Action Stations

CHAPTER SIX

Earth-Headquarters CICCONFEDFLT. Confederation date 2634.181

"Senator More, a pleasure to see you."

Skip Banbridge forced a smile as the senator, with an imperial air, strolled into the admirals office as if it was More's personal domain.

Skip sat down and took a sip from his mug of coffee, making it a point not to offer More a cup.

"Your comment to the press yesterday about my political motivations for blocking the upgrade facilities for the Wildcat fighters was way out of line," More began, without even the pretense of exchanging a few pleasantries before launching straight into the attack.

"All I said was that it is time to put political considerations aside. We are heading for a crisis and we need the upgrades now."

"My district or nothing, Admiral. Do you read me?"

"Senator. Your district is two jump points from what could be the front line."

"Front line with what?"

"The Kilrathi, sir," Skip replied coldly. "We are moving towards a declaration of war, sir."

"A move which you, rather surprisingly, are against," More snapped back.

"Sir. We are taking a swing into the dark. All we know is that they are out there and that they're xenophobic as all hell. Beyond that we know nothing."

"Are you afraid, is that it?" More asked tauntingly. "I thought you fleet boys would love a chance for a little shoot-up."

Skip struggled to control his anger.

"Sir, the good Lord willing, this limited war will get the message across, but we are dealing with an unknown here. We know nothing concrete about them. We don't even know where the hell the jump points are once we're into their territory. It'll take survey teams months, years to track them down. All I'm saying is I don't like the gamble."

"So you want to run off? Just what the hell are we spending trillions on? Toys for you to fly around in and nothing else?"

Slap leaned forward, coming half out of his chair.

"Good kids will die even in this limited operation. A hell of a lot more might die if the message is read the wrong way, either as a sign of weakness or of belligerence."

"So we do nothing about their raids?"

Skip wearily shook his head and collapsed back into his chair. The same man who was doing so much to hamstring the fleet was now pushing it out into aggressive actions it had no real business making. He knew it was an irrational prejudice but he had never really liked a political leader who had not put some time into the service, or at the very least had spent some time studying the history of it. The worst kind were the ones who cried about funding, wrung their hands over inane causes, and then were more than willing to send kids out to die for their pet cause of the moment.

The Kilrathi had to be addressed. Everything in his gut was telling him that a war, not just a limited declaration but an all-out, total war unlike anything the Confederation had ever faced was looming on the horizon. And if it came he knew More would maneuver himself into the appropriate political stance.

"The appropriations, Admiral," More said quietly, focusing the topic back on the reason for his visit. "I want the facility in my district or nothing."

"We need depth to protect our manufacturing. That means the inner worlds, not out on the edge. For heavens sake, man, can't you see that? We are talking survival here!"

More stood up and leaned over the desk, hands slamming down on Banbridge's desk.

"Always the inner worlds. You are in their pockets and I'll be damned if I buckle to that. And another thing, Admiral. Your ass is on the line and I want it. I've had it with your sniping. I'll tag so many damn investigations on you that you won't be able to breathe. You are finished unless you start playing ball with me right now."

Banbridge bristled and stood up, ready to explode.

"Damn it, just for once, just for once, Senator, can you stop thinking like a damnable ward politician and start thinking like a representative of all the Confederation? Tomorrow the Senate will declare war and I'm locked into Orange Five. If we're going to fight them, then, damn it, fight them and stop these half-assed measures."

"That's exactly what you people want," More snapped back. "Full-scale war. Well, times have changed, Banbridge. Our actions will be surgical and balanced, appropriate to the level of threat. We don't need a sledgehammer, we need a surgeon's scalpel to solve this problem with the Cats. Take some of their ships, push them back and that will be the end of it. You military types only see as far as the end of a gun. You should listen more to the people over at the State Department, they have a handle on this. Once the Cats see we'll fight, we've won their respect and they'll back off. Do it your way and it will lead us into a full-scale conflict that means disaster."

"The Cats are ready and we are not, and when it hits they'll roll right over us, thanks to all that you've done."

"You are insubordinate, Mr. Banbridge, and I'll have your stars for this!"

