Meanwhile, the other, without speaking, was tapping rapidly on the keyboard of her handcomp. The expert was able to interpret, despite errors in input, that she knew she was communicating with an expert system.

"The system will take over vocal communication," the expert said to the other one.

"All correct," Brun transmitted, hoping Hazel would understand that the expert was going to relay from her own keyed input.

"There are vocal synthesizers of more power and suitability in laboratory 1-21," the expert said.

"Although major equipment was destroyed, my optical sensors report that some of the small synthesizers seem to be unbroken."

"Can you guide us there?" Brun asked, aware that the expert was echoing her input as a voice to Hazel.

"Easily, but I have instead empowered a mobile unit to fetch them. Spacecraft approach; my analysis suggests that they are upcoming from the surface."

"Plan?" Brun asked.

"Data," the expert replied. "Non-enemy spacecraft in system . . . too far away."

Non-enemy . . . Fleet?

"Can you contact them?"

"Transmitters nonfunctional. Estimated time to restore transmission capability . . . 243 standard seconds. What are the parameters?"

Hazel, who had said nothing for several exchanges, said, "How could we know Fleet frequencies and codes?"

Brun smiled to herself. She knew. One after another, she entered the figures, carefully defining each: frequencies, frequency changes with intervals, identification codes, including the one she had been given once as her personal ID. Then, with great care, she entered the message she wanted to send. Her eyes kept blurring, but she blinked the tears back fiercely. Time enough to cry if she got Hazel to safety.

And the little children. But she could not think of that now. One thing at a time.

"These frequencies and codes are not those in my library for the Regular Space Service of the Familias Regnant," the expert said. It was capable of expression, and it sounded fussy.

"Check date," Brun keyed in. "Codes change."

A long pause ensued. "It has been a very long time," the expert said finally. "I assumed the date was an error resulting from damage done when the station was overrun. . . ."

"Time to intruder arrival?" keyed Brun. Some expert systems were complex enough to lose themselves in endless recursive self-examination. "And transmitter function?"

"Ninety-seven seconds until transmitters functional; I will send your message as soon as confirmed. There is a high probability that nontarget vessels may be able to intercept the message; you have provided no cipher."

"They already suspect we're here," Hazel said, voicing Brun's thought. "And if the Militia know we're here, it's better that Fleet knows it too. I suppose, Brun, it's because of your father-"

"All correct," Brun keyed. She really did want a better voice synthesizer; her fingers were already tired, and she had a lot more to say.

"ETA of intruder shuttles from the planet now ranges from one hour ten minutes, to three hours one minute," the expert said. "Unless they change course, which they have the capacity to do . . .

now, three shuttles apparently approaching from the planet."

Three shuttles . . . why did they think they needed four shuttles to capture two women? Or were they coming out to fight Fleet with shuttles? Surely they weren't that stupid.

"Weapons discharge," the expert system said. "Nearby ship, identifying itself as Militia cruiser Yellow Rose, launched missiles at Fleet vessel of unknown type."

The enemy shuttle had been run right into the gaping hole in one arm of the station. No doubt the Militia knew what was open and what wasn't-assuming they were the ones who'd made it a derelict.

If they'd been in a regular warship, Esmay would have lobbed a missile into that bay, and blown the shuttle first off. But an SAR shuttle did not normally venture into hostile territory; it mounted no external weapons, and they had had no time to improvise. With that in mind, Esmay kept the length of the station between her shuttle and the enemy's, and snugged in under one of the power panels at the far end. Again, mission constraints changed the usual procedures. They dared not blow a hole in the derelict's hull, lest Brun and her companion be hiding behind just that piece of hull. They shouldn't be, but no one knew what conditions were like inside. Moreover, it would take at least four hours to rig one of the portable airlocks and carefully incise a new hole in the station hull. So the teams would have to insert through a known entrance, which all concerned knew was the best way to make a target of themselves.

