Sporting Chance

Chapter Sixteen

Brun discovered that Rockhouse Major turned a different face to transient crew suspected of impersonating rich girls. Her captain had contacted Station militia, and she found herself and her papers in a dingy, cluttered office, watched by a bored but obviously capable young person of doubtful gender with a sidearm.

“If I could just make a call,” she kept saying. No one answered. People in uniform wandered in and out; voices spoke at a distance that blurred the words but not the emotion: boredom, hostility, defiance, fear.

Finally, a tired-eyed older man appeared, looked at her, shook his head, and said, “Come on.” He led her to a proper ID booth, where in only a few minutes her retinal scan, fingerprints, and other data confirmed her papers. He shook his head again. “You really are Lord Thornbuckle’s daughter. Would you mind explaining what you were doing hiring on as transient crew?”

“It was an adventure,” Brun said. She realized now just how silly that sounded, and she didn’t seem able to find the insouciant tone she had cultivated in years past. He just stared at her, a tired man who clearly wished spoiled rich kids wouldn’t waste his time.

“Do you need anything?” he asked finally.

“No . . . if I can have my things.”

“Yes—just sign here.” Her credit cubes and strips, itemized, lay on the sheet he pointed to. She started to sign and he pointed, making it clear he wanted no mistakes. She checked then, and found nothing missing. Her battered little duffle, with its few changes of clothes, seemed full enough, and if it wasn’t she could buy replacements. “The captain said if you were legal, he’d deposit your pay, less a fine for brawling. What’d you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Brun shrugged. “Another crewman tried to jump me; I broke his nose and wrist. Stupid—I should’ve seen it coming.”

“I don’t know what it is you kids are looking for,” the man said, shaking his head yet again. “You’ve got everything . . . why look for trouble?”

Brun smiled at him. “I’m sorry—I was stupid, and I’m going home to admit it—is that all right?”

This time he really looked at her, and his eyes warmed. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt,” he said. “We see enough kids getting hurt.”

Out in the concourse, she was still a scruffy transient spacer to look at, dirty and shabby, with an ordinary scuffed duffle over her shoulder. She ambled along, relaxing a bit in this familiar territory. First she would get something to eat, then a shower—no, a shower first, then call Ronnie—no, call the estate downside and get someone to send the shuttle up—she slowed, as she came to a bank of public communications booths. She put her duffle on the shelf of an empty booth and started to close the door. Someone leaned across from another, a big bulky man who looked both frustrated and dangerous.

“Hey—you just came out of that militia station, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” No sense arguing, if she’d been seen.

“Seen a rich-bitch youngster in there, the kind that throws their weight around?”

Her belly tightened. “No,” she said shortly. “All I saw was this fat cop tryin’ to make out I was somebody else.”

“Dammit.” His strong fingers tapped the partition. “I’m supposed to find this girl—loudmouth blonde, they said, real stylish, some mucky-muck lord’s daughter. Sure you haven’t seen her?”

“Not me. Is that the only militia station?”

“No, worse luck. Where you in from?” His eyes were intent, measuring. “You permcrew or transient?”

“Transient now.” Brun tried for a sullen tone. She held up her well-calloused hand. “Signed onto a shit shoveler as cook’s assistant, and they had me down in the stalls three shifts out of four. I didn’t leave home to be some cow’s personal assistant.”

His eyes lost interest after a long look at her hand. “Yeah, well, I guess you didn’t meet any daughters of the aristocracy shoveling manure.” He moved away, toward the militia station entrance. Brun could not move. She had to move. If he went in, if he talked to that man, he would know . . .

She picked up the headpiece, put it back as if uncertain, and moved on down the concourse. How could someone like that be looking for her already? Had something happened? She lengthened her stride, almost ran into someone pausing to look in a display window, and told herself not to spook. The captain had queried ahead about her . . . anyone who watched the militia regularly might have overheard. As long as she got off Rockhouse Major before that dangerous man could find her, she should be safe.

She took a slideway, then a tram, putting a sector and two levels between her and the militia office before she dared stop at another combooth cluster. This was higher-income territory, though her scruffy clothes weren’t that unusual. No used-clothing stores here, but also none of the high-priced places that expected you to know their names. Display windows showed the latest style; she’d been gone long enough for them to change. Thigh boots? Laced socks? Tunics were longer, dresses shorter, and someone had decided to ignore the waistline again. They’d done that when she was twelve, too—but then the top colors had been muted moss greens and browns. Now the fashion seemed to be icy pastels. She stared at a long tunic patterned with zigzags of pale pink on pale green over pink slacks as she waited for her connection to go through. She had decided to start by warning Ronnie.

