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                     Glorious Treason

                                     C. J. Ryan




                                     Contents

                                        Title Page


                                        Chapter 1

                                        Chapter 2

                                        Chapter 3

                                        Chapter 4

                                        Chapter 5

                                        Chapter 6
          Chapter 7

          Chapter 8

          Chapter 9

         Chapter 10

         Chapter 11

         Chapter 12

         Chapter 13

         Chapter 14

         Chapter 15

         Chapter 16

         Chapter 17

         Chapter 18

         Chapter 19

         Chapter 20

         Chapter 21

         Chapter 22

         Chapter 23

         Chapter 24

         Chapter 25

         Chapter 26

         Chapter 27

         Chapter 28

         Chapter 29


      About the Author

      Also by C.J. Ryan

Preview for The Fifth Quadrant

       Copyright Page
                                         Chapter 1

THEY CALLED HIM OLD ABEL, AND HE HAD BEEN there since the beginning—before the
beginning, really. He wandered freely, almost randomly, through the valleys and forests,
finding shelter when he needed it in natural caves and depressions or in the flimsy lean-tos he
built, then abandoned as his moods and whims dictated. No one knew his age, but it was
considerable, and it was a mystery where and how he obtained his food, clothing, and other
presumed necessities of life. Not that he needed much.

    He was a small, stoop-shouldered man with a scraggly white beard, long, tangled hair, and
sharp, suspicious eyes the color of the evening sky before a storm. His voice, on the rare
occasions when he used it, sounded like a stick being dragged through dry leaves. He appeared
and disappeared without preamble, and although he was recognized throughout the mining
camps and sparse clusters of tumbledown shacks that dotted the slopes of the valley, no one
could claim to know him. He seemed neither alien nor entirely human—a species unto himself,
indigenous and mysterious.

    Sylvania was his world, as far as it was anyone’s, and even the nabobs in the Lodge and the
swaggering boomrats in the town and the camps treated him with a wary, deferential respect.
When they saw him coming, leaning heavily on his wooden staff and lugging a sackful of
Spirit-knew-what over his shoulder, the miners paused in their work and nodded to him.
Some even ventured a greeting, perhaps receiving a nod of recognition in return; perhaps not.
The bolder souls among them occasionally invited him to share their dinner, and sometimes he
did. He might even engage in something that passed for conversation, exchanging a few words
about the weather: a topic on which he was considered—in the absence of meteorological
satellites—the ultimate local authority. He knew to the hour when rain would begin or end,
and precisely how high up the slopes it would turn to snow. On other subjects, he had little or
nothing to say, but he listened carefully to the words of the boomrats about the progress of
their diggings, the latest troubles with Grunfeld and his thugs, or the new whore down at
Elba’s.

   He rarely bothered with the town these days, and when he did, people made way for him
and whispered behind his back, telling the newcomers—and there were many of them
now—that this strange, threadbare apparition was just Old Abel, the local “character,” as if that
explained everything that needed to be known about him. Elba gave him food and drinks and
sometimes joined him at his table. He was even believed to spend time in the rooms
upstairs—but if he did, the whores didn’t talk about it. Some of the older boomers might buy
him drinks in return for a few minutes of his almost wordless company. And then he would be
gone again, quietly retreating to his silent wilderness.

   A few of the boomrats actively sought him out in the forests, convinced that Old Abel
knew better than anyone just where to find outcrops of the glimmering green crystals whose
discovery, three years ago, had lured them here across the light-years. But Old Abel could
seldom be found unless he wanted to be, and he had nothing at all to say on the subject that
obsessed the boomers. His silence only served to convince them that he was in possession of
secret knowledge that, if they had it, would make them wealthy beyond calculation. But it was
no easier to find Old Abel than it was to find the crystals themselves; in fact, it was more
difficult, for the Fergusite crystals rimmed the broad valley and littered its streambeds, but
there was only one Abel, and he moved as he would.

    Exactly what Abel knew, or might know, was a subject of endless debate around the
campfires and cookstoves. Some advanced the opinion that he knew nothing at all and was, in
fact, simply the ignorant, witless old hermit he appeared to be—but they could not really bring
themselves to believe that. Others were convinced that Old Abel had a secret cache somewhere
up in the mountains, and lived a life of luxury and ease when no one was looking. A few even
suggested that he was really an Imperial agent, spying on the boomrats for the Empire, or for
Dexta. Or for the Lodge, or one of the corporate titans.

    The oldsters—men like Bill McKechnie and Amos Strunk—knew better, but made no
attempt to dispute the opinions of the latecomers. They kept their own counsel and merely
smiled as they listened to the theories come gushing forth like water through a sluice. But Bill
and Amos had heard the Voice, and most of the newbies hadn’t.

    They didn’t talk much about the Voice. Those who hadn’t heard it were convinced that the
Voice was simply the delusion of men who had spent too much time in the silent hills of this
lonely world, and some of those who had heard it feared that the doubters might be right. The
easily frightened among them had taken heed of the Voice and quickly packed up their
meager belongings and left the planet as soon as they could. Others, with stronger spines and a
more resolute nature, had defied the Voice and remained at their diggings, but kept an ear to
the wind and tended to jump at sudden noises.

    The Voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, and whispered to them at odd
moments as they squatted in the cold, rushing waters, panning for crystals, or sat among the
high crags, fussing with their plasma drills. It came to them in the dead of night or in the blaze
of noon, on the shining outcrops of the cliff faces or in the gloom of the forests, and it spoke
different words to different men. To most, it breathed in soft, insistent tones, “Go away. Leave
me alone.” To Bill McKechnie and Amos Strunk, it had said only, “Don’t hurt me.”

  Old Abel wouldn’t talk about the Voice. “I hear what I hear,” he had said one night at Bill
McKechnie’s campfire. “And you hear what you hear.”




WHAT ABEL HEARD ONE MORNING IN MARCH of 3217, as the Empire reckoned time,
was not the Voice, but a cry of pain and outrage. It echoed down from the high reaches of the
slopes, up near the snow line, where some of the newbies had been testing their luck. Abel
peered upward from the edge of the forest, where he had spent the night, and saw two men he
recognized even from this great distance, and a third that he didn’t know—and never would.

   The two he knew were Karl Cleveland and Hank Frezzo—big, tough, distinctive men who
worked for the Mayor, the Honorable Kevin Grunfeld, tsar of the town of Greenlodge and
anything else he cared to be tsar of. Cleveland and Frezzo held a third man between them,
grasping each arm at the shoulder while their victim’s feet kicked frantically at empty air. With
a minimum of effort and only a final dying scream to mark the moment, the two tossed the
third over the edge of the cliff face, sending him pinwheeling downward a hundred meters or
more to the jumbled pile of scree at the base of the precipice. They peered over the edge for a
few seconds, evidently satisfied with their work, then walked away and out of Abel’s line of
sight.

    Abel waited a while to be sure they were gone, then laboriously picked his way upward
through the scree to the place where the shattered body of the newbie had finally come to rest.
Even if Abel had known the man, he would not have been able to recognize the smashed face
that stared sightlessly upward toward the cold sun of Sylvania. Abel didn’t touch the body or
attempt to scavenge anything useful from his kit, although others undoubtedly would when
they found him. Nothing was easy to get or hold on to on this planet, and even life itself was
but a slippery possession.

    He liked the newbies even less than he liked the oldsters, but Abel found himself feeling
sorry for the dead man. Somewhere, perhaps a thousand or more light-years away, at the other
end of the Empire, this man had once had a home, maybe even a family. When they heard the
news—and they would eventually, for Dexta was remarkably efficient in such matters—they
would be saddened and mournful. Or perhaps not; perhaps the dead man was a
good-for-nothing son of a bitch, like so many of the boomers, and the Empire would be a
better place without him in it. Abel didn’t know and didn’t really care.

     But he cared about Sylvania, and was disheartened by what this and other such incidents
must inevitably mean for his world. Sooner or later, the Empire would have to do something
about it. More boomers were already on their way, and now they must be joined by the grim,
gray bureaucrats of Dexta, who ran the Empire and enforced its rules. And Dexta, in turn,
would soon be followed by the corporate behemoths, who would rape this quiet valley, then
kill it, as surely as Grunfeld’s men had killed this sad specimen crumpled at his feet.

   And what, Abel wondered, would the Voice have to say about that?




                                         Chapter 2

THE TWO MOST POWERFUL MEN IN THE EMPIRE stared at themselves and each other in
the gently rippling waters of the reflecting pool, the replica of the Taj looming above them in
carefully crafted splendor. The original had been destroyed in an alien attack during the
Second Interstellar War, more than seven hundred years earlier in pre-Imperial days, before
the men of Earth had come to dominate this corner of the galaxy. Reconstructed as one of six
Imperial Palaces scattered around the terrestrial continents, the Taj Mahal no longer seemed a
monument to love but to human persistence, ingenuity, and arrogance. The two men
embodied those same qualities.

   Norman Mingus was the first to break the spell of the reflection and look away. Tall, spare,
slowed but unbowed by his 130 years, Mingus had a face that was pink and unlined and might
have belonged to a retired and much-loved schoolteacher. Instead, it belonged to the Secretary
of the Department of Extraterrestrial Affairs.

    The Emperor Charles V, forty-seventh in an unbroken line stretching back nearly seven
centuries, lingered another moment with his reflected image. When at Agra, he affected garb of
flowing white robes and rather fancied the way they set off his athletic frame and regal
features. He imagined that Alexander the Great, when he came east, might have cut a similar
figure. With his closely cropped beard, longish curling locks of dark blond, and pale blue eyes,
he knew that he looked like an Emperor, just as Mingus, 102 years his senior, with his dark
business suit and beady, censorious eyes, looked like a bureaucrat.

    “I do love it here,” Charles said, finally looking away from the reflecting pool. “Next to Rio,
I think Agra is my favorite Residence. Of course, Paris has its own particular charms, as well.
And there’s much to be said for Colorado. Tell me, Norman, which do you prefer?”

   “I suppose, Highness,” Mingus replied after a moment’s thought, “it depends on what
business brings me to them.”

   “It’s always business with you, isn’t it, Norman?” The Emperor shook his head regretfully.
“Very well, then, business. We may as well go inside, lest we be distracted by this beautiful day
and magnificent setting. Four walls and a couple of chairs will do, I suppose.”




CHARLES LED THE WAY INTO THE RESIDENCE, slowing his normally brisk gait to
accommodate a man who was nearly five times his age and had been Secretary of Dexta ten
times longer than Charles had been Emperor. Mingus followed at his own pace, feeling no
need to match the Emperor stride for stride. He had been walking with Emperors for forty
years and was no longer impressed by their company—never had been, in fact.

    Charles was Mingus’s third Emperor, and probably his last, although even that was far
from certain, given the casualty rate in that office. His first had been Darius IV, bumbling and
benign, who had somehow managed to die of old age in spite of his occupational hazards.
Dour, dark-visaged Gregory III had come next, his brief reign cut short by a botched coup
known as the Fifth of October Plot, which had swept the Emperor and the next five in line to
the throne from the board, leaving the callow and untested Charles to carry on in their place.

     It was far too early to judge Charles in any historical sense; it was entirely possible that he
might yet wind up with “Great” affixed to his name. Possible—but in Mingus’s view, unlikely.
Still, Charles’s flaws—self-absorption, self-indulgence, and outright selfishness—were the flaws
of youth. If he lived long enough, he might outgrow them. But the early signs were not
encouraging and Mingus didn’t much care for the young Emperor. He had a streak of
meanness in him, more appropriate to a small-town bully than the leader of an Empire
encompassing a sphere of space two thousand light-years in diameter, with 2645 planets
populated by three trillion sentient beings. And Charles had surrounded himself with a retinue
of truly detestable young chums, who lent the Household a pungent and unmistakable air of
decadence.

   On the other hand, Charles was intelligent, reasonably industrious when motivated, and
had an excellent grasp of the complexities and realities of his realm. What he needed was
guidance—which Mingus was prepared to offer but which Charles was just as prepared to
reject. Mingus knew that Charles resented him, just as every Emperor resented every Dexta
Secretary, but at least Darius and Gregory had been willing to listen. And today, of all days,
Charles needed to listen to what Mingus had to say; the very future of the Empire might
depend upon it.




THEY SAT OPPOSITE EACH OTHER IN COMFORTABLE chairs, surrounded by a profusion
of elegant tapestries and opulent bric-a-brac, which they ignored as completely as they ignored
the tea that had been brought by silent and quickly vanishing servants.

    “As you know, Norman,” the Emperor began, “I asked you here today to discuss the
situation on Sylvania. We had expected to commence large-scale mining operations there at
least six months ago. In that expectation, we have been disappointed. We would appreciate an
explanation.”

    When Charles said “we,” it was not necessarily the Imperial We. In this case, Mingus knew,
the use of the plural pronoun referred to Charles and his coterie of intimates from the Big
Twelve corporates, who were drawn to him like iron filings to a lodestone. Or like flies to shit,
Mingus thought. It was an unworthy thought—but in this case, entirely apt.

   “Highness,” said Mingus, “it is a complicated problem.”

   “Of that, I have no doubt. I was hoping that you would uncomplicate it for me.”

    “Very well, then. In a nutshell, Sylvania—in a legal sense—is neither fish nor fowl. It is, at
this moment, still an Unincorporated Imperial Territory. Normally, that would entitle you to
make whatever deals you wish with the corporates and begin mining operations at your
pleasure. However, the planet has been continuously inhabited by a population of over one
thousand for nearly twenty years. Under the provisions of the Imperial Code, those residents
have certain rights that date back to the Homestead Acts of 2697 and supercede the provisions
of the Code which would otherwise apply here.”

   Charles nodded vaguely.

    “However,” Mingus continued, “because the population is still under five thousand
registered voters, you have no legal authority to incorporate the territory and appoint an
Imperial Governor, thus bringing it under the aegis of other provisions of the Code. Specifically,
the Eminent Domain Statutes. Without Eminent Domain, large-scale mining operations of the
sort you and the corporates envision would not be permissible unless you could somehow gain
the consent of the entire resident population, as defined by the Homestead Acts.”

   “Which I’m not going to get,” Charles acknowledged. “I understand all of that, Norman.
What I don’t understand is why, in spite of the economic boom that has begun on Sylvania, we
don’t yet have five thousand registered voters? I gather that people are flocking there as fast as
they can. A rough count of the freighter traffic implies that there are already at least seven
thousand people on that planet.” Charles leaned forward and smiled unpleasantly. “So why
hasn’t Dexta been able to get them registered?”
   Mingus pursed his lips for a moment. He didn’t quite sigh.

   “I confess, Highness,” he said, “to a certain amount of embarrassment in that regard.”

    “Why is the Imperial Historian never around when I need him?” Charles wondered.
“Certainly, this must be a historic first. Norman Mingus, embarrassed?” Charles gave a snort
that might have been a genuine laugh, of sorts. Whatever his shortcomings, Charles did, at
least, have a sense of humor.

   Mingus shrugged. “ ‘Embarrassed’ is the only word that applies, I suppose. The awkward
and, yes, embarrassing truth, Highness, is that at the moment, the Department of
Extraterrestrial Affairs has not a single representative on the planet of Sylvania. You see, sire,
they keep quitting on us.”

   “Quitting?” Charles raised an eyebrow.

    Mingus nodded. “We send people there, and before they’ve been there a month, they come
down with what you might call gold fever. All around them, they see people striking it rich.
Dexta staffers are as human as anyone else, and sooner or later—generally sooner in this
case—cupidity trumps institutional loyalty. They stop shuffling papers and start digging for
Fergusite. We can’t chain them to their computer consoles, you know. Every Dexta staffer
we’ve sent to Sylvania in the past year has resigned and headed up into the hills to make a
fortune. And I gather that some of them have done just that, which only encourages the others
to follow. I can’t really blame them, I suppose. If I were a young man, I’d probably do the same
thing.”

    Charles got to his feet abruptly, shuffling his sandals on the glistening tile floor. He walked
around behind his chair, leaned against it, and peered at Mingus. “I have difficulty picturing
that,” he said, a bemused smile flickering across his handsome features. “You as a young man, I
mean. Somehow, I always imagined that you were carved from a block of marble, fully
formed.”

  Mingus returned the half smile. “I wasn’t,” he informed the Emperor. “I just feel that way.
Complete with cracks.”

    “You know, that gives me an idea. I’m going to have the Imperial Sculptor do a bust of you,
Norman. I’m going to put it right behind my desk in Rio. You’ll be there forever, staring down
at me and all my successors, like Poe’s raven, croaking ‘Nevermore’ at us whenever we get a
notion that you’d disapprove of. Keep us honest, I’d think.”

   “Forgive me, Highness, but that’s what I’m trying to do now. The problem we have to deal
with is not the Dexta staff on Sylvania or getting voters registered. The problem is the damn
Fergusite itself—and you know that as well as I do, Charles.”

   Charles cocked an eyebrow at him. “Do I, Norman?”

   “Well, dammit, you should,” Mingus responded, raising his voice slightly.

    “Whenever you call me ‘Charles,’ ” the Emperor said, “I get worried. Don’t try to get
fatherly with me, Norman. I had a father once, and he was a scoundrel and an idiot. As for the
Fergusite, it’s not a problem. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!”

   “Gold fever!” Mingus sniffed. “You’ve got it, too, I see.”
   “What if I have? Spirit’s sake, Norman! A quadrillion crowns’ worth of Fergusite, and you
want me to leave it in the ground?”