Skip struggled with his rage, wishing that Winston was by his side. The old prof always had a way of smoothing a situation out. He knew he should play kiss ass with More, but it was beyond that now.

"Senator. When they start shipping home the body bags, I pray to God you're forced to look into the eyes of every mother whose son or daughter you've killed, because the good Lord knows I'll most certainly have to face some of them."

"You're finished, Banbridge. I expect support for the building of the facilities on my world. It's all or nothing now."

More stepped back from the desk as Skip bristled with rage. For the first time in years the admiral found himself filled with a desire to physically choke the life out of someone. He knew that if the crisis did come, More would be a survivor. Ones like him always were.

They'd dance and shift the blame and come out clean. And what was even more enraging was the clear knowledge that the bastard would not even think twice about the thousands of youngsters who would die because of his arrogance. In fact, any concept of personal guilt for the tragedies he created was beyond him. All that mattered was power.

"Get out of my office," Skip snarled. "Get the hell out of my office right now, damn you."

More smiled malevolently. "I was hoping you'd respond like this. I don't need your brown-nosing me to survive. In fact, I want your hide pinned to my wall."

Without another word More stalked out of the office. On the other side of the door Banbridge saw the ever-hovering staff of lackeys waiting, circling in around him like drones circling a queen bee. The door slid shut and, cursing a stream of his best lower-deck invections, Skip stalked around his office. The coffee cup wound up smashed against the wall and he felt a moment of embarrassment as one of his staffers popped the door open and peeked in to make sure he was all right.

"Just get the hell out," Skip yelled and then felt guilty at the wide-eyed look he got from the young lieutenant.

"Sir, want me to clean that up?" he asked, and nodded towards the coffee slowly dribbling down the wall.

Skip took a deep breath. "No, son, just leave me alone."

Going into his private washroom Skip took a couple of towels, got down on his knees and started to wipe the mess up. He had always loathed officers who would leave a mess and then disdainfully walk away with the knowledge that some enlisted man or woman would be there to straighten things out. Picking up the fragments of the cup he tossed them in the trash and dumped the towels in the bathroom hamper.

His temper under control he settled back behind his desk. More was going to make his life hell and he could only pray that things would drag out long enough so that, if the crisis did come, he'd still be in the command seat. Kolensky was obviously the choice More wanted for the next CIC, a good enough officer but in the opposition's pocket. He lacked imagination and definitely did not have the feel of the fleet. Hell, it was Kolensky who had drawn up Orange Five and even believed in it.

He pushed the thought aside as he tapped into his system to scan the latest intel reports from Speedwell. There were a hell of a lot of signs coming together, but it was all information that actually was a lack of information. The Kilrathi had sealed things up tighter than a drum. The border which, for the gray world of the frontier, had been somewhat porous, was now shut. Rumors were floating about an incident with a nuke mine which had put a twist into the Cats' tails. But beyond that, nothing. Silence, an empty zone dividing two systems that were apparently heading straight into a collision. Couldn't people like More see that when overtures were made to the Cats to establish diplomatic contacts, overtures which were firmly rebuffed, that there was signal enough right there? Instead, State Department cranked out some crap about understanding peoples from different cultures and then let it drop.

Well, the few surviving Varni who had wandered in had info enough… the Cats were killers, period.

It was this total lack of information that he found troubling. Just what the hell were they up to? Equally disturbing was the disappearance of Winston without a trace. He knew that was part of the procedure they had agreed upon. But with the recent flap, he feared that he might have unnecessarily put his old friend into an impossible situation.

Black Hole System 299-inside the Kilrathi Empire

The nausea which had seized Geoff Tolwyn finally eased off.

"We've cleared it. Now keep your eyes sharp!"

Using the hydraulic foot pedals Geoff slowly spun the turret around, carefully watching the target acquisition board. Close in there was nothing, a scattering of reflections off some debris which target analysis informed him was wreckage from a shattered light transport. More wreckage began to pop up as the translight radar sweep picked up data from millions of clicks out and relayed it back.

"Must be half a hundred wrecks floating out here," Geoff announced.

