Hunting Party

Chapter Nineteen

Heris seethed inwardly. Of course she had no right of command, but it should have been obvious that knowing where the young people might be was important enough. She led Cecelia outside the room. There had to be some way—perhaps she could get hold of a flitter—

“Excuse me, ma’am.” A young, earnest-faced militiaman had followed them out. Heris nodded at him.

“Yes?” she said through gritted teeth.

“You said you might know where the young miss is?”

It took her a moment to untangle that: young miss? Bubbles, of course. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Why?”

“I’d take you over there to tell the captain,” the man said. “If you wanted. . . .”

Of course that’s what she wanted, but why was he being so helpful? “What about your boss?” she asked. He reddened and grinned.

“Well, ma’am . . . that Bortu, he just got promoted, you know. Never been on anything like this before.”

That could indeed explain it. On the other hand . . . Heris looked at Cecelia. “What about it? This—what’s your name?”

“Dussahral, ma’am.”

“This man says he’ll fly us over to meet the captain—want to come along?”

“Of course,” Cecelia said, looking determined.

“Thanks,” Heris said, smiling at him. “Go find us a flitter—we’ll need to stop into the . . .” She nodded at a door down the hall.

“Don’t be long,” he said. “In case that Bortu figures it out.”

“Just a moment, promise.” Heris watched him go, then led Cecelia to the bathroom.

“What’s that about? I don’t need to—”

“Yes, you do. We need a couple of minutes to make plans, and you never go into combat with a full bladder.”

“We’re not going into combat; we’re just going over to tell the militia captain where to look for Ronnie.”

Heris caught her employer by a shoulder and turned her around. “Listen. We’re going into an unsecured zone where people are shooting at each other—possibly three different sets of people all shooting at each other—and if you can think of a better definition of combat, tell me when we’re safely back in our hot tubs. Now, I am taking a very dangerous chance here, because there’s no reason to trust Dussahral—”

“But he wants to help us.”

“So he said. Didn’t it occur to you that Lepescu might want to know about that cave just as badly as the captain? And if he had an agent in this batch of militia, that person would be eager to tell him?”

Cecelia frowned. “Why would he be stupid enough to stick with what is obviously a losing side? Any smart agent would clam up and wait to see what happens.”

“Not all agents are smart. And Dussahral may be innocent and completely loyal to Bunny. But—” Heris ducked into a cubicle and continued talking through the closed door. “But if he’s not, we need a plan. We take our weapons. He will think I’m the dangerous one; I’ll let him jump me, and you shoot him if he does.”

Cecelia, too, had gone into a cubicle. Heris heard the seat squeak. “Me? I’ve never shot anyone. Just game—”

“New experiences keep you young. You have to; he won’t expect it from you. Just have a round in the chamber, in case, and don’t shoot me by mistake.” Heris came out and washed her hands. Cecelia, when she emerged, had a strange expression on her face.

“You’re trusting me with your life.”

Heris shrugged. “You trust me with yours in the ship. Besides, what I’m really doing is taking you into danger. You could get killed too. Remember that, when you’re tempted to wonder if you really should shoot.” Then she grinned at the older woman. “Now—cheer up. I’m wearing body armor under my clothes; he doesn’t know that, and it will help. And don’t stare at him as if you suspect him. He’s thinking of you as a helpless old woman in a flutter about her nephew.”

Cecelia snorted, and the color came back to her cheeks. “I can see,” she said, “how you commanded a ship.” They walked out side by side, as if they had nothing better to do than sightsee, and the guards now posted in the corridors smiled and nodded at them.

Dussahral, when they reached the parking area, had one of the flitters rolled out where the supply flitter had been. He looked tense and excited, but that was reasonable. Heris smiled, and accepted his hand up into the flitter.

“Lady Cecelia should be in back,” she said. “In case of stray rounds.” He nodded, and looked at Heris.

“You want to copilot?” There wasn’t much copiloting to be done in a flitter, but Heris nodded.

“I’ll keep a lookout,” she said. “Maybe I can spot the captain.” Little chance of that, but he relaxed a bit, as if this evidence of her inexperience in ground operations eased his mind.

The hop across to the other island took only minutes; it looked short enough to swim. Heris noted its narrow spine, higher than Bandon’s low rounded hills, the beach along the south and east—and two flitters parked at the south end. A squad of militia there worked on something—she could see what looked like bodies. She hoped Cecelia hadn’t spotted them.

“Is that the captain’s flitter?” she asked Dussahral, who shook his head. “Should we land there?”

