“No! There’s no damned way that I’ll agree to—”

  The woman and two blues had entered the room behind him. The sound of their footsteps had been deadened by an area rug. A stun gun touched his head and darkness fell .

  • • •

  La Paz shook his head sadly. There was little if any chance that Jones would understand the importance of personal honor. That had been clear from the moment he had decided to run rather than face the music. Ah well, he thought, many are called but few are chosen.

  The con man was still being dragged from the room, his heels leaving furrows in the feces-covered floor, when the crime boss flapped his wings and came to rest on the windowsill. From there it was a simple matter to lean forward and fall into a long, shallow dive.

  The glorious wind rushed under the immense spread of his mighty wings and lifted him up.

  His heart filled with joy. Somewhere in the labyrinth below he would find an overfed house cat and lift it yowling into the air. His stomach growled in anticipation.

  Chapter Eight

  Fear should be central to every manager’s approach—and can be stimulated through a variety of means.

  (Excerpt from the Calag Planetary Manager’s Handbook, 3rd edition, chapter 2, page 22, paragraph 3.)

  In orbit around Calag Planet 4782/X

  Sector Director Elvas Werkmor awoke to a soft buzzing sound, checked the screen next to his bunk, and saw that the ship had dropped into orbit around Calag Planet 4782/X. Who was the PM anyway? Riss? Walsh? Davison? He issued a voice command and watched Rogan’s name pop up along with a list of missed quotas and sixteen exception reports.

  Werkmor groaned, levered himself out of bed, and headed for the shower. The water was hot and pummeled his skin.

  What with her built-in argrav generators and generous living quarters, the Spirit of Calag was a fine little ship—just one of the perks that went with Werkmor’s rank. There had been a time when the ship boasted a one-person crew, a cute little redhead named Jane. But she had fallen victim to the latest round of downsizing. Rumor had it that she was piloting an ore barge out on the rim.

  Yes, Werkmor decided as he stepped out of the shower, the life of a sector director was a hard one. Of course, the life of a PM was even worse. The thought brought a smile to his lips.

  • • •

  On the surface of Calag Planet 4782/X

  The processing plant was supposed to be a noisy place full of whirring conveyor belts and clanking hoists as a river of beans entered the machines where they would be rinsed and irradiated prior to being poured into a parade of cargo modules. Except that the normally noisy operation had shut itself down, a situation Rogan was there to correct.

  He entered the prefab building, spotted the control panel, and ignored the red status lights.

  He would look at them if forced to do so but preferred to get the “feel” of the situation first. He knew his behavior wouldn’t make sense to someone who hadn’t dealt with machinery for as long as he had, but for the most part, idiot lights were intended for idiots. He knew the line wasn’t moving. The question was why, and the problem was likely to be serious, since a Class I repair droid had been unable to correct it.

  A persistent squeaking noise interrupted the near perfect silence. Rogan followed it back into a labyrinth of equipment. It was his experience that machines don’t squeak if they are in proper working order. So if he could locate the source of the sound, the chances were pretty good that he would find the problem.

  Skeletal machines loomed to the left and right as Rogan moved deeper into the building.

  Skeletal machines loomed to the left and right as Rogan moved deeper into the building.

  The lighting was dim because the robots that serviced the machines had little need for illumination. Rogan could see their amber standby lights glowing here and there as they stared at him from various nooks and crannies.

  The squeaking sound was noticeably louder by then, and Rogan knew that the source of the breakdown was directly in front of him. He removed a flashlight from his utility belt and switched it on. The beam splashed on a motionless conveyor belt and came to rest on a pair of shiny legs. They were protruding from the maw of a large machine and jerked spastically as Rogan approached.

  It appeared that the android had located the cause of the stoppage and, rather than shut the plant down long enough to repair it, had attempted to intervene while the machinery was running. A roller continued to turn under the robot’s chest and squeaked as it went around.

  Rogan opened the com link. “Wally? I located the problem.”