"So I heard," Hans replied.

Geoff looked down between his legs to where Hans sat in the left side pilot seat, Richards occupying the copilot's seat to the right. He felt a flicker of envy for Richards. Lazarus was certainly one hot ship; Hans had not been idly boasting about its capability. Still, the inertia-dampening system was still not fully in synch so that, when the engines were slapped on, they'd pull upwards of ten g's before it flattened back out.

He continued to scan the darkness around them. The jump point Hans had taken them through was supposedly a trade secret of smugglers coming out of the Landreich system. The point opened just on the outer edge of the event horizon of a black hole two jumps inside the Empire. There were no planets in the system and it was a favorite rendezvous spot for a wide variety of merchants, smugglers, and those simply in need of a serious change of location. As he spun the turret around yet again he looked inward towards the hole. It was, of course, invisible. Anything crossing the event horizon simply disappeared, but just short of the horizon there was a shimmering band of light as stray particles accelerating up to light speed glowed with a fiery, incandescent brilliance. He felt slightly nervous about being within a black hole system. The gravitational fields were highly unpredictable. Orbiting one, even at five billion clicks from the event horizon, was a dangerous proposition. In fact, Fleet regulations strictly forbade any of their craft to jump into such a system unless in hot pursuit of an enemy. The exits of the jump points had the unpleasant characteristic of shifting randomly, and supposedly on occasion would shift over the event horizon line… in which case you came through the jump, and in a millionth of second you were sucked in and disappeared forever.

"Now's the fun part," Hans announced. Geoff leaned over in the turret to watch what was up next as Hans punched up a coded recognition signal which he claimed had cost him a thousand credits to obtain back on the Hell Hole.

He sent out the burst signal, then settled back to wait.

"Either we get a positive return or we turn and get the hell out of here, so everyone stay on station."

Several anxious minutes passed until a bright blue blip appeared on Hans' control screen.

"Tolwyn, get a lock on that and nav us in."

Geoff looked back at his own screen and saw that the signal had come nearly a sixth of the way around the outer hub of the black hole and dangerously close in towards the event horizon. He punched in the lock and waited for the nav solution to come back. The computer took far longer than he had expected, making him realize just how difficult it must be to factor in all the variables of flying so close to the hole. The solution finally came up on the screen, and as he had been taught at the Academy he took the time to do it a second time, while running a quick manual diagnostic on the solution, just to make sure there wasn't some glitch which might result in all of them having a very bad day.

"Solution locked in," he finally announced and then, setting the threat-detection system on automatic, he unbuckled his harness and slipped down from the turret. Turner was already back up from the tail gun position and smiled.

"Good nav plot, Geoff." Tolwyn smiled at the compliment, realizing that actually it should have been Turner up there doing a job that important. Hans unbuckled as well and stood up.

"We'll be there in four hours. I'm going to get some sleep. Turner, you and Tolwyn can stand watch. Richards, you can sleep or not, that's your business."

Popping open the hatch down into the lower galley and bunk area, he disappeared from view. Geoff looked over at Turner, surprised that the old prof so willingly took orders from someone like Kruger.

Turner smiled. "It's his ship, he gives the orders."

"He's an arrogant pup," Vance replied.

"But a damn good pilot, I dare say as good as you, Richards."

Vance bristled but said nothing.

"I think he's right though, Vance. Grab some sleep. Once we get in there, we'll be doing watch on watch, two of us awake at all times. This could be a wild and woolly place we're heading into and I want you on your toes, so take a biorhythm alter pill, get below and sleep."

"Okay, sir." After unstrapping, Richards followed Hans down into the lower bay.

"Sir?"

"Geoff, once we get in there, let's just drop the sir line."

Geoff felt rather uncomfortable with the suggestion but could clearly see the logic to it.

"All right, Winston. It's just that all the way out here, I've been wondering. What the hell is it we're suppose to be looking for? I know we're going in there to do a little trading, but I'm still not quite on the mark."

Winston chuckled. "Ever put a puzzle together without the picture on the box to go by?"

