Rules of Engagement

Chapter Twenty-Two

One moment, Esmay had been checking where everyone was; the next, with no warning, the gurney tent ruptured; air puffed out. Live fire, it had to be. Esmay threw herself on the gurney, covering Brun’s body, and slammed Brun’s faceshield shut. Even through her armor, she could feel Brun breathing; she could see Brun’s face, rigid with fury or terror—she couldn’t tell which—but the mask was clear, which meant that air and filters were both working. She pushed herself up a little and locked the elbow position so her armor wouldn’t crush Brun if something hit her hard. Something thumped into her armor once, and again; someone fell over her; excited voices yelled in her suit com. She ignored them; she and her armor were between Brun and whatever was going on, and someone else could handle that.

Then the deck bucked hard, buckled, and the damaged bulkhead peeled away. She caught a glimpse of other suited figures tumbling—someone grabbing for the other gurney—and some blow thrust her toward the opening, out into the brilliant sunlight.

By the time she realized she was tumbling outside the station, she knew she was still clinging to Brun, the armor’s power-assisted gloves clamped to the frame of the gurney. The view beyond shifted crazily: light/dark, starfield/planet/station. She tried to focus on the helmet readouts, and finally found the ones that gave an estimated relative vee to her “ship”—the station—a mere 2.43 meters per second.

Brun, when she looked, was staring back at her with no recognition. Of course not—Esmay had never changed her faceshield to allow it. Impossible now. She had no idea what to do, but she knew one thing not to do—let go of the gurney frame. Her suit had the beacon.

“Lieutenant!” That loud shout in her helmet com got her attention; she hoped it was the first call.

“Suiza here,” she said, surprised that her voice sounded as calm as it did.

“Lieutenant, have you got the gurney?”

“Yup,” Esmay said. “She’s alive; air’s flowing.”

“What about you? Somebody thought they saw a plume.”

Another look at her helmet readouts was not so reassuring. Her own air was down, and the gauge was sagging visibly. I’ve been here before, she thought, remembering her first terrifying EVA from Koskiusko. And I didn’t like it then.

“Low,” she said. “And going down.”

“The blast may’ve pulled your airfeed loose—can you check it?”

“Not without letting go of the gurney,” Esmay said. “And I’m not going to. What’s the situation?”

“They’re dead; we’ve got two dead, and four tumblers, counting you and the gurney as one. Max has you all on scan. We’ll have a sled to you in less than ten minutes.”

She didn’t have ten minutes.

“What is your air?” That was Meharry.

“Three minutes,” Esmay said. “If it doesn’t leak any faster.”

“Is Brun conscious?”

“Yes. She’s looking at me, but she can’t see me—my helmet shield’s still mirrored.”

“I’m going to transmit to her, tell her to see if she can stop your leak.”

“No—it’s too dangerous.”

“It’ll be more dangerous if you pass out and can’t help guide the sled in.”

She could see the change in Brun’s expression, though Meharry hadn’t patched the transmission to her. Then Brun wriggled around, wrapping one arm in the straps waving from the gurney, and reaching around behind Esmay. Her arm wasn’t long enough; she tapped Esmay’s shoulder.

If Esmay let go with one hand, and turned, Brun might be able to reach whatever it was. But she might lose her grip on the gurney—they might not find her. Brun’s tap the next time was a solid slug. Esmay grinned to herself. Whatever the damage, Brun hadn’t changed in some essentials. Carefully, slowly, Esmay loosened her grip on the gurney frame on that side, and transferred her grip to one of the grab straps on Brun’s p-suit. Brun wriggled more. The air gauge quit dropping . . . stabilized . . . at eight minutes.

“Eight minutes,” Esmay reported to Meharry.

“She’s got the luck, that one,” Meharry said. She did not say whether eight minutes would be enough. Esmay told herself that one minute of oxygen deprivation was within anyone’s capacity. Brun bumped against her, flinging out an arm and leg. What was the idiot doing—oh. Slowing rotation. Esmay extended her legs on the other side. The confusing whirl of backgrounds slowed, as they lay almost crosswise of each other, forming, with the gurney frame, a six-spoked wheel rolling slowly along.

