“Claire!” Tony cried from the ladder, a horrified bellow laced with tears. “ANDY!”

The pack, beside them, compressed. Little crunching noises came from it. At the last moment, Claire transferred Andy to her lower arms, below her torso, bracing against the crate, against gravity, with her uppers. Perhaps her crushed body would hold the crate off just far enough to save him—the robolift’s servos skreeled with overload…

And began to withdraw. Claire sent a silent apology to their oversized pack for all the curses she and Tony had heaped upon it in the past hours. Nothing in it would ever be the same, but it had saved them. The robolift hiccoughed, gears grinding bewilderedly. The crate shifted on its pallet, out of sync now. As the lift withdrew, the crate skidded with it, dragged by friction and gravity, skewing farther and farther from true.

Claire watched open-mouthed as it tilted and fell from the opening. She rushed forward. The crash shook the warehouse as the crate hit the concrete, followed by a booming shattered echo, the loudest sound Claire had ever heard. The crate took the forklift with it, its wheels whirring helplessly in air as it banged onto its side.

The power of gravity was stunning. The crate split, its contents spilling. Hundreds of round metal wheelcovers of some kind burst forth, ringing like a stampede of cymbals. A dozen or so rolled down the aisle in either direction as if bent on escape, wobbling into the corridor walls and falling onto their sides, still spinning, in ever-diminishing whanging pulses of sound. The echoes rang on in Claire’s ears for a moment in the stupendous silence that followed. “Oh, Claire!” Tony swarmed back into the cell and wrapped all his arms around her, Andy between them, as if he might never let go again. “Oh, Claire…” His voice cracked as he rubbed his face against her soft short hair.

Claire looked over his shoulder at the carnage they had created below. The overturned robolift was beeping again, like an animal in pain. “Tony, I think we better get out of here,” she suggested in a small voice.

“I thought you were coming behind me, onto the ladder. Right behind me.”

“I had to get Andy.”

“Of course. You saved him, while I—saved myself. Oh, Claire! I didn’t mean to leave you in there…”

“I didn’t think you did.”

“But I jumped—”

“It would have been plain stupid not to. Look, can we talk about it later? I really think we ought to get out of here.”

“Yes, oh yes. Uh, the pack…?” Tony peered into the dimness of the recess.

Claire didn’t think they were going to have time for the pack, either—yet how far could they get without it? She helped Tony drag it back to the edge with frantic haste.

“If you brace yourself back there, while I hang onto the ladder, we can lower it—” Tony began.

Claire pushed it ruthlessly over the edge. It landed on the mess below, tumbled to the concrete. “I don’t think there’s any more point in worrying about the breakables now. Let’s go,” she urged.

Tony gulped, nodded, moved quickly onto the ladder, sparing one upper arm to help support Andy, whom Claire held in her lowers, her upper hands slapping down the rungs. Then they were back to the floor and their slow, frustrating, crabwise locomotion along it. Claire was beginning to hate the cold, dusty smell of concrete.

They were only a few meters down the corridor when Claire heard the pounding of downsider footcoverings again, moving fast, with uncertain pauses as if for direction. A row or two over; the steps must shortly thread the lattice to them. Then an echo of the steps—no, another set.

What happened next seemed all in a moment, suspended between one breath and the next. Ahead of them, a grey-uniformed downsider leaped from a cross-corridor into their own with an unintelligible shout. His legs were braced apart to support his half-crouch, and he clutched a strange piece of equipment in both hands, held up half a meter in front of his face. His face was as white with terror as Claire’s own.

Ahead of her, Tony dropped the pack and reared up on his lower arms, his upper hands flung wide, crying, “No!”

The downsider recoiled spasmodically, his eyes wide, mouth gaping in shock. Two or three bright flashes burst from his piece of equipment, accompanied by sharp cracking bangs that echoed, splintered, all through the great warehouse. Then the downsider’s hands jerked up, the object flung away. Had it malfunctioned or short-circuited, burning or shocking him? His face drained further, from white to green.

Then Tony was screaming, flopping on the floor, all his arms curling in on himself in a tight ball of agony.

“Tony? Tony!” Claire scrambled toward him, Andy clamped tightly to her torso and crying and screaming in fear, his racket mingling with Tony’s in a terrifying cacophony. “Tony, what’s wrong?” She didn’t see the blood on his red T-shirt until some drops spattered on the concrete. The bicep of his left lower arm, as he rolled toward her, was a scrambled, pulsing, scarlet and purple mess. “Tony!”

The company security guard had rushed forward. His face was harrowed with horror, his hands empty now and rumbling with a portable comm link hooked to his belt. It took him three tries to detach it. “Nelson! Nelson!” he called into it. “Nelson, for God’s sake call the medical squad, quick! It’s just kids! I just shot a kid!” His voice shook. “It’s just some crippled kids!”

Leo’s stomach sank at the sight of the yellow pulses of light reflecting off the warehouse wall. Company medical squad; yes, there was their electric truck, blinkers flashing, parked in the wide central aisle. The breathless words of the clerk who’d met their shuttle tumbled through his brain—… found in the warehouse… there’s been an accident… injury… Leo’s steps quickened.

“Slow down, Leo, I’m getting dizzy,” Van Atta, behind him, complained irritably. “Not everybody can bounce back and forth between null-gee and one-gee like you do with no effects, you know.”

“They said one of the kids was hurt.…”

“So what are you going to do that the medics can’t? I, personally, am going to crucify that idiot Security team for this.…”

“I’ll meet you there,” Leo snarled over his shoulder, and ran.

Aisle 29 looked like a war zone. Smashed equipment, stuff scattered everywhere—Leo half tripped over a couple of round metal cover plates, kicked them impatiently out of his way. A pair of medics and a Security guard were huddled over a stretcher on the floor, an IV bag hoisted on a pole like a flag above them.

Red shirt; Tony, it was Tony who’d been hurt. Claire was crouched on the floor a little farther down the aisle, clutching Andy, tears streaming silently down her ragged white mask of a face. On the stretcher, Tony writhed and cried out with a hoarse sob.

“Can’t you at least give him something for pain?” the security guard urged the medtech.

“I don’t know.” The medtech was clearly flustered. “I don’t know what all they’ve done to their metabolisms. Shock is shock, I’m safe with the IV and the warmers and the synergine, but as for the rest of it—”

“Patch in an emergency comm link to Dr. Warren Minchenko.” Leo advised, kneeling beside them. “He’s chief medical officer for the Cay Habitat, and he’s on his month’s downside leave right now. Ask him to meet you at your infirmary; he’ll take over the case there.”

The Security guard eagerly unhooked his comm link and began punching in codes.

“Oh, thank God,” said the medtech, turning to Leo. “At last, somebody who knows what the hell they’re doing. Do you know what I can give him for pain, sir?”

“Uh…” Leo did a quick mental review of his first aid. “Syntha-morph should be all right, until you get in touch with Dr. Minchenko. But adjust the dose—these kids weigh less than they look like they ought to—I think Tony masses about, um, 42 kilos.” The peculiar nature of Tony’s injuries dawned on Leo at last. He had been picturing a fall, broken bones, maybe spinal cord or cranial damage… “What happened here?”