“Yes?” It sounded like Ronnie’s voice, but a very cautious Ronnie. Brun hoped it was; Ronnie she might influence, but anyone else in his family would lecture first and listen afterwards, if then.

“Ronnie?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“It’s me. Brun . . . Bubbles . . . you know.” Then, as she heard him take a deep breath that would no doubt end in a loud outcry, she went on quickly. “Don’t say my name! Don’t! I’m up at Rockhouse Major and you’re in great danger and so is your family. Don’t say anything—pretend I’m someone else. George, maybe.”

“I was expecting a call from him—er—from Gerry, that is. I don’t really have time to chat right now . . .” He must have done something to the privacy shield; behind him now she could hear high voices chattering, glasses clinking. What was local time down there? She’d completely forgotten to check. “Listen, George,” he went on. “Why don’t you call me back later?”

“Shield again,” Brun said. When the background sound disappeared again, she continued. “Ronnie, you must listen. It’s critical—I’m being followed. Your aunt has remembered who did it to her.”

“Then she’s—” With an abrupt change of voice, “—she’s not pregnant! I don’t believe it. And if she is, it’s certainly not mine. Who does she think she is?”

Brun grinned. Ronnie had an unexpected gift for this. “Lorenza. You know, the fluffy one with the soft voice, with the important brother . . .”

“Oh, I say. Surely not—harmless as a—and besides, she’s here.”

“Now?” Brun broke off, appalled at the squeak in her voice. More quietly, she went on. “Ronnie, believe me. Poison. Don’t take anything she offers—get out of there, now. Get George—he’s in danger, too. I’ll explain when I get down—” Though how she was going to do that without using her ID and thus triggering pursuit, she didn’t know.

“Well, of course we’ll come,” Ronnie said brightly, as if agreeing to a party invitation. “Short notice no bother. Anything for the Royals, what?”

“Don’t overdo it,” Brun said. “Assuming she’s listening.”

“Read my lips,” Ronnie said, in the same bright tone. “It’s no problem. We’ll be there. Pick a number.”

That old game. Now, what were the shuttleslot codes for this Station? The booth had local datanet access; she punched up the information she needed.

“E-19 or 21.”

“Be there soonest.”

Brun put down the headset. Soonest gave no real idea of how long it would take Ronnie to extricate himself from his house, find George, get to the family shuttle, file flight plans, and get here. Right that moment she wanted him here instantly, someone she knew, someone she could trust. She was getting very, very tired of adventure.

Ronnie closed the satellite circuits carefully and clicked off the privacy shield. It wouldn’t have been hard for someone to tap into that unscrambled call, if they’d had a mind to. Had anyone? He’d better assume the worst.

“Ronnie, dear, who was that?” His mother, in her long lace gown, stood at the door of a room full of older women, all similarly dressed. They were talking and eating all at once, stocking up for an evening at the theater.

“Fellow at the Regiment,” he said. “Sorry—seems something has come up.”

“Oh, no! I was counting on you, dear. Why can’t they get George or someone else?”

“I’m supposed to pick George up on the way, actually. Sorry, Mother, it’s rather urgent.” Curiosity lit her eyes.

“What, dear?”

“Now Mother, you know I’m not supposed to talk about Regimental business.” Her face clouded; she opened her mouth. He gave her the old smile, the one that always melted her. “But I will tell you, because I know you won’t gossip, that some fellow’s gotten in a bit of trouble about this girl—claims she’s pregnant, claims she can prove whose . . . you know.”

“Ah.” Her face cleared. “But you have the implant—and the law doesn’t—”

“There’s law, and there’s family,” Ronnie said. “All of us who . . . er . . . knew her, as it were, must confer with the Regimental legal staff. Terribly confidential; you won’t tell any of your old cats, will you?”

“It wasn’t you!? You and Raffa . . . ?”

