Terrain. It all came back to escape and evasion, and in space that meant outrun or hide out. They couldn't outrun the warships, and there wasn't any place to hide. Except-what if they went straight for the Elias Madero, docked at the space station? Could they get in it from outside?

Hide in it? It would take a long time to find them, time in which Fleet might be coming. Or might

not.

She looked around the cockpit. Somewhere, the pilot must have had local space charts-they had not run into any of the things which must be up here, the various satellites and stations. She didn't spot charts, but she did spot a noteboard. She scribbled Local charts on it and handed it to Hazel. Hazel said, "We're not going back, are we?"

Not exactly, Brun thought, and mouthed. Hide. Hazel seemed to understand the mouthed words, and nodded.

Backed off from its maximum velocity, the little ship could maneuver surprisingly well. Brun kept an eye on the scans as she jinked back and forth, counting to herself in a random sequence she'd once memorized for the pleasure of it. Her other eye was on the fuel gauge-rapid maneuvering ate up fuel at an alarming rate.

"Local nav charts up on the screen," Hazel said. Brun spared a glance. Little satellites, big satellites, space stations-she hadn't realized this place had more than one station-and a large number of uncategorized items. Most were drifting in a more-or-less equatorial orbit, though a few were in polar orbits. In size, these ranged from bits as small as pencils to stations a kilometer across. She needed something big enough-an orbital station would be perfect, but of course there wouldn't be one.

Hazel leaned past her and tapped something. Brun glanced again. Something long and skinny, much bigger than the shuttle, and marked on the chart with a large red X. The shuttle shivered, as a near miss tore at its shields. Whatever it was would have to do. She nodded at Hazel and pointed to the nav computer. She couldn't figure a course to it in her head, not and dodge hostile fire.

In a moment or two, the course came up on the nav screen, along with an estimate of fuel consumption. Very close . . . they'd have to spend fuel to dump vee, and spiral around the planet on a much longer approach than Brun really wanted, with ships shooting at her.

And if she was really lucky, maybe the two enemy ships would run into each other, and remove that problem.

Minute by minute, as the shuttle curved back toward the planet, Brun expected the bright flash that would be the last thing she ever saw. Behind-to either side-but none of them as close as they had been. The boost out had taken hours . . . how long would it take to get back using all the power she dared? How much of the outbound trip had been unpowered? How long had she slept before waking to zero G? She didn't know; she didn't have time to think about it, only time to watch the scans, and the nav screen, and do what she could to conserve their fuel.

"One's out," Hazel said suddenly. Brun nodded. One of their pursuers had miscalculated a boost, and was now out of sight behind the planet. The other, farther away, was probably out of missile range-at least, nothing had blown up anywhere near them for some time. The other red-marked icons she could see now were farther away, and didn't appear to be chasing her. Yet. She could have used Koutsoudas' enhanced scan; she didn't even know what size those things were. Even ordinary Fleet scan would have told her that, and located any Fleet ships insystem as well.

They might actually make it. She glanced at the fuel gauge again. Enough to decelerate to match their target . . . and that small margin over which would give her a chance to try a last wild gamble. She linked the autopilot to the nav computer for the approach, trusting the universe enough to take this moment to stretch before trying to dock to an uninhabited derelict.

The little shuttle lay snugged to the station, hidden from several directions by the sheltering wing of the station. Brun hoped its thermal signature would be hidden as well, but she didn't trust it. They might be detected from the ground as well as space. She looked around. The dead pilot nuzzled the stained plastic of the bulkhead, held there by one of the ventilation drafts.

They needed pressure suits. While she wasn't actually naked, she felt the hungry vacuum outside .

. . her clothes were no protection. They needed to get off the shuttle, and onto something bigger, with more air.

They needed a miracle.

Make your own miracles, Oblo had said. The escape-and-evasion instructors had said the same thing.

Brun spotted what might be a p-suit locker, and aimed Hazel at it. Sure enough, inside was a smudged yellow p-suit easily large enough for either of them. One p-suit, not two. Hazel clearly knew how to check out a suit; she was running the little nozzle of the tester down each seam. Brun waited until Hazel had checked it all, including the air tanks.

"It's fine," Hazel said. "Both tanks full-that's six hours, if I understand their notation."

Six hours for one person. Could Fleet get from where it was to here in six hours? Not likely. The shuttle's air supply was much bigger-they would have air for four or five days-but if the warships found the shuttle, they would be dead before then.

Priority one: find another p-suit.

Priority two: find air.

"Weapons would be nice," Hazel said, surprising Brun again. The girl seemed so docile, so sweet .

. . was she really thinking . . . ? From her face, she was.

With the helmet on, Hazel tested her com circuit. She would use it, they'd decided, only to tell Brun she was on the way back . . . no need to let everyone on the planet know where they were, if they hadn't been spotted.

With Hazel gone, Brun took the opportunity to search the dead pilot. Like all the men, he had packed a small arsenal: a knife at his belt, another in his boot, and a third up his sleeve, as well as a slug-thrower capable of putting a hole in the hull-what did he want with that aboard a ship?-a needler in the other boot, and two small beamers, one up the other sleeve, and one tucked into the back of his belt.

Hazel's voice over the com: "Bringing suits." Suits? Why suits plural? Brun hissed the two- syllable signal they'd devised for acknowledgement. "Problems . . ." Damn the girl, why couldn't she say more . . . or nothing?