    “That’s where it belongs, Charles,” Mingus said evenly. “For the sake of your Empire, leave
it where it is.”




FERGUSITE WAS THE STUFF THAT MADE THE Empire possible. First synthesized in the
twenty-second century—atom by atom and at great expense—the precisely structured
latticework of Fergusite focused the immense energy generated by fusion reactors inward upon
itself, until the strain ruptured the very fabric of space-time and formed an eleven-dimension
membrane of Yao space, which squirted through normal space at transluminal velocities and
thus made the dream of interstellar travel a reality.

    It was long believed that Fergusite could only be created artificially, but three years earlier,
in 3214, the Imperial Geological Survey had stumbled upon a vast deposit of Fergusite on the
small and neglected world of Sylvania, 542 light-years from Earth. Natural Fergusite could
form only when the most precise combination of factors came into perfect alignment—mineral
content, time, pressure, temperature, and gravitational force, all as delicately balanced and
tuned as a symphony orchestra with a billion different instruments all playing the same music
at the same instant. The Sylvanian deposit of Fergusite was nearly as pure as the artificial
version that the Big Twelve corporates had been brewing in their factories for eleven centuries.
With a minimum of processing, it could be used in the Ferguson Distortion Generators that
rode on every starship—at a tenth of the price of the artificial Fergusite. The discovery would
dramatically reduce the cost of interstellar travel, and might usher in a new Golden Age for the
Empire.

   But there was a problem …




“IT IS NOT A PROBLEM!” CHARLES INSISTED VEHEMENTLY. “It’s a minor …
inconvenience, nothing more.”

   “You call being crushed into a soup of subatomic particles an inconvenience?” Mingus
demanded.

     “There’s no need to overdramatize it. Yes, a few more ships may—may —be lost. But what
of it? Boats have always sunk, aircraft have always crashed, starships have always disappeared.
It’s just the price of doing business, and everyone accepts that. Except you, apparently.”

   “Using the Fergusite on Sylvania would raise that price significantly, Highness.”

    “It would do just the reverse! Dammit, Norman, just look at the figures my economists
prepared. The Empire spends 30 trillion crowns on interstellar trade each year. Fergusite
production represents nearly a third of that cost. Using the Sylvanian Fergusite, even allowing
for processing costs, would save something like seven trillion crowns—a 23 percent reduction!
Think of what that would mean. Reducing the cost of interstellar travel by nearly a quarter
should lead to a 50 to 100 percent increase in the total volume of trade. How can you claim that
would be bad for the Empire?”

    “I have economists too, Highness,” Mingus reminded him. “And they’ve factored in some
things that your economists didn’t bother to include. The loss of an additional ten to one
hundred starships each year would cost—here, let me bring it up on my pad.” Mingus reached
into his pocket.

   “Oh, don’t bother,” Charles told him. “I’ve seen those numbers. I just don’t believe them.”

    “All right, then. But there’s another factor that you cannot assign a number. The loss of
confidence in the safety of interstellar travel would have devastating consequences for the
entire Empire.”

    “Spare me, Norman. Do you really think anyone would care—or even notice? How many
notice now, when we lose a ship? There are 3 trillion people in the Empire, and fewer than
one-hundredth of 1 percent of them ever get anywhere near a starship. A few more losses—and
it will be a lot closer to ten than a hundred, my people assure me—won’t make a damn bit of
difference.”

    “Except to the people who are on those ships,” Mingus replied. “And their families. And
the insurance carriers; rates will go up substantially, you know. Did your economists bother to
mention that? Then there’s the cost of replacing the losses and training new crews. But the real
cost—”

    “Is unknown! No one knows—not your economists and not mine. Why must you assume
the worst?”

   “Because of the consequences. Highness, if I am wrong, there are no consequences. The
Empire simply goes on doing business as it has always done. But if you are wrong, the
consequences could be catastrophic. If—”

   “Nonsense.”

   “Dammit, Charles, just shut up and listen!”

    No other person among the 3 trillion in the Empire could have told the Emperor to shut
up. Even for Norman Mingus, it was a close call. Charles stared at him in suppressed rage for a
moment, then crossed his arms, balanced his right ankle on his left knee, and sulkily sat back
in his chair.

   “All right, Norman,” he said. “I’m listening. Make it good.”

    Mingus took a deep breath. “Highness,” he said, “as you pointed out, it is impossible to
determine with certainty the quality of those Fergusite deposits on Sylvania. The initial reports
suggest that the level of impurities lies in a range between one and ten parts in a billion, but we
have a very limited number of samples. And, as you know, we cannot test every piece of
Fergusite that comes out of Sylvania because the very process of testing destroys the sample
and makes it useless. So all we have to go on is a statistical procedure that, by its very nature, is
suspect. The process we use to fabricate Fergusite is rigidly controlled, but nature is random
and sloppy. One chunk of Fergusite might be perfectly pure, and another chunk right next to
it might be dangerously impure. There is simply no way of knowing except by putting it to
work in a distortion generator and hoping for the best.”

   Charles nodded. “Go on.”

   “Any impurity in the structure of the Fergusite can cause the bubble formed in      the FDGs to
become asymmetrical, resulting in the collapse of the bubble and the destruction       of the ship.
Even with the process we use now, impurities are believed to result in the loss of     some ten to
twenty ships each year. We can live with that. But could we tolerate the loss of        one or two
hundred?”

   “It would be nowhere near that high,” Charles protested. “Maybe another ten or twenty,
worst-case.”

   Mingus stared at the Emperor. “You said you’d listen.”

   Charles retreated back into his chair.

    “As you know,” Mingus continued, “a trickle of Sylvanian Fergusite is already being sent
off-world for processing and has reached the commercial market. And in the past year and a
half, two starships known to have employed the Sylvania Fergusite have disappeared.”

    Charles gave a derisive snort. “I hope you’re not going to try to tell me that two constitutes a
statistically significant sample.”

    “No, but it does constitute a warning. What I recommend is that for the next five years, we
restrict the use of Sylvania Fergusite to unmanned messengers and couriers. That would give us
a significant sample. If the loss rate remains acceptable, we could then initiate large-scale
mining operations and approve the Sylvanian crystals for general use. But it would be nothing
less than foolhardy to open the floodgates now and inundate the market with unproven
Fergusite of dubious reliability.”

   “Five years? Out of the question. I won’t wait another five months, Norman.”

    Mingus ignored the interruption and continued. “Aside from the direct consequences,” he
said, “consider this. Of the Big Twelve, only seven actually manufacture Fergusite. Prizm takes
70 percent of the commercial market; the others make it mainly for their own use. Now, what
happens if tons of Fergusite start flowing out of Sylvania? For one thing, Prizm would take a
huge loss and be forced to shut down most of their Fergusite facilities.”

   “That’s their problem,” Charles said. For hundreds of years, emperors had routinely
pocketed vast sums in “contributions” collected from the Big Twelve. Charles pursued the
practice with more diligence and enthusiasm than most of his predecessors, but his relations
with Prizm were not especially close. What he lost from Prizm, he would more than make up
with revenues from whichever corporate wound up with the Sylvania concession.

    “It could become everyone’s problem, Highness,” Mingus pointed out. “What happens if,
after Prizm shuts down its fabricating plants, we find that the level of impurities in the Sylvania
deposits is simply too high to be sustained? The Empire would be crippled for years, perhaps
decades. Without reliable interstellar travel, the Empire might very well break up. You couldn’t
even depend on the Navy to hold it together, because they’d have the same problems as
everyone else.”

   “Purely hypothetical.”
    “Hypothetical or not, it is a consequence that cannot be ignored. And,” Mingus added,
“there’s this. The confidence of the population in the reliability of interstellar travel would be
ruinously, perhaps fatally, weakened. They would turn inward and rely upon their own
resources, pursue their own goals. The very concept of the Empire would come into question.
You want to run the Empire on the cheap, Charles—but if that’s the kind of Empire you want,
you may find yourself with no Empire left to run.”

   The Emperor nodded thoughtfully, then leaned forward again.

   “Is that it, Norman? Anything else you care to say?”

   “Not just now, Highness.”

     “Good,” Charles said, a cold edge coming into his voice. “Now, you shut up and listen,
Norman, and listen very carefully. In the first place, exploiting the Sylvanian deposits will not
weaken the Empire, but strengthen it. Do you know what per capita interstellar trade amounts
to? Barely ten kilograms per year. Ten kilograms! That’s a pittance. It could—and should—be
ten times that. The only reason it’s not is because interstellar travel is so fucking expensive.
We’re going to change all of that, and the key to doing it is those Fergusite deposits on
Sylvania. The geologists tell me there’s enough to last at least a century. And that century—my
century!—is going to see a historic increase in trade, prosperity, and Imperial strength. It’s
going to be a fucking Golden Age, Norman, and I am not about to let you stand in the way of
it.”

   “I see,” Mingus said.

    “Just in case you don’t, let me paint you a picture. You are going to get those five thousand
people registered in the next three months. And about ten minutes after that, we are going to
begin large-scale mining operations on Sylvania. If you try to drag your feet on this, or employ
your usual bureaucratic bullshit to obstruct, delay, or impede this operation, I’ll drag your
ancient ass before Parliament and have it booted out of Dexta once and for all. There are plenty
of MPs who would like nothing better than to have one clean shot at you, and by the Spirit, I’ll
make sure they have it. I’ll go public with this and let the people of the Empire know that the
only reason they can’t have cheaper trade, lower taxes, and a chocolate fudge sundae with
cherries on top for breakfast every morning is because of you, Norman Mingus. You
understand me, Norman?”

    Mingus locked eyes with the Emperor for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “I believe
that I do, Your Majesty.”

    Charles’s body, as tight as an old knot, abruptly relaxed. He sat back in his chair and
offered a thin smile. “Now then, Norman, suppose you tell me how you intend to solve our
mutual problem on Sylvania.”

    Mingus returned the smile. “I have a possible answer, Highness,” he said. “But you won’t
like it.”

   “If it works, I promise you I’ll love it.”

   “I doubt that, Charles,” Mingus said. “I sincerely doubt it.”
                                           Chapter 3

GLORIA VANDEEN, LEVEL X DEXTA BUREAUCRAT, Director of Dexta’s Office of Strategic
Intervention, heroine of the recent Mynjhino Crisis, the most wildly popular and glamorous
woman in the Empire, and the twenty-four-year-old ex-wife of the man who was now Emperor
Charles V, lay naked on the grass in Central Park and gazed languidly upward at the fleecy
white clouds drifting through the sunny skies. Lying next to her, separated by a now-empty
picnic basket, was her assistant, Petra Nash, equally naked but far less comfortable about it.

    This was a Visitation Day, when devout Spiritists throughout the Empire celebrated one of
seven appearances by the Spirit, exactly eleven hundred years earlier. Petra was not especially
devout, and wasn’t really sure that she was a Spiritist at all, but was content to tag along with
her boss on this beautiful day. She told herself that this wasn’t really quite the same thing as
being naked in public, not when she was surrounded by thousands of other celebrants who
were wearing no more than she. Still, the sight of all that bare flesh was a little unsettling.

    When she thought about it at all, Petra supposed that she agreed with those who claimed
that Spiritism was based on a clever and audacious fraud. Weary of centuries of religious
warfare, a small band of twenty-second-century scientists and advertising copywriters had
supposedly invented the Spirit and her gospel as an antidote and alternative to the bloodthirsty
deities worshipped by most of the existing religions. The beautiful, ethereal, and nude Spirit,
forty feet tall, who had announced herself to the world in seven spectacular Visitations, was
really, the cynics claimed, just a holographic projection, and her Seven Seeds of Wisdom no
more than a collection of slick catchphrases and slogans. Whatever the truth of the matter,
Spiritism had swept the world, ushered in an age of global harmony, and put an end to
religious warfare. Currently, 70 percent of the Empire’s population considered themselves to
be Spiritists.

    Part of Spiritism’s appeal lay in the fact that it was a gentle and even sensual religion, which
found neither sex nor the human body to be shameful. Thus, for more than a thousand years
on Visitation Days—weather permitting—devout Spiritists had assembled here and elsewhere
throughout the Empire for a frankly carnal celebration of their faith. Not ten meters away from
her, Petra saw a couple enthusiastically demonstrating their devotion. Hundreds more were
doing the same all around the Park.

     Well, Petra thought, at least it’s not as ridiculous as some religions, like the ones that
insisted a woman’s body should be covered from head to toe, or which engaged in festivals of
public self-flagellation. She believed that all religions were pretty silly, one way or another, but
at least Spiritists didn’t go around slaughtering infidels and imposing their beliefs on others.

   She glanced again at the copulating couples surrounding her, then turned back to her boss.
“So,” she said, “we’ve got a mission, huh?”

   “Yup,” Gloria replied. “The Office of Strategic Intervention is officially open for business.”

    “And we’re going to Sylvania for … a voter registration drive?” Petra found that a little
difficult to believe, and perhaps a bit disappointing.
   Gloria turned and grinned at her diminutive assistant. “What’s the matter, Petra? Not
glamorous enough for you?”

   “Well,” Petra said, “it just sounds sort of, you know … routine. It’s not quite what I
expected the OSI to be doing. But at least it should be easier than Mynjhino.”

    Just four months earlier, Gloria and Petra had made their triumphant return from the
planet Mynjhino. Gloria was then a Level XIII Coordinating Supervisor for Mynjhino’s
jurisdiction, and Petra her Level XV assistant. What had first seemed to be a nativist uprising
among one of the two intelligent species on the planet had turned out to be something far
more complex and deadly. But Gloria, using her wits and wiles, had averted a tragedy and
emerged from the affair as the heroic darling of the media and nothing less than the
Sweetheart of the Empire. The fact that she was the Emperor’s ex-wife and probably the most
beautiful, sexy, and desirable woman in the Empire only added more luster to what had been,
by any standard, a courageous and noble performance.

    Upon their return to Dexta Headquarters in Manhattan, Norman Mingus had promptly
promoted Gloria to Level X (and Petra to Level XIII, Spirit be praised!) and appointed her to
run the newly created Office of Strategic Intervention. Mingus had realized that Gloria was a
unique asset for Dexta—even though she had managed to embarrass, outwit, and thoroughly
annoy her ex-husband during the Mynjhino Crisis—and he sought to employ her to maximum
advantage. So he created the OSI, intending to use Gloria as his chessboard queen, dispatching
her to hot spots throughout the Empire where the existing bureaucratic machinery of Dexta
was inadequate to deal with the situation.

    But four months had gone by without a single call for Gloria and the OSI. They had kept
busy for a while simply setting up the office, recruiting staffers, and generally getting things up
and running. Once all that had been accomplished, there had been little for them to do, so
Petra was glad that they were finally getting an assignment. Still, a voter registration drive was
not exactly the sort of role she had envisioned for OSI.

   “It won’t be as easy as it sounds,” Gloria told her. “It’s a complex situation, and there’s a lot
more involved than just signing up a bunch of boomrats. Mingus gave me the basics on the
comm, but I’m going to meet with him this afternoon to get the full story. It seems that
Charles is very eager to get those voters enrolled.”

   “Aha!” cried Petra. “And how did he react when Mingus told him he was sending you?”

    Gloria laughed and sat up. “Well, according to Mingus,     Charles didn’t quite have a stroke.
But I gather that he was not a happy Emperor. Still, he        didn’t really have a choice. Voter
registration is Dexta’s business, and not even Charles can     tell Mingus how to run his shop.
Anyway, at least we’ll be on the same side as Charles, so we   shouldn’t have to put up with any
of his Imperial bullshit this trip.”

    “I just love it when you say nasty things about the Emperor.” Petra giggled. “It makes me
feel like I’m in on some subversive conspiracy.”

   “Charles thinks I’m a subversive conspiracy, all by myself. The thought of me getting
involved in this Sylvania business will probably give him hives.”

   “Well, it serves him right,” Petra declared. “After all the problems he made for you on
Mynjhino.”

    “It went both ways, you know,” Gloria admitted. “I publicly embarrassed him and made
the whole thing a personal battle between the two of us. I probably shouldn’t have done that,
but what’s done is done. I’ll just be happy if we can handle this Sylvania thing without another
public pissing match with Charles. I mean, he is the Emperor, after all, and we’re just Dexta
drones.”

   Petra looked at her gorgeous, naked boss and sniffed. “Some drone!”

    Gloria was the product of DNA from six different continents, plus some refinements added
by twenty-ninth-century genetic sculptors. She was of medium height, but seemed taller
thanks to her long, silken legs and slim, athletic waist. Her breasts were not large, but firm,
globular, and tipped by dark, jutting nipples that seemed perpetually erect. Blond above and
below, her skin was a rich cocoa color, like a Euro with a great suntan or a Polynesian who had
been under the weather. Her eyes, as intensely blue as polished turquoise, were set at a slightly
exotic angle suggestive of Asia; her broad cheekbones tapered down to a narrow, delicate chin,
and her nose was short and straight. She escaped perfection only in her somewhat thin lips,
which looked, perhaps, a little too determined, but curved slightly upward at the sides,
suggesting a permanent bemused smile.