“No . . . that’s the number two . . . captain must’ve gone somewhere else. I’ll fly up along the beach.” They flew north slowly; Heris tried to see into the thick canopy with no success. Then Dussahral touched her arm and pointed, and Heris saw a flitter sitting lopsided on the beach. Not the command flitter: it had the serial number they’d been told was on the one Bubbles checked out. Heris saw the gaping hole along one flank, something else she hoped Cecelia missed. The flitter hadn’t landed, or simply crashed—someone had shot it down. She felt cold.

Dussahral swung the flitter inland, and they rose over the central rocky spine, where tufts and wisps of fog still swirled. Down the other side—and the man waved suddenly. “There—I see something—I’ll put us down in that clearing.”

That clearing, to Heris, looked entirely too convenient a place for a trap, but she said nothing. She had seen nothing of the captain’s flitter, either. But if there were a cave, surely it had to be in the hills somewhere.

Dussahral made a steep approach, dropping the flitter so rapidly that Heris caught her breath. They landed hard; she felt the jolt out the top of her head . . . and let herself act more stunned than she was. Dussahral, she saw through nearly closed eyes, changed the setting of the flitter’s comunit and pushed the transmission switch all the way over. With his other hand, he had shoved the canopy back.

“Come on,” he urged. “I’m sure I saw the captain’s signal over there—” A wave toward the higher ground. “I’ll help you. Do you have any idea where the cave might be?” All this in a voice easily loud enough to carry over the comunit.

Heris pushed away his hand, but slowly, as if she almost needed it, and clambered out, intentionally clumsy. She held her rifle loosely. Dussahral waited for Cecelia to clamber out—Heris hoped the jolting landing hadn’t jarred Cecelia’s reflexes. She also hoped Dussahral was as stupid as he seemed so far. They could get rid of him quickly, and still have a chance to block Lepescu, now that the cave was no longer a secret.

Dussahral led them into the forest, away from the flitter. Upslope, Heris noted, across a streambed with a trickle of water in it. Heris wished she dared jump him now, but there was a chance he was leading her to Lepescu—perhaps he had a real signal to home on—and in that case it would be stupid to strike too soon. He halted soon enough, and pointed to a rocky bluff. “There—the captain’s probably up there. I’ll go back and keep an eye on the flitter.”

“I can’t see,” Heris said, trying to sound querulous. She felt querulous; it had just occurred to her that he might have wanted an excuse to bring the flitter for Lepescu’s escape. Even now the admiral might be flying away to safety, however temporary. “Where?” She pushed past him, giving him every chance. His sudden grasp on her arm was vindication, even as the feel of his weapon prodding her side made her face the next likely outcome. She wondered if her armor would hold against a point-blank shot, but he slid the muzzle of the weapon up, as if he knew she wore it. Of course—he had seen Lady Cecelia’s, and guessed that she had armor too. Her mind insisted on showing her, in vivid detail, what would happen if he fired now, with the muzzle where it was at the back of her neck.

“Stop here, ladies,” he said, this time in a voice unlike the deferential, pleasant tone he’d used so far. “I think Admiral Lepescu might have something to say to Captain Serrano.”

Cecelia let out a terrified squeak, and Heris’s heart sank. So much for civilians. Dussahral smirked.

“You’re not going to give me any trouble, are you?” he asked. “I know you ladies don’t go around with loaded weapons, so don’t try to pretend you’ll shoot me.”

“I won’t,” said Cecelia, eyes wide. “I—I—don’t hurt her.”

“Drop the gun,” Dussahral said. Heris wondered whether she could reach her bootknife and decided she couldn’t. Cecelia stood there, gawky and gray-haired, clinging to the rifle as if it were a child. She probably hadn’t chambered a round, Heris thought, so it wasn’t really dangerous to be standing here with the bore pointing at her. . . . It shifted a little, and Dussahral sighed. She could feel his disgust; she felt it herself. “Listen, lady,” the man said, “you can’t shoot me with an unloaded rifle, and I’m not going to be fooled. Either drop it, now, or I’ll shoot you, not just your friend.” Cecelia said nothing, and looked as if she couldn’t; Heris had never seen a better picture of frozen panic. Dussahral shifted his weight; Heris tried to shift her own to take advantage, but his blow to her head came too fast. She didn’t quite lose consciousness, but she stumbled, unable to move fast when he let go of her and swung his weapon toward Cecelia.