Then Brun reached up with her webbing-wrapped arm, and pushed up Esmay’s mirrorshield before Esmay could bring an arm in to stop her. Her eyes widened. Then she grinned, as mischievous and merry a grin as Esmay had ever seen on her face. She used the same arm to work free the thermal-packed bag of IV fluids sticktaped to the gurney, and very deliberately used her glove’s screwblade attachment to poke a hole in it. Then she winked at Esmay, looked past her—moved the bag around—and squeezed.

A stream of saline jetted out, instantly converted to a spray of ice crystals that glittered in the sun. Esmay wondered if Brun had just gone completely insane. Then she realized what it was. For all the good it would do, Brun was trying to use an IV as reaction mass to get them back to the station faster.

Esmay did her best to hold still, even as her air ran out, and the hunger for oxygen overtook her, urging her to run, struggle, fight her way out of the dark choking tunnel that was squeezing the life out of her.

She heard voices before she could see; the steady quiet voices of the medics, and somewhere beyond, quite a bit of cursing and yelling.

“What’s her pO₂ doing?”

“Coming up. Caught it in time . . .”

“We’re going to need another can of spray over here—”

“My God, what’d they do to them?”

“It was the horse, I think—” That in a tentative, soft voice.

Esmay opened her eyes to see unhelmeted faces bent over her. She wanted to ask the logical question, but she would not ask that one. One of the medics anticipated her.

“We’re in the shuttle again. Our targets are alive, no wounds taken in the shootout. We lost two dead, eight with minor injuries. The station’s pretty much gone and there’s a fight going on upstairs somewhere. And now you’re with us, we don’t have to worry about you any more.” The medic winked. “But I do have to do a mental status exam.”

Esmay took a deep breath, and only then realized that she still had something up her nose feeding her oxygen. “I’m fine,” she said. “What else is going on?” She tried to sit up, but the medic pushed her back.

“Not until we’re sure of your blood gases. Your suit telemetry said you were out of air for about two and a half minutes before we got you reconnected, and that’s on the edge of the bad zone.”

“I’m fine,” Esmay said.

“You’re not,” the medic said, “but you will be when we’re done with you.” She inserted a syringe into the IV line Esmay had not noticed until then, and a soft gauzy curtain closed between Esmay and the rest of the universe.

Barin had the uncomfortable honor of observing the whole collapse of the “simple, straightforward extrication” from the bridge of Gyrfalcon. Most of the carnage had already happened by the time Shrike’s signal reached them, and his grandmother ordered the rest of the task force to jump in. They popped out less than thirty light seconds from the planet, only ten from the nearest enemy ship. Gyrfalcon’s first salvo took it out; the cruiser’s massive energy weapons burned through its shields in less than a second.

“Not used to facing real firepower,” Escovar said calmly.

“Captain—Shrike has recovered one shuttle—casualties . . .”

Please, please, let it not be Esmay . . . Barin clenched his hand on the ring he had bought for her.

“Firing solution on second enemy ship—RED for Shrike—”

“Hold!”

“Got it!” That from Navarino, whose clear shot at the second enemy ship had blown it as cleanly as their own had the first.

“Third target running—headed for jump point—”

That would be the job of Applejack, the cleanup light cruiser . . . Barin watched scan intently as the enemy ship headed toward the minefield Applejack had spent the past six hours sowing around the jump corridor.

Hazel had seen the bulkhead peeling back, and felt a moment of complete panic—not now, not after all they’d been through—but someone’s gloved hand caught the bar at the end of her gurney, and wrapped a quick line to it, then secured the line to a stickpatch. But—when she looked—she could see a tumbling, receding shape that had to be Brun and someone holding her.

She said nothing—there was enough noise on the comunits anyway—until someone asked if she was all right.

“Yes, but—what about Brun?”