    Having been raised in and around the slightly overripe Court of Darius IV, she had no
inhibitions about displaying her charms, and famously failed to restrict her nudity to Visitation
Days. She had confided to Petra during their Mynjhino adventure that she carried specially
crafted genes that endowed her with an enlarged pleasure center in her brain and enhanced
nerve structures that made her nipples and navel much more erotically sensitive than those of
any normal woman. She had also hinted that she possessed some additional nerves and
musculature—inside and out—that made sex a thoroughly spectacular and satisfying
experience for both her and her partners. If the sexual fires within Gloria burned hotter and
brighter than for most people, it was hardly a wonder. “I’m not a slave to it,” Gloria had told
her. “I can control it—most of the time, anyway—but sometimes …” Gloria had trailed off with
a smug, contented smile, leaving Petra to wonder about those “sometimes.”

    Petra, who had a “cute little body,” according to interested observers, and a face that was
pretty bordering on plain, couldn’t help feeling jealous of her boss at times. In fact, the general
resentment of “enhanced humans” had put an end to the twenty-ninth-century fad of genetic
sculpting—publicly, at least—and prevented a dangerous cleavage of the human race. Still, it
was commonly supposed that a favored few—including, it was said, the Emperor
himself—possessed certain genetic advantages that were not available to the common run of
humanity.

    But Gloria couldn’t help being a genetically superior, beautiful, privileged, rich girl, any
more than Petra could help being the product of a broken, impoverished home in nearby
Weehawken. What mattered was what they had done with their lives. Gloria had joined Dexta
after her divorce from Charles because she didn’t want to be just another useless rich person;
Petra had joined, after twice failing the qualifying exams, because she aspired to be more than
just a cute little nobody from New Jersey. All things considered, she thought, they had both
done pretty well so far.

   Merely surviving their first year in Dexta had been a major challenge for both of them.
Dexta, by design, was a Darwinian jungle where only the strong survived and the weak were
ruthlessly weeded out. Every form of physical, psychological, social, emotional, and sexual
abuse was fair game for the new Fifteens, and fully 20 percent of them never made it past their
first year. Gloria had survived only by becoming a Tiger, and Petra by becoming a Dog.

    Over the centuries, a metaphorical but very real menagerie of distinct species had evolved
within Dexta. They were known as Lions, Tigers, Dogs, Moles, and Sheep. The numerous
Sheep formed the backbone of the bureaucracy, and found safety only in numbers and
anonymity. Moles were bureaucratic infighters who tunneled under the surface and emerged
at opportune times and places to trip up the unwary and establish their own niche.

   The Dogs came in two breeds, Pack Dogs and Lap Dogs. The Pack Dogs—often frustrated
Sheep or failed big cats—were bureaucratic street gangs who roamed Dexta’s lower levels and
savaged the weak and unprotected. Lap Dogs were Sheep who had attached themselves to a
superior and gained a measure of security from the roving packs.

    Lions, mostly male, were the natural leaders, fierce and determined. They sometimes
formed prides for mutual support, but often hunted alone, surviving through their strength,
ability, and sheer force of personality. Tigers, mostly female, were sleek and beautiful, and
prowled the Dexta jungle using sex the way Lions used strength. Both Lions and Tigers could
rise high or fatally fall in the high-pressure environment of Dexta.

    Petra knew that Gloria had endured an especially harrowing first year, because as the
ex-wife of an Imperial—although Charles was not then the Emperor and seemed unlikely ever
to be—Mingus had made her a special target for the savagery inherent in Dexta’s lower levels.
He didn’t want Imperial dilettantes polluting his organization, and had let the right people
know that he wanted this VanDeen person to receive the full Dexta Treatment, in the
expectation that she would soon retreat to her life of privilege and luxury rather than face the
fires of Dexta’s lower levels.

    Instead, Gloria had survived and flourished, thanks to the tutelage of Viveca Kwan, a
successful Tiger who had advised her to become predator rather than prey. Using her stunning
beauty and sexual prowess to full advantage, she had escaped the hellish attentions of the Pack
Dogs and ascended the Dexta ladder swiftly. Gloria learned, as well, what some Tigers never
understood—that sex was only the lubricant, not the machine. What truly mattered was how
well she performed her job, and that she did with skill and, as on Mynjhino, courage and
brilliance.

    Petra had also begun as a much-abused Sheep, and might have succumbed to the fury of
the roving packs, but found protection by becoming Gloria’s assistant. As Gloria’s Lap Dog, she
gained a degree of security and the patronage of a powerful superior. Their shared perils on
Mynjhino had cemented their relationship, and now Petra was not merely Gloria’s assistant,
but her best friend.

     Being so close to a woman like Gloria was not always easy. Petra often felt invisible in her
company, and Gloria’s wealth, glamour, and stunning sexual presence could be more than a
little intimidating. Petra was, in many ways, just a kid from Weehawken, and was still a little
unnerved by the high-powered and sophisticated world she had come to inhabit.

    As if she had read her thoughts—and Petra wasn’t convinced that she couldn’t—Gloria
turned to Petra and said, “Why don’t you go for a stroll and find yourself a guy? A little grope
in the grass might be good for you. You haven’t had anyone since Mynjhino, have you?”

   “Well, I’ve been kind of busy …”

   “So have I, but you don’t see me letting that stop me, do you?”

    That was certainly true. Before Mynjhino, Gloria had been downright reserved in her sexual
activities. But since their adventure, she had been the highly public companion of famous men
from every walk of life: actors, athletes, scholars, politicians, writers, artists, even a Spiritist
bishop. Petra, like the rest of the Empire, had watched in fascination, envy, and admiration.

   “I don’t know, Gloria,” Petra said. “I’m not quite as much of a free spirit as you are.”

  “C’mon,” Gloria coaxed. “It’s a Visitation Day, for Spirit’s sake! And your mom is in
Weehawken and will never know a thing.”

   Petra grimaced. That was a sensitive point with her. In the glare of the media spotlight that
had been focused on Gloria, Petra had enjoyed some brief fame of her own, centered around
her intense but tragic affair with a young Dexta staffer on Mynjhino who had been killed
during the troubles there. She had gone along with the media show up to a point, but when
she returned home, she found that her mother was shocked and disappointed by her
daughter’s behavior.

    Of course, her mother was shocked and disappointed by practically everything. She made
it clear to Petra that she did not approve of her association with a person like Gloria
VanDeen—although her opinion was mollified somewhat by an invitation to a lavish dinner
party at Gloria’s new Manhattan penthouse. In her mother’s view, the Emperor—any
Emperor—could do no wrong, and Gloria’s public altercation with him was shameful and
unworthy. And, for that matter, Gloria’s sexual charisma was a little much for a woman who
basically disapproved of sex and, more to the point, men. Mrs. Nash—Mr. Nash had fled
twenty years before, when Petra was six, and had not been seen since—was not exactly a
Spiritist, or much of anything else, exactly. She had sampled various religions over the years,
but found them all disappointing, as she found virtually everything else in her life to
be—including her daughter.

   Gloria noticed the frown on Petra’s face and said, “Hey, Petra, repeat after me. ‘I am a
grown-up. I can do whatever I want.’ ”

   Petra smiled and said, “I am a grown-up, and Gloria can do whatever she wants.”

    Gloria returned the smile. “So can you, kiddo. Look, my parents didn’t exactly do
handsprings when they found out that their darling daughter wanted to be a Dexta bureaucrat.
They thought I should have gone on being a rich parasite, the same as them. But I think
they’ve accepted it now. After Mynjhino, they didn’t have much choice.”

   “We keep saying that, don’t we? After Mynjhino, before Mynjhino. I guess that really
changed our lives.”

   “If it hadn’t,” said Gloria, “there would be something seriously wrong with both of us.
Spirit, Petra, you lost a man you loved and I was nearly killed more times than I can count.
Things like that are supposed to change you. When I got back here, I realized that I could never
go back to being what I was before—and that I didn’t want to. Why should you?”
    “I see what you mean. I suppose I’ve changed too, but that doesn’t mean I stopped being
Petra Nash. I know you think I should be more of a Tiger and less of a mutt, and I’m not
exactly against that, but I don’t think I could ever, well … just go wild, the way you have.”

   Gloria pursed her lips. “You think I’ve gone wild?”

   “Well, maybe not wild, exactly, but you sure have turned yourself into—I don’t
know—something between a sensation and a scandal. I mean, the orgy in that nightclub last
month? You were all over the vids, Gloria.”

    Gloria grinned at the memory. “Okay,” she said, “maybe that was a little over the edge, but
dammit, I don’t regret a single thing I’ve done since Mynjhino. When Mingus asked me to run
his Office of Strategic Intervention, I realized that what almost happened to me on Mynjhino
could actually happen at any time. If I’m going to go hopping all over the Empire putting out
brush fires for Mingus, sooner or later I’m going to get seriously burned. Incinerated, maybe.”

   Petra involuntarily shivered and clasped her arms around herself. “Don’t even say that,
Gloria! I hate it when you get fatalistic.”

     “Sorry, but you know it’s the truth, Petra. I don’t know how long I have, but however long
it is, I want people to remember that I was here. I want them to say, ‘That Gloria VanDeen was
quite a gal, wasn’t she?’ ”

   “She still is,” Petra offered. “And I’d prefer to keep it in the present tense, if you don’t
mind.”

   Gloria reached for Petra, took her hand, and squeezed it. “Make you a deal,” she said. “I’ll
concentrate on staying alive if you’ll try to let yourself live a little more. Dum vivimus, vivamus
—which I think is Latin for, ‘Let the good times roll!’ ”

    “I think they’re about to start rolling for you right now,” Petra said. She nodded toward a
young man who was approaching them. She recognized him as one of Gloria’s many ardent
companions—an athlete, she thought. It was already becoming apparent that he was glad to see
her.

   “Johnny!” Gloria cried out. “Over here!”

   “Well,” said Petra, collecting her clothing, “I think it’s time for me to get back to the office.”

   “Hey, stick around. Maybe you’ll pick up some pointers.”

  Petra considered it for a moment, but decided that she didn’t really want to watch Gloria
making love in the middle of Central Park.

   “No,” she said, “I wouldn’t want to inhibit you.”

   Gloria shrugged. “Okay, have it your way. And would you tell the staff that I want to meet
with everyone as soon as I get back from my meeting with Mingus?”

   “Will do,” Petra said after she had pulled her dress over her head. “Have fun.”

   Petra resolutely marched off, threading her way through the writhing bodies in the Park.
Almost against her will, she stopped and looked back at her boss. Gloria and her friend had
wasted no time. She watched for a moment as the muscular young athlete thrust himself into
the golden body of Gloria VanDeen, and Gloria arched her back in primal ecstasy.

   Petra forced herself to turn away, but not before Gloria spotted her and gave her a cheerful
wave in the midst of her erotic endeavors. Petra shook her head and mumbled to herself as she
walked on.

   What would Mom say? she wondered.




                                         Chapter 4

GLORIA RETURNED FROM HER MEETING WITH Mingus, feeling the weight of the Empire
on her shoulders. She walked through the outer office, noting that Petra was away from her
desk. Entering her own office, she closed the door behind her and plopped down into the chair
and ran her hands through her long, Dura-styled mane, then leaned back and closed her eyes.

   Spirit! How could Mingus ask such a thing of her?

    In the months since her return from Mynjhino, Gloria had grown enormously fond of
Norman Mingus. And she knew that Mingus was more than a little smitten with her. Despite
his great age, antigerontological drugs had preserved his patrician good looks and he had the
vigor of a man half his age. He had been married five different times, so he was a man who
appreciated women. Yet their relationship had remained chaste and proper, more by his choice
than hers; Gloria knew that Mingus didn’t want to risk compromising her position in Dexta by
having an affair with her.

    Sleeping one’s way upward within Dexta was an accepted practice for both males and
females; it was simply part of the ruthless games that were played in the sprawling
bureaucracy. But Gloria’s status was already unique because she had once been married to the
Emperor. That made her suspect; using Imperial influence to get ahead would not be tolerated
by those who had no such advantage, and would have made her a special target for the
take-no-prisoners tactics often employed by Dexta staffers. Her public contretemps with
Charles had been sparked, in no small measure, by Gloria’s desire to assert her independence
and make it clear to one and all that her Imperial connection meant nothing to her.

     On the other hand, sleeping with Norman Mingus, while a purely intramural matter,
would not have endeared her to her fellow bureaucrats. Dexta’s culture, although brutal and
unforgiving, was also highly sensitive to appearances and propriety, as defined by the
expectations of the Dexta masses. Gloria could have a highly public sex life, sleep with her
fellow staffers if she chose to (which, for the most part, she didn’t), or prowl the corridors of
Headquarters in a state of near nudity (which, for the most part, she did), all without offending
against Dexta’s odd sense of decorum. But having an affair with Norman Mingus, the one and
only Level I, might very well put her on the wrong side of some invisible line that separated the
acceptable from the unacceptable. At least, Mingus feared that it might, and chose not to take
that risk. Gloria respected his wishes, but regretted the necessity.

   But now, Mingus was asking her to do something that was infinitely more dangerous and
discreditable. His argument was compelling, his logic unassailable, and the need absolute.
Gloria overcame her shock and, in the end, agreed to do what he had asked of her. Still, she
had left his office with a feeling of bleak dread in the pit of her stomach and a sense of
foreboding and outright fear.

    As she sat next to him on the sofa in his immense office, Mingus had explained what he
wanted of her, and why. Low-grade Fergusite from Sylvania, according to Mingus, would
threaten the stability—and the very existence—of the Empire. Her mission would be to prevent
the large-scale exploitation of that Fergusite and, if necessary, to destroy it.

    Charles, in his usual greedy and shortsighted fashion, was determined to reap the profits he
believed would flow from the Sylvania Fergusite. To that end, he had instructed Mingus to
register five thousand voters on that distant backwater world—as quickly as possible—so that
he could appoint an Imperial Governor, invoke Eminent Domain powers, and strike a deal
with the corporates to begin mining operations on a massive scale. Gloria’s
job—ostensibly—would be to do as Charles desired and get those voters registered.

    Her real job, Mingus informed her, would be to prevent a quadrillion crown’s worth of
Fergusite from reaching market. There were two possible ways in which she might accomplish
this rather remarkable feat. First, she could somehow prevent a vote on Eminent Domain from
reaching the required 60 percent approval, thus precluding the corporates from evicting the
boomrat prospectors from their claims and beginning large-scale strip-mining operations. In
this effort, she could expect help from at least one of the Big Twelve; Prizm, which stood to be
the big loser if Sylvanian Fergusite flooded the market, was sending a representative to
Sylvania who would work with her to assure the failure of the Eminent Domain vote.

   But even if Eminent Domain passed, there was still a second way to prevent the suspect
Fergusite from reaching the distortion generators of the Empire’s starships. It was theoretically
possible, Mingus assured her, to destroy the entire Fergusite deposit before it ever left the
ground. Gloria blinked a couple of times when she heard that, but said nothing.

    “You’ll meet with the Sector Imperial Geologist, Stuart Eckstein, before you reach
Sylvania,” Mingus told her. “I’ve met with him already, and he described a method by which it
might be possible to sabotage virtually all of the Fergusite on Sylvania and render it useless. It
won’t be easy, but Eckstein believes that it can be done. He’ll fill you in on the details when
you meet him. Naturally, it would be preferable to avoid that necessity, but if the corporates
get their Eminent Domain petition approved, we’ll have no choice in the matter. One way or
the other, we must prevent the large-scale exploitation of that Fergusite.”

    Mingus had given her a hard, no-nonsense stare when he said that, impressing her with the
depth of his commitment. Gloria understood that her own commitment would have to be just
as fierce as his. Far too much was at stake for half measures and playing it safe. Whatever the
risks, Gloria must find a way to succeed in her mission.

    Worst of all, she could tell no one—not even Petra—the true nature of their mission to
Sylvania. She would have to tell a lot of lies, or half-truths, to her OSI staff, which didn’t strike
her as the best possible way to begin their bureaucratic life together in Dexta. OSI’s very
existence was an anomaly, and a potential threat to some people in the organization. If there
was a need for a Strategic Intervention, that could only mean that the existing Dexta structures
had failed in some important way. Well, that was certainly the case on Sylvania.
    Petra opened the door and stuck her head inside Gloria’s office. “Good, you’re back,” she
said. “How did it go with Mingus?”

   Gloria gave a weary shrug. “It went.”

   “Everyone’s in the conference room waiting for you.”

   “Good. I’ll be along in a couple of minutes.”

   Petra nodded, started to leave, then paused and looked carefully at Gloria. “Is everything
okay?” she asked. “You look kind of upset.”

   “Oh,” Gloria replied, “I’m just collecting my thoughts.”

   “Hmm,” said a skeptical Petra, who knew Gloria’s moods well by this point. “Is there a
problem?”

   Gloria shook her head. “No problem. See you in a few minutes.”

   Petra nodded, then disappeared, closing the door behind her.

   The first lies, Gloria thought. They sure as hell won’t be the last.

    No problem? Well, not really, Gloria supposed. Treason wasn’t a problem—it was a capital
crime.




GLORIA ENTERED THE CONFERENCE ROOM AND heads snapped to attention, not simply
because she was the boss. She was wearing a nearly transparent white blouse, wide open to the
waist, and a black miniskirt that provided an absolute minimum of coverage in front, and
somewhat less than that in back. She took her seat at the head of the table and smiled at her
troops. They smiled back.

    They were a good group. There were fifteen of them, counting Gloria. She had recruited a
number of her fellow staffers from her pre-Mynjhino post in Sector 8, along with a smattering
of people she had known or heard good things about. There were a few Lions, several Tigers or
Tigers-in-the-making, and some solid, dependable Sheep. She had avoided bringing in any
Moles, although you could never be sure about some of the Sheep. And Petra was her loyal
Lap Dog. She hoped they would work well together, but their first assignment was likely to be
a disappointment for most of them.