Then the crack of Cecelia’s rifle and the ugly sound of a round hitting bone came together, and Dussahral was flung away from her. Heris stared. Her employer stared back. “You said to pick the right moment,” Cecelia said. Bright color patched her cheeks. “I think I did.” She held the rifle steady as if she were perfectly calm.

“Damn.” Heris felt her head. It hurt, but she was alive, not a scratch, and Dussahral lay dead, the back of his skull and its contents splattered for a meter or more on the forest floor. “Yes—you did. But I thought for a moment—”

“I wanted him away from you—at least his weapon.” Cecelia shivered suddenly. “I never—did that before. Not a person.”

“You did it perfectly.” Heris picked up her own rifle, and walked back to Cecelia. “You saved my life, is what you did.” It occurred to her now just how stupid it had been to give Dussahral a chance. If she made the same mistake with Lepescu . . . well, she wouldn’t.

“That’s what I meant to do—but he’s so . . . so ugly.”

“They are.” Heris turned Cecelia away from it, but Cecelia twisted back.

“No. If I do it, I should see what I did.” She walked deliberately up to the body; already a few tiny flies buzzed near it. “So little time between life and death. We think we have years . . .” Heris did not tell her how long it often took men to die of wounds. Not now. Now they had other prey.

“It’s amazing,” Cecelia went on, “how young men like this think we old people are frail, emotional, likely to fall apart at any emergency.” When her eyes met Heris’s, it gave Heris a chill; they were the cold gray of frozen oysters. “Because of course,” Cecelia continued, “we’ve done everything they imagine they might do. One time or another.”

“But that’s crazy,” the prince said. He had said it before, and Ronnie thought he would go on saying it until he died. “No one would kill you—not like this. Let me call Admiral Lepescu and get you back to civilization.” After he’d dropped the rifle, the girls had grudgingly lowered theirs, and let him sit down. He had refused to believe they were really in danger, and continued to defend the hunters.

Had he listened at all? Ronnie thought not. “What about the others?” he asked. “Serrano’s crew.”

“There’s some kind of mistake,” the prince said firmly. “Those men are criminals, condemned to life at hard labor; they have this option, risking death against a chance for a lesser sentence on a colony world. This is easier, for some people, than life in prison.”

It occurred to Ronnie that he himself would have made that argument not long before. The topic of life sentences versus the death penalty had been a favorite debate in the mess. Of course, none of those debating ever expected to face either alternative.

“They’re not criminals,” Raffa said hotly. “They’re decent people your admiral has a grudge against.”

“I know it’s fashionable for some people to argue against the justice system,” the prince said. “But these people have all been tried and convicted and sentenced; do you think I’d be here if they weren’t?”

A long silence. Finally Bubbles said, “I am frankly surprised that you’re here even though they are. Does your father condone hunting people for sport? The last time I heard, he was scolding my father for hunting foxes.”

Another long silence. “Well . . . he doesn’t exactly know,” the prince said, staring at his boots. He looked younger than Ronnie remembered, more the schoolboy he had known. “I’m supposed to be at the Royal Aero-Space depot on Naverrn. Admiral Lepescu fixed that for me.”

“Mmm. And do you think he’ll approve, even if they are convicted criminals? Which they aren’t, but just to argue the point.” Bubbles, on the other hand, looked older, tougher. She had laid aside her weapon, as if the prince were no longer a threat. Except for his stubbornness, Ronnie thought, he wasn’t.

The prince scuffed his boot along the wall. “Probably not. But he doesn’t need to know everything I do, and he certainly approved of my association with people like the other men in the club. Men of stature, men with . . . with . . . with . . .”

“Influence,” Bubbles said. She made the word sound like something with little legs scuttling along the floor.

“The thing is,” Ronnie said, “we’ve got to get out of here and rescue George.”

“George? The odious George Starbridge Mahoney is here too? How fitting.” The prince chuckled, leaning back against the stone. “Don’t worry—no one will hurt George once they realize who his father is.”

“They know who my father is, and they’ve tried to shoot me,” Bubbles said. Ronnie glanced at her. She had changed as much as any of them, he realized, and in a way he could not have predicted. She looked like someone it would be dangerous to cross.

“Of course,” the prince went on, ignoring that, “as soon as we do get back to civilization, I’ve a bone to pick with you, Ronnie. We simply can’t ignore it; we must duel.”

Ronnie stared at him. “A duel? You mean—formally?”

