Gantries lined the dock, one idle, three supporting ships’ lines. US Swiftwas coming in later in the watch; Capablewould follow. There were more ships, but those were normal military traffic, small. Crews took their liberties, knowing nothing specific yet, hand‑picked crews, so what passed in bars was worthless, excepting a few, who spread the desired rumors. That was Security’s doing, their design. One could surmise shells within shells of falsity and deception; a man could trust nothing if he fell into Security’s way of thinking.

A line officer could get uneasy in such business. Conn hadgotten uneasy, in times less certain, but he saw round the perimeters of this and knew its limits, that this was not a hot one. There were civs in this one, and civs had rights; and those civs gave him reassurance in the packet he carried, unheralded by security, in his inside pocket.

He reached Venture’s dock, number one white berth, and climbed the access ramp into the tube itself. That was where the first real security appeared, in the form of two armed and armored troopers who barred his way to the inner lock–but so would they on any warship.

“REDEX,” he said, “Conn, Col. James A.”

“Sir.” The troopers clattered rifles to their armored sides. “Board, sir, thank you.”

They were Venturepersonnel. Spacer command, not of his own service. He walked through the hatch and into the receiving bay, to Venture’s duty desk. The officer on duty stopped reading comp printout in a hurry when he looked up and saw brass. “Sir.”

Conn took his id from his pocket and slid it into the receiver.

“Id positive,” the duty officer said. And into the com: “Tyson: Col. James Conn to see the captain.”

That was as arranged–no formalities, no fanfare. He was a passenger on this ship, separate, no cooperative command. Conn collected the aide and walked with him up to the lift, small‑talked with him on the way, which was his manner…none of the spit and polish of the spacegoing Elite Guard. Special operations was his own branch of the service, and that of the highest officers in his immediate staff. And after thirty years service, with a little arthritis that got past the pills–rejuv delayed just a shade too long–he had less spit and polish about him than he had started with.

A new start. They had persuaded him with that. Jean was gone; and the mission had fallen into his lap. A change seemed good, at this stage in life. Maybe it was that for Beaumont, for Gallin, for some of the others he knew were going. There might be a separate answer for the science people, who had their own curious ambitions, and some of whom were married to each other; or were sibs; or friends. But those of them who came out of the old service–those of them carrying some years–out of that number, only Ada Beaumont was taking advantage of the Dependents allowance and taking a husband along in a mission slot. The rest of them, the nine of them who had seen the war face‑on, came solo like the freshfaced youths. The years had stripped them back to that. It was a new life out there, a new chance. So they went.

The lift opened, let him and the aide out on the main level. He walked into the captain’s office and the captain rose from her desk and met him with an offered hand. A woman of his own years. He felt comfortable with her. He surprised himself in that; generally he was ill at ease with spacers, let alone the black‑uniformed Elite like Mary Engles. But she offered a stout and calloused hand and used a slang out of the war, so that he knew she had dealt with the ground services before. She sent the aide out, poured them both stiff drinks and sat down again. He drew a much easier breath.

“You saw service in the ’80, did you?” he asked.

“Ran transport for a lot of you; but old Reliancesaw her better days, and they stripped her down.”

“ Reliance. She came in on Fargone.”

“That she did.”

“I left some good friends there.”

She nodded slowly. “Lost a few too.”

“Hang, it’s a better run this time, isn’t it?”

“Has to be,” she said. “Your boarding’s set up. You have orders for me?”

He opened his jacket and took out the envelope, passed it to her. “That’s the total list. I’ll keep out of your way during transit. I’ll instruct my command to do the same.”

Another nod. “I always liked special op. Easy passengers. You just keep the science lads and the dependents out of the way of my crew and I’ll think kindly on you forever.”

Conn grinned and lifted the glass. “Easy done.”

“Huh, easy. The last such lot I dropped was glad to get off alive.”

“What last lot? You do this weekly?”

“Ah.” Engles sipped at her glass and arched a brow. “You’ll not be telling me I’m to brief you on that.”

“No. I know what the program is. And the ship knows, does she?”

“We have to. What we’re doing, if not where. We’re the transport. We’ll be seeing you more than once, won’t we? Keep us happy.”

“By then,” Conn said, “any other set of faces is going to come welcome.”

Engles gave a one‑sided smile. “I expect it will. I’ve run a few of these assignments. Always like to see the special op heading it up. Far less trouble that way.”

“Ever had any trouble?”

“Oh, wehaven’t.”

He lifted a brow and drained the glass. There were photofaxes on the office walls, ships and faces, some of the photos scarred and scratched. Faces and uniforms. He had a gallery like that in his own duffle. The desk had a series of pictures of a young man, battered and murky. He was not about to ask. The photos never showed him older. He thought of Jean, with a kind of grayness inside…had known a moment of panic, the realization of his parting from Cyteen, boarding another ship, leaving the places Jean had known, going somewhere her memory did not even exist. And all he took was the pictures. Engles offered him a half glass more and he took it.

“You need any special help in boarding?” Engles asked.

“No. Just so someone gets my duffle on. The rest is coming in freight.”

“We’ll take your officers aboard at their leisure. Science and support personnel, when they arrive, are allotted a lounge to themselves, and they’ll kindly use it.”

“They will.”

“A lot smoother that way. They don’t mix well, my people and civs.”

“Understood.”

“But you have to make it mix, don’t you? I sure don’t envy you the job.”

“New world,” he said, a shrug. The liquor made him numb. He felt disconnected, and at once in a familiar place, a ship like a dozen other ships, a moment lived and relived. But no Jean, That was different. “It works because it has to work, that’s all. They need each other. That’s how it all fits together.”

Engles pressed a button on the console. “We’ll get your cabin set up. Anything you need, you let me know.”

The aide came back. “The colonel wants his cabin,” Engles said quietly.

“Thanks,” Conn said, took the hand offered a second time, followed the black‑uniformed spacer out into the corridors, blinking in the warmth of the liquor.

The scars were there…the aide was too young to know; scars predating the clean, the modern corridors. The rebellion at Fargone; the war–the tunnels and the deep digs…

Jean had been with him then. But twenty years the peace had held, uneasy detente between Union and the merchanter Alliance. Peace was profitable, because neither side had anything to gain in confrontation…yet. There was a border. Alliance built warships the Accord of Pell forbade; Union built merchant ships the Accord limited to farside space…cargo ships that could dump their loads and move; warships that could clamp on frames and haul: the designs were oddly similar, tokening a new age in the Between, with echoes of the old. Push would come to shove again; he believed it; Engles likely did.