And if she lost her gamble, which seemed the most likely outcome, she would have annoyed The Combine and given up her ship—all for nothing.

  Ria sighed and blinked at the fading ceiling. "GenShip crews," she muttered thickly. "They're all crazy."

  With that comforting thought in mind, she fell asleep.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Star Class Two, Number Six-Three-One-One-Niner; the Combine Felucci, known to both her crew and the outriders reporting to it as the "Big Ship," rode placid among the starfields surrounding Spangiln System.

  Third shift had been dealing with the various alarms and excursions emanating from the InRing and the mood on the bridge was one of high good humor only slightly leavened by puzzlement. A treat like a GenCrew abandoning ship within Combine space didn't happen every tour, after all, and the joke was made more precious by the startlement of the InRing pilot who had been setting his salvage beacons when the garden pod jettisoned. The shift historian liked that bit best and played the tape several times, chuckling and shaking her head.

  The garden's destination bothered the security guy, and made him less than patient with the historian's antics. He snarled at her and the shift chief called them both to order and the historian shrugged her shoulders and went back to trying to trace the GenShip's numbers. Security muttered and bit his lip; cleared his screen and tried again to plot a trajectory for the garden pod while he worried about whether or not it was manned. The historian would probably know the answer to that, but he was reluctant to ask her—yet.

  The mood on the bridge steadied as people settled back into their routines. InRing communications dropped back from the novel to the comfortably boring; OutRing reported no sightings of GenShip escape pods or of anything else out of the ordinary. The shift hit the half-way point and began to slide down toward quitting time. Security finished running his possibles and stretched where he sat. The shift chief got up and ambled over to the refreshment bank to draw his mid-shift jolt of caffeine. The historian cussed mildly and leaned back in her chair, running distracted fingers through her already untidy curls. She cleared her throat, preparatory to addressing the bridge at large, but the quartercon man beat her to it.

  "Holy shit."

  * * *

  "Attack globe in place, Acting Captain," the second mate reported respectfully and Mael Faztherot nodded.

  "Open comm lines," she directed, leaning back in her chair and laying her hands casually along the arm rests. "Release override program."

  * * *

  The mood on the bridge was one of vast disbelief as all stations stared at the overscreens, which showed a ring—nay, a globe—of ships, encircling the Big Ship at a uniform one-quarter light-second in all directions.

  They were largish ships—each the size of a small yacht, or an InRing siege-rider—built along old, but very serviceable lines. There were guns, several to a ship; also old, but potent enough; serviceable. The historian cleared her throat.

  "Generation Ship lifepods," she said, as if any of the shift doubted it.

  Security moved a hand toward the toggle that would alert his section chief—and jerked it back as the ship-to line crackled to life.

  "This is Mael Faztherot," a woman's cold voice washed over the bridge, "Acting Captain and First Mate of what had been the Ship Gardenspot."

  Security bent to his board, isolating the line, starting a tracer, barely heeding the words that issued impossibly from the sealed bridge line.

  "It has been brought forcibly to our attention that our Ship has fallen into disrepair, that, indeed, it presents a dangerous environment in which to engender and raise our children," the GenCaptain continued. "We have thus abandoned it and several of your battle-sworn are even now in the process of claiming it for themselves. This is good."

  The tracer went bad, the entire board shuddering into a mess of crazy readings. Swearing, sweating, Security punched up the auxiliary board and initiated another trace.

  "The ship we have abandoned is reparable," Mael Faztherot was saying, "but we are sadly destitute. Since The Combine is in part responsible for this state, since it denies us work, and hounds us from system to system, it seems only just to us that The Combine give over this Star Class ship in trade for which the Crew of Gardenspot does freely give its ship to The Combine."

  The tracer ran a flutter of insane readings and went dead. The third aux board refused to come up at all. Security looked around wildly.

  "They're into the scan lines!"

  Quartercon swore and began slapping at keys. The shift chief jumped for his board, spoke four words into a dead mike, slapped up an aux board and threw the mike down. He stood looking helplessly up at the overscreen; at the unmoving globe of ships, each with guns pointed dead center, directly at the Big Ship.

  "You have fifteen minutes," Mael Faztherot said, "to surrender the inner system keys to me and begin an orderly evacuation of your vessel. If evacuation has not begun within that time, we will take you by force."

  The secure, intruder-proof bridge comm went dead. The shift chief didn't move.

  Security levered himself out of the chair and looked over at the historian.

  "I'm going to the captain," he said. She nodded.

  He made his way across a bridge that was pandemonium as each crew member came to the conclusion that his station was dead, that even ambient readings might be untrustworthy.

  He was astonished, and not really relieved, to find that the door to the main corridor opened at his approach.

  * * *

  Veln had long since fallen asleep, drooping like a thin, fair doll in his web of shock straps. Finchet had debated carrying the boy to bed and had decided to leave him where he was, cushioned by the straps, in case the going got rough.