“Yes, of course, formally. It wouldn’t have been necessary had we not met, but we did. And I had told them, if I saw you again anytime in the next twelve months, I would insist on it. It’s a matter of honor.” The prince drew himself up, glanced around at the two girls, and posed. Bubbles burst into giggles; Raffa merely looked scornful. Ronnie could not decide whether to laugh or scream.

“Look,” he said, trying for reasonableness, “that whole thing is over. Past. Gone. She’s all yours, and I’m sorry I said anything, and I’ll never bother you again, but—”

“You’re not going to back out of a duel, are you? That’s—”

Ronnie felt anger roll up from his gut to the top of his head in one refreshing wave. “I am not going to pretend to stick holes in you with a holographic sword because of a stupid quarrel over a stupid opera singer who is probably sleeping with both our younger brothers right this moment! Can you get it through your skull that we are being hunted, by people with real weapons who want to kill us really dead? We are—Bubbles and Raffa and George and I—and I am not playing your silly games any more.”

“Honor,” the prince said, “is not a game.”

“No,” said Ronnie more quietly. “You’re right, it’s not a game. But my honor doesn’t depend any more on the kind of things we got into in the regiment. I have other claims on it now.”

“But what will I tell them when I get home?” the prince asked.

“If you get home,” Bubbles said, “tell them you grew up. If you did.”

The prince shook that off and stroked his moustaches. “Well—if we’re to rescue George, we’d better get on our way. If you’re convinced Lepescu is dangerous to you, how do you propose to get to Bandon?”

“Now what?” Cecelia asked. “We don’t know where the captain is, we don’t know where the cave is, and we don’t have a flitter any more.”

“Now . . . we think.” Heris rubbed the knot on her head. She felt stupid, and she didn’t like feeling stupid. “We can be reasonably sure Dussahral didn’t put us down near the captain, but he might have put us down near Lepescu, if Lepescu needed a flitter to escape in.”

“Fine.” Cecelia looked thoroughly annoyed. “So now we’ve provided the villain a machina for his deus to come out of.”

“Not if we get back to it and use it ourselves,” Heris said. “Of course, explaining how all this happened might be tricky later—but we can worry about that when the time comes. Nemesis, as well as helpful gods, arrived by air.”

She led the way back downslope. The streambed, she noted this time, had a lot of boot tracks in it or alongside. Some went upstream, and some—not as many, she thought—went down. She wasn’t enough of a tracker to know when they had been made, though they looked fresh.

Cecelia stopped, and looked more closely. “Expensive boots,” she commented. “Look—that pair’s Y and R.” That meant nothing to Heris, who let her expression speak for her. “Custom, high quality, and even higher prices,” Cecelia said. “These won’t be the designated victims, nor even Ronnie’s. I saw most of his things, and his boots are Pierce-Simons. Also expensive, but not quite as exclusive. Might be George’s, but the tracks are too fresh.”

“You can tell?” Heris asked.

“I hunt,” Cecelia said, not looking up. Her fingers hovered above first one print, then another. “Not the girls’ boots, and not Ronnie’s—that means a hunter’s up there somewhere.”

“The way Dussahral was leading us,” Heris said. “Lepescu, I would bet.”

“You’ve noticed that two matching sets go that way and back—” Cecelia pointed. Heris hadn’t noticed that, exactly, but she didn’t explain her own ignorance. “Expensive, from hunting outfitters, but not as unusual as the Y and R pair. One pair of Y and Rs going up, and not coming back, and an even fresher set of Dolstims going up . . . two hunters, but not together. Not long ago, either—within an hour.”

“So we go upstream?”

Cecelia pursed her lips. “I’d say so. Assuming that the men who went downstream wanted our flitter, they’d have it before we could get back. And upstream . . . I’m really curious. I thought Y and R put this symbol”—she pointed at what looked to Heris like a squashed bug—“only on boots they made for the royal family. Does your Admiral Lepescu have a habit of stealing shoes from princes? Or does he pretend to be one?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Heris said. She was past being surprised, she thought; who would have expected someone like Lady Cecelia to know much about tracking? “Let’s go find out.”

She led the way upstream, weapon ready, all senses alert. Was this another stupid idea, following the tracks so openly? What they should be finding was the cave Ronnie and Bubbles might be in, or the militia captain. But she went on, because after all the hunters were the danger here. Anticipation shivered in her stomach. Hunters all, she thought. We’re all dangerous.