The best they could hope for was that the Militia intruders weren't already in place. The neuro- enhanced squad didn't seem too worried. Esmay, waiting near the tail of the line, saw the bulky figures pause at the emergency lock, and then move in, far faster than she had expected. Perhaps this meant the station had no air pressure.

"Lieutenant, the artificial gravity's on."

That shouldn't be . . . the station was a derelict. But she could feel through her own body the tug of a gravity generator. Which meant a sizeable power source, more than could be accounted for by the tattered, misaligned power panels. Would there be air? Had Brun turned things on? Esmay shook those questions off. What mattered now was getting in. If there was gravity, then the fighting would not favor the zero-G trained.

Inside, they were met with the chaotic remnant of systematic vandalism, all visible under ordinary ceiling panel lights. P-suits cluttered the corridor, all turquoise with a BlueSky logo and code number on the back. Someone had drawn five pointed stars and other curious symbols on the corridor bulkhead in brown pigment-or blood. The tank locker beside the suit locker was empty of breathing tanks. Air pressure was as near vacuum as made no difference . . . but why was there any pressure at all? Why were the lights on?

Esmay tried a cautious hail on the frequency Koutsoudas had given as that of Brun's transmission .

. . no reply.

Nothing damaged a man's reputation more than unruly women. Mitch Pardue knew even before he launched that he could kiss the Captain's position goodbye for at least ten years. He might even be voted out as Ranger Bowie. Even if he got them back, those fool women had cost him something he'd worked for twenty years and more.

The abomination he could understand. She was crazy, even without a voice. But the girl's defection hurt. Prima had been so fond of her, and the other wives as well. She'd worked hard, and they'd treated her like one of the family. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe they'd been too lenient.

Well, he wouldn't make that mistake with the little girls. That bossy one, already showing off in the weaving shed-he'd see that she didn't stay bossy. As for Patience . . . he'd already half- promised her as a third wife to a friend of his, but now that wouldn't do.

Why couldn't the girl have realized how much better off she was in his household? Why were women so perverse, anyway?

He almost let himself think God had erred in creating women at all, but pulled back from that heresy. That's what happened if you started thinking about women-they led the mind astray.

If they were on the derelict station-and he was certainly sure they were-he would capture them and make an example of them. The yellow-haired abomination they would have to execute; he hated killing women, but if she escaped once, she might again. The girl . . . he would decide that later, after he learned exactly what had happened. When they'd finally found a witness, it seemed that a man had told her to get in the car. If so, she might not be guilty of anything but stupidly following a man's orders, which was all you could expect of a woman. He hoped that was it.

"Ranger Bowie!" That was his pilot. He leaned into the cockpit.

"What, Jase?"

"There's a weird ship out there, scan says."

Weird ship. It must be a ship the women had planned to meet.

"What's our defense say?"

"Says it's weird, Ranger. Not anything they know, a lot smaller than a cruiser. But it can do those little short jumps like the Familias fleet-"

"It's looking for them," he said. "It's not a warship, or it'd have shot up our ships first thing, same as we would. A little transport of some kind." The worst of it was that it meant the Familias now knew where they were-and more ships might follow. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, he told himself. First things first. Get these women under control, or all hell would break loose.

Though if he'd known, he might've asked for a shuttle of space-armored troops from the Yellow Rose. Their p-suits were hardened, but not against the kind of weaponry a Fleet vessel would have.

Still, they'd probably hold their fire if they thought the Speaker's daughter was in the midst of it.

His uncle had been one of those who trashed this godless excrescence in the first place; he'd grown up on the stories. They'd talked about blowing it up time and again, but always decided it might be useful someday. Useful! Just showed what happened when you compromised on a moral duty.

He watched as the pilot brought them in to the old shuttle bay. When he felt the solid clunk of the shuttle's grapples on the decking, he stood and pushed his way back to the hatch.

"Now y'all listen here," he said. "We're goin' in to look for those women. Not to play around gapin' at stuff, or even takin' the time to trash it. There's warships insystem; we need to get this done and get back where we can do some good. Understand?"

They nodded, but he had his doubts.