  He now had occasion to celebrate the wisdom of that decision, though not the leisure. For the going had gotten very rough, indeed.

  Finchet gamely struggled with the controls, fighting to keep the Garden stable in a turbulence that threatened to overturn them. He had expected atmospheric agitation, though he had not expected so much—nor that he would encounter it so quickly. And he had expected that the Garden would fly only slightly better than a rock.

  But there, he thought, fighting for equilibrium in a planetary overwind that might easily disorient a starship, the Garden had never been built to fly—or only to fly in the direst emergency. The most the builders had envisioned was the Atrium descending under its own power, carefully guided by a net of workpods. They could have never thought of this madness, with an ancient gardener and a sleepy boy trying to bring the thing down as if it were a proper ship. . ..

  The Garden shuddered, began to tip, and Finchet leaned to the board, pulling this lever, playing that dial, as if the physical work would correct the list.

  For the Garden had to stay oriented in its certain manner as it descended—treetops must invariably be UP, rocks, stream beds and moss must always be DOWN. Not like a proper ship at all, where up and down were dismissible relativities, saving only that the pilot was correctly oriented to the board.

  Incredibly, the agitation grew; the Garden rocked and somewhere Finchet heard a snap, as if a branch had broken from one of the trees in the glade. Swearing, he slapped up the last-ditch stabilizers: those to be used to aid landing.

  Within his webbing, Veln stirred, moaned and then screamed to wakefulness as the Garden bucked and outside a tree gave up entirely under the strain, shattered and came crashing across the cottage roof.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Anjemalti the Seeker dealt the ship its death-blow and Witness for the Telios was already running, secret heart and duty completely at one.

  He saw Death's Warrior fall, the bright blood blooming like roses across the back of her white shirt and he raised up his voice in song, that this latest of her sacrifices not go unmourned.

  A man stepped forward, blocking the way to the Smiter, gun raised and eyes glittering murder. Witness killed him with a knife-stroke, breaking neither stride nor song.

  He heard, above and between the sound of his own voice, the speech of guns and the panicked words of the gun-wielders, who only now noted that their ship was dead. Between and below the pounding of his own feet upon the hard earth of home, he felt the pounding of others—many others—and his secret heart soared.

  At the base of the dead ship, Anjemalti moved, dragging himself erect by fingertip holds upon the hull. He tottered where he stood and made a grab for the Smiter, which came willingly into his hand. Witness for the Telios stopped his running and his song, and dropped flat to the ground beneath the last of the foolish bullets, his eyes upon the Seeker's face.

  Anjemalti leaned on the Trident like an old man upon his staff, one arm limp and red to the fingers, his hair wild as windchaff and his fey eyes gleaming cold.

  "Surrender!" he shouted and his voice was neither old, nor worn, nor anything else so human. "Surrender or die!"

  The gun-wielders stirred, and one among them laughed. Witness heard the shot, saw the flash as the Trident ate the projectile.

  "Surrender!" Anjemalti cried again. "Your ship is dead and you are at the mercy of the Bindalche, who have no cause to love you."

  They muttered at that, and Witness heard some say that there were a lot of them, uphill and down—look, look at the dust they raised . . .

  "Fools!" snapped a voice from among the others. A figure strode forward, yanking at the ribands holding the war-helmet in place and throwing the helmet itself aside, revealing a woman's luxurious hair.

  Bold, she stepped forward, rifle riding her hip—across rock and baked earth, to the place where Death's Warrior lay.

  A grin, full of tooth and malice, she sent to Anjemalti, then she pulled the bolt on her rifle and lowered the muzzle until it lay against Corbinye's head.

  "Surrender?" she taunted. "Think again."

  One-handed, Anjemalti raised the Trident.

  The gun-woman laughed. It seemed to the Witness that he saw her finger tighten on the trigger—

  The first bolt kicked her backward, rifle snapping upward, releasing its charge into the sky.

  She got her feet under her, swung the rifle down, and braced herself, Anjemalti square in her sights . . .

  The second bolt consumed her, rifle, hair and war-suit; swallowed her in one fiery flare that left nothing at all behind, save a glassed-over ring of earth where she had been standing.

  "Surrender!" Anjemalti shouted a third time and his voice carried such blood lust Witness' secret heart went cold. "Surrender, or I'll eat you all!"

  "Trident Bearer!" A voice Witness knew all too well cried from the rear. "The Telios and the Bindalche are here in your service. Shall we rend now the enemies of our world? The Trident Bearer need only ask!"

  The gun-wielders stirred and Witness for the Telios came to his feet, dared face half-away from Anjemalti and the Smiter—and saw the green of Telios robes, forming a barrier along the high ground, while below spread the hundred of Tremillan Tribe, their weapons bright and bristling.

  One of the gunners moved, jamming the safety up on his weapon, unslinging it from his shoulder and throwing it far from him.