Geoff shook his head. It was a strange pastime which he had never indulged in.

"That's what we're doing out here. We don't even know what shape the puzzle might be. It's getting information, stray bits of data that in and of themselves don't add up to much, but when you start trying to match them up, suddenly you get two pieces together, then a third, then a tenth, then a hundredth. I'm cutting you loose down there, son. It'll be dangerous. What you saw in the bar back at the Hell Hole was child's play. At least there you'll find the code."

"The code?"

"Strange, but its a rather ethical set of rules that binds folk in the Landreich together. No one asks questions, no one noses into anyone else's business, but on the other side one's word is his bond. You don't take someone else's ship, and you don't help an outsider against one who belongs."

"So that's why you turned your back when you walked out?"

Turner smiled. "The fight was fair. No one was going to interfere if I got shot in the back since I was an obvious outsider, but if that assassin had tried to shoot Hans in the back, he'd have been blown apart. Funny, they'll rip each other apart in a stand-up fight, but heaven help anyone, Confed or Cat, who tries to come in and tell them how to live or what taxes to pay. But where we're going, it's every man, Cat, or whatever for themselves. Now we're looking for information on anything of interest and I tell you, if you want the inside line on what's really going on, the hell with the signal intel, Confed Security, and especially those wool heads with the State Department. You go to the underworld, the folks living outside the edge who have to know everything if they're going to stay ahead and survive. So just blend in, buy some drinks, keep your mouth shut, your ears open, and the safety off on your blaster."

Geoff rubbed the stubble of whiskers on his face, feeling decidedly uncomfortable with the new growth which had sprouted in the four weeks it had taken them to skirt far out beyond even the loosely-knit union of the Landreich, and then circle back in on the flank of the Empire. He looked down at his dirty tunic and coveralls, noticing above all else the bulk of the blaster tucked into its harness under his left armpit and the smaller weapon fitting snugly into the top of his right boot.

"Don't worry, you're starting to look the part already. That's part of the reason I took you and Richards. I could have had standard Fleet Intel operatives, but the damn thing of it is, they're so good at it that they stand out, they look the part, they're simply too smooth. You and Richards will be ignored. They'll figure you're fresh fish not worth the effort of killing and let it go at that. Granted, you'll have some who might try and rough you up, even kill you for sport, but suspect that you're doing intel work? Never."

"Thanks for the confidence, sir… excuse me, I mean Winston," Geoff replied, not sure how to take what he supposed was intended as a compliment.

Turner's gaze hardened.

"Schools over, Tolwyn. We've got a mission. We either come out with what we need, or we simply don't come out. I'm convinced there's a massive Kilrathi attack coming and we've got to get the evidence. You do your job right, son, a lot's riding on it. You'll either come out of this a man worthy of respect, or dead, there's no in-between. Do you read me?"

Geoff looked at Turner with wide-eyed surprise. Yet again the genial professor was being stripped away to reveal something hard as steel underneath. He knew Turner liked him and in many ways had always shown an almost fatherly concern for him during his years in the Academy. But that was gone now. He knew that, if need be, Turner would see him as disposable if the mission was ever threatened by a mistake. The realization startled him, yet at the same time gave him an inner sense of confidence he had never really known before. Down deep he had always known that, while at the Academy, its reality wasn't quite real. Granted, quite a few died in the training, but it was still training… and this was different, this was the real game at last.

* * *

Confederation News Network dateline: office of the President of the Confederation.Date: 2634.186

This evening at 6:00 p.m., GMT Earth, the President announced that a state of war now exists between the Confederation and the Kilrathi Empire. Elements of Task Force Twenty-three have crossed into Kilrathi territory in the Facin Sector on a punitive expedition against supposed centers from which Kilrathi raids had been launched into Confederation territory. When asked about the scope of the war the President declared that the war is limited in scope and that it is not the intention of the Confederation to seek what he called "a battle of annihilation which can only serve to destroy both sides." When asked to clarify this point, the President stated that it is believed that the attacks along our border were not necessarily actions directed by the Emperor but rather might very well be the activities of rival clan or family leaders seeking to provoke a general war. Our actions, therefore, will be directed solely against those sectors from which verified attacks have previously been launched. Due to the limited nature of this conflict the President made it clear that he does not wish to bring about a general war and has conveyed such sentiments to the Emperor in an open message on a frequency known to be monitored by the Kilrathi. He closed by declaring that the war can be ended at any time when the Kilrathi make a clear effort to bring these provocative factions under control.