“Nothing to do with me and Raffa. A wild party a while back; I know I didn’t reverse my implant, or even know the girl, but there could be a claim if I don’t go in and have it checked out. And they’ve got the gene militia or whatever they are standing by. Oh—remember I told you George and a few of us were taking the shuttle up after the opera? I think we’ll just go on after this—it’s too much trouble to stop back by—” He was appalled at his own invention; the story seemed to be sprouting branches and luxuriant foliage in all directions. He could almost see the young woman he had supposedly partied with, although her motivations wavered: was she trying to claw her way up the social ladder from a not-quite-important family, or was she a muckraking journalist out to expose the foibles of the rich and notorious? She had a sister in entertainment; she had worn purple that night that had never happened; she had a fake diamond collar . . .

“Be careful, Ronnie—”

“Of course, Mother.” In ways she would never know, he intended to be very careful. He was already in evening clothes, and he didn’t have time to change. As he went toward the door, he heard Lorenza calling to his mother, and shivered in spite of himself. How could he leave her there, in peril? But Brun’s was worse, he told himself.

George, dressing for the same evening’s entertainment—he had also been snagged as an acceptable young male escort for the party of mothers and aunts attending the theater—was glad enough to hear he wouldn’t be seeing a revival of Darwinian grand opera.

“But Lorenza!” he said, buttoning the soft shirt he had grabbed to replace the dress shirt he hadn’t fastened yet. “Are you sure?”

“Brun is sure that my aunt is sure. That’s enough for me, at least until we talk more to Brun. And she’s being hunted, she says.”

“Lorenza. Dad needs to know this. He’s at the office—”

“Call from the shuttle—we’ve got to go. I told Mother an incredible lie about a pregnant girl accusing half the Regiment, and all of us having to have genetic scans, and if she calls—even though I told her it was all being kept quiet—”

“The colonel will have cats, and then have us for breakfast. Right. I’m ready.” He looked at Ronnie. “But you—you’ll stick out like anything, up there.” He dug into his closet and bundled up another shirt and pair of casual slacks. “We’ll take these along—you can change on the shuttle while I call.”

Ronnie reflected that George was a good deal less odious lately. Of course he had been through that mess on Sirialis, and being shot in the gut was, according to the redoubtable Captain Serrano, a specific for youthful idiocy, but still. George had been odious for years; he had not so much turned over a new leaf as uprooted an entire forest.

On the shuttle trip to Rockhouse Major, Ronnie told George all he knew or suspected and had kept from him before. “Brun said if anyone else knew my aunt was conscious inside, her life would be in danger. I couldn’t talk to anyone . . . I thought it was because she’d gone to see the king about Gerel—”

“About the prince? Why? Just because he showed up on Sirialis?”

“No . . . because on the trip home I noticed something.” Even now he was reluctant to tell George—but if the worst happened, someone had to know. And he had begun to think George was involved, had been from the beginning. “Do you remember that term when you nearly flunked all your subjects?”

George grimaced. “Not as clearly as I should, but I’ve heard about it often enough. My father insists it proves the need of diligent application—that’s his term—that even the brightest boy can’t skate by forever on native brilliance. The masters—well, you remember. As far as they were concerned I was a typically lazy, careless, spoiled young brat. I thought I was working harder than I ever had, but nothing came of it—I suppose they were right, and I was fooling myself thinking I was working. Daydreaming, maybe.”

“I think you were right, George, and they didn’t recognize it. At thirteen, they expect boys to slack off, daydream, hang around making mischief with others. So when your grades dropped, that’s what they said. But I think it was something else.”

“What, then? Hormones?”

“No—at least not your native hormones . . . George, this is very secret.”

“Right. I nearly flunk all my courses and it’s on my permanent records, and it’s now a great secret. Nobody knows except you and every other boy I was at school with, all the masters, my family—” George’s talent for being odious had not, Ronnie realized, vanished; it had merely been in hiding.

“Shut up, George,” he said cheerfully. He actually felt better knowing George was not abandoning a lifelong habit. “I think someone made you stupid for a while. On purpose.”

“Made me stupid! Why?” Then that handsome face changed, became more like his father’s. “Oh . . . and you said something about the prince . . . and he changed schools . . .”

“And got a reputation for silly-ass idiocy. Like that quarrel with me—” Ronnie reflected that his own end of that quarrel didn’t argue for any great intelligence either, and flushed, but George didn’t take that up.

“The prince is stupid. The prince is—he can’t be, Ron, someone would’ve noticed. Someone would have told the king.”

“Aunt Cecelia did just that, after we got back. On her usual high horse about it, too.”

“And then she has that stroke you say wasn’t a real stroke. Like my term of being stupid wasn’t real stupidity. Like the prince—” George stopped and looked at Ronnie with dawning comprehension.

