She frowned and leaned a hip against the panel-ledge, arms crossed under her breasts. "Effect on safety of personnel, should there be no backup of System Six, is minimal," she said finally, speaking slowly and distinctly, as if he were a child—or a half-wit. "System Six is itself a redundant protocol, responsible for powering outer hatches, docking lights, hold environment and pallets. It is most likely to be used when the ship is on a coldpad and there is cargo to unload. Otherwise, MainComp orders those functions." She shrugged.

  "So the backup for that system is unlikely to missed, even if there should be failure," Gem concluded. "Good." He began to ply his wristband.

  Corbinye watched with trepidation as the spiders scrambled down Anjemalti's trouser-legs and started purposefully toward her.

  "Perhaps you should rethink your strategy," she said. "This is a sealed bank."

  "Ah," he returned, not even looking up from his wrist.

  The first spider, smaller than Number Fifteen and green-eyed, reached her boot, detoured around and vanished through the seam where wall met floor.

  "How . . ." she breathed and then gasped as a second spider—larger, with its eyes glowing violet, also vanished behind the panel.

  "Anjemalti!" she cried sharply, to capture his attention. "What are you doing to my ship?"

  He did glance up at that, with a glint of grim humor that she mistrusted. "But I thought that I was the Captain, and that the Ship and all ships dependent upon the Ship, and all the Crew, belonged to the care of the Captain."

  "But I pilot this ship! How if you render it incapable? How if you damage a primary system? What—"

  "By cannibalizing the backup of a redundant system? After I was assured by the ship's pilot that no danger would maintain, should this specific system fail?" His shrugged. "Be easy, Corbinye. I may find nothing I need."

  "May—" Movement by her boot drew her eye and she pounced, slapping her cupped hand over what marched, amber-eyed and courageous, in the wake of his fellows. "No!"

  Gem froze, fingers hovering over the wrist-comm, and all the spiders froze as well, those within the panel as well as those without.

  "Corbinye—"

  "No!" she repeated, in no calmer tone, and straightened, holding her hand cupped against her breast, spider eyes gleaming yellow through her fingers.

  "You shall not require it of him!" She cried and her eyes were damp, her face fevered. "After his courage and his loyalty you shall not force him into warfare with my ship, Anjemalti, and that I do swear!"

  Gem stood with his fingers poised over the studs that would enable Number Fifteen to free itself, to clamber down and across the floor and enter the working behind the panel. He looked at Corbinye, who met his eyes plainly, though she trembled—he saw it. He thought of her as she had been, laying the ruined spider before him, and her knife; bending the knee and asking Captain's Mercy. . ..

  "Very well," he said softly. "He is yours, Corbinye. I had not thought the matter through."

  Her face relaxed somewhat, though she still kept her fingers caged about the spider. Gem bent back to his bracelet and started the spiders marching once more—all of those that remained his own.

  * * *

  In the end, the panel yielded wiring, and various electronic bits and bothers. Gem loaded his booty into a collapsible crate, checked the tally of spiders—eight with him, one elsewhere—stood and brushed at the knees of his trousers.

  Corbinye had long since taken herself to another portion of the ship—perhaps even to the bridge; he resisted the temptation to query Number Fifteen regarding exact location. Instead, he hefted the box and bore it away down the hall, toward his cabin and Shlorba's Smiter.

  The Smiter was where he had left it, across the bed in the dim room. From his post in the doorway, Witness glanced up, eyes focusing slowly into reality.

  "Anjemalti," he said, by way, Gem supposed, of greeting.

  "Witness for the Telios," he responded, and stepped over the threshold, placing the crate carefully in the middle of the limited floor space.

  He fetched the Trident and the Fearstone's urn from the bed and sat, clumsily cross-legged, beside the crate before unfolding the printout he had coaxed from Hyacinth's antiquated system.

  "What is that, Anjemalti?" Witness had drawn closer; sat facing him across the crate.