    “As you’ve probably heard by now,” Gloria began, “the Office of Strategic Intervention has
officially received its first assignment. There is Imperial interest in this matter, so I want us to
look sharp, especially since this is our first mission. Basically, our job will be to register voters
on Sylvania, although there’s a lot more than that involved. I’ll give you the details in a
moment, but first, I’ve asked Grant to give you a backgrounder on Sylvania.” She nodded
toward Grant Enright, her second-in-command, at the opposite end of the long table.

  Grant Enright, a handsome, capable Lion, enjoyed the distinction of being one of the few
human males who had ever said no to Gloria. When he was her superior in Sector 8, she had
made a run at him and was shocked when he turned her down. He was a rarity in Dexta, a
happily married man; Dexta actively discouraged marriage in its lower-level personnel.
Moreover, Enright didn’t engage in the sexual stratagems so often employed by Dexta staffers
on the make, believing them to be a distraction and, not infrequently, self-defeating. So he had
resisted Gloria’s advances and become her friend instead of her lover. When she was offered
the OSI job, she recruited him to become her Office Administrator and had him bumped up a
peg to Level X.

   “Dina has it,” said Enright, turning to his Deputy Administrator.

    Dina Westerbrook cleared her throat and glanced at a sheaf of papers before she began
speaking. She was a willowy blonde in her early fifties, which meant that she looked no more
than about thirty. She was beautiful, but had a withdrawn, haunted air about her. Before
Gloria picked her for OSI and promoted her to a Twelve, she had been a Level XIII for more
than twenty years, with no hope of advancement. Dina was a Tiger who had made one big
mistake early in her career, and had been paying for it ever since. Gloria didn’t know the
details, but presumed that Dina had slept with the wrong man, or men, or had used her sexual
appeal and prowess for the wrong ends. That was the danger of being a Tiger in Dexta; sex
could cover up a multitude of sins, but it could also be responsible for creating them. The
wonder was that Dina had stayed at Dexta instead of just leaving in quiet disgrace. But she was
experienced and dependable, so Gloria had rescued her, realizing that someday she might find
herself in the same position.

    “Sylvania,” Dina began, “is an Unincorporated Imperial Territory in Quadrant 3, Sector 15,
542 light-years from Earth. Its current population is estimated to be about seven thousand,
although we don’t have precise figures yet. There are no indigenous intelligent species, but it
has a very well developed ecosystem, classified as a Group One-C.

   “It was first settled by humans about twenty years ago. Until the end of the war with the
Ch’gnth Confederacy, forty-three years ago, it was in disputed territory. Humans couldn’t get
near it, and the Ch’gnth ignored it because the climate is cooler than they prefer. Following the
war, the first settlement was established by a private group from Palmyra, which is the nearest
Empire world, about thirty light-years away. That group, which consisted of a few wealthy
business leaders, built what they called the Lodge on the southern coast of the planet’s only
major continent. They used it as an exclusive vacation retreat and brought in a number of
workers to serve as staff. They, in turn, built the only real town on the planet, called
Greenlodge, a few miles from the Lodge itself. Over the years, the permanent population
gradually rose above a thousand. It stayed there until three years ago, when the first naturally
occurring deposit of Fergusite was discovered. Since then, there has been an influx of people
seeking to strike it rich, which quite a few apparently have. Along with the miners, there is the
usual mixture of speculators, merchants, prostitutes, and assorted hustlers. In short, a typical
boomworld.”

   “I hear it’s an incredibly beautiful planet,” put in Patrick Gilhooley, the OSI Coordinator for
Agriculture.

    Dina nodded. “That’s what attracted the group from Palmyra in the first place. The only
continent is about the size of Australia, situated in the northern hemisphere. Sylvania’s sun is a
yellow dwarf that doesn’t put out much heat, so only the southern part of the continent is
readily habitable. Along the southern coastal plain, the climate is generally Mediterranean, with
rainy and dry seasons. A high mountain range rises just inland from the coast, with dense
forests in valleys that have a temperate rain forest climate. Beyond the mountains, there’s a
broad savanna stretching northward to a tundra region and more mountains, but the entire
human population is restricted to the southern coastal plain and the nearby mountains—which
is where the Fergusite is.”

   “I don’t understand why the population is still so low,” said Kristen Kim, the Currency
Coordinator. “You’d think it would have soared by now.”

    “The main reason,” Dina answered, “is that it’s not easy to get to Sylvania. There’s still no
Orbital Station, although one is now under construction. That means that you have to get to
Sylvania via Palmyra, since it’s impossible for a starship to refuel or perform routine
maintenance at Sylvania. And the Palmyrans have mixed emotions about the whole Sylvania
boom. Their wealthiest leaders, who established the Lodge, are reluctant to see their vacation
retreat turned into a mining camp, and so they have done what they could to slow and control
the traffic through Palmyra. Specifically, they imposed a whopping big ‘transit tax’ on anyone
using the Palmyra Orbital Station as a way station to Sylvania. Also, they hope to control
whatever development does take place on Sylvania, so they have limited the freighter and
passenger traffic from Palmyra and given preference to their own people who want to go there.
And finally, the likelihood—inevitability, really—of the Big Twelve taking over the whole
shooting match on Sylvania has tended to discourage any significant migration. Mostly, it’s just
individuals who have managed to scrape together enough crowns to make the trip in the hope
of making a killing.”

   “Thank you, Dina,” said Gloria. “Anything else?”

   Dina smiled. “Just that I’m looking forward to seeing Sylvania,” she said. “When do we
go?”

    “Uh … we don’t.” Gloria offered a lame smile that failed to soften the frowns that appeared
around the conference table. Her team was willing and eager to go, and it hurt her to have to
disappoint them on this, their first job together.

   “Here’s the situation, folks,” Gloria told them. “At the moment, there is not a single Dexta
representative on the planet of Sylvania. More than a dozen have been sent there in the past
year, but every one of them quit to go off into the hills to mine Fergusite and get rich. And as
much as I respect you all and trust your loyalty, I don’t intend to subject you to the same
temptation. Mingus feels the same way about it. So we’re going to try something different.”

  “Hmmpf,” snorted Arkady Volkonski, the Coordinator for Internal Security. “You want to
make this the Office of Strategic Impoverishment, I see.”

    “Arkady, dear,” cooed Althea Dante, the Imperial Coordinator, “you would never let
yourself get your hands dirty, digging up old rocks. Nor, I hasten to add, would I. And I, for
one, am relieved that Gloria does not intend to dispatch us to some dreary backwater on the far
side of nowhere.”

   “Not so fast, Althea.” Gloria gave her a malicious grin.

   Althea had been a Level XIII, along with Gloria, in Sector 8. A glamorous and notorious
Tiger in her midthirties, she had been stalled at Level XIII for years, despite her intimate
knowledge of affairs in the Imperial Household. Althea’s sexual maneuvers had become an end
in themselves, and although she had proven herself useful to Dexta on many occasions, her
overall performance had been considered by her superiors to be too self-serving. She and
Gloria had enjoyed a bitchy rivalry back in Sector 8, but when advancement to OSI came,
Gloria took pity on Althea and brought her along, with a promotion to Level XII.

   Althea’s mouth opened in shock and unspoken protest, but she reined herself in and sank
back into her chair in wary apprehension of what was to come next.

    “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Gloria continued. “Basically, we’ll fight fire with fire.
We’re going to recruit a team for Sylvania composed entirely of Dexta staffers who are already
independently wealthy. Presumably, that will make them immune to the lure of the Fergusite.
At least, that’s what we’re counting on. And to ride herd on our crew of rich recruits, of course
we’ll need someone who is familiar with the whims and ways of the wealthy. Someone who
has spent her entire professional career in the company of people who think they hold the
mortgage on the universe. Someone who—”

   “Oh, Gloria, darling!” Althea moaned. “You can’t!”

   “Sure I can. You’re it, Althea.”

    “Spirit!” Althea buried her face in her hands. Gloria grinned to see her old rival in such a
state of chagrin. It would do her good, Gloria told herself.

    “In the meantime,” she said, turning back to the rest of her team, “I want each of you to
search the personnel files in your area and come up with a list of likely candidates. The richer,
the better. We’ll recruit them, draft them, or kidnap them, if we have to, but I want a full
squad of big-bucks bureaucrats assembled in the next three days. Okay, hop to it, people!”




THREE DAYS LATER, GLORIA, ALONG WITH PETRA and Althea, met with her new recruits
in a small lounge area that was part of the OSI office complex. The eight wealthy bureaucrats
were scattered among three couches, warily eyeing their new boss with a mixture of
anticipation and dread.

    Gloria stood before them, wearing a thin, tight, smart-fabric dress that featured a deep
scoop neckline and diagonal stripes that cycled through every color in the spectrum, including
clear. Since she wore nothing under it, the random motions of the clear stripe would have been
the object of intense interest had her audience not had other matters on their minds.

    Althea, a small, delicately beautiful woman with alabaster skin, long dark hair, and lively
violet eyes, was wearing a sort of working-girl-in-a-harem outfit that left her breasts and belly
mostly bare. Gloria was pleased to see that Petra, trying to be more of a Tiger, was in a
shorter-than-usual Dexta-gray skirt and a gray shirt that she had left unbuttoned far enough to
reveal the subtle undercurve of her pert breasts. Since there were rich men present, it was
unlikely that even her mother would have disapproved.

    “I’d like to welcome all of you to your temporary assignment with the Office of Strategic
Intervention,” Gloria began. “I know this was sudden and surprising, but I hope you’ll accept
the necessity for this move.”
   “I accept no such thing,” declared a short, vaguely pear-shaped man named Barton Gates,
who was the fourth son of a branch of an old and fabulously wealthy family. He rose to his feet
and took a step toward Gloria. “I have been content in my present position in Sector 12
Administration for twenty-three years, Ms. VanDeen, and the only reason I am here at all is
because it was made very clear to me that my future at Dexta depended upon my cooperation
with this … this attempt to shanghai me. Nevertheless, I protest in the strongest possible
terms.”

    Gloria nodded placidly. “Very well, Mr. Gates,” she told him. “I accept your protest. You
can return to Sector 12 Admin now, with my blessing. And I’ll be sure to mention your protest
to your superiors. Good-bye, Mr. Gates. Have a nice day.”

   Gates stared at her for a moment in shocked confusion. “But—”

    “Good-bye, Mr. Gates,” Gloria repeated, and nodded toward the door. Gates looked around
for a moment, as if there had been some mistake, realized there hadn’t, then walked stiffly
toward the door and out of it.

    “Now, then,” Gloria said, turning back to the remaining recruits, “does anyone else wish to
register a protest?”

   No one did.

    “Your assignment, which should last no more than about three months, will be to establish
and maintain a Dexta office on Sylvania. You’ll tend to the usual administrative chores, but
your main task will be to enroll as many voters as possible from among the population of
boomers. The goal is to reach a total of five thousand, at which point the Emperor will be able
to appoint an Imperial Governor. When that is accomplished, we should be able to sustain a
permanent office there and bring all of you back to Manhattan.”

   “Sounds delightful,” said Jillian Clymer, a busty, apple-cheeked blonde who had
volunteered for the assignment.

   “Sounds dismal,” countered Sintra Garbedian, a Level XI Corporate Coordinator from the
Quadrant 4 staff. He was a swarthy, superior-looking bastard son of the Earl of Samarkand,
and a draftee. “However,” he added, “three months is hardly a lifetime, and I am willing to go
wherever Dexta needs me. I am at your service, Ms. VanDeen.”

    Gloria nodded to him. The clear stripe in her dress momentarily revealed her most intimate
regions, as if rewarding Garbedian for his loyalty.

    “I’m a little hazy on the local governmental structure,” said Palmer Ellison, an ambitious
young Level XV, the lowest-ranking member of the team. Another volunteer, he evidently saw
this assignment as a road to rapid advancement, and a way to impress upon the Dexta
higher-ups that he was more than just the son of the richest man on New Cambridge, a
fabulously prosperous world in Quadrant 4. “According to our briefing there’s a local mayor,
but no formal government structure. Can you shed a little more light on that?”

   “Not much, I’m afraid,” Gloria told him. “In the absence of regular reports from a resident
Dexta staff, we’re somewhat in the dark about conditions in and around the town of
Greenlodge. The local power structure is centered in the Lodge, controlled by wealthy interests
from Palmyra, and it seems that the mayor of the town is their handpicked deputy. His name
is Kevin Grunfeld, and the word on him is that he’s something of a strongman and enforcer.
Apparently the Lodge uses him to keep the locals in line, but the influx of boomers has
complicated the situation. We’ll know more when we get there.”

   “Can we expect the cooperation of this Grunfeld?” Ellison asked.

    “Unknown,” Gloria said. “I wish I could tell you more, but, as I said, we’re very short on
local intelligence. Are there any other questions?”

    There were none. Three of the remaining four recruits—Wilmer DeGrasse, Randolph
Alexander, and Pearl Shuzuki, all draftees—sat silently in glum resignation. The fourth, Raul
Tellemacher, a smooth, handsome Level XII from Sector 8 Finance, wore a thin, predatory
smile as he watched the clear stripe in Gloria’s dress perambulate across her anatomy.

   “All right, then,” said Gloria. “You all know Althea Dante. Althea will head up your party
and tend to your immediate needs.”

    “I know you’re all looking forward to our little adventure just as much as I am,” Althea
said, offering a waspish grin to her charges. “I’ll do everything I can to see to it that we make
Gloria, the Office of Strategic Intervention, and Dexta itself exceedingly proud.”

    “I know you will, Althea,” Gloria said graciously. “I’m sure you all will. Now, as to our
immediate plans, Petra and I will leave for Palmyra on a Dexta Flyer tomorrow. The rest of you
will depart via a Dexta Cruiser in a few days. Hopefully, Petra and I will be able to lay the
groundwork so that you can get straight to work as soon as we all meet again on Sylvania.
Thank you for coming, and I’ll see you soon.”

    With that, they all got to their feet and obediently followed Althea from the room. “Come,
children,” she said on their way out, “we must see to our packing. I think we can probably
dispense with cocktail gowns and tuxedos.” Petra followed them out, leaving Gloria alone with
Raul Tellemacher, who had lingered.

   Tellemacher approached Gloria, who already knew him better than she might have wished.
Back in Sector 8, Tellemacher, a member of a powerful Swiss banking family, had made a
predictable and, in Gloria’s view, highly obnoxious run at her. She found him arrogant and
boorish and had emphatically turned him down, resulting in a festering animosity that had
added some unneeded spice to their lives in Sector 8.

   “Raul,” she said to him, “I’m not any happier to see you here than you are to be here. But
you fit the profile as well as anyone we could find, so you’re going to Sylvania, like it or not.”

    “Not,” Tellemacher replied. “Seems like a stupid and trivial assignment. Still, I suppose it
will be a chance to get out of the office and stretch my legs.” He hardly needed the
opportunity. Tellemacher was a famed and talented Martian skier, and routinely spent his
weekends on the slopes of Olympus Mons.

   “I hear there’s snow on the mountains on Sylvania,” Gloria said. “Maybe you should take
your skis.”

    “I had a different sort of exercise in mind,” Tellemacher told her. He stepped close to her,
grinned, and softly tweaked her left nipple with his right thumb.

   Gloria removed his thumb, getting him in a Qatsima grip. Qatsima was a combination of
martial arts, ballet, and acrobatics that had been developed centuries earlier on the planet of
Songchai. Gloria religiously practiced the discipline, leaving her fit, trim, and safe from all but
the most skilled and determined of assaults. She applied a little torque to the grip and
Tellemacher winced for a moment before she released him.

   “Same old Gloria, I see.”

   “Believe it.”

    “I thought you might have changed, from what I’ve been seeing in the vids. Or is it just
that you prefer debasing yourself with all those idiot jocks and low-class fame mongers?”

   “I certainly prefer it to debasing myself with high-class oafs. Let me make one thing clear,
Raul. If you think this assignment means you’ll get another shot at me, you are sadly
mistaken.”

   “No such thing,” Tellemacher assured her. “I go in service to Dexta and the Empire. My
motives are every bit as pure as yours are, Gloria. See you on Sylvania.” Tellemacher allowed
himself another few seconds to enjoy the permutations of the stripes on her dress, then left
with a cheerful grin plastered on his face.

  Gloria watched him go and felt a sudden stab of doubt. What had he meant by that, she
wondered?

    He couldn’t possibly know anything, she told herself. The business about her motives was
just Tellemacher being his usual boorish self. And her own moment of doubt was just another
flash of the paranoia this mission was nourishing within her.

   Paranoia, she figured, was natural enough, under the circumstances. What treasonous
conspirator wouldn’t feel it?




                                          Chapter 5

THE SHUTTLE FROM PALMYRA ORBITAL STATION landed at the planet’s main airfield in
the midst of a driving rainstorm. Gloria and Petra, wearing raincoats and hats, hustled into the
waiting limo skimmer without being seen or recognized by anyone.

   Their journey in the two-person Dexta Flyer had taken them slightly more than five days.
The Flyer, which was little more than a hollow tube attached to a fusion reactor and a Ferguson
Distortion Generator, was the fastest available means of interstellar transport for human beings.
A robotic courier could have made the trip in less than two days, and a reusable messenger
vehicle in about two and a half. The Dexta Cruiser that was to bring Althea and the rest of the
team would make the same 517-light-year journey in about seven days. Getting to Sylvania,
another thirty light-years distant, would take a full day in a freighter.

