"So that’s over," Admiral Ramos — Festina — said in a light voice. "Now we set emotion aside and get busy."

"Busy doing what?"

"Immediate practical things. When life goes to shit, do immediate practical things. Like head for a starbase hospital."

"They won’t be able to help me."

She gazed down at me with her piercing green eyes. "You’re right. But it doesn’t matter, because I doubt we’ll reach the hospital. You know why?"

I nodded. "Something will come up. The Balrog intends to use you somehow, and I’ll have to come for the ride. I’m the carrying case for the spores."

Ramos… Festina… winced. "Yes. Sorry about that."

I shrugged. "If I really am just a carrying case, maybe when this is all over, the Balrog will let me go."

She gave me a look. "Do you really believe that?"

"No. But they still haven’t answered the Alvarez question."

Festina allowed herself a little smile. The Alvarez question had arisen at the Explorer Academy decades ago, first asked by a professor named Ricardo Alvarez. The question was this: Which is more deadly? Despair or false hope? When, for example, you’re possessed by alien spores, is it worse to give up immediately or to let yourself hope some miracle will save you? Both options were undesirable — or, as the Buddha would say, "unskillful." Alvarez had wanted some student to resolve the question through statistical research… but generations of Explorers had preferred to let the question go unanswered. Instead, they used it as a private shorthand for I’m not dead yet; let’s leave it at that.

"When I was at the Academy," Festina said, "the Alvarez question did have an answer."

"It still does." We recited in unison, "Fuck off, Ricardo!"

The way past despair and false hope is just letting go. It doesn’t improve your odds of survival, but it doesn’t waste mental energy.

Festina grinned. I grinned. Our comm implants buzzed in unison, and we both stopped grinning immediately.

"Ready?" Festina asked.

I nodded. "Immortality awaits." Those were the last words an Explorer traditionally spoke before embarking on a mission. No one took the phrase seriously; but if you died, IMMORTALITY AWAITS almost always looked better on a memorial plaque than your real last words… which were far too often "Oh shit." ("Going Oh Shit" was an Explorer euphemism for death.)

Our comm implants buzzed again — a general hail on the standard Explorer Corps channel. Festina said, "I’ll take it," and clicked her comm to answer.

I didn’t hear much of the conversation. Festina had an old-style Explorer comm — the kind that was embedded in her throat with the audio feed snaking up under the skin to her jaw and making her whole skull resonate. It gave her a noticeable lump on the neck… which I thought would be uncomfortable, though I didn’t know for sure. Thanks to Festina’s changes in the Explorer Corps, my own comm unit was much less intrusive: subcutaneous audio wires in the pinna of each ear; a primary voice pickup that replaced the roof of my mouth; and a secondary subcutaneous pickup running the length of my sternum. (The secondary pickup could be activated remotely. If I ever got knocked out, Pistachio could turn on my chest mike from orbit and track me down by the sound of my heartbeat.)

The new systems were more reliable and practically unnoticeable once you got used to a slight taste of plastic in your soft palate. Festina, however, had never upgraded. Most old Explorers hadn’t — diehard holdouts. I activated my comm with my tongue to see if I could pick up the admiral’s conversation… but as soon as I did, my ears were blasted with a mechanical voice. "Explorer Youn Suu, come in. Explorer Youn Suu, come in. Explorer Youn Suu, come in…"

Pistachio’s ship-soul on autorepeat. I stepped away from Festina and tongue-switched to transmit. "Youn Suu here," I said. "Go ahead."

There was a pause while the computer notified my caller that I’d finally responded. Five seconds later, Captain Cohen came on. "Glad you’re there, Youn Suu. We were worried. Tut’s suit sent a signal it was executing an emergency evac, then your suit sent an autodistress call half a second before going no-comm. Everything all right?"

"No, sir. But we don’t need assistance."

"You’re sure? I could contact the Cashling authorities…"

"They’d just get in the way. We can handle-"

Ambassador Li broke in. "Explorer, where the hell are you? Ubatu and I are ready to go."

"There’ve been some complications, Ambassador."

"What complications? I told that damned Balrog to leave, and it did. Just goes to show, aliens may act cocky, but they’ll knuckle under if you take a hard line. That’s what diplomacy is. Now I intend to use the same approach on the Cashling government — fly straight to their capital, point out how I saved their city, and demand some juicy trade concessions. If you aren’t back to my shuttle in five minutes, you’re on your own."

"You might as well leave now, Ambassador. I don’t know where Admiral Ramos and I will go next, but it probably won’t fit your schedule."

A silence. "Admiral Ramos? Admiral Festina Ramos?"

"Yes, Ambassador."

"She’s here?"

"Right in front of me. She’s taking a call that will probably lead to work for both of us."

"You and Festina Ramos?"

"Yes, Ambassador."

I could guess what Li was thinking. With Festina on the scene, no one would believe Li and Ubatu had any part in expelling the moss from Zoonau. People would assume Festina had been responsible… though, strange to say, it was actually Tut who’d done the most to make the spores leave.

But if Li had no chance of taking credit for the Balrog’s departure, he could still boost his prestige by being seen with the admiral. Any photo op, any joint appearance in front of witnesses, and Li could capitalize on it for months. ("When Admiral Ramos and I were together on Cashleen… I happen to know Admiral Ramos believes… my good friend Festina wants me to say…")

So I wasn’t surprised when Li told me, "We aren’t in that much of a hurry, Explorer. If I or my shuttle can provide any assistance…"

I looked toward Festina. She was still talking, facing away from me. "Ambassador," I said, "Admiral Ramos can’t be disturbed right now, but we might need a ride very soon. Probably back to Pistachio. Could you come and get us? We’re on top of the central ziggurat. I don’t know the nearest shuttle pad, but Zoonau’s air traffic control can tell you where to land."

"To hell with air traffic control," Li said. "I’ll pick you up where you are. Five minutes."

I winced as he cut the transmission. Thirty rope walkways ran at various levels over my head. I doubted Li had the piloting skill to weave his way through all the cat’s cradles… and if he broke even a single rope, the Cashling government would howl themselves hoarse over "thoughtless human hooligans" laying waste to "irreplaceable urban transitways."

On the other hand, if Li wanted to create a diplomatic incident, that was his problem. Maybe he liked diplomatic incidents. They were his form of job security.

Festina continued to talk on her comm. I kept my distance so she wouldn’t think I was eavesdropping. Once she turned in my direction and asked, "I assume you’re here with a ship?"

"Yes, admiral. A Model D frigate named Pistachio."

"No Class One duties?"

"We’re strictly Class Five."

"Not anymore."

She turned back to her conversation while I pondered her words. Class One duties were "crucial to the survival of the Technocracy and the Outward Fleet" — which generally meant missions required to placate the League of Peoples. A ship with Class One duties was sacrosanct; nobody could interfere with it until it finished its mission. Furthermore, Class One duties were so vital that the crew had to be informed of exactly what was going on. Less important missions might operate on a need-to-know basis; but with Class One, nobody was kept in the dark for fear that ignorance would lead to mistakes. I was therefore certain we had no Class One jobs in the offing… unless Festina was about to give us one.