But that wasn't what was happening. Surely even with the taste of blood slowing their brains they could tell that this wasn't Qanskan skin and muscle and bone they were biting at. Couldn't they?

Or was it perhaps something more subtle? Could the metal actually be tastier than fresh Qanska?

Bizarre, but possible. Manta remembered one of his physiology discussions with McCollum in which the subject of blood composition had briefly come up. The memory of the conversation was a little vague, but he seemed to remember her mentioning that Qanskan blood had a high metal content, several times that of the human counterpart, and with a better variety of metal types as well.

Strange though it seemed, it could be that the Vuuka knew perfectly well what they were doing, and were actually enjoying their meal.

Manta smiled grimly to himself. This was, he decided, going to kill two Sivra with one tail slash.

Not only would it free the trapped Qanska, but it would also give them a weapon they could use if the humans ever tried to pull such a stunt again.

It was difficult to see what was happening in the middle of the flurry of bodies, but he knew the Vuuka had to be getting close to eating their way through the mesh. The timing here was going to be critical: It would be a sad victory indeed if the predators succeeded in breaking through the humans'

cage only to then devour the children Manta had gone to all this dangerous effort to free.

The Protectors were clearly thinking along the same lines. They had gathered together a cautious distance from the manic Vuuka, talking in low voices among themselves and twitching uncertainly back and forth as they pondered the question of when to move in for the attack.

Or maybe they were waiting for Manta, with his closer vantage point, to give them a signal. Rippling his fins to hold his position, Manta focused his attention on the mesh. If the Vuuka would just keep at it until there was a hole big enough for the Breeders inside to slip out through...

And then, from above him, Manta heard a noise that froze the air in his lungs. The propellers of the probe above the cage were starting up.

The propellers that he knew could move the cage faster than a Qanska could swim. And if faster than a Qanska, faster than a Vuuka, as well?

He twisted around again to look up, heedless of the risk this time. The giant turboprop propellers were visibly spinning within their protective cowlings.

No, Manta pleaded silently, staring at the engines and trying frantically to come up with a way to stop them.

Because once the humans got the probe and cage moving, there would be no way to stop them. They could outdistance any pursuit, Qanskan or Vuukan, and keep it up until the wind had driven away all traces of Manta's blood. And when they finally brought it to a halt, there would be no one at its new resting place who would know how to pull the trick Manta had used in order to finish breaking it open.

The humans would have won. They would get the stardrive they wanted, or they would continue to trap Qanskan children until they did.

The probe and cage were starting to lumber across the wind now. Manta drove upward, his eyes searching the sleekly curved metal surfaces desperately for a weakness. But there wasn't one.

Unless...

His eyes fell on the mesh screen covering the intake side of the turboprop cowling. The mesh there was considerably finer than the one that made up the cage. Could a Qanska, swimming at top speed, ram his way through the mesh and into the propeller itself?

The thought was terrifying. In his imagination, he could see himself hitting the blades; could feel the tearing of skin and muscle and bone, a disintegration of his body far worse than even a pack of Sivra could manage.

But at least it would be fast. Faster than living the rest of a Qanskan lifetime with that last, broken image of Drusni haunting his vision wherever he looked.

The probe was picking up speed. Driving hard, he swam forward, trying to get around in front of the nearest engine's intake. He deserved to die anyway. This way, at least, his death could have a purpose.

Maybe that would be how Drusni would remember him. Maybe she could be that forgiving.

But he doubted it.

The whine of Omega's turboprops was starting to fill the Contact Room as the engines revved their way toward full speed. "But what about your demands?" Faraday asked, frustration churning his stomach. If the probe got away now, all of the Qanskans' effort—not to mention Raimey's—would be for nothing.

And this insane standoff would continue.

"What about them?" Liadof countered. "The Leaders know what we want."

"But they won't know where to deliver their answer," Faraday argued. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the inertial indicators at the bottom of the display were flashing. Omega was starting to move.

But Faraday wasn't really watching the indicators. His full attention was on the image coming from the spy probe. Darting up alongside the cage like a minnow swimming past a crab pot, Raimey was charging upward toward the operational part of the Omega probe. Swimming with a determination Faraday had seldom if ever seen in him.

And it didn't take a genius to figure out what he was doing. He was heading for Omega's engines, clearly hoping to prevent the hostages from being whisked away.

And there was only one way Faraday could imagine he might accomplish that.

Don't do it, Faraday pleaded silently with the image. It would cost Raimey his life; and it wouldn't stop Omega from getting away anyway. With one engine gone it would be more sluggish, but it could still outpace any Qanskan attackers in the long run. Surely Raimey could see that. Had he gotten so worked up by the Vuuka attack that he couldn't think straight?

Perhaps he had. Omega was picking up speed, and so was Raimey.

Liadof had noticed him, too. "What's he doing?" she muttered from Faraday's side.

"Trying to stop the probe," Faraday told her, hoping that his reading of Raimey's plan was wrong.

But no. Raimey had already passed the trailing communications and control antennae, and at the rate Omega was accelerating he would never make it to the group at the bow end before the probe got away from him. And there was no other exposed equipment anywhere that Faraday could see.

Which left only the propellers. And the supreme sacrifice.

"He's going for the engines," Liadof said suddenly, her voice a mixture of disbelief and indignation.

"Is there any way he can hurt them? Colonel?"

"Not without hurting himself," Faraday said bitterly. Out of another corner of his eye, he noticed Mulligan fiddling with his sensor controls. "But if he doesn't mind dying for his people, and if he can get through the forward baffle screen—"

"Damn it," Liadof bit out. "Mr. Boschwitz—get Omega up to full speed. Now."

"Yes, Arbiter," Boschwitz's voice confirmed. "I'm running the engines through their prescribed rampup; it'll just be—"

"I said now!" Liadof cut him off. "Full power now!"

"But—acknowledged, Arbiter," Boschwitz interrupted himself. "Full power now." The engine noise jolted suddenly up in pitch and intensity—

And then, to Faraday's astonishment, it just as suddenly dropped off completely.

Liadof literally leaped out of her chair. "Boschwitz!" she shouted. "You bungling little—" She choked back the rest of the curse. "Get them going again. Now!"

"I'm trying," Boschwitz said, his voice cringing. "They're not responding. Any of them."

"He warned you there was a proper ramp-up procedure," Faraday reminded her. "They've probably overheated or safety-locked or something."

"Shut up," Liadof snapped. "Mr. Boschwitz?"