“Isn’t really stupid. Not on his own.”

“But mine went away. Why didn’t the prince’s?” Then he answered his own question. “Because someone wanted him to stay that way. And it had to be—” They stared at each other and said in unison, “The king.”

“Oh . . . dear.” Ronnie remembered that he had planned to change and began pulling the studs from his dress shirt. “Oh . . . my. We are in trouble.”

George, with nothing to occupy his mind but the problem at hand, leaned back in his seat. “If your aunt claims Lorenza poisoned her, and if that’s why Lorenza poisoned her, then Lorenza may have done it to the prince.”

Ronnie paused, his shirt half-undone. “Remember that scandal a few years ago about the Graham-Scolaris?”

“Of course. Dad defended the old man.”

“What if . . . what if Lorenza supplies all sorts of useful poisons—chemicals—not just to the Crown but to others?”

“What, a medieval poisoner in our midst? That’s awfully dramatic, Ronnie.”

“So is a stupid prince kept that way for years. So was my aunt’s collapse.”

“Point taken.” George frowned at him, and Ronnie remembered he hadn’t finished changing. He tore off the dress shirt and shrugged into George’s casual one. A bit tight across the shoulders, but not enough to matter. He buttoned it slowly, still thinking.

“Something else I just thought of . . . remember when Gerel’s older brothers died? That assassination, and then the duel?”

“Yes—do you think they were stupid, too?”

“No—I remember, though, that was when we were what? Twelve, thirteen, along in there. Before your bad term, anyway. And Jared was almost thirty; there was talk of having the Grand Council Familias agree to his succession in advance.”

Now George frowned. “I don’t—yes, just a minute. I think they actually did, and then rescinded it after he died, so it wouldn’t interfere with Nadrel’s or Gerel’s succession later.”

“I remember Gerel getting lots of visits from his brothers right before that. Picnics and so on. Remember? He’d wanted to ask us along, and his brothers said no, and he was annoyed with them. Then afterwards, he was all excited about something he wouldn’t tell us . . .”

“I don’t remember any of that.” George tossed Ronnie a tie. “Here—put on this anachronism. That shirt needs a reason to look tight across the shoulders.”

“But—” Ronnie stretched his neck, and worked the tie into position. “But I remember—and you and he were thick as anything for a week or so—you were grinning all over your face, and wouldn’t tell me—”

“Was that the time you tried to get it out of me by twisting my arm?”

“No—we already knew that wouldn’t work. No, we tried bribery—an entire box of chocolate. You scarfed the lot and refused to divulge. You don’t remember?”

“No . . . only it was next term I had trouble. You don’t suppose someone really did drug me, and it took the memory, too?”

“I know Gerel avoided you that term—you’d gotten involved with those Hampton Reef boys.”

George shuddered. “I do remember them. Nasty beasts, and then the next year I couldn’t scrape them away. Thank heavens they transferred at midterm.”

The shuttle intercom chimed, and the pilot spoke. “We’re in the Rockhouse Major approach now, gentlemen. If you’d take your seats, please, and prepare for docking . . .”

Brun wanted a shower, food, and sleep, in that order, but ahead of everything else in her personal queue was safety. She changed levels and sectors again, finally choosing a spacers’ hostel down the row from the one Heris had used before she left. She didn’t dare use that one, in case someone was watching it, or the clerk recognized her—unlikely as that seemed. Cleanliness felt wonderful—better than food, and she’d just as soon sleep, she decided, stretching out on the comfortable bunk. Ronnie couldn’t possibly get here for several hours, probably six or seven. She could sleep safely at least two of them.

The buzzing timer woke her from the kind of vaguely unpleasant dream that isn’t a nightmare but leaves a dull, foreboding feeling behind the eyes. Another shower cleared most of it from her head. Now she was really hungry. She checked the time. If he really had left home right away, if he had gone straight to the family’s shuttle, and if they’d gotten priority clearance, Ronnie might be arriving within the hour. She would head for the shuttle deck and get something to eat there.

The timer informed her it was partway into second shift—aftermain, some called it. Both names were on the timer’s dial. That meant the Station equivalent of nightlife, including the nightcrawlers. Brun dug through her duffle for possible outfits that wouldn’t be too visible and wouldn’t say the wrong things. She didn’t want to be transient crew anymore, and she certainly didn’t want to stick out as Lord Thornbuckle’s daughter out being adventurous. She just hadn’t brought the right clothes . . . but she had brought enough makeup.