All the hunters but two were safely dead: no threat. He touched the canisters in his pocket lightly, careful not to depress the switches. One only still menaced him, and that the most difficult to kill without reprisal. But it had to be done, unless the man could somehow be made to kill the others; after that, blackmail would be easy. It would be easiest to kill, and not attempt that—but he had always found the most difficult hunts the greatest pleasure. Worth a try, anyway, and if he had to kill even that one, he would have no witnesses.

That broadcast from Bandon had startled him—shaken him, he would even admit to himself. He wondered if the guards he’d left with the boy had turned against him. One of them could be difficult. At least his name had not been mentioned. Perhaps the prisoner didn’t know about him. Soon no one would.

The prince led the way back to the cave entrance. They hadn’t been able to talk him out of it, although they had tried. The argument had gone on longer than he’d expected. The girls seemed to think their opinion should weigh equally with his own. Bubbles had even threatened to shoot him, but when he pointed out that shooting a member of the royal family could be a serious offense, she had looked at Raffa and shrugged. Of course she would not shoot him, now that she knew who he was, any more than he would have shot her. One did not prey on one’s own class. And he was the right one to decide what to do; he was the prince, after all. He felt only slightly nervous with the girls behind him carrying their weapons; he had insisted that they not carry loaded weapons, in case they stumbled. He didn’t want them to get in trouble for shooting him by accident, either. Once they were outside, in the light, they could reload—though he hoped to dissuade them. If Ronnie hadn’t been so shaken (he felt sure that he, in a similar situation, would not have been a wet, shivering mess) he’d have had Ronnie carry one of the rifles, but as it was the girls were actually less dangerous than Ronnie. As for any danger—he was sure there wouldn’t be any real danger, not once he told Lepescu who they were—he could protect them himself.

Light shimmered and bounced from the surface of the pool; already it had gone down a few centimeters. He squinted against what now seemed like glare, and never saw the figure that waited until it stepped out of the shadows to confront him. He stared. Who could that be, in a protective suit almost like a spacesuit, with a hunting rifle in the crook of the right arm, and something clasped in the gloved left hand?

“Ah . . .” a voice said. The prince shivered. Lepescu? “You found them. Congratulations. Very good . . . now shoot them.”

“What?” He had misunderstood. He could not have heard the words his memory now replayed to him. Behind him, he heard the girls’ indrawn breath, Ronnie’s muttered curse.

“Shoot them, I said.” When he hesitated, Lepescu gestured with his rifle. “Either you shoot them,” Lepescu said, his voice only slightly distorted by his suit’s filters, “or I will have to kill you, too. Surely you see the necessity.”

“But they’re ours,” the prince said. His voice trembled slightly. “Can’t you see? This is Lord Thornbuckle’s daughter—you can’t kill her. And Raffaele, and Ronnie Carruthers—”

“I thought you hated Ronnie,” Lepescu said. “Isn’t he the one who dishonored you with your—”

“I do, of course, but—but I can’t kill them. Not just . . . just shoot them.” Silently, he begged someone to shoot Lepescu . . . but he had insisted on unloaded weapons. The girls could not reload now. If they tried, Lepescu would shoot . . . and he was in the middle. Sweat rolled down his sides, sudden and cold.

“We should never have let him talk us into this—” Bubbles muttered. “We knew better. He can see me—can you—?”

“Too late smart, too soon dead,” Raffa said. Neither of them had sounded as frightened as the prince felt. He wished he could see them. He wished he could see any help at all.

Lepescu’s hand turned, showing a slick gray canister. “It would be a more merciful death,” he said. “If you care about that.” The prince realized that fear had layers he had never imagined. . . . That had to be a gas canister. Riot gas? Nerve gas? He struggled to stay calm; he had to convince Lepescu.

“But they’re my friends,” the prince said. “You can’t expect me to do it; there has to be another way.” This could not be happening; it must be some kind of joke or test. He had to find the right thing to say. “We could agree to keep your secret.”

“I doubt it,” Lepescu said. Even through the gleaming curve of his face mask, his eyes looked distinctly from face to face. “Lord Thornbuckle’s daughter is not likely to keep such secrets from her father.”

“You’re right about that,” came Bubbles’s voice from behind the prince. “Not that killing us will do any good in the long run. He’ll find out, and then he’ll find you.”