Soon enough-sooner than Brun expected-she heard the warning bleat of the airlock's release sequence, and then muffled bumps and bangs as Hazel cycled through. An empty p-suit came out first, scattering glittering dust from its turquoise skin. Turquoise? Brun rolled it over, and there on the back was a label-BlueSky Biodesigns-and a code number whose meaning she could not guess. Hazel next, in the pilot's dirty yellow p-suit, towing another turquoise model. Then two spare breathing tanks, lashed to the second p-suit. When they cleared the hatch, Brun reached behind her to dog the inner lock seal, as Hazel popped her helmet seal.

"Brun-it's really strange in there. I found a suit locker right away, but the tank locker beside it was empty. So I had to hunt around. And I've never seen a station like it-"

Brun tapped her shoulder, and Hazel stopped. Brun wrote: LABORATORY. GENETIC ENGINEERING.

"Oh. That might explain the broken stuff, then. But listen, Brun, the oddest thing . . . remember how this p-suit's fitted for males? All the suits in the station lockers-the ones I looked in, anyway-are fitted for females. That's why I brought two. It's a lot more comfortable . . . and near's I can tell these suits have all the functions we need. And I found women's clothes scattered around, soft shipsuits. Better'n these rough things, if your legs are as sore as mine."

Brun hated it when haste blurred Hazel's accent into conformity with that of the locals. But she was right. Already Hazel was unsuiting, packing the pilot's p-suit away with practiced skill as she came out of it, hardly swaying as she steadied herself with first one hand then another. Brun opened the first turquoise suit and found the clothes. Soft fleecy pants and tops, in colors she hadn't seen for far too long: bright, clear, artificial colors. Hazel had brought an assortment, bless her, different sizes and colors.

"You're so much taller," Hazel said, "I hope what I got is big enough . . ."

Brun nodded. She watched Hazel try to wriggle out of her clothes, wincing, and struggle into the

softer ones. She chose dark green; the top had an embroidered design of flowers and swirls. Brun had found a pair of black pants that seemed longer than the rest, and a cream-colored shirt that was bigger around-even bound, her milk-swollen breasts had added to her size.

"Should we use the shuttle's wastecan before we suit up?" Hazel asked.

Brun shook her head. They would need every recycled bit of air and water. She started trying to shuck her own pants and realized that she was simply too stiff; it hurt too much. Hazel moved to help her; Brun held one of the grabons, and gritted her teeth as Hazel started to pull the stiff pants down.

"Is this the pilot's blood, or yours?" Hazel asked.

Brun shook her head, shrugged, and then nodded. It made no difference-the pants had to come off.

Hazel worked them free, muttering.

"You're raw . . . from the riding, I hope. I didn't know it was so much worse without a saddle, or I'd have switched off with you-" She couldn't have done it, but Brun appreciated the offer, even as the breath hissed between her teeth.

"We have to put something on this," Hazel said finally. The chill air bit into the raw places and Brun shuddered at the thought of anything touching her. "I'll look." Moments of silence; Brun kept her eyes shut and tried to steady her breathing. It wasn't as bad as being raped; it wasn't as bad as being pregnant; it wasn't nearly as bad as childbirth. She had survived all that; this was just . . . an inconvenience. She opened her eyes and smiled at Hazel, who was watching her with a worried look. "I found a medkit, and put it in the other p-suit," Hazel said. "One of those emergency kits they always put near suit lockers." Brun nodded, and freed a hand to wave a go- ahead signal.

The bite of the painkilling spray would have gotten a yelp from her if she'd had the voice to yelp with, but the almost-instant cessation of pain was amazing. She'd forgotten how fast good meds worked. Hazel followed that with a spray of antibiotic and skin sealant. Brun unpeeled her hands from the grabon, and was able to snag the soft black pants she'd chosen and put them on herself.

Then into the p-suits, where the plumbing fixtures connected as they ought, and all the gauges and readouts worked. Brun sniffed the air coming from the nose filters-nothing she could smell, and the ship's suit-check said it was safe. They filled the suits' water tanks from the shuttle tanks.

Brun folded an extra set of shipsuits into padding for the back of her p-suit, and Hazel followed her example. They packed up all the food they could find in the shuttle, and stuffed the p-suits'

external storage.

All this had taken longer than Brun hoped, but according to the shuttle's scans, no active scan had pinged them yet. Now, she finished setting up the autopilot for what she hoped would be an effective screening action. Ideally, they would have been able to tie into the shuttle's scans from within the space station, and send it off under remote control. But Brun had long since given up waiting for ideal conditions. She would send it off on a time delay, giving them time to get well into the station. Hazel had left the outer lock open, with an air tank lashed in the gap just in case some officious bit of old programming was still operating and tried to shut it . . . so they didn't have to worry about entrance.

With the little fuel left aboard, she couldn't set up a very complicated course, and she had to assume that ground-based radars had plotted their whereabouts anyway. Probably one of the warships was even now maneuvering in for an attempt to recapture them. For maximum acceleration, Brun decided to run the takeoff and insystem drives together . . . something no experienced pilot would do, but it was the only way to get the ship well away in a hurry.

When she was done, she nodded at Hazel, and they both sealed up. They had made their plans; they had said all they had to say, until they were in the station. They crammed into the tiny airlock, and cycled out.

Outside was a confusion of highlight and black shadow; Brun followed Hazel along the length of the shuttle's hull to the station's wing. From here, she could see that there was a shuttle docking bay-if she'd known that, they could have been safe inside hours ago, because it looked as if it

had passenger tubes still deployed. No time for that now. Hazel led her from one grabon to another toward the emergency lock portal.

They were almost to the portal when the grabon she held bounced in her hand, then vibrated strongly. Brun looked back. The shuttle's dual drive had come alive, and the little ship slid away from the station, its takeoff reaction engine exhaust glowing against the dark. It moved faster-faster-out into the sunlight, where it glittered like a bright needle.