Down the way, she found a clothing store for people with no imagination. Not the pastels she’d seen before, but good old boring classic beiges and browns and grays and dull blues. Clerks’ clothes, maybe. Brun found that even so she was drawn to the most striking outfits in the shop; she kept picking up accessories that screamed “Look at me!” No. Buy what she automatically disdained. The blue slacks, the beige top, the brown belt—not the braided one, not the one with sequins, just plain brown. Sensible brown shoes. In the mirror she looked like a low-income copy of her mother . . . if you were born with those bones, plain looked classic. What could look just plain . . . plain? A different blouse, blue and rose flowers scattered loosely on beige, and a bit too tight. Beige shoes with little gold doodads on them. That helped; they made her feet hurt, so she walked differently. She could do the rest with makeup.

When she reached the shuttle deck, the status boards showed three private shuttles on approach, identified only by registration number. Great. She had never known the registration number of Ronnie’s family’s shuttle. Then one of the other numbers sank in. That was her family’s shuttle, the same one she’d taken Cecelia up in. Had Ronnie been crazy enough to borrow that one? The watchers would be looking for it.

Brun ducked quickly into one of the fast-food outlets that opened onto the concourse. She ordered the first thing she saw, and took it to a windowseat. Between bites of something greasy and meaty coated with something doughy, she scanned the area for the man who had spoken to her before. Of course he wouldn’t have been alone—and she had no idea what other watchers might look like. The food helped; her stomach gurgled its contentment, and she felt her courage returning. She was clean, and fed, and didn’t look anything like her earlier self—either of them.

“Sorry we’re having to wait a bit,” the shuttle pilot said. “There’s quite a crowd of arrivals just now.”

“Private shuttles?” Ronnie asked.

“Yes—Lord Thornbuckle’s is just ahead of us.”

George and Ronnie stared at each other. “Why would she call me, if she was going to call the family shuttle?” Ronnie asked. “Or did I misunderstand—we were trying to talk in a sort of instant code—”

“I suppose it could be another family member, though that’s quite a coincidence. And they usually bring the family yacht in over at Minor, to avoid the traffic.”

“The yacht’s not operational,” Ronnie said. “Don’t you remember? Some kind of harebrained terrorist attack or something.”

“So it could be one of the others, come by commercial passenger service.” George peered out the tiny window. Ronnie, looking past his head, could make nothing of the strings of lights. Finally—not that long by the clock on the forward bulkhead—he felt the slight bump of docking. When the status lights turned green, he led George out the access tube to the reception lounge. Across from the access tube was the door into the public corridor that led to the concourse. A status screen above it showed that Lord Thornbuckle’s shuttle was docked to their right.

Ronnie headed that way, receiving a polite nod from the man at the door to that lounge. He didn’t see Brun anywhere.

Brun saw Ronnie and her brother at the same moment. Buttons, looking happy and relaxed, with his fiancée Sarah on his arm, strolled along the concourse from the commercial gates toward the entrance to the private shuttle bays. Ronnie was just coming out, looking around.

Brun had just had time to notice Sarah’s outfit—flowing rose silk, a corsage of fresh white roses—when Sarah staggered, and the corsage blew apart, leaving a single red rose. Buttons threw himself on top of her; the tough-looking man who had spoken to Brun rushed at them, weapon in hand. People in the concourse screamed; some dove for the floor. Brun pushed away from the table and tried to get to her brother, but the people in the doorway were backing away. She pushed and shoved, using elbows and sharp kicks to move them.

Over their heads, she could see Ronnie turn toward the trouble, and then make a flying tackle on the armed man. George erupted from the corridor behind him; the two of them were on the attacker by the time Brun got free of the tangle and staggered across the concourse, cursing her new shoes. In the distance, whistles blew; she hoped someone had had the sense to call Station militia. And medical help.

“Help me!” Buttons was saying. “She’s bleeding—!” Brun fell on her knees beside him and unzipped her duffle, pulling out her last clean shirt.

“Here,” she said, stuffing it in the wound. The months she’d spent with therapists and doctors gave her more knowledge than she wanted of what lay behind the blood. But Sarah had a pulse, and was breathing. Buttons looked at her and his eyes widened.

“What are you doing here?”

“Saving Sarah,” Brun said. Sarah opened her eyes.

“That really hurts,” she said, and closed them again. Typical of Sarah, Brun thought. No wasted words, no unnecessary fuss.