  Gem turned the paper so the other could see the diagram and the microprinted lists of specifications. "The schematic," he said tiredly, "for the Smiter."

  Witness for the Telios frowned. "You believe that Shlorba's Smiter is a—machine?"

  Gem rubbed his forehead and tried to focus on the tiny print. "I think," he said, only half minding what he said, "that there are many sorts of devices, with many governing protocols, in the universe. To call something a machine is to limit its destiny. Form follows function, after all. This is a device which was designed with a specific purpose in mind. At one time, it fulfilled that purpose. It took damage and no longer functions. Logic would indicate that repair of the damage would allow it to function once again."

  There was silence from the Witness, which was welcome. Gem bent close to the schematic, marking out the places where the original wiring was gone; hesitated a moment and glanced at the bounty Back-up System Six had provided.

  "I intend," he said to the Witness, "to rewire the entire system, then repair the other damage. These places—" he held up the schematic again and touched the spots with his finger "—would seem to have once housed gemstones. Have you any Memory that would tell me what stones these were?"

  The brown eyes filmed over, as if, Gem thought, the man had an inner eyelid, like a lizard. A minute passed, then two. Gem sighed and returned to the schematic. After a time, he put it aside and touched the wristcomp, ordering the tireless spiders out, and set Numbers Six and Twelve to the task of stripping complicated, ship-system wire down to simple pairs. Number Eleven and Fourteen he set to cleaning out the blasted receptors and transmitters along the Smiter's surface. Then he reached for the urn.

  He had barely worked the stopper loose when Witness spoke.

  "Atop the middle tine of the Smiter was seated the Soulstone, which purpose was to look upon the souls of the Bindalche's enemies and drink dry those who were unworthy. The Soulstone is an artifact of great power—a mover of event in its own force. It is to be recalled as an ally of the Smiter, collaborating in the acceptance or rejection of a Seeker and in the unending struggle to command event."

  He opened his eyes, wide, and Gem saw how the sweat ran the man's dark face. "That was a far Recalling, Anjemalti. Of the others, I find nothing, save a general Memory, not quite as old as that concerning the Soulstone, which indicates that the enhancer gems must be faceted according to a pattern I am now able to draw, should you require. No other specifications were Memorized."

  "And the—Soulstone," Gem demanded, hating the need that forced him to drive the other. "Were there specifications for shaping it?"

  Almost, it seemed Witness would laugh. "One might as well shape the Smiter, Anjemalti. It is its own power, so Memory tells us. Who dares impose his own form upon such?"

  "Who, indeed?" murmured Gem, looking at the charred spot above the Trident's middle tine.

  The Soulstone had been somewhat larger than Mordra El Theman's thief-catcher, and the brass clasps that had held it in place had melted half away. The fittings that had held the two lesser stones were merely broken.

  Well, thought Gem, there will be other things that will hold it just as securely. Epoxy, perhaps, or—He yawned, suddenly and hugely, abruptly aware of crushing exhaustion. He glanced down at his own hands, and was mildly surprised to see them shaking.

  He looked at Witness. "Before I undertake such an exacting task, I will sleep. I hope it will not offend if I counsel the same for you."

  "I see the path you point me, Anjemalti, and trust my skill to bring me game."

  Whatever that meant, Gem thought, and got shakily to his feet, walked the two steps to the bed and fell across it, sight blurring and mind showing him nothing but a swirl of random colors.

  Drowned in color, Gem slept, and dreamed of picking flowers and of Corbinye, laughing.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  For a time, she sat in the pilot's chair. Merely sat, the spider quiescent on her knee, amber eyes sage and bright. And after a time of sitting, she dozed and dreamed of the child that had not lived, the child of her body. Her dead body. And she dreamed of the child she had been, and that Anjemalti had been, and the games they had played with the others in the dark corridors of the Ship, where the air smelled as it should and every bend and twist of hallway was known, gene-deep, and there was nothing to fear in all the beloved expanse of the Ship, where everyone was cousin, or closer, and each depended wholly upon the other.