  In a moment, all the rest had done the same and Anjemalti the Seeker nodded and lowered the Trident and leaned against it, looking nothing but ill and wounded and mortal weary. He turned his head toward the green robes grouped upon the high ground.

  "These are my prisoners," he said, voice shuddering. "Secure them for me."

  Then he let go the Trident and fell.

  * * *

  The board sparked and something blew with a sharp snap! Finchet swore at screens gone dead, tried to slap up an auxiliary board that wasn't there and coughed as he took a lung full of rancid smoke.

  "Number Six screen gone," Veln was saying, voice steady as a veteran. "Data Bank Two blown. Forward stabilizers on the wobble." A pause. "The front half of the house is down, Uncle. We're trapped in here."

  "Gods be thanked it's not the back half," said Finchet, daring a moment to glance behind him, to the wall of rubble, and the place where the bed had been; "else we'd lose our chance to bring her down."

  Veln threw him a sick look. "Bring her down? We're blind, Uncle. Surely we can't go down—"

  "Oh, we'll go down," Finchet said grimly. He glanced over at the boy and did him the grace of saying it straight. "No choice on that."

  Veln's mouth tightened in a face already hullplate gray. Finchet nodded.

  "How much wobble in that forward 'lizer?"

  The boy glanced at the readings, frowned, and called for a recalibration. "Fluctuating," he said eventually; "twenty to forty percent."

  "Strain." Finchet nodded again, took his hands from the board and closed his eyes, feeling the Garden around him; feeling how it bucked and tipped, but mostly—mostly, by the gods of space—kept orientation. Maybe . . .

  He opened his eyes.

  "Assign your board to main," he told Veln. "Tip that chair back and engage the crash-webs. You've been taught the Hemvils?"

  "Yes, Uncle."

  "Use 'em," Finchet directed. "I want you limp as a willow wand, hear me?"

  "Yes, Uncle," said Veln, and did as he was told.

  "Good boy," said Finchet and then forgot everything but the boards.

  * * *

  The timer on the healing unit chimed and Ria opened her eyes, rolled off the gurney and went to pop the hood.

  Milt looked up at her with drug-hazed eyes, blinked and rasped out, "Ria?"

  "Who else?" she wondered. "You're not dying on me, are you, boy?"

  Memory stirred—his face scrunched and he shivered some, but the grin he gave her was real. "Naw. You don't get off as easy as that. Old woman."

  "Yah."

  His eyes sharpened still further. "Still on GenShip?"

  She nodded. "Dez taking his time."

  "Might be busy," he said and he was suddenly entirely back in his face. "They're going to take the Big Ship."

  "Going to try," Ria agreed and put a hand on his shoulder, though he hadn't tried to get up. "Nothing we can do about that. Just sit tight. Plenty air. Probably a canteen. We'll look, pretty soon. Light's not so bad, after your eyes adjust."

  "Yeah." The urgency had left his face, leaving it drained and grayish in the dim light. "Might take a nap."

  "Good idea," she said. "I'll look around. I'm not here, you wake up, relax. Be back soon."

  "Those big spiders . . ."

  "GenCaptain probably took 'em with her," Ria said practically. "Look useful. You tuck in."

  Milt closed his eyes, opened them. "Ria?"

  "Now what?"

  "You've got blood on your chin."

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Thanks I get," she said and dragged a sleeve across her mouth. "Better?"

  "Better," he returned. "Thanks."

  "Go to sleep," she said, and stood by the side of the cot until he did.

  * * *

  It was not to be expected that the captain of The Combine ship would be so fainthearted as to surrender his secret system codes without a fight. Mael Faztherot perfectly understood his position in the matter.

  It was with no tinge of anger, then, that she gave the order for the first pass.

  Three of the Crew's lifeships, manned by three of the Crew's best pilots, broke formation and went sweeping toward The Combine ship.

  Surprise played for them—by the time The Combine had understood that they were under active attack, it was too late to adjust range. Each of the three lifeships fired, as they had been instructed. Each scored a hit upon non-essential targets.

  Each swept perilously close to the docking bays of the huge vessel, discharged their payload and, mission complete, went tumbling away.

  Surprise did not play so well on the out-trip. One of the Combine gunners gained control of his board—or rode the luck high—and scored on one of the smaller ships, destroying it in a soundless flare.

  Mael Faztherot gripped the arms of her chair and forced herself to watch as the two remaining scrambled for safety—and made it, as the voices of the Combine techs came clearly over the pirated lines, cursing computer readings that went from senseless to mad.

  Mael Faztherot relaxed deliberately back into her chair and looked across at her second.

  "Now?" he asked, eyes gleaming in anticipation.

  She drew a careful breath and let it slowly out. "Now," she said, drawing a sleeve back so she could monitor the wristcomp, "we wait. And trust, if you will, in Grounder madness."