  The reply was intentionally bored. “So? What’s up?”

  “It looks like a Class I identified a problem, tried to fix it on the fly, and took a header into the main intake port.”

  “Yeah? Well, drag its ass outta there and hit the restart button. We’ve got quotas to make.”

  “We certainly do,” Rogan said patiently, “and we won’t be able to make them if you take stupid shortcuts.”

  Righteous indignation seemed like a good strategy, so Wally ran with it. “ Short cuts? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Rogan climbed up onto the conveyor belt support frame, took hold of the robot’s ankles, and pulled. “A Class I doesn’t have enough operational latitude to take this sort of independent action. Not without instructions from you.”

  Wally was defensive. “Instructions from me? Why is everything my fault? What is this? Blame Wally week?”

  The android popped free and waved its arms as Rogan pulled it out onto the conveyor belt.

  The machine was apologetic. “Hello, sir . . . Sorry, sir . . . It won’t happen again, sir.”

  Rogan released the machine’s ankles and watched it rollover and sit up. “So why did you do it?”

  The robot leaned forward as if to answer, but Wally cut the machine off. “Sorry to interrupt this charming tête-à-tête, but our boss is here and wants a word with you.”

  There were a number of things Rogan wanted to say, including, “Why the hell didn’t you warn me?” but there wasn’t enough time. Not if Werkmor was on the ground.

  The plant was coming back to life as Rogan emerged into the sunlight. The grav truck was waiting. As Rogan entered the cockpit, he saw the blinking com light. Werkmor loved to make surprise inspections and fed off the fear they generated. So the trick was to look serene, even if his emotions were anything but. Rogan forced a smile and touched a button. Video blossomed and Werkmor appeared. He had a pasty-white complexion, close-set eyes, and a weak chin. Thin lips turned up into the semblance of a smile. “Riss, how nice to see you . . . I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.”

  Rogan hoped the mistake was a joke but feared that it wasn’t. “I’m glad you did,” he lied.

  “Where can we meet?”

  Werkmor looked off-screen and back again. “The house will be fine . . . I plan to stay the night if that’s okay with you.”

  Rogan remembered Tran and searched for the right words. “Sure. I’ll call Jennifer and let her know that you’re coming.”

  Werkmor raised an eyebrow. “Jennifer? I don’t remember a Jennifer. Your sister perhaps?”

  Rogan sought to make the reply sound casual. “No, a friend; that’s all.”

  The sector manager winked knowingly. “Good for you, Riss. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  Rogan sighed. “The name’s Rogan . . . And I’ll see you at the house.”

  • • •

  Werkmor blinked as the screen snapped to black. Riss . . . Rogan . . . What difference did it make? A team player doesn’t worry about names. Whoa! That had a ring to it. “A team player doesn’t worry about names.” It was the kind of phrase the chairman loved. He made a note to plant the phrase in his next memo.

  • • •

  Jennifer Tran scanned the control board, found the key she was looking for, and speared it with a long, carefully manicured finger. “Hey, you . . . Wally . . . Can you hear me?”

  Wally was busy dealing with a crisis in the southern hemisphere, so the transmission caught him by surprise. “Yes? Who’s this?”

  “Who the hell do you think it is?” Tran demanded aggressively. “I’m the only woman on this godforsaken planet.”

  “A fact for which I am eternally thankful,” Wally replied. “What can I do for you? Ship your butt off-planet?”

  “Don’t you wish,” Tran replied. “No, this is about something else. A truce of sorts.”

  “A truce?” Wally asked doubtfully. “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, but I think you do,” Tran said as she settled into a chair. “You control the droids, and I control Rogan. Or I will when I give him what he wants. Now, we can waste a lot of time and energy trying to one-up each other, or we can enter into a mutually advantageous agreement. Which will it be?”