“It’s my fault,” Brun said to Buttons. “He thought I was Sarah—I mean, the other way around.”

“Who?” But he had already turned toward the continuing tussle between Ronnie and George and the attacker, who had acquired allies from points unknown. Just as it looked like spreading into a wholesale brawl, the militia arrived.

The same tired-eyed man Brun had met before took their statements after Sarah had been taken to the Station clinic. His gaze sharpened when he recognized Brun and the blood on her clothes.

“Did you expect to meet your sister here?” he asked Buttons. “Was that your purpose?”

“No—Sarah and I had legal business to transact before our wedding. Brun’s been out of touch quite a while; I frankly didn’t know where she was.”

“Ah. And you . . . gentlemen . . .” Ronnie and George were attempting to look innocent and noble through their bruises. “You . . . were coming up to meet this young gentleman, perhaps?”

“No . . . actually . . .” Ronnie’s eyes slid toward Brun’s. She nodded. “We had come up to meet Brun. She called me.”

“I see. You are also . . .” He was clearly groping for the word. Brun spoke up.

“We aren’t engaged, but we’ve been friends a long time. I didn’t want to call our people until I’d had a chance to clean up and change—”

“Yes,” drawled Buttons, looking her up and down. She recognized that tone; he was going to back her, but have his own fun. “I can see why. Mother would have had a fit. Where have you been, anyway?”

“Working as transient crew,” Brun said, holding up her calloused hand for him to see. “I was hoping to get my hair done and so on before she knew I was anywhere around. Besides, there was a little trouble when I arrived.”

“Do you have any idea why someone shot your fiancée?” The militia officer interrupted.

“No,” Buttons said. Brun wondered a moment about that flat negative, but she didn’t challenge him. Instead, she answered.

“I do. I think he meant to shoot me, and didn’t have a good description.” The man’s eyebrows went up. Brun explained. “A man stopped me after I left the militia station earlier and asked if I’d seen a rich young woman in there. He knew my name, and a rough description, but the way I was dressed then, he didn’t recognize me. It scared me; it’s one reason I called Ronnie.”

“Well, then, miss, do you know why someone might want to shoot you?”

“No—but it’s clear someone did, and since Sarah and I are both blonde, and about the same height, he probably figured someone heading for our shuttle, with my brother, was the right person.”

“I see. If you’ll thumbsign this report, then—” With a sideways glance at Buttons, Brun pressed her thumb to the pad, and the man nodded. “That’s it for now—I presume you’ll be available downside if we need you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’m staying up here,” Buttons said. “Until Sarah’s released. I don’t know how long it will take—if they’ll do the regen here, or ship her down. Brun, since Ronnie’s here with their shuttle, could you ride with him?”

“Of course.” Something in his voice suggested he needed to talk with her alone. “Do you mind if we come with you to the clinic?”

“No . . . that’s fine . . .” He stood, and looked about uncertainly. The militia had dispersed the crowd and the four of them stood alone. Then he looked down at Brun. “The thing is, I’m still worried about you. Did you know Lady Cecelia had filed for reinstatement of competency?”

“What? I thought she’d wait until—”

“She didn’t wait; it was on the nets four days ago. There’s been an uproar you wouldn’t believe in the press and among the Families. Dad’s afraid she’s in danger—and you, of course. We didn’t put a query on your ID because we didn’t want to call attention to it, so we haven’t known where you were—”

“But somebody did,” Brun said. “Or at least they were watching for any word of me.”

“Yes. Dad’s convinced now that you were right—he’s had his doubts—but that means whoever did it will be moving. You and Ronnie are both prime targets. Frankly I think you’d better get in that shuttle and go—and then stay on the estate. Don’t go into town; we don’t know just how hard whoever it is will come after you.”

“But you and Sarah?” Should she tell him about Lorenza now? Or would it make it more dangerous for him? She was too tired to think.

“We should be safe now that they know she’s not you.”

“Buttons, there’s something we need to tell you—” Ronnie had lowered his voice. “It’s really important. George and I think we know—”

“Not here. Take Brun, get down to our place, and stay there. I’ll be along as soon as Sarah can travel. They’ll probably send her down for regen treatment when she’s stabilized. Dad’s on his way, too.”

Buttons turned away with a little wave; Brun suddenly felt the weight of fear and exhaustion settle back on her shoulders. Her feet hurt.

“He’s right,” she said. “Let’s go home.”