    The limo took them through the crowded afternoon streets of Palmyra City to the Dexta
offices in the heart of the metropolis. Palmyra, with a population of 300 million, had been
settled by humans three and a half centuries earlier. Its growth had been stalled by the
proximity of the hostile Ch’gnth Confederacy, and the planet itself had come under attack
during the war, some five decades earlier. After a period of recovery and rebuilding, Palmyra
had become a crossroads for trade in this sector of the Empire, and was still riding a wave of
postwar prosperity. The City was marked by soaring towers and graceful low-gravity (.89 G)
architecture.

    The limo parked in the basement of the Dexta building, and eager gofers shepherded Gloria
and Petra up to the Imperial Secretary’s offices. Since the creation of the OSI had been highly
controversial—some Dexta offices had let it be known that any appearance by OSI personnel
on their turf would be less than welcome—Gloria had decided to try for a first impression that
would make the local staffers glad to see her, if not the OSI. That much was accomplished as
soon as she removed her raincoat.

    She wore only a flimsy, nearly transparent, pale yellow minidress with a wide V neckline
that plunged to her navel and left her nipples only partially covered. No part of her golden
body was fully hidden from view. She already had an Empire-wide reputation to live up to,
and was determined not to fall short of anyone’s expectations. Petra had settled for a standard
Dexta-gray skirt and a loose white pullover, thin enough to make it obvious that she wasn’t
wearing anything under it. The ladies from OSI had arrived on Palmyra, and no one was
disappointed by their appearance.

    After an exchange of pleasantries, Sabaru Graff, the Level XII Imperial Secretary and head
of the Dexta office on Palmyra, led them into a small conference room, where they met with
the Undersecretary for Administration, Jennifer Astuni, and the Imperial Geologist for the
sector, Stuart Eckstein. For historical reasons, Imperial Geologists were not under Dexta
administration but reported directly to the Imperial Geological Survey and Parliament.

    Graff had only been in his present position for a year, so he relied heavily on Astuni for
information about Sylvania. She was an efficient, dark-haired woman of about fifty, and not
nearly as impressed by Gloria as was Graff, but seemed eager to help. Eckstein, a tall,
sandy-haired man in his forties, had little to say at first, but fixed his probing gaze on Gloria.
They sat around a conference table and settled in while a couple of starry-eyed Level XV
assistants served them coffee and sandwiches, as slowly as possible, until a frown from Graff
finally sent them on their way.

    Gloria briefly recapped the nature of their mission, on which the local staff had already
received a briefing via messenger. Gloria’s mention of Mingus and the Emperor caused Graff to
straighten in his chair and sit at attention, but didn’t seem to affect either Astuni or Eckstein.
“What I need to know,” Gloria told them, “is as much as possible about the current situation
on the ground on Sylvania. Anything you can tell us would be of value, since we seem to be
short of information about what’s happening there.”

    “As are we,” Graff admitted. “We pick up some news now and then from freighter crews,
and, of course, we have contacts with the leaders of the Lodge and the corporate
representatives, but we don’t have anything like the detailed picture we would prefer. Jennifer
was on Sylvania about two months ago, but we don’t have any firsthand information more
recent than that.”

    “I doubt that there have been significant changes in the interim,” said Astuni, “but it’s hard
to be certain.”
   “I understand,” said Gloria. “What can you tell me about your last visit?”

    “Well,” Astuni began, “the first thing I found there was an empty Dexta office and a note
from the last staffer we had sent. It read, and I quote, ‘I quit! I’m off to Californee with a banjo
on my knee. Sincerely, Ben Tomsczak.’ Apparently, Ben went up into the hills to make his
fortune. I don’t know if he did or not.”

   Gloria nodded. “So, we still have an office there, I take it.”

   “We leased a couple of rooms in Elba’s Emporium, and so we should still have a place for
you to set up operations when you get there—assuming Elba hasn’t converted them into more
bedrooms.”

   “Who is Elba, and what is this Emporium?”

    Astuni grinned. “Elba is Elba Larkspur, the local madam and entrepreneur. One of a kind,
as you’ll discover. Her Emporium is this amazing collection of wooden structures that just grew
like Topsy in the past two years, one ramshackle addition after another. It started out as a
brothel and bar, naturally; but Elba expanded her operation to include gambling tables, a
dance hall, a restaurant, a general store, a number of offices, and for all I know, an amusement
park. It’s the center of practically everything that happens in Greenlodge. You have to see it to
believe it.”

   “Dexta has offices in a bordello?” Petra asked in wonderment.

   “We go where we must.” Astuni laughed. “I gather that it was a bit of a distraction, but not
exactly a hardship for Ben Tomsczak. But then, he got the get-rich-itch, same as practically
everyone else on Sylvania.”

   “I would think that Elba must have the same problem as we do, keeping employees,”
Gloria said. “How does she manage to keep people working for her?”

    “Good question,” said Astuni. “For the most part, her employees are prostitutes and bar
girls. The hookers probably make a fortune in bed, so they aren’t tempted to leave until the
right man comes along with a basketful of crowns. The bar girls make less, but they manage to
snag their share of lonely boomers. Still, there’s a pretty good turnover rate at the Emporium.
As for the other workers, we’re mainly talking about gamblers, grifters, and boomers who have
gone bust and need a job.”

   “What about the preboom local population? What’s become of them?”

   “Still there, mostly. Some of them made their own strikes and either left the planet or
invested in more mineral claims. But most of them have continued pretty much as before,
working for the Lodge and trying to have a normal life in the midst of the chaos.”

   Gloria nibbled at a watercress-and-cucumber sandwich and thought for a moment. “Tell
me about the Lodge,” she said. “How do they cope with the labor situation?”

    “As I said, they have quite a few locals who have remained loyal. But they’ve begun using
Elba as a sort of employment agency. Bar girls take turns going up to the Lodge to act as
serving girls and maids. Apparently it’s a pretty profitable arrangement for them. And, of
course, the prostitutes freelance at the Lodge on their own time.”
   “And who, exactly, is at the Lodge? Who runs it, who owns it?”

   “The Lodge manager,” Astuni answered, “is a no-nonsense character named Preston
Thawley, who has been there since the beginning. The ownership consists of five prominent
families from Palmyra, the foremost being that of Claude Rankus.”

   “Mr. Rankus,” put in Graff, “is the patriarch of one of the founding families of Palmyra. I
won’t say that they run the planet, but even the Imperial Governor is careful to keep them
happy.”

   “That would be Vincent DiGrazia,” Gloria noted. “Political appointee, of course, and,
according to my sources, something of a nonentity. Correct?”

   Graff seemed a little annoyed by such a frank assessment, but could only nod in agreement.
“He does as little as possible,” Graff admitted. “Which, of course, is something of a blessing for
Dexta. Spirit save us from activist ImpGovs, eh, Ms. VanDeen?”

   “It’s Gloria, and amen to that.” Gloria had a brief, unpleasant flashback to the last Imperial
Governor she had worked with, the late Governor Rhinehart of Mynjhino. “Tell me more
about Rankus.”

   “He’s a reactionary pig,” said Astuni, “but a very nice one.”

    “That’s putting it a little harshly, Jen,” Graff said. “And he is a very pleasant and engaging
man, actually, as long as he gets his own way. He’s over 140, and handed over the reins of the
family interests on Palmyra to his sons a number of years ago. Spends most of his time now on
Sylvania.”

    “He sees himself as essentially a feudal lord,” said Astuni. “And many of the locals seem
perfectly happy to be his serfs. But the boomers infuriate him.”

   “But he has this Grunfeld character to keep them in line,” Gloria offered.

    “Kevin Grunfeld,” Astuni declared, “is the meanest, most thoroughly despicable son of a
bitch I’ve ever met. The only good thing you can say about him is that he and his thugs
manage to maintain some semblance of law and order on the planet, which is a necessity in the
middle of a boom. Of course, the law is pretty much whatever Rankus says it is, or what
Grunfeld decides it ought to be on any given day.”

   “I see,” said Gloria. “Considering what you’ve said, I would assume that we could expect
Rankus and Grunfeld to oppose our attempt to register voters?”

   “Count on it,” said Astuni. “As long as they can prevent the appointment of an Imperial
Governor, Rankus stays in charge of his little fiefdom, and Grunfeld keeps his job.”

    “What about the other Lodge families? I would think that some of them would want to
cash in on the boom and bring in the corporates.”

   “Some of them probably do,” said Graff, “but even they tread lightly around Rankus. The
profits from the small-scale mining going on now are probably not enough to tempt them into
openly opposing him, but that could change when the Big Twelve arrive. From what I hear,
some of them are apparently already looking for ways to circumvent him, but Rankus is rich,
powerful, and highly respected. Even his partners at the Lodge would be reluctant to go against
his wishes. For the moment, the most they’ve been able to do is invite representatives of some
of the Big Twelve to stay at the Lodge and keep track of developments. Rankus allows this, but
I gather that there is a lot of sub rosa politicking going on. We haven’t been able to determine
exactly what’s happening, however.”

   “It would be nice if we could,” Gloria said thoughtfully. She glanced at Petra, who had been
industriously taking notes on her pad. Petra felt her gaze and looked up.

   “What?” she said.

   “Petra,” Gloria said, “I think I have an assignment for you.”

   “Oh?” For some reason, Petra didn’t seem to like the sound of that.

   “We need to get a pair of eyes and ears into the Lodge. It occurs to me that if we could get
you a job at the Emporium, you might be able to do a little spying up at the Lodge.”

   Petra gulped. Her eyes widened.

    “Not that kind of job,” Gloria quickly assured her. “I was thinking you could get a job as a
bar girl and use that to worm your way into the Lodge as one of the maids or serving girls.
What about that, Jennifer? Possible?”

    Astuni grinned at Petra. “Elba would snap you up in a heartbeat, Petra. Of course, she’d try
to get you to, uh, do the other work, but I think she’d be more than happy to have you
working the bar.”

   Petra thought furiously. “But … well, I mean, I don’t know how good a spy I’d make. I
mean, I was on the vids for a while there during Mynjhino, Gloria. What if someone recognized
me?”

    “Your hair is a bit longer now,” Gloria pointed out, “and anyway, all fame is fleeting. Tell
you what, why don’t you go blond or get some curls? Even a small change like that ought to be
enough to keep you from being recognized. In the unlikely event that someone does connect
you with me, you’d just be another Dexta staffer who quit to make her fortune in the boom. I
think this will work, if you don’t mind serving beer and mopping a few floors for a little while.
After all, aren’t you the woman who told me a week ago that she thought registering voters
would be ‘routine’? Being a spy ought to be anything but routine, wouldn’t you say?”

   Gloria sat there, grinning at her assistant, who could only take it in silence. Finally she said,
“Okay, okay, I’ll do it. I’ll be your little Mata Petra. But I get to keep any tips I make, right?”

    “You’ll make plenty, then,” Astuni assured her. “You’ll remind all those lonely boomers of
the girl they left behind them. Just be careful you don’t let Elba push you into anything you
don’t want to do.”

   “No chance of that,” Petra said firmly.

    “I don’t know,” said Jennifer. “If I were a little younger and as pretty as you … it’s not as if
prostitution were still a crime, you know. And from what I hear, a lot of those girls have gotten
rich.”

   “I’ll pass,” Petra said. “Anyway, if Elba wants to recruit some horizontal help, I know where
she can find someone who wouldn’t mind.” She glared meaningfully at Gloria.

    Gloria airily dismissed the notion, although it did intrigue her a little. “I’m too famous,” she
said. “It would disrupt the regular trade too much. Anyway, I expect to be busy with other
matters.”

   She turned to the Imperial Geologist. “Dr. Eckstein,” she said, “tell me about Fergusite.”

    “It’s Stu,” he said, “and I’ve prepared some material for you. If you’ll look at the console, I’ll
take you through a quick course on Fergusite.”

    A series of images appeared on the console screen as Eckstein narrated. “Half a billion years
ago,” he began, as geologists often do, “a volcano erupted about a hundred kilometers inland
from the present-day southern coastline. The flow of highly enriched silicate lava spread out in
this fan-shaped pattern, to the south of the eruption site. The flow covered the existing terrain
with a stratum that ranged from less than a meter to more than ten meters in depth. We don’t
have precise measurements because we’ve only had limited time and opportunity to take core
samples, but the best guess is that the flow is about eighty kilometers from east to west, at
maximum extent, where it reaches the modern coastline.

    “Time passed,” Eckstein continued, “lots of it. There were other eruptions, other flows, plus
a lot of faulting, upthrusting, and erosion. In the process of all that activity, the initial flow was
covered up and subjected to a great deal of heat and pressure. I won’t bore you with the details,
but the combination of factors was precisely what was necessary to turn that first flow into a
natural layer of almost pure Fergusite. It’s the only one we’ve ever found in the Empire,
and—for all we know—it might be the only one in the entire galaxy. At best, it’s exceedingly
rare stuff.”

   “And it’s pure enough to run a distortion generator?” Petra asked.

     “The samples we’ve seen so far seem to be. Of course, the formation itself is not one
hundred percent Fergusite because the crystals are embedded in a matrix of other minerals.
But, again, I caution that we haven’t seen very much of the formation. Here, let me bring up
the map of the current landforms. As you see, the modern coastal plain is anywhere from ten
to thirty kilometers wide, and the Fergusite layer underlies most of it. In the region of
Greenlodge, it’s at a depth of perhaps a hundred meters. The layer continues on up into the
mountains, and there, erosion and faulting have brought it to the surface at some locations. But
it’s all one contiguous formation, all the way back to the volcano that created it.”

   “Does it continue out to sea?” Gloria asked.

    “No more than a few kilometers. There’s a pretty sharp drop-off to the continental shelf,
and we don’t think that the Fergusite continues beyond the shelf. Now, notice this inverted V
in the coastline. That’s formed by the Rankus River, which has eroded away a valley that
extends inland about fifty kilometers. The river comes plunging out of the mountains at that
point, forming a truly spectacular waterfall, which you really ought to take the time to see
while you’re there. Downstream, the river is fed by numerous creeks and streams coming out
of the mountains on either side. It widens and becomes fairly placid here. It’s quite deep in
some spots, but there are shallows and a number of good fords.”

   “And Greenlodge is there, on the coast, on the east side of the river?”
   “Right. And there’s the Lodge, up on the slopes, about ten kilometers inland, to the
northeast.”

    Eckstein hit a button on his pad, and a bright green stripe appeared on both flanks of the V
formed by the Rankus River Valley. “That’s the most accessible part of the Fergusite layer,” he
explained. “And that’s where most of the mining claims have been established. However, over
time, a lot of Fergusite has eroded away from the slopes and made its way down the streams
and into the river. A good many of the boomers spend their time in the little creeks and the
shallows of the river, panning for Fergusite. Most of the crystals they find are just a couple of
millimeters in diameter, although I saw one that was as big as an apple.”

   “What good are the tiny crystals?” Petra asked. “I mean, you can’t run a starship on
something that small, can you?”

    Eckstein shook his head. “All of the crystals have to be processed back on Palmyra before
they can be used,” he explained. “Impurities and bits of the country rock that cling to the
crystals have to be removed, then the crystals themselves are run through a hyperpressure
amalgamator that turns them into slabs appropriate for distortion generators. But it all adds up,
so even the millimeter-sized crystals have value.”

   “So all of the Fergusite comes from the creeks?” Gloria asked.

   “Not exactly. That’s where the first discoveries were made, and it’s still where most of the
production comes from. But there’s more of it up on the slopes, although it’s harder and more
expensive to get at. You see, the miners are limited in their use of plasma drills. A lot of the
work is plain old pick-and-shovel digging.”

   “I couldn’t believe it when I saw it for the first time,” Jennifer Astuni added. “It’s like
looking at a vid of the California Gold Rush in the eighteenth century—”

   “Nineteenth,” Eckstein corrected.

   “Whatever,” Jennifer said. “But you see all these characters straight out of a history vid,
banging away with hand tools and nothing but their own muscle power. Amazing.”

     “That’s mainly, but not entirely, a consequence of the nature of Fergusite,” Eckstein said.
“It’s also a consequence of the way Rankus and Grunfeld run their little realm, but we can talk
about that later.” He glanced at Gloria, who nodded.

   “Why can’t the miners use plasma drills?” Petra wondered.

     “They can,” Eckstein replied, “but only with the greatest of care. What makes Fergusite so
valuable is the way its unique crystal structure focuses energy. In a distortion generator, it’s
used in the form of small rectangular slabs, about a centimeter thick, five centimeters wide,
and ten long. The slabs slide through the locus of the generator as a thin plasma stream from
the fusion reactor plays back and forth across it, at a precisely controlled rate. The infusion of
all that energy, as focused by the latticework in the Fergusite, warps space-time and forms the
Yao-space membrane that lets starships slide through normal space at superluminal velocities.
At least, that’s what they tell me—I’m a geologist, not a physicist.”

   “We aren’t even geologists,” Gloria said. “Assume, for the moment, that we are, in fact,
complete idiots.”
    Eckstein smiled at her. “I don’t believe that for an instant,” he said, “but I’ll try to make this
as clear as possible. When the plasma beam strikes the Fergusite, the crystal latticework quickly
breaks down, making it unusable, which is why the beam must keep in motion continuously
as fresh slabs slide through the locus. Now, if you input too much energy at any one spot, not
only does the lattice decay, but the excess energy is transmitted to the adjoining Fergusite,
destroying it, as well. If that happened in a starship, you’d collapse the Yao bubble, rupture the
fusion reactors, and get a helluva big explosion.”