In other news, Aju Akbar won the Confederation heavyweight championship in three rounds…

Gar's Emporium

"So this is it?" Geoff asked. "Hell, it looks like a floating junkyard."

"Just keep your weapons ready," Hans snapped back. Geoff wanted to shoot a reply but knew now was not the time. He carefully scanned the dozens of ships that were gathered around what looked like an abandoned bulk ore cylinder. Some of the ships looked familiar. According to the limited fleet intelligence Turner had shared with him, a couple of the ships were Kilrathi Tugar class light transports, but the engines were modified beyond anything he had seen in the holo profiles. There was even an ancient Confed Valiant class destroyer, its entire aft end sheared off to be replaced by an engine that looked as though it belonged on a heavy cruiser or battleship. As for the other ships, he couldn't even figure out their origins. Some individual pieces might have been recognizable, but when assembled as a whole, it looked as though nearly every design of the last hundred years had been packed together in one place, torn apart, and then reassembled by a group of demented, blind welders.

He could see two quad mount particle guns on the cylinder aimed straight at them. He watched the guns intently. The moment there was the first flicker of light, he'd open up. Down below he could hear Hans trading off coded signals and hoped that whomever sold the signals had provided them with the straight line.

Hans maneuvered Lazarus in to less than a hundred meters off the side of the cylinder, adroitly weaving his way past one of the Kilrathi transports and an old Wu ship painted over with a cracked and peeling emblem of the Imperial Claw.

"Used to be part of the Kilrathi fleet," Turner announced through Geoff's headset. "You can still see the registration numbers. They must have sold it off. Interesting…"

Geoff realized it was what Turner had said, a piece of a ten-thousand-piece puzzle. Geoff picked up a holo vid camera and shot some footage, doing a close-up on what he assumed were the numbers Winston had referred to.

"There's our port," Hans announced, and Geoff looked off to the starboard side and saw a circular port, adjacent to where a jet-black ship of unknown design was docked. Hans gave a short burst of reverse, then lateral thrusters, and Lazarus drifted up against the side of the cylinder. There was barely a shudder as the ship docked.

"Everybody armed?" Hans asked as Geoff slipped down out of the turret. "Just remember, any high-velocity weapons with jacketed rounds will result in your getting torn apart. Hull punctures are frowned on by the management."

Geoff again felt for the weapon under his armpit. The blaster put out a nasty, slow moving shot that traveled at only eight hundred f.p.s., the round splintering when it hit something solid. It was identical to the one Winston had used on the Sam assassin, and he shuddered inwardly at the memory of just how big the hole in the man's chest had been.

Hans popped the access hatch open and, with heavy caliber scattergun secured with a shoulder strap and at the ready, he led the way out. The first breath of air from within the cylinder made Geoff gag. The recycling system was obviously barely functional, and if they had any filters they had long since overloaded. The air was heavy and fetid, reeking of human sweat, vomit, other things even less pleasant, and added in was a melange of other scents including a heavy clinging musklike odor which he assumed was the distinctive smell of Cats. Even as the thought formed he saw one, up close, for the first time in his life. The Cat towered above him by nearly two feet, its broad shoulders almost filling the narrow access corridor. It was wearing durasteel-plated body armor, its face concealed behind a bright red helmet, the only feature visible its orange glowing eyes.

"I represent Gar," the Cat growled, in barely understandable common English, "owner of this barge. Your cargo?"

Hans carefully eyed him up and down, lingering intently for a second on the scattergun pointed straight at his chest.

"Crystal and glasswork."

"Tax is ten percent of cargo on arrival. In return you have full trading access inside the barge, protection will be provided for your ship and cargo while it is in your hull. If you don't agree, undock now."