“We’ll get them back,” a reassuring voice said. “Don’t you worry. And we’ll get you into a shuttle.”

“Yeah, before this place breaks up completely . . .”

She was passed from one set of hands to another—each carefully attaching her to another set of secured lines before releasing the first—and then finally through the cargo hatch of a shuttle. People moved past her, all busy, all doing something she hoped would rescue Brun. She had heard of Fleet SAR all her life, but she’d never seen it in action. She’d had no idea that SAR teams wore black p-suits that looked like space armor from storycubes. She’d expected them to wear bright colors with flashers or something to make them easier to see.

“Hey there—can you tell us your name again?” That was a blonde woman with sleepy green eyes.

“Hazel Takeris,” Hazel said. “Of the Elias Madero.” Her throat closed on all the things she had meant to say, that she’d rehearsed in her head so many times.

“We’re going after Brun now,” the woman said. “There’s a beacon on the officer with her—we can’t lose her.”

Hazel felt better, but she could sense more tension in the people around her. Something was still wrong.

“What is it?”

“Nothing to worry about,” the woman said. “Only this was supposed to be a quick, simple extrication . . . and we didn’t know about you—”

“I’m sorry,” Hazel said automatically. The woman looked startled.

“Don’t you be sorry. It’s those idiots who planned it who need to be sorry.”

The woman looked aside suddenly, and Hazel turned her head to see what it was. The cargo hatch gaped again, and three more black-suited figures swam in, pushing another, attached to Brun’s gurney.

“Hatch closed,” she heard through her com.

“Air up! Air up!”

“Patch it into the suit, dammit!”

Hazel could just see Brun’s turquoise suit . . . surely she had air, from the suit tanks. The others cut off her view.

“Air pressure’s nom,” someone said.

Then they moved, coming past her with the black-suited figure. Two of them stripped off suit gloves, and opened the other’s black suit with some tool—and it flipped back like a beetle’s carapace. Hazel stared—it was space armor. Inside, a limp figure . . . she could see a pale face, slack-mouthed. Busy arms, hands—and then someone tapped her shoulder.

“You don’t want to watch,” the green-eyed woman said. “It gets messy. And since they’re working on her, they asked me to do an initial assessment on you. Any trouble breathing?”

“No,” Hazel said, “but—”

“Fine, then. You want to open your helmet? We can talk off the coms that way, save interference.”

Hazel realized she could reach up and open her faceplate. The woman had opened hers, as well, and was folding back her gloves.

“You got any broken bones you know of?”

“No . . . is Brun all right?”

“She’s fine—she’s got her own team working on her.”

“But who was that—”

“Lieutenant Suiza—just a little hypoxia, don’t fret.”

She wished people would quit telling her not to worry. She glared at the green-eyed woman.

“I’m not a child, you know.”

“You sure look like one.”

“Well, I’m . . .” She wasn’t even sure how old she was. How long had she been a captive? At least a year, because Brun had those babies. “I’m seventeen,” she said.

“Mm. Well, I’m thirty-eight, and my name is Methlin Meharry. Want to tell me how you got away?”

“I was coming back from market—” Hazel began, and she’d gotten as far as cutting off their hair with the long knives when she heard someone working on the officer—on Lieutenant Suiza—let out a happy Yes!

“She coming around?” Meharry asked.

“Any minute now.” One of the others came over to Hazel.

“All right—let us professionals at her.” And to Hazel, “Let’s get you out of that p-suit and see what shape you’re in.”

“You be gentle now,” Meharry said.

“You should talk,” the medic said, without rancor. “Considering your rep.”

“I could get out of this myself—” Hazel started to say, as the medic reached through the sleeves to unfasten her p-suit.

“Yes, but we want you in the tent in case the shuttle has pressure problems . . . unlikely but it’s a zoo out there.” The medic peeled back her pressure suit section by section; Hazel heard exclamations from those working on Brun and craned her head, trying to see, just as her attendant peeled the leg sections of the suit and the clothes underneath. “My God—what did they do to them!”