    Petra and Gloria looked at each other. On Mynjhino, they had witnessed—from a safe
distance—precisely such an event, when the FDGs on an Imperial Marine vessel suffered an
apparent energy overload as it attempted to perform a task for which it had never been
designed. The ship disappeared in a nanosecond of thermonuclear fury.

   “So if the miners used a plasma drill, they’d cause an explosion?” Petra asked.

     Eckstein shook his head. “No, but what would happen is that the energy overload from the
drill would flow outward from the spot of impact and destroy the crystal structure of the
surrounding Fergusite, making it completely worthless. You’d wind up destroying the very
stuff you were trying to get. So the miners can only use the plasma drills to cut into the
overlying rock layers, enabling them to get at the Fergusite with pick and shovel. Even then,
it’s a tricky business. If their aim is off by only a little, and they hit any part of the Fergusite
deposit, they can ruin an entire outcrop.” He glanced quickly at Gloria, who gave him a subtle
nod.

    “Well,” Gloria said, “thank you very much for the primer. I have some more questions for
you about the mining operations on Palmyra, but I don’t want to burden everyone else with
that. What I suggest, instead, is that you show me the best restaurant on Palmyra, my treat,
and we can discuss this further. Meanwhile, Petra, why don’t you coordinate details with
Sabaru and Jennifer concerning the arrival of Althea’s team? Also, make sure our own
transport to Sylvania is set. Okay?”

    Petra nodded obediently. Petra was Gloria’s friend, but she was also her assistant. And
sometimes, the boss got to go off to an expensive dinner with a handsome guy, while the loyal
assistant did the drudge work. Gloria wasted no time feeling guilty about it.




THE BEST RESTAURANT ON PALMYRA WELCOMED Gloria as if she were visiting royalty.
She and Eckstein chatted idly over an excellent dinner and some passable wine while other
diners gawked. Inevitably, some local media reps showed up, and Gloria gave them a few
minutes to ask stupid questions and image her famous face and nearly nude body. Then she
sent them on their way and returned to her table to share coffee and brandy with Eckstein.

   “They’ll give us some privacy now,” she explained. “It’s sort of an unspoken deal I have
with the media. Seems to work.”

   “Do you think it’s a good idea to bring so much attention to yourself, all things
considered?” Eckstein asked dubiously.

   “All things considered,” she replied, “it’s the perfect cover. I make something of a splash
wherever I go, so it’s better to play to it than try to hide from it—that would only make them
suspicious.”

   “And we don’t want that.”

    “We’re just a couple out for dinner—there’s certainly nothing suspicious about that, is
there?”

   “Spirit, I hope not,” Eckstein agreed. “All things considered.”




STUART ECKSTEIN LAY BACK ON THE PILLOW and tried to catch his breath, following the
best sex of his life. Gloria, still panting a little, cuddled up next to him and played with the hairs
on his chest.

   “I didn’t expect this,” Eckstein admitted.

   “Well,” Gloria said, “I figured that if we were going to be plotting treason together, we
should have a close working relationship.” Her hand moved downward over his torso. “I mean,
consider my position. Here I am, caught between a rock and a hard geologist!”

    Eckstein laughed and gave her a kiss. “I’ll try not to give you as much trouble as the rock,”
he said. “Goddamn Fergusite! I wish I’d never found the stuff.”

   “You made the discovery? I didn’t know that!”

   “Not personally. Someone brought me a sample on Palmyra and asked me what the hell it
was. When I realized what I had … well, I was dumb enough to report it to the Imperial
Geological Survey. So this whole mess is my fault, in a way.”

   “Is that why you’re doing this?”

    Eckstein shook his head. “I’m doing it because when I was on Earth last month, Mingus
confronted me with the logic of my own position and used that to beat me into submission. So
I found myself enlisting in his little scheme. Until tonight, I was still tempted to desert. Is that
why Mingus sent you here?”

    Gloria looked at Eckstein’s tanned, weather-beaten face and saw that his question was
sincere. “If it was,” Gloria told him honestly, “he didn’t tell me. But knowing Norman, I
suppose he had this in mind all along. He would never ask me to sleep with someone—I
think—but he probably counted on it happening. He knows me pretty well, too.”

   “I’m getting to know you a little myself,” Eckstein said, and began to massage her left
nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “You are every bit as remarkable as I’ve heard.”

   “If you keep that up,” Gloria assured him, “you’ll see just how remarkable I can be. And
you, Mr. Imperial Geologist, are pretty remarkable yourself. How come some smart woman
hasn’t already grabbed you?”

    “One did, but she thought I spent too much time with rocks and not enough with her, so
she dumped me. A good move for both of us.”
    “Speaking of rocks,” Gloria said, trying to keep focused as Eckstein shifted his attentions to
her other nipple, “can we really do this? Will it work?”

   Eckstein shook his head indecisively. “It should, but it’s only theory. Spirit only knows
what will happen in the end. The computer models indicate that it ought to work, but the real
problem will be getting the equipment in place, finding the right spot, and keeping it all under
wraps. I still don’t see how the hell we’re going to do that.”

    “Couldn’t we just use a plasma drill? From what you said earlier, it sounds like that ought
to do the job.”

    “Not enough power,” Eckstein said. “Plasma drills just damage the crystals in the
immediate vicinity. To destroy the entire Fergusite layer, we’ll need a fusion reactor. The
energy input has to be constant and precisely regulated. Too much power, and we’d destroy
the crystal structure and ruin the energy-transfer properties of the Fergusite, which would
prevent us from getting at the rest of the layer. Too little, and the energy never reaches the rest
of the layer. A fusion reactor is the only option, and we have to find a spot where we can let it
run for more than a month.”

   “Couldn’t we go way up into the hills or mountains where no one would see it?”

    “I don’t think that would work. There are prospectors wandering around all over the place,
even a hundred kilometers inland. Wherever we set it up, someone would spot it sooner or
later. And if anyone ever finds out what we’re up to, you and I will spend the rest of our lives
on a prison world … assuming the boomers don’t just lynch us on the spot.”

   “Well, we’ll think of something when we get to Sylvania. I hope.” Gloria drew her breath in
sharply and managed to stave off a miniorgasm. Her hypersensitive nipples—and navel, as
Eckstein was now discovering—were undoubtedly a blessing, but also a powerful distraction.

  “Maybe we should just tell Mingus that we couldn’t find a way to do it and call off the
whole thing,” Eckstein suggested.

   “You know we can’t do that,” Gloria responded sharply.

   Eckstein sighed audibly. “No,” he agreed, “I suppose we can’t. In for a penny, in for a
crown. Considering what’s at stake, we’ll have to give it our best shot, no matter what.”

   “Give me your best shot!” Gloria abruptly insisted. Eckstein had driven all thoughts of
Fergusite and treasonous conspiracy from her mind. For the moment.

   But the moment went on for quite some time.




                                          Chapter 6

THE TRAMP FREIGHTER MADE A SMOOTH LANDING in the sea south of Greenlodge and
cruised to the dock at the mouth of the river. The journey from Palmyra had taken a little more
than a day, and Gloria and Eckstein had spent most of that time in their tiny private stateroom;
back home, Gloria had closets that were bigger. Petra, meanwhile, after a hurried shopping
expedition to acquire a kit more suitable to her new station in life, had spent the trip in the
hold, competing for hammock space with other low-budget travelers. Most of them were
boomers, who paid her little attention; their minds were fixed on the fortunes they were about
to make.

    Gloria and Eckstein debarked, and were quickly accosted on the pier by two skinny
teenage boys who offered to carry their baggage for ten crowns apiece. The deal made, they
followed closely behind Gloria, snickering to each other about the view. Gloria was wearing a
sheer white shirt, knotted at the waist and unbuttoned, and a pair of jeans slung perilously low
on her hips.

   “How do you keep them from falling off?” Eckstein asked as he surveyed the expanse of
bared belly and buttocks.

   “I only wear them on low-gravity worlds,” Gloria explained with a smile.

    Sylvania’s gravity was only .93 G, putting a spring into the step of new arrivals. Perhaps it
also accounted for the air of bustling energy that permeated the dockside. Stevedores were
already busy unloading the freighter and transferring its contents to the row of warehouses that
fronted the pier. Hustlers of every description were loudly hawking wares ranging from maps
to mining equipment, while the newly arrived boomers made their way through the confusion
with feigned confidence and brisk strides. Among them, a newly blond and curly-haired Petra
lugged a duffel bag over her shoulder and successfully blended into the scene.

   Gloria paused at the end of the pier and looked around. Ahead of her, she saw the town of
Greenlodge, in all its seedy splendor. Everything seemed to be made of wood, the only
available local building material. Looking upriver, she noticed a sawmill and a large float of logs
bobbing in the tidewater. Utility skimmers were hauling fresh-cut boards directly to a half
dozen building sites that punctuated what passed for the town’s main street. It was unpaved
and muddy, with dozens of unconcerned boomers sloshing along on their errands. Everyone
seemed to have someplace to go, something important to do.

    She spotted Elba’s Emporium almost immediately. It looked like an old wooden barn that
had started to explode but changed its mind. In places, it was as much as three stories high,
with various extensions that seemed to have been added as hasty afterthoughts. Wings stuck
out at odd angles, and here and there a door or window interrupted the siding. Some of the
structure was painted a luminous green, some of it had been sloppily whitewashed, and large
sections of it consisted of raw, unpainted wood. A red-paint sign on one side declared:




     ELBA’S EMPORIUM! GIRLS! BEER! ROOMS! GIRLS! GEAR! FOOD! EATS! GIRLS!




THE EMPORIUM DOMINATED THE CENTER OF THE town, with other, less ambitious
structures strung out to its flanks, on both sides of the street. These included such
establishments as boardinghouses, metalsmiths, equipment rentals, a Vid Palace, some small
bars and restaurants, a place that offered hot showers, a hardware store or two, and
unidentifiable hovels that already seemed to be sinking back into the mud. Beyond the
permanent or semipermanent structures, Gloria noticed several acres of tents, large and small,
canvas and synthetic, in a rainbow of hues; it looked like the bivouac grounds of a defeated
army of color-blind circus clowns.

    To the left of the Emporium, she saw a white, two-story building with a sign on it that said,
GREENLODGE CITY HALL. KEVIN A. GRUNFELD, MAYOR. No one was going in or out of
the front entrance at the moment, but in the alley to the right, there was a long queue of
boomers waiting to gain access to a side door. Two large men with plasma pistols holstered on
their hips stood leaning against the wall, keeping watch.

   “That’s the assay office,” Eckstein explained. “It’s where the miners bring their crystals and
exchange them for crowns. Grunfeld runs it, of course, and takes 20 percent off the top.”

   “How much would that amount to?” Gloria wondered.

   “By now, millions. Grunfeld has expenses of his own, and probably has to pay a cut to the
Lodge, but he’s already a wealthy man. See those little knapsacks the miners are clutching?
Every one of them is probably worth tens of thousands of crowns.”

   “That much?” Gloria gave a low, impressed whistle. “I had no idea.”

    Eckstein nodded. “A kilo of pure artificial Fergusite is worth about a hundred thousand
crowns. The same amount of processed Sylvania Fergusite is worth about ten thousand, back
on Palmyra. The raw stuff is worth about half that, here, and the miners only get about
thirty-five hundred or four thousand for it from Grunfeld. Still, somebody with ten kilos of it
in his pack could walk away with forty thousand crowns.”

   “So people really are getting rich here?”

    “Momentarily, at least,” said Eckstein. “See those boomrats waiting in line? Most of them
will spend a week in town, whooping it up and blowing off steam. By the time they go back to
their diggings, half of them will be as broke as they were when they got here. A steak dinner, a
few beers, and a room for the night at Elba’s will cost them about five hundred crowns, not
including a girl. Then there are the gamblers, the inflated charges for everything from shovels
to toilet paper, and various bad guys who will try to separate them from their money.”

   “Isn’t there a local police force?” Gloria asked.

    Eckstein pointed toward the two men with plasma pistols at City Hall. “Grunfeld’s thugs,”
he said. “Of course, they also steal, as well as protect and serve. And sometimes, they just
dispose of anyone who gives them trouble.”

   “Why doesn’t the Imperial Marshal’s Office on Palmyra send someone?”

   “Oh, every few months, they’ll send a couple of deputies, who look around for a day or
two, then leave. I suspect that the Marshal’s Office is worried about its personnel here the same
way Dexta is.”

   “Well, there must be some way for those miners to hang on to their money. Isn’t there a
bank?”
   “Sure. Grunfeld. He’s got the only vault on the planet, along with his other enterprises. He
only charges 10 percent a month for its use.”

   “Wait a minute. He doesn’t pay interest, he charges it?”

   Eckstein nodded. “It’s either that or sleep on your crowns and hope they’re still there when
you wake up. If you wake up.”

   Gloria shook her head in amazement. “Doesn’t anyone get off Sylvania with their money?”

    “Some do,” said Eckstein. “Look there.” He pointed toward the end of the dock, where a
black-bearded man, resplendent in brand-new store-bought duds, was making his way toward
the freighter, his gaudy new bride at his side. He was smoking a big cigar and tossing crowns
to a bunch of kids, laughing expansively.

   “Of course,” Eckstein pointed out, “when he gets to Palmyra, the locals there will try to strip
him just as clean as the locals here. They’ll just do it in a more civilized manner.”

   “Whew,” said Gloria. “Quite a place!”

    “Just a typical boomworld,” Eckstein said. “Not much different from the thorium strike on
Mirabelle Four a century ago or, for that matter, the California gold fields or the Klondike,
fourteen centuries ago. What everyone wants is in the ground. What everyone needs has to
come from somewhere else, at great expense. For every miner who makes a fortune, there are
ten merchants, hustlers, and thieves who make a bigger one.”

   “What we need now, I think,” Gloria said, looking around, “is a taxi—unless we want to
walk through the mud all the way to the Emporium. Are there any?”

    “Best just to rent a skimmer.” Eckstein pointed to a rental lot a few meters from the end of
the pier. “They’re expensive as hell, naturally, but we’ll need one to get up to the diggings. Not
that you can use them all the way up into the slopes. Skimmers don’t work well in broken
ground, you know. In terrain like this, the mass repulsion unit will flip you over if you aren’t
careful.”

    They approached the rental agent and found a serviceable utility skimmer at a price so low
that Gloria managed not to gasp out loud. But when she attempted to pay with her pad, the
agent insisted on cash. “This ain’t no city, lady,” the agent told her. “Don’t matter how pretty
you are, it’s crowns on the barrelhead for everyone.”

   “But it’s a Dexta account,” Gloria explained. “And I’m—”

   “Shitfire!” cried the rental agent. “I know who you are! You’re that Gloria gal, ain’t you?”

   Gloria grinned at him and hooked her thumbs in her jeans, tugging them downward
another centimeter. “I sure am,” she said, “and I just know you aren’t going to let me down,
Mr. … uh …?”

   “Tom Greeley, ma’am! Mighty pleased to make your acquaintance, damned if I’m not! And
you say it’s a Dexta account? Well, I guess I can make an exception in your case.”

   “Thank you so much, Mr. Greeley.” Gloria gave him her Grade-A smile. “I knew I could
count on you. I hope I’ll see you around town while I’m here.”
   “Ain’t no doubt about that, ma’am!”

   As they got into the utility skimmer, the boys with the bags piling into the back, Eckstein
looked at Gloria and shook his head. “You could own the entire planet in about a week if you
put your mind to it.”

   Gloria simply shrugged. “I use what I’ve got,” she said. “Life’s a little easier that way.”




THE INTERIOR OF ELBA’S EMPORIUM WAS AS helter-skelter as its exterior. They entered
through the front door, dodging a rowdy drunk who was busy being ejected by a bouncer the
size of a small mountain, and found themselves in a sort of anteroom with a front desk, as in a
hotel. At the desk, a sleepy-looking old man roused himself, did a double take at the sight of
Gloria, then quickly resumed his somnolent demeanor.

   “What’ll it be? Room? Meal? Drinks? Through the door to your right. General store’s to
your left.”

   “We’d like to talk to Ms. Larkspur,” Gloria told him. “I’m from Dexta, and we want to see
about our offices.”

   The old man took new interest. “Dexta, eh? Figured you’d be back. I’ll get Elba.” He hit a
button on the desk, then sat back on his stool.

    While they were waiting, a grime-covered boomrat strolled over to them and carefully
inspected Gloria. “You the new whore?” he asked. “Sure hope so. Just lost that pretty little
Della. Up and married Jim the Jumper. Ol’ Jim’s takin’ her off to Palmyra with him. Like she
ain’t gonna grab his wallet and hightail it, soon as she can. Sure will miss that gal. But I’d pay
double for you, missy, damn sure I would.”

   “Out of curiosity,” Gloria asked, “how much would that be?”

    “Two thousand a night for you.” The boomrat took a closer look, taking particular note of
Gloria’s jutting nipples, barely contained and not at all concealed by her shirt. “Shit, make that
three. Spirit’s holy tits, make it five!”

   “And you could afford that?”

   “Damn straight, I can! Lookit here, missy!” The boomrat turned his pockets inside out, and
hundred-crown coins rattled onto the floor.