Lepescu lifted the canister in a mock salute. “To your courage, my dear. You may stop that shuffling you’re doing; you cannot screen your friend as she reloads; I can shoot the prince, and you, before you shoot me . . . and I’m wearing protection.” With a change in tone, he addressed the prince again. “As for your friend Ronnie, a young man who cannot keep from boasting about his amatorial conquests is hardly likely to hold his tongue about this, the next time he gets drunk. The dark girl—well, it’s a pity, but many have died already, and so it goes. You choose: kill them, and I know you will not talk. It would not be in your own best interests. I have a flitter; we can escape somehow. I always do. But if you cannot kill them . . . then I’m afraid you, too, must die.” After a moment he went on. “Go ahead—it won’t be easier for waiting.”

Heris followed the bootprints up the narrowing cleft. Suddenly one pair stopped; whoever it was had shifted around, trampling his own prints, and then completely new prints—larger, with a different tread—set off again. She frowned at them, trying to remember where she’d seen that tread pattern, then shrugged. It really didn’t matter.

“He put on overshoes,” Cecelia murmured, from behind her. “Why?” Heris waved a hand to hush her. They had to be close; she could tell the slope was closing in ahead of them.

If she hadn’t been following the tracks, she might have missed the angle to the cave entrance . . . but the tracks led directly to it. A mat of wilting ferns and moss, a gaping hole into darkness, and a voice—no, more than one voice. She was sure one of the voices was Lepescu’s.

She pulled Cecelia close and murmured into her ear. “He’s there—ahead of us—and I think it’s the youngsters. Stay back; be ready to shoot if I go down. And watch for anyone behind us.” Cecelia nodded, eyes hard again. Heris crept nearer to the cave entrance, fighting down a surge of excitement that threatened to send her charging straight at Lepescu, no matter what.

Now she could hear his voice clearly. She knelt in the mud, and peered around the edge of the hole into the dimness. Nothing but water, a pool almost lapping the entrance. She would have to go in. Voices came from her left, around an angle of stone. She gave Cecelia a last look and ducked inside.

Her eyes adjusted quickly; more light came in the entrance than she’d have thought from outside. She flattened herself against the damp stone to her left and edged around it. There. A big, bulky shape in a protective suit, its back to her, and four faces beyond, pale against the black behind them. The suit had to be Lepescu. Could she get him without hitting them? Was he wearing armor under the suit? And why the suit, in this weather? What contamination did he fear? Then she saw the clenched left hand, and caught her breath. If that was a gas grenade—

She edged nearer, hoping none of the youngsters would notice her, although she knew she must be a very visible dark blot against the bright entrance. Lepescu was still talking. . . .

“Go ahead,” he was saying. “It won’t be easier for waiting.”

What did he mean? And why four people? Heris stared, just able to make out Ronnie, Bubbles, and Raffa . . . but who was that fourth young man with the extravagant moustache and a gleam of earring? A friend of Lepescu’s? She bit her lip; she could not possibly get both of them before someone else got shot. She wondered if Lepescu was wearing armor under the suit; she reset her weapon for the alternate clip of ammunition. This should penetrate personal armor. More danger to bystanders, but not as much danger as a live Lepescu.

But as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw the mysterious young man shift his weight, his expression changing from bewilderment and disbelief to mulish stubborness. “I won’t do it,” he said, and dropped his weapon. “And I think you’ll find it impossible to explain my disappearance.” Heris aligned her sights, and shifted a little to clear Ronnie. It was at best a tricky shot. . . . The ricochets would be wicked. . . .

“Not really,” Lepescu said. “An inconvenience, yes—but not nearly an impossibility. It’s a pity, and I’m sorry—this is not a sporting proposition, but—” He rocked forward, blood spraying out the front of his protective suit. Echoes of the shot and the impacts on him and on stone roared through the cave, deafening, confusing. Lepescu dropped his rifle; the canister dropped from his left hand, bounced, and rolled along the stone toward the water. Heris flinched; she was too far away to do anything more. If its seal broke, they were all dead. Ronnie and the prince leaped together and landed on it like two eager players trying to recover a fumbled ball.

“Run!” Ronnie yelled to Raffa and Bubbles; Heris knew it would have been useless. The girls didn’t run; after their first startled jerk, both of them seemed to be calmly reloading their weapons. Heris stared at them. They must have known they were in danger; why hadn’t they had a round in the chamber? Then the echoes died away . . . and the canister had not fired. . . . It lay under the young men, inert and deadly only in anticipation. They were alive; they were going to stay alive.

Heris rose from her careful crouch, and walked light-footed across the cave to Lepescu’s body . . . not body yet, for he was alive though mortally wounded. She looked down at him warily. He might have other weapons.

