Though he had not asked for the girl's company, the old hermit took his responsibility seriously. "I always knew I needed a permanent shelter. Now I've got the impetus I needed to get off my ass and build my own private castle."

Orli self-consciously brushed herself off. She felt as dirty as Hud Steinman looked. "I wasn't complaining about sleeping on the ground." Even so, she had to admit that the camping experience was a lot more fun in the concept stage than in the execution.

"Didn't say you were. But my back hurts. Time to design and build a house." He looked at her, his brow furrowed. "I don't suppose you know anything about carpentry? Architecture?"

"Only a little bit that I read in schoolbooks."

Steinman shrugged. "How hard can it be? We'll figure it out."

While he scratched out plans and chose a spot by a freshwater spring for their "homestead," Orli helped with whatever else she could find to do. She sorted through the salvaged tools from the colony town, deciding which could be used for their task. She rechecked Steinman's calculations, attempting to do so when he wasn't looking. She knew he saw her doing it, but he did not object, either thinking the idea was cute, or just glad to have someone verify his math. She found a few mistakes but did not point them out to the old man.

When he'd finally convinced himself he knew what he was doing, Steinman showed her his hand-sketched plans and explained how the two of them would go about building a house. "We can cut down poletrees for lumber. We can make boards with the laser saw, and the skinnier logs will make a perfect framework."

Orli let herself be carried away by his enthusiasm. "I bet we could weave some of the long grasses into strips, like ropes. Use it for lashing logs." She'd already plaited a few of them around the campfire.

"Didn't people make bricks out of mud a long time ago?" Steinman suggested. "We could probably do that, too. This world is full of building materials!"

She and Steinman easily felled one of the poletrees, and when the long trunk crashed into the grasses, two startled lowriders thrashed away. The topmost section of the poletree provided three sturdy logs that were easily carryable. When Steinman attempted to slice the thicker trunk into flat, even boards, though, he mangled the wood so badly it could be used for nothing other than patching up walls. "Okay, so I'm not a lumberjack. Never said I was."

The second and third attempts were little better, but by the fourth poletree they had enough wood to begin. They sank the main logs deep into the ground, poured water into the holes, and packed them in with a mixture of mud and gravel. They worked together to raise the corner supports, sliding crossbars into notches that Orli made in the logs, and the shelter began to take shape.

They followed Steinman's grand plan as best they could. When the major work was complete, the girl stared at the makeshift shelter. No doubt Steinman had envisioned a quaint and primitive palace, a rugged Robinson Crusoe home. Instead, it looked like a shack that would blow down in the first big storm.

It was the sort of poorly planned and poorly executed scheme her father might have come up with.

Stung by the thought, she lifted her chin. No matter how rickety the place looked, Orli was proud of their work. She and Steinman had built this themselves, with only the most primitive materials and under difficult circumstances.

"That'll do," she said. Steinman clapped her on the back.

Tired of having furry crickets to eat every night, Orli scavenged among the prairie grasses in search of other grains, tubers, or fruits that might be edible. She had no idea where to start, though. She carefully nibbled samples of leaves, berries, starchy roots. She identified and shied away from a few leaves with a powerfully bitter or acidic taste; one bluish berry made her vomit instantly. But a lumpy brown root tasted sweet enough, and she experienced no ill effects after she ate it. Some of the flowers were so spicy that they made her nose burn, but they tasted fine. Gradually, she added color and variety to their diet.

Steinman watched what she was doing and cautioned, "Spit out anything that tastes like poison."

"And what does poison taste like?"

"I don't know. If I tasted poison, I'd probably be dead."

Exasperated, Orli rolled her eyes and looked up into the sky as if for guidance-and froze. She squinted until she was sure that what she saw was the burning trail of a descending ship heading directly toward the canyon and the destroyed colony.

"A ship! A ship-look, Mr. Steinman!"

Steinman clapped his hands and laughed. "Probably one of the Hansa supply ships, kid. Weren't we supposed to get another delivery of equipment?"

As the small vessel flew high overhead, swelling from a black speck in the sky until it became recognizable as a cargo ship, Orli ran out on the prairie, waving her arms.

"Come on! We've got to get to the town site before he decides to take off again," Steinman called.

The two of them crashed through the grasses. Lowriders, hearing their wild approach, scuttled away, not wanting to face this noisy stampede. Orli rapidly outdistanced the older man, but forced herself to lag so Steinman could catch up. She was anxious to see the rescuers, but on the chance it was another robot attack, she wanted the old hermit nearby.