    “Oh, stop showing off, Willie,” said a scratchy voice coming up from behind them. “Pick
up your money and go find another one of the girls. This here lady ain’t for sale anywise. She
ain’t no whore, she’s Gloria VanDeen from Dexta, ain’t you?”

   “That’s who I am,” Gloria said, turning to meet Elba Larkspur with a smile. “Pleased to
meet you, Ms. Larkspur.” She extended her hand.

    “The name’s Elba,” replied the massive woman approaching her. They shook hands and
stepped back to take each other’s measure.
    Elba Larkspur might once have been a beautiful woman, a century earlier. Now, she was
merely impressive, the way old cathedrals, ancient ruins, and extinct volcanoes are. She was tall
but slightly stooped, well rounded but not quite fat, and overflowed from a black-and-scarlet
bustier in a manner that was equally sexual and slovenly. Her face was lined and craggy, with
the red nose of a longtime drinker and watery blue eyes that had seen more than they should
have. Her hair was a strange mix of gold and silver, in extravagant disarray, like a battle plan
with sound strategy but faulty tactics. She gave the impression of a woman who had once
cared a great deal about the way she looked but no longer did, while still remembering that she
once had.

    She turned toward Eckstein and gave him a yellow-toothed smile. “Good to see ya back,
Stu. Tell me … ya fucked her yet?”

   Eckstein didn’t quite blush, but found himself tongue-tied for a moment, so Gloria
answered for him. “Indeed, he has,” she said.

   “And is she all she’s cracked up to be?”

   “More,” Eckstein managed, with a crooked smile and a glance toward Gloria.

    “Pity you’re already rich, hon,” Elba said to Gloria. “Don’t suppose I can talk ya into takin’
a turn in the rooms? Might be interestin’ for ya. Educational, mebbe.”

   “Business before pleasure, Elba,” Gloria said.

   “You’ve come about the office, then. Knew somebody would, so I kept ‘em for ya. Damn
near broke my heart to leave those rooms empty, but I made a deal, and I always keep my
word. In a business like mine, sometimes my word is all I’ve got to fall back on. Okay, I’ll show
‘em to ya.”

    Elba laboriously led them up a creaky wooden staircase to the second floor and pushed
open a door. Inside, they found nothing but a broken chair and a few files scattered on the
floor.

   “What happened to the computers that were here?” Eckstein asked her.

   “Said I’d keep the rooms for ya. Didn’t say I’d guard ‘em night and day.”

   “It doesn’t matter,” Gloria said. “We’ll be bringing in new equipment and a new staff in
about a week. I’ll also need to find lodging for eight people.”

   “Can’t spare that many rooms,” Elba said. “But I’ll talk to Mort Newsome and see if he can
accommodate ya over to his roomin’ house. What about you two? Got a room?”

   “Not yet,” Gloria told her. “Can you do something about that?”

   “Glad to. Even give ya a rate. I figure it’ll increase trade 20 percent, just havin’ ya here.
People are gonna walk a long way just to get a look at you, hon. But ya gotta promise to have
dinner with me downstairs tonight. I wanna show off my high-class clientele, ya know what I
mean?”

    “It will be a pleasure,” Gloria told her, grinning. “I’ll try to give them something worth
seeing.”
GLORIA AND ECKSTEIN WENT OFF TO TAKE A stroll around the town. Elba went back
down to the bar and found a young woman waiting to speak with her. She was short, with
curly, medium blond hair, a pretty face, and a cute little body.

   “My name’s Petra,” she said. “They told me I might find work here.”

   “They told you right, hon,” Elba said. “You got any experience?”

   “Well, I waited tables for a while when I was in school.”

   “Tables? Shit, that ain’t what I meant. You mean to tell me, you ain’t fixin’ to work the
rooms?”

    “The rooms? You mean … oh … the rooms. No, no, I just wanted to get a job as one of your
bar girls, that’s all.”

    “You sure? You could make a pretty penny in the rooms, hon. You ain’t what I’d call
gorgeous, but ya got that ‘girl next door’ look that a lotta men get all mushy for. And I’d treat
ya right, just ask any of my girls. No more’n ten men a night, no kinky stuff unless they pay
extra and you agree, and I only take half. Ya won’t find a better deal anywhere.”

   “No … no, I mean, I know you would … that is, if I were … uh … please, I just want to
work the bar.”

     “Well,” said Elba, “if that’s what ya want. But if ya change your mind, let me know. Okay,
let’s see your stuff, kid.”

   “My stuff? It’s all in my duffel bag, but—”

   “No, no, hon—your stuff. Take off those duds and let me see what ya got.”

   “What? Here?”

    “Well where did ya think I meant? Take a look around, hon. This here’s Elba’s Emporium,
not some hoity-toity tearoom.”




PETRA DID LOOK AROUND FOR THE FIRST TIME, and her mouth dropped open at what
she saw. At a nearby table, a round of beers was being served by a frizzy-haired redhead,
wearing nothing but a tiny G-string and a smile. Petra groaned, and silently cursed Gloria. And
Jennifer Astuni, too—she might at least have mentioned this minor detail about Elba’s bar girls.

   “C’mon, hon. Ain’t got all day. Ya want the job or not?”

    Not, thought Petra, but she knew that she couldn’t back out now. Gloria trusted her to get
the job done, and if she let her down, that trust might never fully return.

   Petra closed her eyes for a second, then got to work unbuttoning her shirt. She hesitated,
then unfastened her skirt and let her garments drop to the floor. She was left wearing only the
tiniest pair of pale blue bikini panties that she owned. She mentally kicked herself for having
chosen them this morning.

    “Not bad at all,” Elba declared. “Great little ass, hon, very sexy twat, and those cute little tits
will get you a lot of tips. Those shoes won’t do, but I’ll have one of the girls get you some high
heels. The panties will be okay until we can get you a G-string, unless you’d rather go without.
Bigger tips that way. No? Okay, hon, bar’s right over there. Get to work.”

   “Now?”

   “Why the hell not?”

   “But … but … uh, I mean, what do I get paid?”

     “Room and board, of course. What did ya expect? I split the tips fifty-fifty, and don’t try
holdin’ out on me. Look, hon, I can see you’re new at this, but you’ll get used to it quick
enough. And when ya work for Elba, ya got nothin’ to worry about. Oh, the men can give ya a
little squeeze or a pinch, long as they don’t bruise the merchandise. That just gets them primed
for the rooms, ya see. But anyone gives ya real trouble, just call for Ernie, over there.” Elba
pointed toward the bouncer, standing near the bar. “I don’t stand for no one givin’ my girls a
hard time. The boys know that, and they’ll behave themselves proper, or Ernie’ll show ‘em the
door good and quick. You’ll do just fine, hon. So get to work now. I can’t stand here all day
yappin’!”

   Petra nodded obediently and got to work, reminding herself that she was—thank the
Spirit—542 light-years from Weehawken.




GLORIA AND ECKSTEIN EMERGED FROM THEIR room on the second floor, then paused
for a moment at the top of the staircase that led down from the encircling balcony to the big,
main room, where scores of boomers were eating, drinking, gambling, and ogling the bar girls.
The hubbub in the Emporium gradually died away to dead silence as people noticed her.

    She was wearing a deep purple dress that displayed rather than concealed her legs, breasts,
belly, and blondness; it was held together by a diamond brooch at her navel, and was as
revealing in back as in front. Gloria loved moments like this, when she was undressed to the
nines and every eye was on her. Beyond the intense sexual thrill, she felt as if she had just taken
a big, juicy bite out of the apple of life. She was Gloria VanDeen, Sweetheart of the Empire,
dammit—every man’s dream, every woman’s envy. That was what they said about her, at least,
and she had long since decided that she would be a fool not to revel in it.

    At the same time, there was calculation behind her exhibitionism. As she had discovered on
Mynjhino, she had the power to attract the loyalty and devotion of practically everyone who
saw her, and she could use that power to achieve her ends. The boomers of Sylvania would
rally to her and help her succeed in her mission, just for the sake of a close look at her body
and the sight of her smile.

   She gave them the smile now, and a friendly wave.

   The place went crazy.
  Gloria and Eckstein slowly made their way down the staircase as the boomrats roared,
whooped, shouted, and stomped.

   “You certainly know how to make an entrance,” Eckstein said to her.

   “It’s the exits the matter the most,” she replied. “But a good entrance certainly helps.”

    In due course, they arrived at the small table where Elba was waiting for them and took
their seats. The noise level in the Emporium gradually died down to something near normal.
“Hon,” Elba said in honest admiration, “I never seen the like. But let me tell ya somethin’. I
ain’t sayin’ I was ever as gorgeous as you, but a hundred years back, if a man was to have to
choose between the two of us, he might’ve had to take a couple of minutes to make up his
mind.”

   “I believe you, Elba,” Gloria said.




ELBA ORDERED BEERS AND DINNER DIRECTLY from the kitchen on her wristcom. The
beers promptly arrived, carried by a pretty young woman with a cute little body and a forced
smile on her face. She was wearing only a tiny, nearly transparent white G-string that didn’t
quite cover her most intimate region. A hint of reddish blush spread across her cheeks and
throat, and her pert, pink nipples were fully erect. Gloria suppressed a grin while Eckstein
looked away, trying not to embarrass Petra.

  “Off to a good start, hon,” Elba told her. “The boys been talkin’ ‘bout you a lot. Sure ya
won’t change your mind about workin’ the rooms? You could make a fortune.”

   “No thank you,” Petra said primly.

   “You don’t wanna get rich? Why the hell ya come here, then?”

   “It was to get away from someone.”

   “Ah,” Elba nodded. “A man.”

   “No,” Petra told her, “a woman. I worked for a horrible, evil woman who kept making me
do all these terrible things.” She glanced at Gloria and added, “But I’ll get even with her
someday, if it’s the last thing I do.”

    While Gloria put her hand over her mouth and tried not to laugh out loud, Elba offered
Petra counsel. “Child, ya can’t spend your life studyin’ revenge. Shit, if I carried all my old
grudges around with me, I’d need a Trans-Empire freighter just to tote ‘em. Now you just go
back to work and think happy thoughts.”

   Petra did as she was told, but didn’t look as if her thoughts were very happy.

    “Now then,” Elba said, wiping some beer suds from her mouth with the back of her wrist,
“let’s get to the conversation. First thing you’re gonna ask me is what’s a nice girl like me doin’
runnin’ a place like this, right?”

   “Absolutely,” Gloria agreed.
   “Well, it’s like this,” Elba began. “I was born out on the Frontier in Sector 4 on Hitchen’s
Haven, back durin’ the Troubles. One war after another in those days, and half the time we
were cut off from the rest of the Empire. So I never got much education, but I bet I’ve read
more books than you have, hon. I could talk just as formal and refined as you, had I a mind to,
but the places I’ve been, it’s best to be as folksy as the clientele.”

   “And what places are those?” Gloria asked.

    “Places like this one, mainly. Every damn boomworld for the last century, I’d guess, half
the hellholes, and one side o’ the Frontier to th’ other. You ask ‘em about me the next time ya
get to Jensen’s Reef or Bagosian Five. They’ll tell ya, all right. Been runnin’ bawdy houses since
the time of Edward III, and no one ever said Elba gave ‘em anything but the best,
circumstances allowin’. But I’ll tell ya, hon, this here’s my last go-round. I’m old and tired and
used up, and Sylvania’s gonna be my swan song. Gonna go live with my great-granddaughter
on Flavin Three. Gal’s got the best house in that whole damn sector, or so they say. Twenty
girls, silk sheets, the works. I guess the talent sorta runs in the family.”

     Their meals arrived, interrupting Elba’s flow. Everyone got beef stew. Between bites, Elba
explained that nearly all the food on the planet had to be imported, except for what was
produced exclusively for the Lodge by their own small truck farm and cattle ranch. There were
a few shepherds up in the hills, so lamb and mutton were sometimes available, and a handful
of fishermen trawled for Sylvania’s native fish, some of which were edible, if bony. But for the
most part, people had to get by on expensive frozen imports from Palmyra.

    “Got a cook who knows how to make a passable meal from what we get,” Elba said. “It
ain’t no filly-mig-none, but it sticks to your ribs and there’s plenty of it.”

   “It’s excellent,” Gloria said, meaning it.

     “Thankee,” said Elba. “Now, where was I? Oh, I was leavin’, that’s where I was. Yep, I’d
leave tomorrow if I could find someone to take this place off my hands and take care of my
girls. But the only one around here who wants it and can afford it is that goddamn Grunfeld,
and I’d hate like Hades to hafta sell it to him. He’s been tryin’ to pressure me ever since the
beginning, but I just won’t give him the satisfaction, ya see? Bastard already has his hooks in
everything around here, and if he got the Emporium … well, folks would have a worse time of
it than they already do. So I’m real glad to see you Dexta folks come back, hon, I truly am.
Mebbe if ya put Grunfeld in his place, a respectable buyer will show up and let me retire.
That’s what you’re gonna do, ain’t ya?” She looked hopefully at Gloria.

   “Well,” Gloria admitted, “not exactly. We’re just here to register voters, Elba, not to replace
Grunfeld or the Lodge or anyone else. Eventually, when we register enough of them, the
Emperor will appoint an Imperial Governor, then—well, I suppose things will change around
here. But maybe not in the way you want. I’m sorry, Elba, but I can’t promise you anything.”

   “That’s disappointin’, I don’t mind tellin’ ya. And—shit, speak o’ the devil!” A big,
swaggering man with a full black beard and a plasma pistol on his hip entered the main room
and started toward their table.

   “That’s Grunfeld?” Gloria asked.

   “No, just one of his pukes. Name o’ Karl Cleveland. Don’t come no worse.”
   Cleveland sauntered up to their table, ignored Elba and Eckstein, and stared down at
Gloria’s bare breasts for several seconds before speaking. “You VanDeen?”

   “I am.”

   “Boss wants to see you.”

   “You mean Mayor Grunfeld?”

   “I mean the boss.”

   “Tell him I’ll see him in the morning.”

   “Boss says now.”

   “I’m busy. I’ll see him in the morning. I assume I can find him in City Hall?”

   Cleveland offered a sneer from behind his beard. “You don’t find him, he’ll sure as shit find
you.” He stared at her another moment, then casually turned away and left.

   “Charming,” said Gloria.

    “Not a man here ain’t afraid of him—and the rest of Grunfeld’s pukes. Oh, some of ‘em
talk tough about what they’d like to do to ‘em, but nobody ever lifts a finger to do nothin’.”

   “Well,” said Gloria thoughtfully, “maybe that can change. I think I’ll take a little walk
around the room and meet some of the boys. Don’t get up, Stu, I’ll be fine.”




GLORIA GOT TO HER FEET, AND THE BIG ROOM was momentarily filled with the sound of
clicking eyeballs. She sauntered off to the next table, bare bottom swaying, and said, “Hi boys!
How’s it going?”

   Eckstein watched her progress around the room, and Elba watched Eckstein.

    “You ain’t gonna let yourself get stuck on her, are ya, Stu?” Elba asked solicitously. “She’s
too much woman for any one man, ya know.”

    “I know,” Eckstein said, sounding more philosophical than he felt as he watched the
boomers exchanging greetings with Gloria. “She’s just one of those incredible things that
happen sometimes, like a big comet sweeping across the sky. I know I can’t keep her, but I can
enjoy her while she’s here.”

   “You do more than that, Stu,” Elba told him. “You take care of her, ya hear me?”

   “From what I hear, she’s pretty good at taking care of herself.”

    “You take care of her anyway. Dammit, Stu, she may think she can handle Grunfeld, but
she don’t know what she’s up against. You take care of her.”

   “I’ll try,” said Eckstein. “Spirit knows, I’ll try.”
                                         Chapter 7

“I’M SEEING HIM ALONE, STU, AND THAT’S ALL there is to it.”

    “You are not going in there alone, Gloria. I know you think you can handle him, but he’s
got five big goons to help him.”

    “He won’t start anything. Not now, anyway. He’ll try to scare me and intimidate me, but
his main purpose for the moment will be to find out as much as he can about what Dexta
intends to do. Stop worrying; I’ll be fine.”

    They were standing together outside Elba’s and had begun to attract attention—and not
simply because they were arguing. Gloria was wearing an electric-blue, molecules-thick
bodysuit that clung to her like wet tissue paper. She had left the pressure seam in front open to
her navel, and had set the transparency at 70 percent. Early-morning passersby stopped and
gawked.

   Gloria leaned over to Eckstein and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Now go get the
skimmer ready. I should be back in no more than half an hour. If I’m not … well, then you can
come in after me and be a big, hairy-chested hero. But not before, okay?”

    Eckstein clearly didn’t like it, but had already learned that it was useless to argue with
Gloria once she had made up her mind. “Okay,” he said grudgingly. He gave her a firm kiss on
the lips, then trudged off toward the skimmer, mumbling to himself.

    Gloria watched him go, then set out for City Hall. She didn’t mind that Eckstein wanted to
be her protector—that much was a given. What she minded was that he might get himself hurt
in the process, and that was something she couldn’t afford to let happen. Without Eckstein, her
mission would be a failure.

    She paused at the front steps of City Hall and opened the pressure seam of her bodysuit all
the way down to her crotch and reset the garment’s transparency to 90 percent. She wanted
Grunfeld to see everything she had, not simply as a sexual ploy, but as a frank display of her
own weapons. Grunfeld expected her to be cowed by the muscle at his command, but she had
powers of a different sort and wanted him to realize it. Men responded to many forces, and
some of them were more powerful than fear.