“You . . .” he began, but pain caught at him, and he could not go on. His breathing sounded loud, now that the echoes of the shot had faded; she could hear the ominous snoring rattle that meant his lungs were filling.

She could not think what to say. All the clever retorts she remembered from history crumbled and blew away in the wind of her anger. “Yes,” she said, and it came to her that she did not need to say much, under the circumstances. “Commander Serrano, with all due respect.”

Even dying, even in pain, he had a courage she could not deny. Scorn dragged his face into a mask of contempt. “Wait—” he breathed. “Haven’t won—yet—”

She wanted to throttle him, finish it with her fingers on his throat, but she could not do that. Instead, she removed, with such control that she felt herself almost a machine, his other weapons; she paid no attention to the bubbling breaths that faded to nothing.

Cecelia could not have stayed out of the cave after the gunshot if someone had chained her to the rock. She scrambled into the darkness, stumbled into the pool and back out, and came up, panting, against the stone buttress that had blocked Heris’s vision. Now, shocked and fascinated by her captain’s behavior, she had let her attention wander from the cave entrance. When she thought to look around, there was another stranger, this one dirty and ragged, as well as armed. Another stood behind him. He glared at her, his weapon aimed where it could menace all of them.

“What . . . are you doing here?” The pause, Cecelia was sure, held a dozen suppressed curses. The man looked dangerous and probably was. He must be one of those the hunters had chased.

“I’m Lady Cecelia—” she began. Then she realized he wasn’t even looking at her. He was looking past her, at Heris.

“Petris . . .” Heris said. Her voice wavered.

“Captain Serrano. Heris.” His didn’t, nor did the muzzle of his weapon.

“You’re with Admiral Lepescu?” Quiet though it was, that question held a vast pain; it got through to Cecelia, who stared at her captain.

“You know this man? Who is he?”

Heris shook her head; for that instant she could not speak. Petris with Lepescu? Had he always been Lepescu’s agent? Was this what Lepescu’s dying words had meant?

Cecelia started to reach for her ID packet, but the shift of his weapon stopped her hand. Not her tongue. “I’m Lady Cecelia de Marktos, as I said; we came looking for my nephew Ronnie and his friends. With the militia.”

“Ah.” Petris still looked past her, to Heris. “The rescue arrives.” He glanced briefly at Cecelia. “Tell me what you know about Admiral Lepescu.”

Cecelia thought of objecting, but the weapon suggested caution, even cooperation. She had not realized before just how large the bore could look, seen from this angle. “I don’t know him,” she said.

“She didn’t tell you?” he asked, jerking his chin at Heris.

Cecelia’s patience snapped. “Whatever she told me is no concern of yours, young man.” He laughed, a short ugly sound with little humor in it.

“You’re not the best judge of that,” he said. Then, to Heris, “And you think I’m working with the admiral?”

Cecelia glanced at her, and recognized Heris’s expression for what it was, sorrow and despair, a great wound. Even when telling the story of her resignation, she had never looked this shattered.

“I know he organized the hunt, here,” Heris said. Her voice had no vigor, as if the words lay dead in her mouth. “And why else would military personnel be here with him—?”

“With him.” Petris’s voice was no louder, but the passion in it would have fuelled a scream. “You—of all people—can believe I might work with that—that—and does it look like I’m with him? Is this a uniform?” His voice had risen then, chopped off by a gesture from the other man. “No,” he said savagely. “I am not with Lepescu.” He turned away, still pale around the mouth. Cecelia stopped him.

“Excuse me, young man, but although you and my captain may be perfectly clear about what is going on, I am not. Heris has told me the admiral is an old enemy she would rather not meet save over a weapon. When my nephew and his friends disappeared, and we found that Lepescu was expected, she became convinced he had something to do with it.”

Finally, the man seemed to focus, really focus, on Cecelia. “Your captain? You’re her . . . uh . . . employer?”

“That’s right. Captain Serrano signed a contract with me only two days after resigning her commission.”

“And then?” He matched her gaze, as if he could pull answers out through her eyes.

“And then she took command of my yacht, and we came here. Now—”

“Directly?”

Cecelia drew herself up, annoyed. She had questions of her own, and he kept interrupting her. “No,” she said, not caring if he realized she was miffed. “No—although I don’t quite see what business it is of yours. My former captain had been negligent, if not actually criminal, in maintaining systems, and we had to detour for emergency repair of the environmental system.”

The man turned to Heris, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You didn’t check things yourself before you started?”