“I think it was the horses,” Hazel said. “We rode horses all night.”

“Horses! We send a task force halfway across the cluster, and they’re getting you out on horses?”

“It makes you really sore,” Hazel said. “And the clothes were stiff.”

“Barbarians,” someone muttered. “Should have spaced the lot of ’em.”

Shrike scooped up the shuttle, and medics moved Hazel and Brun into the spacious sickbay. “Regen for you,” said the green-coated medic when he’d peeled away the gurney’s tent and draped a gown over her. “You’ll feel a lot better after an hour—maybe two—in the tank.” Hazel wasn’t about to argue; she saw that Brun was being led to the other tank. She settled into the warm, soothing liquid, and dozed off.

Brun was furious. They were talking over her head again, as if she weren’t there, and no one had thought to get her a voice synthesizer. Three hours aboard, and they continued to treat her like an idiot child.

“She’ll need another five hours of regen for those abrasions,” one medic said. “And I still think we should order a parasite scan.”

Brun reached out, caught hold of his uniform, and yanked hard. He staggered, then turned.

“Are you all right? All right?” He spoke a little too slowly, a little too loudly, as if she might be a deaf child.

Brun shook her head and mimed writing a message.

“Oh—you want to say something?”

Yes, she wanted to say something, something very firm. Instead, she smiled and nodded, and mimed writing again. Finally, someone handed her a pad.

HOW’S ESMAY? she wrote.

“Lieutenant Suiza is fine,” the medic said. “Don’t worry—you won’t have to see her again. It was strictly against orders—”

What were they talking about? Brun grabbed the pad back. I WANT TO SEE HER.

“That’s not a good idea,” the medic said. “You weren’t supposed to see her at all. We understand how traumatic it was—”

Brun underlined the words I WANT TO SEE HER and shoved the pad back at him.

“But it was all a mistake . . .”

SAVING MY LIFE WAS A MISTAKE? That came out in a scrawl he had to struggle to read.

“No—her being involved. Your father said, under no circumstances should you have to see her, after what she said about you.”

Her father. Rage boiled up. Carefully calm, she printed her message. I DON’T CARE WHAT MY FATHER SAID. ESMAY SAVED MY LIFE. I WANT TO SEE HER. NOW.

“But you can’t—you need more time in regen—and besides, what will the captain say?”

She could care what the captain said. Or her father. She had not come back to the real world to be told she couldn’t talk to anyone she pleased, even if she couldn’t talk.

“She’s getting agitated,” someone else said. “Heart rate up, respirations—maybe we should sedate—”

Brun erupted from the bed, ignoring the remaining twinges, and slapping aside the tentative grab of the first medic. The other one picked up the injector of sedative spray. With a kick she had practiced in secret for months, she smashed it from his hand; it dribbled down the bulkhead. She pointed a minatory finger at the medics, picked up the pad, and tapped the word NOW.

“Good to see you up,” came a lazy voice from the entrance. Brun poised to attack, then realized it was Methlin Meharry, whose expression didn’t vary as she took in the two medics, the smashed injector, and Brun with the short hospital gown flapping about her thighs. “Giving you trouble, were they? All right boys—out.” The medics looked at each other, and Meharry, and wisely chose withdrawal.

Brun held out the pad.

“You want to see Suiza? Why, girl? I thought she trashed you at Copper Mountain, upset you so you ran away home.”

Brun shrugged—it doesn’t matter—and tapped the pad again.

“Yeah, well, she did save your life, and you saved hers I guess. Or helped. Your father thought seeing her would be a terrible trauma. If it’s not—well, it’s your decision.” Meharry’s mouth quirked. “You might want to put on some clothes, though . . . unless you want her to come down here.”

Brun didn’t. She was more than ready to get out of sickbay. Resourceful as ever, Meharry quickly found Brun a shipsuit that almost fit. It wasn’t quite as soft as the shipsuits Hazel had found on the station, but it fitted her better.