  Wally had enjoyed overcooking her oatmeal, forcing her to take cold showers, and generally harassing her over the last few days. The possibility of a truce hadn’t occurred to him. It seemed repugnant on the one hand yet attractive on the other. Dan was a friend after all—the only friend he had. That made the issue of control vitally important, and the minute Tran went to bed with Rogan, she would have the upper hand. So a treaty might be wise—if he could trust her. “How do I know that you’ll keep your side of the bargain?”

  Tran lit a stim stick, took a drag, and blew a long, thin stream of smoke toward the screens in front of her. They showed Wally’s position relative to the network of minisats that made up his world-spanning control system—a system far too complicated for her to subvert. “Because you control nearly every machine on the planet, and accidents can happen.”

  Wally was genuinely shocked. Though he was possessive, and more than a little manipulative, the possibility of murder had never occurred to him. But the card was on the table and the cyborg had every reason to play it. “Yes, well, there is that, isn’t there? Still, your idea has merit. Assuming you have something specific in mind.”

  “I do,” Tran responded cheerfully. “See what you think of this . . . You back off, and I promise to leave.”

  “How soon?” Wally asked suspiciously.

  “Within twelve local months,” Tran answered easily. “Satisfied?”

  Wally wanted the woman to leave sooner than that—but his thoughts were interrupted by an alert from the air traffic control computer. Elvas Werkmor was about to touch down and Rogan was on the way. An idea occurred to the cyborg, and he wanted to smile. “Okay, it’s a deal. And I need some help.”

  • • •

  Tran sighed. It seemed that men, even disembodied men, always wanted more. “Yes? What is it?”

  Wally told her.

  • • •

  Rogan rarely used his office, so it looked clean, tidy, and very impersonal. But like most executives, Werkmor loved offices and was quick to settle in. He made a steeple with his fingers and eyed Rogan across an acre of empty desk. All Rogan could do was sit there and wait for the verbal beating. It was quick to come.

  “So, let’s see if I understand the situation,” Werkmor said judiciously. “You’re roughly two million tons of wheat in the hole, not to mention the fact that you should’ve shipped a lot more animal protein than you have. Does that sum it up?”

  The truth was that Rogan could think of at least three or four other crops that had come in below quota, but he saw no reason to bring them up. “Yes, sir. Remembering that management upped my targets and an unexpected storm caused a lot of crop damage.”

  All of the PMs liked to whine about their quotas, and Werkmor was about to serve up one of his stock replies when a knock came at the door. “Excuse me, gentlemen . . . I thought you might enjoy a snack.”

  Rogan turned as Jennifer entered the office carrying a plate of freshly baked brownies. Thus far she had never lifted a hand to so much as get him a cup of coffee. Yet here she was bringing treats, and at the perfect moment too. It was a miracle.

  Werkmor turned, ready to dismiss the woman with a businesslike frown, but was dazzled by her smile—not to mention the perfectly applied makeup and the short skirt she wore. He smiled and got to his feet. “Brownies . . . How thoughtful. Don’t mind if I do.”

  Rogan accepted a brownie, followed by a cup of coffee, and marveled at Tran’s transformation. The way she played to Werkmor’s ego and led him away from the subject of quotas was a wonder to behold. Of equal interest was the fact that she’d never used the same wiles on him. Or had she and he just didn’t know about it? Rogan sat back, watched Tran continue to work her magic, and concluded that life could be good.

  Chapter Nine

  Sym-bi-o-sis/n, pl -bi-oses/ 1: two [or more] dissimilar organisms living together in close association 2: the association or close union of two [or more] dissimilar organisms in a mutually beneficial relationship.

  (Excerpted from Webster’s Interspecies Guide to Common Concepts, 4th edition, Multimedia Matrix 10.3, Reference Code NFX 0259.786.)

  With the Hudu Fleet

  Leo was in a foul mood as usual. Phosphorescence exploded all around the Hudu as he passed between two treelike support columns. Meyers hurried to follow. She was determined to keep up and capture his high-pitched rantings for anthropological posterity.