“The inspection sheets had been faked,” Heris said dully. “Lady Cecelia’s schedule had already been set back; she wanted a quick departure, and I—” Her voice trailed off.

“You couldn’t wait to escape,” Petris said. Sarcasm edged his voice. “You took your bribe and ran off—”

“Bribe!” This time it was Heris’s voice that got the silencing gesture from the other man. At least, Cecelia thought, the insult had broken through and forced a live reaction. “Is that what he told you?”

“He told us nothing, except the list of charges.”

“Charges? But I resigned so they wouldn’t prosecute any of you—”

“Wait.” Petris lowered his weapon suddenly. “Then it’s true what this youngster heard?” He nodded at Ronnie. “Will you tell me you resigned? To save us, without any . . . any reward?”

“Yes. That was the choice. Resignation, and no trouble for you, or courts for all. It wasn’t fair to put all of you through that; it had been my decision. What do you mean about charges?”

“That . . . motherless son,” Petris said. Cecelia remembered hearing once that on some planets that was still an insult, although most people were now decanted and not birthed. “He got you out of the way, brought us to trial, and then had us here, to play his little games with.”

Heris stared, the whites of her eyes showing clearly in the dimness. “You—it was you he was hunting?” Petris nodded. Heris shook her head, like someone who has just taken a hard blow, and turned to Lepescu’s body with such violence that Cecelia was afraid she would attack it bare-handed. “Damn you! I killed you too soon! If only I could—” She was shaking now, starting to cry. Cecelia gaped, she had never imagined Heris losing control.

Petris strode past Cecelia and grabbed Heris by the shoulders, dragging her away. “He’s dead—don’t . . . you can’t change it now—”

“I’d have—have done something—it’s not fair—!” She turned a tear-streaked face back to Cecelia. “He took my ship—my career—and then to kill them this way—” And then to Petris, suddenly dry-eyed again, a sorrow too deep for tears. “I’m sorry, Petris. I didn’t—imagine this. I couldn’t. I believed they’d hold to the agreement.”

“No,” he said soberly. “You couldn’t. I’m sorry I misunderstood what you’d done.”

“How many—how many died?” Heris asked. Cecelia could hear the fragile control, the tremor in her voice.

“Too many,” Petris said. “But it’s over now.”

“It’s not over,” Heris said. “It will never be over.” But she stood straight, motionless, and Cecelia watched her usual control return, layer by layer.

“Well, it’s mostly over,” said a cheerful voice from the cave entrance. Petris and the other men whirled, startled, but relaxed when they saw the distinctive uniform of Bunny’s militia. The militia captain was grinning at them. “Unless one of you is the wicked Admiral Lepescu?”

“Admiral Lepescu is dead,” Heris said. Her voice seemed to hold no emotion at all; it was the simple statement of fact.

Captain Sigind came nearer, glanced at Lepescu’s body, and nodded. “You shot him?”

“Yes; he was threatening them—” Heris nodded at the young people. Ronnie and the prince had untangled themselves from each other, the floor, and the quiescent grenade, and now stood more or less at attention. Raffa had gone to Ronnie, Cecelia noticed, as if he were her responsibility. Bubbles stood a little apart from the group, rifle in hand, watching Heris intently. Cecelia had time to wonder why, when both girls were armed, neither had shot the admiral.

Captain Sigind looked them over.

“And here’s Lord Thornbuckle’s daughter, and I presume that’s your nephew, ma’am, and the other young lady, and who’s this—?” The militia captain looked at the prince, and the prince looked confused.

“Mr. Smith,” said Ronnie firmly. “A friend of the family.”

Captain Sigind allowed a dubious expression on his face, and then shrugged it away. “Mr. Smith, indeed. An invited guest? Pardon, but I’m required to ask.”

Bubbles spoke up. “Mr. Smith has often been an invited guest here; my father will confirm it.”

“I . . . see.” The captain looked as if he would like to pursue that, but again chose discretion. Well trained, Cecelia thought; a quick glance at Heris’s face, and she caught another well-trained expression. Heris, however, would certainly pursue the matter later. The captain did not quite shrug before going on. “Well, if everyone will come along, we can get you back to Bandon this evening, and fly you back to the Main House by morning—or you could spend the night on Bandon, and fly back tomorrow, whichever you prefer.” He spoke into his comunit; Cecelia heard something about “retrieve the bodies” and “forensics” and then realized she was very, very tired indeed and wanted to sit down.

“What about George?” she heard Ronnie ask. Then she heard nothing.