“Now—it’s customary to make a courtesy call on the captain. Since the captain told the lieutenant not to let you know she was there, and she did—this could be a bit tricky. Just so you know.”

Meharry led her through a maze of corridors to a door that had Lt. E. Suiza, Executive Officer on it. Meharry knocked.

“Come in,” Esmay said. When Meharry opened the door, she was half-sitting on her bunk; she looked pale and tired.

“Brun wants to see you,” Meharry said. “She kind of insisted, when the medics wanted to sedate her . . .”

Brun moved past Meharry, and held out the pad on which she’d already scribbled THANK YOU.

Esmay stared at it, then at Brun, brow furrowed. “They don’t have a speaker device for you! What are they thinking of!” Esmay looked almost as angry as Brun felt.

They’re worried about my stability.

“They ought to be worried about your voice, dammit! This is ridiculous. That should be the first thing—”

Thank you, Brun wrote again. My father gave you trouble?

Esmay flushed. “They got the tape of what I said to you that night—and I’m sorry, it really was insulting—”

You were right.

“No—I was angry, that’s what. I thought you were stealing Barin—as if he were my property, which is disgusting of me, but that’s how I felt.”

You love Barin? That was something that hadn’t occurred to her, even in the months of captivity. Esmay, the cool professional, in love?

“Yes. And you had so much more time, and when I was working I knew you were spending time with him . . .”

Talking about you.

“I didn’t know that. Anyway—I said I’m sorry. But they think—they thought—I had something against you and your family. Your father didn’t want me involved in the planning, or with the mission. But that’s not the important thing—the important thing is getting you a voice.” Esmay thought for a moment. Meharry. Meharry knew everyone and everything, as near as Esmay could tell. If that device on the station had survived, Meharry would know where it was, and if it hadn’t, she’d know what would work.

“A speech synthesizer? Sure—I can get you one. Just don’t ask where.”

Ten minutes later, a young pivot, so new he squeaked, delivered a briefcase-sized box that flipped open to reveal a keyboard of preprogrammed speech tags as well as direct input.

“Here,” Esmay said. “Try this.”

Brun peered at it, and began tapping the buttons. “It looks like the one Lady Cecelia used on Rotterdam,” said a deep bass voice.

Esmay jumped, then started laughing.

“Let’s see what this one sounds like,” the box said, this time in a soprano.

“I didn’t like that one, let’s try this . . .” came out in a mezzo; Brun shrugged. “I’ll keep this one.”

“I wonder why they didn’t do this first,” Esmay said. “If they had a speech synthesizer aboard, why not give it to you right away.”

“Arrogance,” Brun keyed in. “They knew what I needed; why ask me?”

“Brun, I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t waste time. Thank you. You saved my life.”

Esmay was trying to think how to answer that one when Brun’s next message came out.

“And by the way, who’s doing your hair? It looks good even after being squashed in a suit.”

“Sera Saenz—Marta Saenz—took me to this place, Afino’s.”

“Raffaele’s Aunt Marta? You must have impressed her if she took you there. Good for you.”

Esmay could not believe how fast Brun was keying in the words, as if she’d used one of these for years. “You’re good with that thing,” she said.

“Practice,” Brun keyed. “With Cecelia. And you cannot know how good it feels. Now—what’s going on with Fleet and the planet? Hazel wants to get the other kids out.”

“And your babies,” Esmay said. “Your father’s adamant about that: he’s not leaving his grandchildren there.”

“He can have them.” Brun’s expression dared Esmay to question that, and she didn’t.

“I don’t know what the whole situation is,” Esmay said. “Because, since I’m in disgrace for letting you know I was here, they won’t tell me. You’re on a search—and-rescue ship; there’s a task force with us, but what we’re doing is microjumping around keeping out of the way of the Militia warships.”

“Who can I talk to?” Brun keyed. “Who’s giving the orders?”

“On this ship, Captain Solis. For the task force, Admiral Serrano.”

“Good. I need to talk to her.”

