"Got it!" Ben yelled back. "Thanks! We'll get right to work!"

Joe gave a curt nod and left. Gretchen, who was bent over the crate, let out a sigh of relief. Ben took hold of her arm.

"Go!" he shouted. "We'll keep things busy down here!"

Gretchen gave a smart salute and trotted out of the equipment bay, tool belt and flashlight dragging at her hips. Once the equipment noise had faded, she tapped her earpiece.

"Myra?" she said.

" On-line," said the Poltergeist's computer.

"Track copied frequency 'Bedj-ka one' and upload tracking information to my ocular implant."

" Working," said the computer. A moment later, a small red arrow popped into Gretchen's field of vision along with a digital readout that said, 107 meters. The arrow pointed to Gretchen's left. Lucia's copycat had worked as advertised, detecting and copying all the broadcast frequencies used on the farm-including the one that tracked the movements of the individual slaves. Like most slave-owners, Sunnytree used slave shackles and a computer to keep its slaves from escaping. Each set of wrist- and ankle bands continually broadcast its whereabouts to the main computer and delivered a debilitating electric shock if the wearer left the boundaries of the farm. Most wristbands also monitored conversation, delivering punishing shocks if the slave spoke words such as escape or revolt. Lucia had isolated Bedj-ka's frequency and uploaded it to the Poltergeist's computer.

Gretchen, figuring that the slaves probably weren't housed in the equipment barn, hurried toward the exit. The arrow slowly turned until it was pointing down and the numbers went up, telling Gretchen that Bedj-ka was a hundred and thirty meters behind her now.

Outside, Gretchen paused a moment to let her eyes adjust to the hard sunlight. The smell of cacao tree mulch and cacao blossoms hung heavily on the air. The edge of the green, leafy cacao tree grove was about fifteen paces ahead of Gretchen, and she caught sight of a bunch of metal pipes rising up from the ground. A moment later, liquid sprayed from the tops of the pipes and Gretchen caught the sharp scent of chemical fertilizer. Markovi's glitch.

No one else was in sight. Markovi had said the hands-slaves-were all in their quarters, and Gretchen guessed the office staff was all inside with the air conditioning. Sweating beneath the golden sun, she trotted around the perimeter of the equipment barn until the arrow pointed straight ahead and the number ticker informed her that Bedj-ka was only seventy-three meters ahead of her. A concrete pathway lead to a series of what appeared to be large white bunkhouses, and Gretchen assumed they were the slave quarters. The arrow steered her to the second bunkhouse. Gretchen shut off the tracker, then rapped on the whitewashed door. It opened on a middle-aged man with a whipcord body and a leathery, burnt-in suntan. A silvery band encircled his wrist.

"Yes, Mistress?" he said.

Gretchen tried not to grimace at the man's deferential tone and the title he had bestowed on her. "I'm part of the team that's here to fix the sprinkler and fertilizer system," she said. "We need a runner to help us out, and Mr. Markovi told me I could find a kid named Jerry here. He's supposed to come with me."

"Yes, Mistress." The man vanished into the bunkhouse. Gretchen tried to peer inside, but the interior was too dim to make out more than shadows and shapes. She did get the sense of a large space filled with what were probably bunk beds. Snores and grunts issued from the room, indicating that many of the slaves were taking advantage of their enforced idleness to catch up on lost sleep. Gretchen, who had grown up in South Africa on Earth, remembered reading about Apartheid in history class and times when workers who were slaves in all but name learned to sleep standing up on long bus rides to and from their jobs. You caught sleep when you could.

"Here he is, Mistress," the man said, pushing a boy out into the sunlight and closing the door. Gretchen looked down at the kid. He was short, barely coming up to Gretchen's breastbone, with dark eyes and a headful of straight black hair. Thin build, sharp nose, fine-boned face. Gretchen put his age at nine or ten, despite his lack of height. The boy met Gretchen's gaze for the briefest of moments before dropping his eyes to his ground.

"Jerry?" Gretchen asked. She had to be certain this was the right boy.

"Yes, Mistress," he said quietly. "Yatt said you need a runner?"

"I do. Jerry, are you new to Sunnytree Farm?"

He glanced up at Gretchen in puzzlement. "Yes, Mistress. I haven't even been here a month. If you want someone else as a runner, someone who knows the farm better, I can go get-"

"No, that's all right, Jerry," Gretchen said. "Let me see your hands, please."

Even more puzzled, Jerry held up his hands, palm up. Blisters mixed with calluses, and his nails were broken and dirty. Gretchen took hold of both his wrists for a moment, then let him go. No Silent jolt, but she hadn't been expecting one. The Despair had robbed her of that.

"Walk with me, kid, and quick," she ordered, and headed back toward the equipment barn. The boy hurried to keep up.

"Mistress?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't have a lot of time to explain," she said, "so listen hard. I stuck a chip to your shackle when I grabbed your wrists. It broadcasts a silence loop to the farm's computer so it can't monitor what we're saying."

"Mistress?" the boy said hesitantly. "I don't understand."

Gretchen reached into her jumpsuit and fished out her gold medallion. It was a risk to wear it, but experience had taught Gretchen that the medallion often convinced suspicious slaves faster than mere words. "Do you know what this stands for, Jerry?"

The boy halted and stared, forcing Gretchen to stop as well. Awe mixed with excitement on his face. "Everyone knows what that is. You're a Child of Irfan."

"That's right," she said, tucking the medallion away again. "I'm here with a couple other members of our order to get you out of here. You game?"

"But-but I'm not-" he hesitated, clearly afraid of her reaction "-not Silent. Not anymore. That's why they sold me."

Gretchen's heart twisted in sympathy and she struggled to keep her voice steady. "Your Silence doesn't matter to us, Jerry. You do. Are you in or out? I need to know now."

"In," the boy said to Gretchen's relief. She wouldn't have to bring up his mother to convince him. Kendi had told her to save Harenn for later, if possible. No sense in overwhelming the boy.

"Then let's get moving," Gretchen said, hurrying down the path toward the equipment barn again. "We don't have a whole lot of time."

"How are you going to do it?" the boy asked. "Do you have a plan? Are you going to kill the master?"

"Never mind the details," she said, "and no, we aren't planning to kill anyone."

"Oh." The boy looked disappointed. "Will it take long? Are we going today?"

"No, it won't, and yes, we are. Now come with me and don't ask so many questions. We'll tell you everything you want to know, but later."

They rounded the corner of the barn-and came face-to-face with Joe. Gretchen only barely managed to avoid slamming into him. The boy dodged behind Gretchen with a gasp.

"What are you doing out here?" Joe demanded. "And what's with the kid?"

Gretchen's heart thudded hard, but she managed to keep her face expressionless. "We need a runner, one who knows the farm," she said. "So I co-opted one of your hands. We didn't figure you'd mind."