“Are you going to Galatea?” she asked his retreating back.

“I have no business there.” He paused for a moment to glance back. “I will transfer to another JumpShip immediately for transport to Nusakan. Your mad idea has cost me time and money. I have no more to waste on a backwater like Alkalurops. There are many other planets standing in line for an offer as fine as mine. I wish you luck finding mercs willing to help you.”

“And I wish you the same luck,” Grace said, keeping her face straight. For a moment the mask he wore wavered, and for a moment Grace thought she might get a look inside the man, but he turned away and quickly made his way out.

The Sergeant at Arms presented Grace with the two sacks the thief had dropped as he died. Both were about half the weight she remembered. “Keep hunting,” she said, “there’s a lot more down there.”

An hour later the Sergeant at Arms stood by as each of the hand vacs was emptied in Grace’s presence. The diamond sack now felt over three-quarters of its former weight. The other sack was a bit lighter than that. “We’ll keep looking, ma’am. The kid could have dropped some as he ran.”

“Possibly,” Grace agreed, then opened the emerald sack. “Would you take your pick, sir? You’ve led a good hunt and deserve a reward.”

“Why, thank you, ma’am. There’s no call for this.”

“Yes, but you have helped me, and I pay for what people give me. Take your pick, and I will register you as the owner with the captain.” He didn’t quibble with her twice but picked the largest emerald in the sack. Grace didn’t bat an eyelash. He probably had no idea he’d passed up several more perfect stones for that less valuable one.

“And line up your work crew. Each one gets a stone from me.” That didn’t take very long, and Grace noticed two fellows who seemed a bit shamefaced at her largesse. She was not surprised when the Sergeant at Arms handed her a dozen more diamonds that seemed to have gotten “hung up in the hand vacs.”

Two hours later Chato and Jobe came out of their enforced sleep, begging for water. “Land and Sky, I don’t want to do another jump like that,” Chato breathed.

“You won’t. Next time you skip the drugs,” Grace said, and then brought them up to date.

“Dead,” Jobe said, “and that one walks among us.”

“Or stays in the captain’s cabin, busy with planning,” Grace corrected.

“May his plans keep him far away from us,” Chato said.

Nine days later the Dyev grounded at Galaport. Grace had hidden the loose jewels in the seams of her clothing. Her mom had always insisted that sewing would come in handy. Jobe converted the strongbox to a backpack, and the rest of their gear was packed in two duffels, which Grace and Chato could handle.

This port was large, busy, dirty and noisy. Grace led the way, Jobe beside her. Chato followed, keeping an eye on Jobe’s backpack. As they rode an underground walkway toward the central terminal, Grace tried to get her bearings. She’d never seen so many people in so small a place. They were moving in every conceivable direction, but purposefully. Electric trucks and Loader-’Mechs shared the space, choreographing a dance in which one misstep could leave someone a puddle on the floor.

“This place smells bad,” Jobe said. The blend of ozone, oil, sweat and other odors Grace could not identify left her wondering how anyone could say Alkalurops’ air smelled bad. They passed a men’s room that was backed up and gushing water and noxious smells.

“Bad, and not just the smell,” Grace said. The place needed paint. Tiles were off the walls. The driveway beside the slidewalk had potholes in it, and the slidewalk moved with enough fits and starts to make her stomach queasy.

“If I never leave White River again, it will be too soon,” Chato muttered. “This headman business is not what my sister told me it would be.”

“You should tell your women what to do, not let them tell you,” Jobe shot back.

“And you think you are running the Donga River Valley, not your wives, huh?” the Navajo said, the slightest hint of a smile curling his lips. “Tell me again why you are here with us and not with one of your willing wives?”

Grace let the men retreat into their familiar banter as the slidewalk dropped them at the main terminal. She hefted her duffel and made herself a promise not to be run over by bigger traffic. There wasn’t a risk. While the slidewalk ended in an immense room with a glass ceiling that made it hard to see where the dirty glass ended and a dusty sky began, heavy traffic was shunted to an underpass to the floors below.

Grace began the trek to the doors with overhead flashingEXIT signs. Around her were men and women, hard of muscle, hard of face, booted and dressed in shades of military tan and green. They talked in clipped sentences and the words “rally point” ended most of them.

“Light Horse, fall in here,” came in a voice that carried through the babble. It wasn’t so much volume but a hard edge to the words that let them cut through every other sound.

Around Grace, several people stopped, turned to locate the order-giver, and marched in step for him. Not all.

“No, man, you don’t what to be one of those horse’s asses,” someone near Grace said. “There’s bound to be a Highlander recruiter around after that big fight on Terra.”

“Oh, so I’m going to war in a skirt?” a young man responded. “No thanks.”

“Ya like to live dangerously, don’t ya, boy?”

“I like to ride where I’m going. There’s the recruiting sergeant for the Twenty-first Centauri Lancers. That’s the man for me.”

Now the vast room began to make sense to Grace. Along the wall behind her were ticketing agents. In front of her were small groups of men and women eyeing a couple dozen others, some with banners—guidons, if she guessed right from her reading. Some she recognized. The plaid of the Highlanders, displayed in the kilts of their recruiters, was impossible to miss. Similarly, the ax of Bannson’s Raiders was unmistakable. Other outfits were harder to place, or their emblem too stylized to recognize. What was clear was that they wanted fighters and they were none too picky.

One man caught Grace’s eye. Standing alone and tall in flowing, if somewhat tattered robes, he scanned the crowd with his right hand resting lightly on the pommel of the long sword that hung from his left hip. Other than the slight turning of his head from side to side, he did not move for the entire time Grace studied him. Most gave him a wide berth. One man stomped up to him, bowed at the waist, then took station behind him without speaking a word. Now the two of them stood like statues, studying the crowd.

“That one looks like a hard case,” Jobe muttered.

“Anyone have a plan for us?” Chato asked.

“I’m thinking,” Grace said as they came to the end of the row of recruiters, where two men in tan uniforms stood in that kind of relaxed stance as only powerful men can. They were talking to each other, but the taller and older one’s eyes missed nothing. He cracked a smile as he took in Grace and her companions.

“Only the best make it this far,” he said, extending a hand.

“We haven’t made up our minds,” Grace said, taking it. The handshake was firm—maybe a bit of a test. She squeezed just a tad more than he did. Unlike some insecure men, he didn’t turn the handshake into a contest to see if he had a tighter grip than a woman. She liked that.

“Well, you’ve come to the Roughriders—one of the best and longest-surviving merc units in the Sphere. We train hard, we fight rough, and we win every time.”

“That sounds like a good unit,” Jobe said.

“To join,” Grace added quickly, smiling back at the men to keep them from saying more.

“I’m Sergeant Major Tanuso, this is Sergeant Godfrey, formerly of armor, now of our infantry,” he said as if rubbing an extra dash of salt in a fresh wound. “He will take you to our van while I see if there are any more top-notch candidates among the DropShips today.”