By the time they reached the landing field just outside the canyon, Orli's throat was raw from yelling. Beside her, Steinman wheezed like a set of giant bellows, but he didn't seem to notice. He stumbled ahead, taking the girl by the hand.

The ship had already flown into the canyon to investigate, then circled back. The pilot must have been trying to transmit to the colony station, but heard no response. The cargo ship cruised again over the black, sooty ruins and tipped its wings to indicate that the pilot had seen the two of them. After searching for a cleared spot in the rubble, the craft set down.

Orli ran forward with tears streaming down her face. A man with wide eyes, frizzy hair, and leathery skin stepped out of the supply ship. The expression on his lean face was one of utter astonishment. Orli remembered Branson Roberts, who had delivered equipment to the colony not long before. Roberts stared at the two gasping people running toward him from the tall grasses.

Everywhere he looked there was destruction. Corribus had been entirely annihilated. Roberts opened and closed his mouth several times until finally he blurted out, "Holy crap-and crap again! What happened here?"

Orli threw herself into his arms, and the man automatically folded her in a reassuring hug. She was sobbing too much to answer him.

"We'd, uh, appreciate a lift out of here," Steinman said, "if you could manage it."

Chapter 34-BASIL WENCESLAS.

While General Lanyan droned complaints at him in the empty Hansa boardroom, Basil stood with his hands behind his back, studying the portraits of his predecessors. The faces of the sixteen former Chairmen of the Hanseatic League looked stern and self-important, true demigods of business and empire.

Three days ago he had been standing before the Mage-Imperator in the Prism Palace. Seeing the dynasty of the Ildiran leaders had made him think of his own forebears in the Hansa Headquarters. Like him, these men and women had controlled the wheels of commerce as human ambition spread from the Earth to the Moon and then the inner solar system. Next came the eleven generation ships, slow-moving monstrosities whose passengers cut their umbilical to home, assuming they'd never return.

Incensed as usual, Lanyan had asked for a conference within hours after the Chairman returned from his diplomatic visit. "According to the latest summary, in the seven years since the hydrogue war began, we have lost almost a hundred of our conscripted scout ships. In only three instances have we found legitimate evidence that the vessels suffered some mishap. The others simply...left. The pilots are AWOL. They abandoned their duties."

Basil was troubled, but preoccupied. It seemed like a fairly small issue in the face of much greater debacles. One hundred pilots? "One often encounters such problems when dealing with forcibly conscripted soldiers who are given too much independence."

He strolled along the boardroom wall, looking from one Chairman to the next, wondering about the priorities they'd had, the crises they had faced. No doubt, they'd felt that the fate of the Hansa was in their hands as well. Basil had never met most of these people; nevertheless, he felt he knew them.

Malcolm Stannis, a young cutthroat manager, had served during Earth's first contact with the Ildirans; an effective leader saddled with two incompetent Kings, first the old fool Ben and then the young and unproven boy George. King Ben had clumsily given away the store, formally granting a Theron delegation their colony's independence simply for the asking; luckily, he had died (under suspicious circumstances) shortly afterward.

Adam Cho had served for twenty-one years, the Hansa's longest-acting Chairman prior to Basil, who was now approaching three decades in office. Regan Chalmers had served for only a single, scandal-ridden year. Bertram Goswell's blundering friction with the Roamer clans had earned the Hansa the snide nickname of "Big Goose." Sandra Abel-Wexler, a descendant from the generation ship that carried her surname, had returned to Earth, wanting no part of the new colony the Ildirans established for them.

So much history, so many mistakes...

Basil stopped in front of his own portrait, wondering what the painter had been thinking, what moods or nuances he'd tried to evoke. Then he looked at the blank wall space beyond. Would Eldred Cain's portrait hang here in later years? The pallid deputy was his heir apparent, but their personalities were quite different. Was Cain really the man he wanted as his successor? Cain was cool and evenhanded, detail-oriented, but not ruthless enough.

Lanyan's voice grew louder. "Are you listening to me, Mr. Chairman?"

Basil did not turn. "I am always listening, General. Don't underestimate my ability to concentrate on more than one thing at a time. I understand the importance of what you are saying."

Chastened, the commander of the Earth Defense Forces sat at the highly polished boardroom table. "We're at war war, sir. Those pilots had a responsibility responsibility." His face grew flushed. "Lives were at stake, dammit! And lives were lost."

Near the end of the line of portraits, Basil paused to look at Maureen Fitzpatrick. The Battleaxe The Battleaxe. She had been quite stunning in her day and had used her charm and seductive wiles to catapult herself to the highest levels of success. Most of the men left in her wake had failed to understand her genuine power and charisma. Basil had always admired former Chairman Fitzpatrick. She was older than he by two decades, but if times had been different, he suspected they might have made quite a pair. She was still alive, though long retired and presumably content with her wealth.