  Fear lived among the Grounders—blind, incomprehensible half-humans. Fear, and treachery, for there were always those who wished to entrap the Ship, to gain the freedom of the Crew for their own, to roam from star to star, as real humans did, rather than continue as animals, grubbing dirt from birth to dying-time.

  And yet, the Ship required repair, from time to time; required such things as only Grounders, dirt-grubbers and half-human as they were, had the way of manufacturing. For the Ships—she had read it in the Log of the Eighty-Fifth Captain, who was called Mad Endriatta—the Ships had never been made to be used as the Crew chose to use them, decade upon century, with no touching down, or taking on of passengers, or exchange of persons with friendly colonies.

  Captain Endriatta was offered the Knife for her blasphemy, and she did redeem herself, before Ship and Crew; her First Mate followed by seconds, killed by his grief. In the dream, it was vivid—real—as if she had seen it all with her own eyes.

  Corbinye stirred in the pilot's chair, came awake and glanced at the trip-clock. Fifteen hours yet until the end of transition. If the gods smiled, Gardenspot would be within hailing distance when Hyacinth hit normal space. She stretched her cramped body and smiled ruefully at Number Fifteen.

  "A sorry thing," she said, "when the pilot must sleep in her chair." She sighed and offered the spider her palm. It came willingly, as always, tiny claws mincing across her flesh, and she wondered anew at Anjemalti's skill.

  "Well," she said, and stood up, stretching cramped muscles. It had been too long since she had put the body through its paces. Very bad, should she lose discipline now, just when she had been approaching a degree of competence. She caught sight of her face—high-cheeked and lovely—in the darkened screens and froze, staring. She felt a slight weight, moving up her sleeve: Number Fifteen, climbing. "I had forgot," she whispered, raising a hand to cup the dewy cheek, then shook herself.

  "I am Corbinye Faztherot," she said, firm and loud in the quiet of the ship, "of the Crew of the Ship Gardenspot, who owes duty to the First Mate, and to the Captain-to-be. I am Worldwalker, and Seeker, and Speaker-to-Grounders. I have passed the tests and the trials. I have borne a child for the Ship. None can negate my actions, and my actions have been always honorable and just."

  The spider reached her shoulder, skittered beneath her collar and held on. Corbinye sighed, and turned away from the screens and the busy boards.

  "I am tired," she said, perhaps to the spider, perhaps only to herself. Briefly, she wondered what Anjemalti was about—then set the thought aside. Anjemalti despised her—how often had she seen it in his eyes? Best leave that alone, to wither and to die, and not to think on the comeliness of him. Best to regard him as the Captain, who must be obeyed. After he was safely with the Ship.

  "Hai . . ." she went down the companionway, heading for the cabin that was intended for the second pilot, though she never ran with such. She hesitated at the galley door, then stepped in, banging her hip against the table before she remembered the light, and poured herself a half-glass of Viktrian Brandy—Grounder stuff, and excellent of its kind. Better, Corbinye thought, putting the bottle back into its hatch, than any distillations the Crew produced.

  Carrying the glass with her, the spider a comfort tucked beneath her collar, she went down the hall and let herself into the tiny cabin.

  * * *

  She woke some untold time later, sat up and rubbed her neck. Apparently, the new body had not the tolerance for Viktrian grape that her old one had. She blinked blearily at the pillow, where Number Fifteen stood patient guard, and grimaced.

  "A cold shower, I think. And a workout. Then a hot shower, clean clothes . . ." That brought her up—Her clothes were in the cabin Anjemalti had made his own—and would hardly fit her new shape, in anywise. "Very well, then," she said and stood up briskly enough to send a flare of pain through her head. "We shall wash these clothes." And hope, she added silently, that the ancient cleaner unit was equal to the task.