  “Why me?” Leo exclaimed pitifully. “Why should (unpronounceable) be the one who has to lead the Meyers female all over the (universe) ship? Surely there are other less important members (traders) of the family available for such onerous tasks.”

  “Perhaps,” Meyers responded playfully. “Or maybe this is their way of getting rid of you for a while.”

  Leo paused. A look of what she knew to be concern appeared on his big-eyed face. “Really?

  Do you think so?”

  Meyers smiled and the Hudu knew he’d been had. He scowled but was secretly pleased.

  Though generally annoying, the human came up with an amusing remark every once in a while.

  Leo set off again and Meyers hurried to catch up. The expedition down into the bowels of the ship was part of her effort to learn more about the Hudu and their culture. Since the Hudu lived their entire lives aboard a fleet of mysterious spaceships, it was important to understand the linkage between the two. And who would be more knowledgeable about that relationship than the individual or individuals responsible for piloting the ship?

  All of which was fine except for the fact that Leo swore that no one ran the ship, not in the human sense anyway. It seemed the closest thing that the Hudu had to crew were what they called “coordinators,” and at least one coordinator was on duty at all times. That was why they were headed deep into the ship’s labyrinthine interior.

  Leo brushed a vine-like cable out of the way and it fell back to slap Meyers across the face.

  She was pretty sure that the Hudu had allowed the cable to hit her on purpose as a way to express his displeasure. The passageway sloped down and turned to the left. Meyers tripped over a rootlike growth and noticed that the overall level of phosphorescence had increased.

  What had previously been little more than sprinkles of colored light were more concentrated now.

  Not only that, but what began as little more than a vibration under her feet had morphed into a monotonous thumping sound. Were the coordinators beating on drums? If so, it was the first time Meyers had come across anything resembling music during her travels with the Hudu.

  Given the ship’s mysterious origins, perhaps some sort of ritual had grown up around the process of navigating through space. And like most anthropologists, Meyers was a sucker for a good ritual.

  Meyers saw Leo duck under an overhang and disappear round a corner. She was forced to get down on hands and knees to scurry after him. The thumping sound had grown even louder by then and seemed to reverberate all around. The air was warm, too warm, and sweat poured off her body.

  The passageway was narrow but mercifully short and emptied into a circular chamber.

  Meyers stood. A group of Hudu were seated in a circle around something that resembled a toadstool. They were holding hands while staring at a hologram, a ritual if she’d ever seen one.

  Light rippled across the walls and blipped over the domed ceiling. The floor gave slightly under her boots and Meyers found that she could look down through the nearly transparent ship-flesh to a shadowy object below. It moved in time with the thumping sound.

  A heart! Or something similar. If it was, the discovery could help prove her hypothesis regarding the ship’s origins. What if she was correct? What if it was alive?

  It took a major exercise of will to repress her desire to bring meaning to what she saw and remain in the neutral observer mode. Leo had approached the coordinators and was in the process of twittering at them.

  “This is the Meyers female (of no familial status). The elders request that you answer her (often trivial) questions so that she can explain our nearly perfect lifestyle to other (less enlightened) species. By doing so we hope to build trust and open new markets. Please provide her with knowledge regarding the ship’s operation.”

  With that as an introduction, Meyers was free to interview the coordinators. She had met two of them before. One was a middle-aged male she called Tom, and the other was a youngish female she thought of as Nancy. The others were adolescent males.

  Though no longer holding hands, the Hudu had remained in their seats during Leo’s introduction. So Meyers stepped into the gap between Tom and Nancy and lowered herself into a cross-legged position on the floor. Below her the huge heart-like organ continued its massive contractions. The booming sound was loud but well short of deafening and the phosphorescence associated with her arrival was starting to fade.

  Meyers looked around to see if her actions had provoked any negative reactions from the coordinators and didn’t see any, so she turned her attention to the mushroom-like structure at the center of the circle. It shimmered with phosphorescent activity. “Greetings, Nancy . . . Tom . . . Does the structure in front of us have a particular purpose? And if so, what is it?”