Meanwhile, he had problems to deal with. Every example of human unreliability seemed like another nail in humanity's coffin.

Basil's vision took on a much sharper focus, as if the problem of AWOL pilots had crystallized around a different issue. He kept his voice low, musing angrily, "It's just a symptom of our race's failings. The same thing has happened everywhere I turn. Is it my concern that our scout pilots are too 'nervous' to do their own jobs? Do I care that green priests are no longer 'interested' in serving aboard our ships? That our King has a habit of challenging my decisions, and that his replacement is a brat whose test scores are barely higher than an amoeba's because he refuses to take his training seriously? Selfish, shortsighted people-all of them! If they can't be counted on to meet their own responsibilities, then how is humanity to survive this crisis?"

The General heaved a long disappointed sigh, commiserating with Basil. "Unfortunately, Mr. Chairman, it's human nature. People insist on making their own decisions, even bad ones. And when facing a problem that affects us all, they demonstrate how egocentric they can be."

Basil scowled, annoyed at himself for allowing his raw emotions to show. "I have come to the conclusion that the niceties of freedom and independence are valid only in times of peace and prosperity. For years now, we've faced an emergency that is not about petty politics, nationalities, or religion-one that threatens our very existence. Everyone has got to pull together. We must act with one mind, one strong fist. Scattered loyalties and diverse interests only dilute the effort we make. They weaken us all. How can I allow that?"

"You can't, Mr. Chairman. That much is clear. They are traitors, plain and simple. We didn't ask them to do us a favor. Those AWOL pilots were part of the EDF and, as such, are bound by our rules and regulations. They can't just be allowed to run away when they feel bored or jittery."

"It's so difficult to get competent help nowadays," Basil said sardonically. "That's been the litany of people in power since the dawn of history. You rely on people because of their skills, and more often than not they let you down."

"We just can't afford that, Mr. Chairman." Lanyan laced his fingers together as if to keep from making a fist and pounding on the table. "There are too many threads unraveling. We've got to stop them where we can. We need to stop other pilots from leaving."

Basil glanced at his wrist chronometer and sighed. "Do you want me to send babysitters along with the pilots who haven't deserted yet? Should we launch a full-scale pursuit of the missing ships? Perhaps we'll find the pilots relaxing on a tropical beach, sipping fruit drinks." He rounded on the General. "Is that genuinely your highest priority right now?"

Lanyan was in high dudgeon. "Mr. Chairman, I remind you of long-standing military law. Desertion during time of war is an offense punishable by death. These pilots don't believe there'll be any consequences-and so far there haven't been any. We need to get serious, scare them all the way down to the bone marrow by making an example of somebody, and then offer amnesty to the rest. That way we get most of our pilots back, and nobody will dare do it again."

As he looked at the wall of his predecessors, Basil remembered studying their biographies as he'd worked his way up through Hansa politics. He'd been King Frederick's friend, had made the old man into the venerated leader he was, despite Frederick's many failings. When Basil had been an ambitious deputy, similar in many respects to Eldred Cain, he had mapped out his projected career path. He'd imagined the pinnacle of happiness, success, and achievement as Chairman. He wondered now if any of these former leaders-any of them-had actually been happy in their posts.

"Very well, General. I agree. We will have to keep our eyes open, in case the right person crosses our path."

Chapter 35-PATRICK FITZPATRICK III.

When gruff Del Kellum summoned the Earth captives into a central loading bay, Fitzpatrick figured they were about to be lectured-or tossed out the airlock. The death of their fellow prisoner Bill Stanna during an ill-advised and poorly planned escape attempt had only strengthened the resolve of the soldiers, leaving them as intractable as ever.

Twenty-nine other EDF hostages gathered, waiting sourly for whatever Kellum would say. The captives angrily considered the Roamers responsible for their comrade's death, though Fitzpatrick knew Stanna had made his own fatal blunders.

He spoke quietly to his closest companions, weapons specialist Shelia Andez and the compy expert Kiro Yamane. "There's been a lot of activity here lately, more ships from outside, more clan representatives, a lot of whispered talk. I've never seen so many people hit me with a poisoned glare."

"Just glare right back at them," Andez said. "They deserve it."

Even Zhett Kellum had stopped teasing him with sarcastic comments or her obvious attempts at flirtation. Fitzpatrick could not shake his feeling of dread, and he didn't want to be worried about her her.

