the army.

"I'm going with you," Michael said firmly.

W AKING CAME SLOWLY. For a while Rue drifted, wondering why the sounds around her were so like her habitat on the Envy and yet different— pumps whirred, voices muttered through the plastic walls, but not the pumps she was used to; and these voices were different. She blinked at the ceiling for a few seconds, realized she was on the Banshee, then groaned, rolled over, and tried to bury herself under the pillow.

Her alarm chimed again. In the past she'd been able to ignore such things; even if Jentry yelled at her for being late, nothing was really riding on her shoulders. Now, she had her people to think about. And Creepy Crisler and his band of merry men and those oh-so-serious scientists who were sharpening their knives even now for the dissection of her cycler.

Which they were going to do today, she realized. They had been at the Envy for two weeks now, four full days out of cold sleep. Everything was set to start exploring.

The thought of them going out without her supervision galvanized Rue. She threw off the covers and hurried to the bathroom. Tomorrow, she thought as she sat staring at the fake wood paneling. Tomorrow I will sleep in. She knew if she repeated this mantra once every day, after a few hundred repetitions it might come true.

The habitat balloons of the Banshee were palatial compared to her shuttle. Together the two balloons totalled twelve decks of large rooms and ample private space. There were labs, garrisons and weapons lockers, a complete medical facility and a gym. The lights were kept at Earth-normal most of the time, so she wore her sunglasses everywhere; luckily she had finally adapted to higher temperatures, so the twenty degrees Celsius air no longer made her wilt.