"Methlin is a dear person . . ." Esmay blinked, imagining what the redoubtable Meharry would think to hear herself so described. "But she is not you. I need you."

"I'm the executive officer; I can't just leave the ship."

"Well, then, the admiral can come here. Which do you think she'd like least?"

Put like that, there was no question. Esmay tracked down Captain Solis and received permission to accompany Brun to the flagship.

"And it has not escaped my notice," Solis said, "that almost two years without a voice has not begun to stop that young woman giving orders. We had better get her commissioned, so at least it's legal."

Our Texas, Ranger Bowie's Household Prima had known, from the beginning, that this was big trouble coming. She could hardly believe Patience had run off-and in fact it seemed she had been abducted. That happened sometimes, girls stolen away, but usually no one would bother a Ranger's household. And the man had said, loud enough to be heard, that he had business with Mitch.

She hadn't wanted to tell Mitch until she knew for sure what had happened. Mitch was at a meeting, an important meeting. But his younger brother Jed had stopped by, as he often did, and when Tertia came in to report that Patience had still not come home, he took it upon himself to find Mitch. He liked to give orders, Jed did, and Prima knew that his ambitions went beyond being a Ranger's brother. He wanted that star for himself, and Mitch couldn't see any danger in it.

And then Mitch had come home, in a rage with her for not supervising the girl better; it seemed the woman who'd been captured at the same time as Patience had disappeared from the Crockett Street Nursery. He'd called the older boys and they'd all gone out to search, and he'd sent for the parson to come and preach at her and the women all afternoon.

It was more than a nuisance; it was baking day, and they had to leave the dough rising to sit in silent rows and listen to Parson Wells lecture them on their laziness and sinfulness. Prima kept her eyes down, respectfully, but she did think it was a shame and a nuisance, to stop hard-working women in their work and make them listen to a scolding about their laziness. And he would go on and on about their sins tainting their children. Prima had trouble with that bit of doctrine: if, hard as she tried, her faults had made poor Sammie a cripple, and Simplicity stupid, then how could the outland women-who had arrived after lives of sin and blasphemy-bear such beautiful, healthy children?

Mitch had come home late that night, having found not sight nor word of Patience . . . or, presumably, the other woman, the yellow-haired one. Prima wanted to ask about the yellow-hair's babies, but she knew better. He was in no mood to tolerate any forwardness, even from her. She set the house in order, and waited by the women's door, but he never came to her. Early the next morning, she heard him leave the house; when she peeked, Jed was with him. She had hardly slept.

She heard the roar of a departing shuttle from the spaceport, and sometime later, another, and another.

A few hours later, a tumult from the boys' section drew her to its entrance. She could hear their tutor hollering at them, trying to quiet them . . . and then Randy, Tertia's youngest boy, shot out the door with a clatter of sandaled feet.

"Daddy's dead!" he was screaming, at the top of his lungs. Prima caught him. "Lemme go! Lemme go!"

He flailed at her.

The tutor followed close behind. "Prima-put him down."

The tutor, though a man, was not Mitch, and she dared look at his face, pale as whey. "What is it?" she asked.

"That abomination," he said, through clenched teeth. "She stole a shuttle, and tried to escape.

Ranger Bowie and others went after her; there's been-" Light stabbed through the windows, a quick shocking flash of blue-white. Prima whirled, suddenly aware of her heart knocking at her ribs.

The tutor had opened the window and peered out and up. Prima followed him. Outside, cars had stopped cantways, and men were looking up. Prima dared a look into the sky, and saw only patches of blue between white clouds. Ordinary. Unthreatening.

"I want to see the newsvid," she said to the tutor, and walked into the boys' part of the house without waiting for his permission.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

The newsvid had two excited men yelling into the vid pickup. Prima could hardly make out what they were saying. Escape, pursuit, invasion . . . invasion? Who could be invading them? And why?

Mobilization, one of the men said.

"What is it?" she asked again. The older boys were already moving toward their gunboxes.

"It's the end of the world," one of them said. Daniel, she thought. Secunda's third.

"Don't be silly," another said. "It's the heathen, come to try to enforce their dirty ways on us."

"Why?" Prima asked. In all her years, no one had ever bothered Our Texas, and she saw no reason why anyone would.

"Don't worry," Daniel said, patting her shoulder. "We'll protect you. Now you get on back to the women's side, and keep order."

Prima turned to go, still unsure what had happened, and what it could mean. In the kitchen, Secunda and Tertia were quarrelling over the meaning of the bright light, and both turned to her for an answer. "I don't know," she said. Who could know? Temptation tickled her . . . no, she dared not risk her soul asking an outlander such questions, but . . . she made up her mind, and went out to the weaving shed.

"Miriam!" The outlander woman turned from her loom. Her face was tight with tension; she must have seen the light too. "Do you know what that light was?"

Miriam nodded.

"Was it from space? From ships?" Another nod, this time with a big grin, a triumphant grin. Miriam mimed a rocket taking off, shooting another rocket.

Invaders. There were invaders. "Who?" Prima asked the air. "Who would do this? Why?" She jumped when Miriam touched her arm. "What?" Miriam mimed writing. Writing . . . Mitch, she recalled, had threatened to take Miriam's right hand if she didn't quit writing; she'd hoped it wouldn't be

necessary because the woman was a gifted weaver. Now she led Miriam to the kitchen and gave her the pad of paper and marker they used for keeping accounts.

Light is weapon Miriam wrote. Prima squinted, trying to read as fast as Miriam wrote. Weapon, that was clear. Ionizing atmospheric gases. That made no sense; she didn't know any of the words.

Miriam, glancing up, seemed to guess that. Made air glow she wrote. Well, but how could air glow?

Air was just air, clear unless there was smoke in it.

"Who?" Prima asked again. "Who would attack us?"

Miriam scribbled rapidly. Guerni Republic, Emerald Worlds, Baltic Confederation, Familias Regnant . . . Prima had no idea what those were, besides godless outlanders. Battle in space, not attacking here. Someone you stole from.

"We don't steal!" Prima said, narrowly stopping herself from slapping Miriam. "We are not thieves."

Stole me, Miriam wrote. Stole children, women, killed men.

"That's not true. You're lying. The children had no families, and you women were rescued from a life of degradation . . ." But her voice wavered. Miriam had been here for more than ten years; if she still believed she had been stolen, if she had not understood . . .

I can prove it. Miriam wrote. Get to a transmitter-call-find out who that is, and ask them.

"I can't do that! You know it's forbidden. Women do not use men's technology." But . . . if she could find out. If it was possible . . .

I know how. Miriam wrote. It's easy.

Forbidden knowledge. Prima glanced around, realized that the others in the kitchen were staring, trying to understand this conversation. "I-I don't know where such machines are," she said finally.

I know how to find them.

"How?"

Tall thin things sticking out the top of buildings.

"It's still forbidden." Thinking of looking up at tall thin things made her dizzy in her mind.

Thinking of touching men's machines was worse.

We can look at the newsfeed. She must mean the machine kept for the women to watch religious broadcasts.