“Admiral Serrano?” Esmay remembered in time that Brun already knew the admiral . . . she might in fact listen. “I can get you as far as Captain Solis, but there’s a blackout on communications with the task force.”

“Captain Solis first,” Brun keyed in. Esmay nodded and led the way without another word. Brun glanced at Esmay. Besides the more effective haircut, there was something else different. She realized, as Esmay led her through the ship and she saw others defer to her, that Esmay might indeed be in disgrace but she was far more than Brun had imagined. This was what she’d been like at Xavier, or on Koskiusko? Her own idiocy struck her again, the way she had condescended to this woman, the way she had assumed that Esmay was no more than any other student, no more than, for instance, herself. That man in the combat veterans’ bar had been right—she had not understood at all.

They paused at a cross-corridor while what looked to Brun like huge people in armor moved past.

“Feeling better, Lieutenant?” one of them asked.

“Fine, thanks,” Esmay said. She turned to Brun. “They were on the team that got you out.”

“Thank you,” Brun keyed quickly. She hit the controls to save that phrase; she was going to need it a lot.

Captain Solis stood as Brun came in and reached to shake her hand. “We are so glad to have you back!”

“I’m glad to be back.” Brun had anticipated the need for that phrase, and had it loaded.

“Your father did not want you bothered by Lieutenant Suiza, but I understand that you wanted to see her—?”

“Yes.” This had to be done word by word, carefully, and Brun took her time. “I wanted to apologize to her for my behavior on Copper Mountain. It was made clear to me during my captivity just how badly I had misjudged her. And I wanted to express my profound gratitude for her efforts on my behalf.”

“You don’t know most of it,” Captain Solis said. “She is the one who insisted that you were probably still alive after your escape shuttle blew up—that you could have engineered that as a decoy—and said we had to go find you.” He spared Esmay a glance that Brun could tell was more approving than usual. “I could almost change my mind.”

“I changed mine,” Brun keyed in.

“Well, now that we’ve got you and the other—Hazel Takeris, is that her name?—we can jump safely back to the task force and get out of here with no more disruption.”

“No.” Brun keyed, and switched to the masculine voice output for emphasis.

Captain Solis jumped; she bit back a grin. It would not do to laugh at the man. “But—what—?”

“We must get the other children,” Brun keyed. “From the ship Hazel was on.”

“I don’t see how,” Captain Solis began.

“We must,” Brun said.

“But Hazel said they were safe—that they had adjusted to their new family—”

“We cannot leave little girls, Familias citizens by birth, to be brought up in a society where they can be muted like me for saying the wrong thing.”

Solis looked at her. “You’re naturally overwrought,” he began.

Brun stabbed at the keyboard with such emphasis that his voice trailed away, and he waited. “I am tired, sore, hungry, and extremely tired of having no voice, but I am not overwrought. Could you define the right amount of ‘wrought’ for someone in my position? Those children were stolen from their families—their parents were murdered horribly—and they’re in the control of people who were willing to kidnap, rape, and abuse me. How dare you suggest that they are safe enough where they are?”

“Sera—it’s not my decision. It will be the admiral’s, if she can make it without authorization from the Grand Council, which I doubt.”

“Then I will see the admiral,” Brun said.

“It will be some time before we can rendezvous safely,” Solis said. He gave Esmay a long look. “And for the time being, Lieutenant, could you find quarters for our guest? I know we’re crowded with extra crew, not to mention prisoners—”

“Yes, sir,” Esmay said.

“Prisoners.” That came out in a flat baritone, after they’d left the bridge.

“Two groups,” Esmay said. “Three different shuttle loads came up to the station after you; one blew itself up, but we caught two.”

She wanted to see them. She wanted to let them see her, free and healthy and—no. She would get her voice back first, and then she would see them.

“Something to eat?” she keyed.

“Right away,” Esmay said, and led her to the wardroom. Brun sat revelling in food which someone else had cooked—flavors she was used to, condiments she liked, anything she chose to drink, while watching Esmay covertly. What had Afino’s done to her hair? And for that matter, what could she do about her own hair, which she’d hacked off so blindly with a knife?