  * * *

  An hour later, exercised, showered and in clothes from which the worst grime had been removed, she went down the companionway. The galley showed signs of having been used—tea had been brewed and journeybread withdrawn from the food bank. After putting the brandy glass to be washed, she withdrew tea and journeybread herself and carried the meal with her to the bridge.

  Seven hours until transition into normal space. Corbinye ran such checks as were needed and leaned back in her chair, dusting the last crumbs of journeybread from her fingers.

  "All's well with the ship," she murmured, though she had never been prone to speaking aloud to herself—before. She moved her shoulders and felt the friendly weight of Number Fifteen just within her collar. Mere politeness, after all, to speak to one's visitor, and explain the signs and portents of the day. She shook her head. "I begin to sound as mad as this Witness of Anjemalti's."

  With which thought, she came out of the chair and picked up her mug. "Best see what madness the two of them have wrought this while," she said to Number Fifteen. "For it's as if they are children—too much silence foretells disaster."

  * * *

  The room that had been hers smelled metallic and damp and there was a sweetish stink, as perhaps of patch adhesive, which had overloaded the air-cleaning system and simply hung, like a putrid mist.

  She paused in the doorway, hip against the jamb, and looked at the two of them: Witness cross-legged and intent upon the bed, leaning vulturelike over the floor where Anjemalti knelt amid a blizzard of parts, wire and stripped insulation, papers and spiders. His hair was twisted into a knot at the back of his head, held with wire skewers, his sleeves were rolled to the elbow and his hands were delicately—so very carefully—probing here and there among the junk that littered the surface of his damned Trident. At his knee was a pot of epoxy and in a half-ring around him were the spiders, varicolored eyes no less intent than the Witness' own.

  Corbinye sighed and had a sip of lukewarm tea. Anjemalti reached among the litter on the floor and drew forth a flash of deep, glittering red—a ruby, Corbinye thought, and deliberately did not think that he might have gotten it from the weapons tuning kit, though she made no doubt he had.

  Carefully, he matched the stone with a place upon the shaft of the Trident, and touched the epoxy brush to the surface. Even more carefully, he turned the stone in his fingers, orienting it to some lodestar only he could see, and pushed it firmly into the glue.

  On the bed, Witness let go a deep, shuddering sigh. Neither he nor Anjemalti looked up.

  Once more, Anjemalti reached among the trash surrounding him and pulled out the urn in which Theo had imprisoned the brown and green stone an age or so ago. He worked the stopper and spilled the stone free.

  It flared as it hit Anjemalti's palm, washing the room in baleful green light. Corbinye came straight upright in the doorway, a scream of sheer terror cramping her throat. Witness raised a hand and drew a series of patterns in the air before his face, minding neither the sweat that mantled his forehead nor the tears that spilled from his eyes.

  Only Anjemalti seemed unaffected. He picked the stone up between thumb and forefinger; turned it this way, that way; laid it against a spot centered above the Trident's tines.

  Green lightnings sparked about the room and distant thunder rumbled. Several of the other stones on the Trident flashed, sparked; ghostlight flickered along the wiring.

  Anjemalti plucked the stone from its resting place and dabbed the spot with epoxy. Setting brush and pot aside, he glanced up at Witness.

  "This may end all Memory, friend."

  "I think not, Anjemalti," returned the other, eyes never leaving the Trident. "You are a Chief of many powers. A Seeker of astonishing boldness."

  "And thus the Goddess will love me," Anjemalti said ruefully. "We shall see." He pushed the stone firmly into the adhesive.

  The ship disappeared in a sheet of green thunder and Corbinye fell away and down and into the noise and the fire and the terror. Beyond it all she heard someone singing crazed hosanna and someone else crying her name.

  "Corbinye!" Her name once more, snapped like an order, and accompanied by a sharp slap to the cheek. Not an order, then, for none of the Crew would dare to strike her. They knew her, so they did, and knew what she would not brook.