"I'm fine," Esmay said.

"You're not," the medic said, "but you will be when we're done with you." She inserted a syringe into the IV line Esmay had not noticed until then, and a soft gauzy curtain closed between Esmay and the rest of the universe.

Barin had the uncomfortable honor of observing the whole collapse of the "simple, straightforward extrication" from the bridge of Gyrfalcon. Most of the carnage had already happened by the time Shrike's signal reached them, and his grandmother ordered the rest of the task force to jump in.

They popped out less than thirty light seconds from the planet, only ten from the nearest enemy ship. Gyrfalcon's first salvo took it out; the cruiser's massive energy weapons burned through its shields in less than a second.

"Not used to facing real firepower," Escovar said calmly.

"Captain-Shrike has recovered one shuttle-casualties . . ."

Please, please, let it not be Esmay . . . Barin clenched his hand on the ring he had bought for her.

"Firing solution on second enemy ship-RED for Shrike-"

"Hold!"

"Got it!" That from Navarino, whose clear shot at the second enemy ship had blown it as cleanly as their own had the first.

"Third target running-headed for jump point-"

That would be the job of Applejack, the cleanup light cruiser . . . Barin watched scan intently as the enemy ship headed toward the minefield Applejack had spent the past six hours sowing around the jump corridor.

Hazel had seen the bulkhead peeling back, and felt a moment of complete panic-not now, not after all they'd been through-but someone's gloved hand caught the bar at the end of her gurney, and wrapped a quick line to it, then secured the line to a stickpatch. But-when she looked-she could see a tumbling, receding shape that had to be Brun and someone holding her.

She said nothing-there was enough noise on the comunits anyway-until someone asked if she was all right.

"Yes, but-what about Brun?"

"We'll get them back," a reassuring voice said. "Don't you worry. And we'll get you into a

shuttle."

"Yeah, before this place breaks up completely . . ."

She was passed from one set of hands to another-each carefully attaching her to another set of

secured lines before releasing the first-and then finally through the cargo hatch of a shuttle.

People moved past her, all busy, all doing something she hoped would rescue Brun. She had heard of Fleet SAR all her life, but she'd never seen it in action. She'd had no idea that SAR teams wore black p-suits that looked like space armor from storycubes. She'd expected them to wear bright colors with flashers or something to make them easier to see.

"Hey there-can you tell us your name again?" That was a blonde woman with sleepy green eyes.

"Hazel Takeris," Hazel said. "Of the Elias Madero." Her throat closed on all the things she had meant to say, that she'd rehearsed in her head so many times.

"We're going after Brun now," the woman said. "There's a beacon on the officer with her-we can't

lose her."

Hazel felt better, but she could sense more tension in the people around her. Something was still wrong.

"What is it?"

"Nothing to worry about," the woman said. "Only this was supposed to be a quick, simple

extrication . . . and we didn't know about you-"

"I'm sorry," Hazel said automatically. The woman looked startled.

"Don't you be sorry. It's those idiots who planned it who need to be sorry."

The woman looked aside suddenly, and Hazel turned her head to see what it was. The cargo hatch

gaped again, and three more black-suited figures swam in, pushing another, attached to Brun's gurney.

"Hatch closed," she heard through her com.

"Air up! Air up!"

"Patch it into the suit, dammit!"

Hazel could just see Brun's turquoise suit . . . surely she had air, from the suit tanks. The others cut off her view.

"Air pressure's nom," someone said.

Then they moved, coming past her with the black-suited figure. Two of them stripped off suit gloves, and opened the other's black suit with some tool-and it flipped back like a beetle's

carapace. Hazel stared-it was space armor. Inside, a limp figure . . . she could see a pale face, slack-mouthed. Busy arms, hands-and then someone tapped her shoulder.

"You don't want to watch," the green-eyed woman said. "It gets messy. And since they're working on

her, they asked me to do an initial assessment on you. Any trouble breathing?"

"No," Hazel said, "but-"

"Fine, then. You want to open your helmet? We can talk off the coms that way, save interference."

Hazel realized she could reach up and open her faceplate. The woman had opened hers, as well, and

was folding back her gloves.

"You got any broken bones you know of?"

"No . . . is Brun all right?"

"She's fine-she's got her own team working on her."

"But who was that-"

"Lieutenant Suiza-just a little hypoxia, don't fret."

She wished people would quit telling her not to worry. She glared at the green-eyed woman.

"I'm not a child, you know."

"You sure look like one."

"Well, I'm . . ." She wasn't even sure how old she was. How long had she been a captive? At least

a year, because Brun had those babies. "I'm seventeen," she said.

"Mm. Well, I'm thirty-eight, and my name is Methlin Meharry. Want to tell me how you got away?"

"I was coming back from market-" Hazel began, and she'd gotten as far as cutting off their hair

with the long knives when she heard someone working on the officer-on Lieutenant Suiza-let out a happy Yes!

"She coming around?" Meharry asked.

"Any minute now." One of the others came over to Hazel.

"All right-let us professionals at her." And to Hazel, "Let's get you out of that p-suit and see what shape you're in."

"You be gentle now," Meharry said.

"You should talk," the medic said, without rancor. "Considering your rep."

"I could get out of this myself-" Hazel started to say, as the medic reached through the sleeves