Several days later, with her hair once more a riot of tousled curls, thanks to the crew’s barber, she was ready to tackle Admiral Serrano.

“You are coming with me,” Brun said. “I need you; I trust you.”

“You could take Meharry—”

“Methlin is a dear person . . .” Esmay blinked, imagining what the redoubtable Meharry would think to hear herself so described. “But she is not you. I need you.”

“I’m the executive officer; I can’t just leave the ship.”

“Well, then, the admiral can come here. Which do you think she’d like least?”

Put like that, there was no question. Esmay tracked down Captain Solis and received permission to accompany Brun to the flagship.

“And it has not escaped my notice,” Solis said, “that almost two years without a voice has not begun to stop that young woman giving orders. We had better get her commissioned, so at least it’s legal.”

Prima had known, from the beginning, that this was big trouble coming. She could hardly believe Patience had run off—and in fact it seemed she had been abducted. That happened sometimes, girls stolen away, but usually no one would bother a Ranger’s household. And the man had said, loud enough to be heard, that he had business with Mitch.

She hadn’t wanted to tell Mitch until she knew for sure what had happened. Mitch was at a meeting, an important meeting. But his younger brother Jed had stopped by, as he often did, and when Tertia came in to report that Patience had still not come home, he took it upon himself to find Mitch. He liked to give orders, Jed did, and Prima knew that his ambitions went beyond being a Ranger’s brother. He wanted that star for himself, and Mitch couldn’t see any danger in it.

And then Mitch had come home, in a rage with her for not supervising the girl better; it seemed the woman who’d been captured at the same time as Patience had disappeared from the Crockett Street Nursery. He’d called the older boys and they’d all gone out to search, and he’d sent for the parson to come and preach at her and the women all afternoon.

It was more than a nuisance; it was baking day, and they had to leave the dough rising to sit in silent rows and listen to Parson Wells lecture them on their laziness and sinfulness. Prima kept her eyes down, respectfully, but she did think it was a shame and a nuisance, to stop hard-working women in their work and make them listen to a scolding about their laziness. And he would go on and on about their sins tainting their children. Prima had trouble with that bit of doctrine: if, hard as she tried, her faults had made poor Sammie a cripple, and Simplicity stupid, then how could the outland women—who had arrived after lives of sin and blasphemy—bear such beautiful, healthy children?

Mitch had come home late that night, having found not sight nor word of Patience . . . or, presumably, the other woman, the yellow-haired one. Prima wanted to ask about the yellow-hair’s babies, but she knew better. He was in no mood to tolerate any forwardness, even from her. She set the house in order, and waited by the women’s door, but he never came to her. Early the next morning, she heard him leave the house; when she peeked, Jed was with him. She had hardly slept. She heard the roar of a departing shuttle from the spaceport, and sometime later, another, and another.

A few hours later, a tumult from the boys’ section drew her to its entrance. She could hear their tutor hollering at them, trying to quiet them . . . and then Randy, Tertia’s youngest boy, shot out the door with a clatter of sandaled feet.

“Daddy’s dead!” he was screaming, at the top of his lungs. Prima caught him. “Lemme go! Lemme go!” He flailed at her.

The tutor followed close behind. “Prima—put him down.”

The tutor, though a man, was not Mitch, and she dared look at his face, pale as whey. “What is it?” she asked.

“That abomination,” he said, through clenched teeth. “She stole a shuttle, and tried to escape. Ranger Bowie and others went after her; there’s been—” Light stabbed through the windows, a quick shocking flash of blue-white. Prima whirled, suddenly aware of her heart knocking at her ribs.

The tutor had opened the window and peered out and up. Prima followed him. Outside, cars had stopped cantways, and men were looking up. Prima dared a look into the sky, and saw only patches of blue between white clouds. Ordinary. Unthreatening.

“I want to see the newsvid,” she said to the tutor, and walked into the boys’ part of the house without waiting for his permission.