Hans slowly nodded.

The Cat looked over his shoulder, and several humans and a Varni, all of them wearing silver slave collars, slipped past, carrying null gravity units.

"Geoff, show them to the cargo hold. I've already set aside the first two containers for tax."

Geoff wanted to protest at how he was being ordered, but knew now was not the time to disagree. He stepped back into the ship, cautiously watching the slaves. He popped open the access hatch and pointed for them to go down first. The realization that he was looking at slaves, especially human slaves, was deeply disturbing. Humans along the frontier were disappearing all the time, and it was even rumored that the Mancusian pirates had found a lucrative trade in taking prisoners and selling them across the border.

A human and the Varni came back up, hauling the first container and Geoff stepped back to let them pass. Neither raised their eyes to look at him. A minute later the next two came up.

"Just a minute," Geoff whispered.

The human in the lead stopped and looked up.

"Where are you from?"

The man looked at him, wide-eyed.

"Your name, where are you from?"

The man shook his head and started to edge away.

"Come on, don't be afraid. Maybe I can get word back to your family. Where you from?"

The man sighed, shook his head and then opened his mouth wide. Revolted by the sight, Geoff looked away-the man's tongue had been cut out. He followed the two out, a cold, simmering rage building up inside. The Cat guarding the access checked the readout on the null gravity hand held units.

"We'll check the weight on the rest later. It better be right, Gar doesn't appreciate being cheated."

"We're on the mark," Hans replied coolly. "Now, where can we get a drink?"

"Rules of the establishment," the Cat growled, motioning for Hans to stand still.

Hans nodded wearily as if he had heard it all before.

"We are not responsible for injury or death, or loss of property inside the barge. Any hull punctures results in death for you and all your crew. If an Empire patrol comes through, we will sound the alarm but you are on your own."

The Cat, finished with his short speech, stepped aside.

Hans nodded and, slowly reaching into his tunic breast pocket, he pulled out a heavy platinum five-hundred-credit coin. He tossed it to the Cat, who caught it in midair. Geoff watched the transfer, seeing the glint of the coin, a bit startled that he was watching nearly two months pay for a newly-minted Academy graduate flicker through the air.

Money had never been a personal concern of his. After all, the Tolwyn family, with its connections into Earth government and industry, along with the family estates in England and up in the Shetlands, had never wanted for money. But four years of discipline in the Academy, cut off from the comforts of his ten-thousand-a-year allowance, had taught him much about the value of cash. He could see the flicker in Vance's eyes as the Cat pocketed the bribe.

"I assume my ship will be protected now," Hans said quietly. "If so, there'll be another one when I leave."

A throaty growl of assertion rumbled from the Cat, who stepped aside as Hans moved into the main corridor, followed by his crew. Geoff took a sidelong glance up at the Cat. The malevolent orange eyes gazed back at him. Bribe or no bribe, he sensed the contempt and hatred that lingered just below the surface and instinctively he felt the same back. It was a startling revelation to him. He had met Firekka, Varni, Hagarin, Wu, and others at the Academy. Granted, the Varni did make him feel slightly nervous. The old instinctive fear of reptiles, especially ones with poisonous fangs, was a hard one to overcome, in spite of their peaceful ways. The Cat, however, seemed to strike something just as primal but far more intense. As he turned his back he could feel the hair at the nape of his neck bristle, as if in anticipation of the powerful jaws clamping down in a crushing blow, the talons ready to spring out to rip his stomach open even before he was dead. He wondered if that same instinct for the kill lingered in the Cat as well, and something in his heart told him that it did-the Cats were still hunters and we are the prey.

As he entered the main corridor the stench of the place again overpowered him.

Winston looked around with the touch of a sardonic grin on his face.

"Rather interesting, isn't it, Geoff," Turner whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"Interesting arrangement. Drag an old bulk ore container out here, pressurize it, and open for business. Good location, way the hell off the beaten track, flirting with a black hole. If the Imperial Cats show up, get the hell out and boost the damn thing over the event horizon so there's no evidence. Nice arrangement."