"I think Patrick may be correct." Yamane's voice was so soft they could barely hear it over the murmur of the crowd. "Something has happened out there. Maybe the EDF is looking for us."

"Better yet, what if they're retaliating?" Andez gave a quick, hungry grin.

Fitzpatrick knew they wouldn't agree, but he had to offer his suggestion anyway. "It's time to be more proactive. Maybe we should try cooperating a little 'out of the goodness of our hearts.' We can get into the thick of things, gather a little intelligence. Think of what we can learn."

"Aw, who wants to know what the Roachers are up to?" Andez said.

Yamane's dark eyes glittered. "I would like to learn if something terrible has occurred outside. Another hydrogue massacre, perhaps?"

"The Roamers haven't exactly been keeping us up to date on the latest news. We'd never know it even if the drogues destroyed Earth in retaliation for our offensive here at Osquivel." Fitzpatrick looked again at his friends. "Anything we learn can help us and the EDF, and the EDF, if we ever get out of here." if we ever get out of here."

When Zhett had shown him around the Osquivel ring shipyards, he'd refused to believe the disorganized space gypsies could put together something so impressive. The clans couldn't possibly be such effective manufacturers and businessmen. Despite his inclination, Fitzpatrick had to admire what he saw, even if it was overshadowed by his unacknowledged attraction for the clan leader's daughter.

"Maybe we can get ourselves assigned to help study that hydrogue derelict," Yamane said. "It just isn't right that Roamers have exclusive access to the technological marvel of the century. Imagine what our military could do with that thing! With their ham-handed poking around, Roamer scientists might destroy delicate systems and delete vital information."

Andez snorted. "Like a bunch of primitive tribesmen prodding with wooden spears at something they don't understand!"

Fitzpatrick said, "Their technology is a bit more advanced than wooden spears." Then he caught himself, not wanting to sound too sympathetic.

"I'm just a cybernetics expert, but I'll bet I could figure out more than these Roamers could-if I got the chance."

"Focus on the real priority, okay? Maybe we should just bash some heads in and get our butts out of here." Andez tossed her dark brown hair, which had grown well past regulation length during their time of captivity.

Fitzpatrick gestured toward the big airlock at the far end of the chamber where Kellum had summoned them. "Be my guest, Shelia. See how far you can run out there in empty space. Maybe you'll succeed where Bill Stanna failed."

She spun on him angrily. "That's not-"

"Yes it is! We'll never get out of here by being stupid. We have to play along, make our plans, and do this right."

The weapons specialist smoldered at him for a moment, but she did not disagree. "I'm just so sick of waiting."

A side door opened and Del Kellum entered with his beautiful raven-haired daughter. The shipyard manager wore a stern expression; his salt-and-pepper goatee looked shaggier than usual. Zhett, on the other hand, was as vivacious and full of energy as ever, though she wouldn't meet Fitzpatrick's eyes.

Kellum didn't need a voice amplification system. His words boomed out without preamble. "Your Earth Defense Forces have declared war on the Roamer people. First, they attacked a Roamer outpost known as Hurricane Depot. Next, they destroyed our center of government and scattered the clans, including our Speaker." He glowered at them, letting the news sink in. The EDF captives muttered uneasily, not knowing how much to believe. Fitzpatrick was shocked.

"Roacher propaganda," Andez muttered.

"I don't see why they'd make up a story like that if it wasn't true," Fitzpatrick said. "What would they have to gain?"

Yamane said, "It would explain the recent activity."

Kellum paced before his audience, barely controlling his outrage. "What does it take to get through to you people? We rescued you from the wreckage. We fed and sheltered you while we tried to find a way to return you to your homes. Now the Hansa's actions force us to change your status from unwanted guests to prisoners of war." He crossed beefy arms over his barrel chest.

Zhett stood beside him. "Since you'll all be with us for a while, things are going to change around here. We have divided you into work teams, assigned to separate stations out in the rings, three or four of you at a time. We have also programmed and distributed EDF Soldier compies in similar assignments. We've run out of bonbons for you to eat while you sit back and relax. Time to earn your keep."

Kellum nodded. "No more excuses. No more complaints. No more refusing to cooperate."

Immediately the prisoners began to shout. "We're not your slaves!"

"When the EDF hears about Roamer death camps, they'll wipe you out, clan by clan."

"You can't treat prisoners of war that way."

"Oh, you poor pampered babies." Zhett pursed her catlike lips, her expression halfway between amusement and anger. "Never had to do real work in your lives? If you get a broken fingernail, will you file for an EDF Wounded-in-Action medal?"