Geoff looked around, appalled by the squalor. Booths were set up down the interior length of the ship, housing the permanent establishments. Lotus dens, brothels for every species he had ever imagined, and some that he never knew existed, bars with passed-out patrons lying in the swill that covered the floors, illegal weapons dealers and some booths that simply left him mystified as to what they were selling-it was simply incomprehensible.

"Its disgusting," Geoff whispered.

Turner laughed. "We've known about the existence of the Cats for a little over five years and had no official contact. But out here, beyond the edge, it seems like there's been a hell of a lot of contact. Sometimes I think we should let those out beyond the frontiers do the foreign policy, and have the inner world bureaucrats just stay the hell out of the way."

"How come we haven't infiltrated this earlier?" Geoff asked, stepping to one side as a towering Wu, obviously very drunk and in danger of regurgitating several dozen kilos worth of lunch, lurched past them, bellowing out a raucous song.

Turner chuckled. "Not proper and, hell, it most likely didn't even exist six months ago. Besides, beyond this point, no one's gone and come back. These Cats are outlaws in the old sense of the word, outside of their clan laws, dishonored, most likely facing death if they ever tried to return, for some offense or other. Same for a lot of our human compatriots, like our friend Hans. Most likely the Empire tolerates this place as a conduit for their own information gathering as well, but beyond here, its steel door is slammed shut."

"This is the gray region between Empires, Geoff, enjoy it."

He slowed for a moment by a weapons booth as Hans paused to look in. "So that's where he got the nuke mine," Hans muttered and then pressed on.

"I want you to stick with me for a while," Winston said, "till you get your feet wet."

Geoff felt a sense of relief. Unless he was directly ordered to, he planned to stick to Winston's side like glue. The old prof had shown a very different side back at the Hell Hole, and in this place he knew those talents were definitely worth staying close to.

"But after that, Geoff, I'm cutting you loose. Fill your pocket with some change, buy some drinks, hell, you can even go in one of those houses if you want. No telling what some of the girls in there might have heard."

Geoff shuddered at the thought. What would he ever say to Rebecca if she found out about that? She was, after all, from a very proper British family, with all the right pedigrees. In a certain sense it was an arranged situation between their families, but he could not help but admit that there was a growing attachment there as well. And besides, there was no telling what strange things one might pick up out here, and the Black Rot was definitely an unpleasant way to go.

A wild howling of cheers erupted further down the corridor. The crowd they were wading through started to surge towards the noise and Geoff was dragged along with them. A small amphitheater opened up before him, filled to overflowing with a hysterical, cheering mob. Down in the center of the theater was a fighting pit. Two humans and a Kilrathi were warily circling each other, with a dead Kilrathi lying in the corner in a pool of blood.

Confused, Geoff watched the fight, a Varni beside him booming a thunderous roar of delight as the Kilrathi flung his blade, catching one of the men in the throat. Before the surviving human could close in, the Kilrathi ducked past his blow, scooped up the fallen man's blade and turned to parry.

"You cheering for the Cat?" Geoff asked, looking over in surprise at the Varni.

"Fifty credits on him."

"What the hell is this?"

"Grudge pit! Cats claimed the humans had robbed them. So Gar arranged a public fight rather than them settling in private. Gar cleans up on bets, winner gets losers ship. Everybody's happy."

Geoff could only shake his head in disbelief that a Varni would cheer for a Cat. He looked back over at Turner, surprised to see the professor buying a bet ticket. Winston caught his eye.

"When in Rome…" he said, and shrugged his shoulders.

Geoff caught Vance's eye and could see the confusion in the lieutenants gaze. He moved up to Vance's side.

"This place is bedlam," Geoff shouted, trying to be heard above the hysterical roar of the crowd as the human darted in and sliced open the Cat's arm just below his right elbow. The Cat quickly shifted his blade to his other hand, snarling with pain and anger.

"Did you ever think that this whole mission is nuts?" Geoff asked.

"From the very beginning, Geoff, from the very damn beginning."

Geoff looked back around at the howling crowd. Of all the places in the universe, this was the last place he figured to find a clue about the intentions of the Empire.