    Making her way around the tables at Elba’s last night, she had let the men know why she
had come to Sylvania. Most of them would never have dreamed of registering to vote, even if
Grunfeld hadn’t actively discouraged it. But Gloria had given them an entirely new perspective
on the matter, and suddenly, it seemed like a pretty good idea. Their newly discovered interest
in democracy had been enhanced even more by Gloria’s promise of a kiss and a hug for every
man who registered. She could have signed up a couple of hundred men on the spot if she’d
had the registration paraphernalia handy. By now, Grunfeld had to be aware of this.

    As she made her way up the front steps of City Hall, she noticed that a crowd had begun to
collect in the streets. She pushed open the doors and found two tall, muscular, and rather hairy
men lounging in the hallway. “Where’s the Mayor’s office?” she asked them.
    They took their time to stare at her before one of them indicated an office to Gloria’s right
with a jerk of his thumb. Gloria nodded her thanks, the men smirked, and she went in to meet
the local power structure.

    Two even bigger, hairier men stood just inside the door. One of them was Karl Cleveland. It
was a fairly small room for a mayor’s office, and the two men took up a good percentage of the
floor space. A massive wooden desk took up most of the rest. At the moment, there was no one
behind it, but a few seconds later, to the sound of a toilet flushing, Kevin Grunfeld emerged
from a doorway, wiping his hands on his rough brown trousers. He looked up, saw Gloria, and
stopped in his tracks.

    He was a hulk of a man, a good six and a half feet tall, with a big walrus mustache, stubble
on his chin, longish brown hair pushed to one side of a high forehead, and dark, deep-set eyes
that would have done credit to a pit viper. He might have been close to fifty, and despite his
obvious muscles, there was a hint of flab about him, like an athlete who had gone to seed. He
stared at Gloria for a few moments, slowly taking her in from head to toe and back again, and a
surly smile formed beneath the mustache.

   “Gloria VanDeen,” he said. “Welcome to my town. And to my planet.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mayor. You won’t need your bodyguards,” she said, indicating the two
men with a short motion of her head. “I probably won’t hurt you.”

    Grunfeld snickered at that. It was a sound similar to that made by a pig rooting through
slop. “That’s just Karl and Hank. They won’t hurt you none, neither, ‘less I tell ‘em to.”

    “That would be an exceptionally stupid thing to tell them, even for a small-town oaf like
you, Grunfeld.” The Mayor’s eyes widened a fraction at her words. “I’m a representative of the
Department of Extraterrestrial Affairs, here on official business. Any attempt by you or anyone
else to impede, obstruct, harass, or hinder me in the lawful performance of my duties would
constitute a violation of the Dexta Code.”

   “No shit,” said Grunfeld, who was seldom at a loss for snappy comebacks.

   “Have you ever heard of a man named Randall Sweet or a planet called Grisham Three?”
Gloria asked him.

   “No,” Grunfeld said after a moment’s thought. “Why? Any reason I should have?”

    “Grisham Three,” Gloria informed him, “is a prison world with gravity of 1.4 G, a mean
surface temperature hot enough to fry eggs, and an atmospheric sulfur-dioxide content that
smells even worse than your two friends. Randall Sweet is the last man who attempted to
impede, obstruct, harass, and hinder me, and he’s spending the rest of his life there.”

   “No shit,” Grunfeld responded again.

    “Let me make this as clear as possible, Grunfeld. You may be the biggest fish in your little
puddle here, but the tide is coming in and you are about to be swamped by the Empire. My
team will arrive in a week, and we will begin registering voters. If you get in our way, a
shipload of Dexta Internal Security forces will follow us shortly to make travel arrangements
for you and your Neanderthals. Be sure to say hello to Randy Sweet for me.”

   “Well, ain’t you somethin’!” Grunfeld declared. A full-scale smile, or something like one,
spread across his face. “Heard about you, but I never quite believed it. Emperor’s ex-wife, they
say. You sure sound like it, and ain’t no doubt you look like it, but, ya know, this ain’t no
Imperial Palace you’re in now. You’re in Greenlodge, Territory of Sylvania, and we got our own
law around here. In fact, you’re lookin’ at it. What I say goes, and that’s all there is to it. So
don’t think you can scare me with all this Dexta Code shit. See, I know a little about that
particular bullshit, and I know there’s somethin’ called habeas corpus, which means ya gotta
have the body before you can arrest someone. If I decide to get rid of you, Miz Gloria, there
won’t be no body for no one to find.”

   “A hundred people saw me walk in here,” Gloria said, unperturbed. “They’ll expect to see
me walk out again.”

    “You keep givin’ me that smart mouth o’ yours, could be they’ll see you carried out.”
Grunfeld took two steps forward, closing the distance between them. Still smiling, he took a
closer look at her. “So,” he said at last, staring at her exposed crotch, “that’s where the Emperor
sticks his scepter, huh?” He laughed at his wit.

   “Not anymore,” Gloria told him. “I just wanted you to see the only thing on this planet that
you don’t control. And never will.”

   “Thatta fact? Well, mebbe we should just see about that.”

    Grunfeld reached for her with his right hand, palmed her belly for a moment, then moved
downward. Gloria made no move to stop him, and as Hank and Karl snickered behind her,
Grunfeld moved his fingers through the tangle of her pubic hair. He soon found what he was
after and began stroking and probing deeper into her.

    Gloria let him continue to manipulate her for a few moments, then reached down and
expertly broke his middle finger. The sharp crack of snapping bone was followed by a bellow
of pain and outrage. Hank and Karl were frozen in surprise.

   “You fucking cunt!” Grunfeld screamed as he examined his damaged digit.

   “Just imagine what I’d do to your cock,” Gloria said calmly.

   “You crazy bitch, ya think I’m gonna let you get away with that?” Grunfeld reared back
with his left hand to slap her. Gloria saw it coming with plenty of time to spare, adroitly
ducked under his hand, snagged it on the way by, and broke his remaining middle finger.

    Grunfeld doubled over in pain, screaming incoherently. Karl and Hank reacted this time.
Karl was closer and grabbed for her arms, but Gloria’s bodysuit was too slick for him to get a
grip; that was one reason why she had worn it. As he tried for another hold, Gloria twisted
around in a lightning Qatsima move and got a handful of his thick beard, just beneath his chin.
Using full leverage from her legs as she fell forward, she pulled on the beard and set Karl into
irreversible motion.

    Outside on the street, people were startled by the sound of breaking wood and glass and
astonished to see Karl Cleveland come flying headfirst out of a window. He landed in a mud
puddle with a resounding splat, and lay still.

   Gloria had already calculated time, distance, and motion, and didn’t have to look to know
where Hank would be by now. She simply balanced on her left foot, bent her knee slightly,
and thrust out to the rear with her right foot, hitting the precise spot she had intended to
hit—Hank’s right knee. He screamed, even louder than Grunfeld had, and crumpled to the
floor.

    Not quite finished, she gave Grunfeld a right-foot kick to his groin, spun left, and kicked
the plasma pistol out of Hank’s fumbling grip. Hank seemed to know what was coming next as
he stared at her, wide-eyed. Gloria spun left again, right, left once more, and unleashed a
sidewheeling kick from the left that caught Hank flush in the temple and removed him from
further participation in events.

   Gloria quickly retrieved the plasma pistol and was sticking the barrel up Grunfeld’s left
nostril by the time the two men in the hall came in to see what the commotion was all about.
“Move another millimeter,” she told them, “and I’ll part your boss’s hair from the inside.”

     The two men froze in position, and Gloria turned her attention back to Grunfeld. “Now,
then, Kevin, I have just one more thing to tell you. Don’t fuck with me! Don’t even think about
it. Got it?” She shoved the barrel a little farther up his nose, for emphasis. Grunfeld could only
gasp, and nod.

   A few moments later, Gloria emerged from the front entrance of City Hall. After an
appropriate period of stunned silence, the crowd began to cheer and holler. Gloria smiled and
waved to them, then got into the skimmer parked in front.

    Eckstein was as stunned as everyone else, but finally put the skimmer into motion. He
turned to look at her, slowly shaking his head from side to side.

   “I thought you said Grunfeld wouldn’t start anything,” he said.

   “Grunfeld didn’t,” Gloria told him, smiling in satisfaction. “I did.”




THE SKIMMER FLEW UPRIVER A FEW METERS above the water. Eckstein pointed out
various sites of interest as Gloria took in the scene with a growing sense of wonder. She had
seen many planets during her Empire-cruising days with Charles, but Sylvania may have been
the most beautiful of them all. It was not a spectacular, jaw-dropping beauty of the kind one
found on the big tourist worlds like Glendower or Nehru, but a quiet, tranquil, and beguiling
beauty that whispered of serenity and peace of mind. The high, snowcapped mountains in the
distance—comparable to the Andes, Eckstein told her—framed the scene in purple and
lavender, while the green slopes of the nearer peaks enclosed the V of the river valley in a calm
embrace. After they passed the sawmill and the logging camps along the riverside, all signs of
human presence faded away, leaving Gloria with a quiet sense of grace. She felt the land and
the river offering her a silent welcome.

    Farther upriver, the trees were huge, towering a hundred leafy meters into the deep blue
skies. They reminded Gloria of the great sequoias and redwoods that had once grown in
California, but which she had never seen—nor had anyone else in many centuries. Unlike so
many worlds, Sylvania’s native biosystem was hauntingly terrestrial, with no jarring alien
intrusions. She saw birds that might have been hawks or eagles soaring on the thermals above
the valley, and animals that only a trained exozoologist could distinguish from deer and elk
browsing placidly in the deep grasses at the river’s edge.

    “When they established the Lodge,” Eckstein told her, “they thought they would spend a
lot of time hunting. But the native fauna had absolutely no fear of humans, and it wasn’t much
sport shooting animals that only wanted to lick your hand. So they gave up on the hunting
angle pretty quickly. Oh, there are a few bearlike critters that are worth tracking, but they’ve
learned to steer clear of humans, and you have to go way up into the mountains to find them
nowadays. The other animals tend to avoid the town and mining camps now, since the
boomrats are always hungry, but for the most part, people have had remarkably little impact
on the existing ecosystem.”

   “How long can that last?” Gloria wondered.

   “It will all be gone in the blink of an eye as soon as you get those voters registered,”
Eckstein told her.

   Gloria nodded and said nothing more.




SOME THIRTY KILOMETERS UPSTREAM FROM Green lodge, they came upon a mining
camp littering the east bank of the river, where a plunging, rushing stream disgorged into the
Rankus. Eckstein brought the skimmer to rest on the gravel bank, and they got out to meet the
boomrats in their native element.

    There were a dozen or so tents and a couple of wooden shacks scattered randomly along
the shore, and Gloria saw thirty of forty men—and a couple of women—engaged in various
tasks. Some were chopping wood, a handful were gathered around what seemed to be a
cookfire, but most were busy with the endless chores of Fergusite mining. A long, black flume
descended from the narrow stream, providing a gushing torrent that was diverted into three
wooden sluice boxes that had been set up along the edge of the river. Several men were busy
dumping sand into the boxes, while others were squatting in the river itself, concentrating on
their solitary efforts with shallow metal pans. Most everyone wore slick black waders held up
by colorful suspenders, ragged flannel shirts, and go-to-hell hats.

   “Lookit here,” called one of them. “It’s Stu Eckstein—and just look what he brought us!”

    Work suspended as abruptly as if someone had sounded an air horn. The boomrats
gathered around them on the gravel shore, shoving one another out of the way as they fought
to get a better view of Gloria. Eckstein, grinning, greeted many of them by name and shook
hands with some. He threw his arm around the shoulders of one of them and ushered him
over to where Gloria was standing.

   “Gloria,” he said, “I want you to meet Gus Thornton, the King of Pizen Flats.”

   Gloria bowed her head and said, “Your Highness.”

    “Highness, nothin’,” the king declared. “C’mere, gal, and give a man a proper greetin’!”
Thornton embraced Gloria in a bear hug and gave her a whiskery, tobacco-flavored kiss, which
she returned with enthusiasm.
   Thornton released her, stepped back, and said, “So you’re the little gal who tossed Karl
Cleveland outta the Mayor’s front window, eh?”

   Gloria wondered how he had heard the news so quickly, but then noticed that Thornton
was wearing a wristcom. It was easy to think that it was still the nineteenth century out here,
but little touches of the thirty-third did intrude.

   “I’m the gal,” Gloria told him, returning his grin. “And tell me, Your Highness, how do you
come by your title? I didn’t realize there was a branch of the royal family in these parts.”

    “I come by it ‘cause I was the first one here, ‘cept for Old Abel. I ain’t really no king, but
folks figgered if they could have a Mayor down in Greenlodge, why, we needed ourselves a
king up here. C’mon, Gloria, let’s go get us some coffee. And the rest o’ you bastards can just
clear a path for us and keep your grubby paws to yourselves, ya hear? I won’t have no damn
shitstompers molestin’ as fine a lady as this!”

    Thornton took Gloria’s arm and they made their way from the gravel embankment up to
the cookfire through the swarm of grinning boomrats. He gestured to a handmade wooden
chair in front of the fire. “This here’s my throne,” he said. “But it’s yours, milady, since you are
Queen Gloria the First for as long as you’re here.”

   Gloria sat down, Thornton and Eckstein pulled up other makeshift chairs next to her, and
everyone else squatted on their haunches or stood around the fire in a semicircle. Someone
handed her a metal cup of coffee, and she took an experimental sip. It didn’t quite scorch her
tongue or dissolve her teeth, but it was close.

     “Here,” said Thornton, “lemme sweeten that up for ya.” He poured some brown fluid from
a flask into the cup, then did the same for Eckstein and himself. “Bottoms up, and confusion to
Grunfeld and his pukes!” There were cries of “Hear, hear!” and Gloria took another sip, which
made her eyes water.

   “How’s the digging, Gus?” Eckstein asked him.

    “Goin’ strong, goin’ strong,” Thornton assured him. “Found a crystal the size of a walnut
just the other day. O’ course, mostly we’re just pannin’ and sluicin’ for the little stuff, but
there’s plenty of that, and plenty more where it came from.” He gestured upstream toward the
slopes.

   “And what about the highboys?” Eckstein asked, referring to the miners who worked the
outcrops on the cliff faces and mountainsides.

    Thornton shook his head. “Still tough sleddin’ up there, but some of those bastards are
hauling down crystal by the ton, or so they claim. But they still ruin more than they get, what
with all that goddamn sloppy drillwork most of ‘em do. O’ course, the only ones who can use
the drills anymore are the ones who already sold their claims to Grunfeld, so they can zap every
damn outcrop they find, for all o’ me.” Several of the boomrats grunted and nodded in
agreement.

    Gloria, a puzzled look on her face, turned to Eckstein for an explanation. Eckstein took
another sip from his cup, then said, “You see, Gloria, there are what you might call
philosophical differences among the miners. These boys here work the streambeds and rivers,
panning for crystals that have eroded from the slopes. They make a pretty steady return, but
stand little chance of making a really big score. Then, you have the highboys, who work the
outcrops up on the slopes. Some of them have made fortunes, but more of them have
destroyed fortunes by using their plasma drills a little too carelessly. It’s harder work with
bigger risks, bigger returns. The riverrats down here tend to sneer at the highboys—”

   “Damn right we do!” cried someone, to general approval.

   “—while the highboys think the riverrats are just, well …”

    “They think we’re milksops and cream puffs,” put in Thornton. “But some of us have been
here two years, and them fuckin’ highboys, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, come and go like the
mornin’ dew. Some of ‘em make their strike and leave, some of ‘em quit the first sign o’
trouble, and some of ‘em wind up dead when they run afoul o’ Grunfeld and his pukes.”

   “And some of them hear the Voice,” someone said. Silence followed his words.

   Gus Thornton spat into the fire. “Pasco Zuckerman heard it just the other day,” he said.

   “Pasco?” asked Eckstein. “Damn, he’s been here forever!”

   “Ain’t here no more,” Thornton said. “Never put much stock in the Voice, did ol’ Pasco.
But he finally heard it. Told him to git, and he got.”

   “What voice?” Gloria asked.

   “Didn’t Stu tell ya about the Voice?”

   Gloria turned to Eckstein, frowning. “No,” she said, “he didn’t.”

   Eckstein looked mildly embarrassed. “Well,” he said, “it’s just this local superstition—”

    “Ain’t no fuckin’ superstition!” roared one of the boomrats. “Heard it myself, and so did
half the boys here.” A rumble of emphatic agreement and milder dissent spread around the
cookfire for a minute or two.

    Finally, Thornton raised a hand and the hubbub died away. He turned to Gloria and said,
“Missy, the thing of it is, is that sometimes when a man’s alone out here, he gets to hearin’
things. ‘Zackly what he hears is … well, it’s like this voice. Sorta comes outta everywhere and
nowhere. Ya look around, but no one’s there. Ya hear it, then ya don’t hear it, and ya wonder if
ya ever really heard it at all. Some of the boys swear it’s real, and some think it’s just a bunch o’
hooey. And some of us don’t quite know what to think.”

   “And what does this Voice say?”

   “Says different things to different people. Mostly, it tells the highboys to get the hell out,
and mostly they do. And mostly it just tells us riverrats, ‘Don’t hurt me.’ ”

   “Only that?”

   “That’s about it,” Thornton said. “The Voice ain’t much for makin’ speeches.”

   “What do you think it means?”

   “I think it means just what it says. So down here, we try to be a little more considerate than
them damn highboys. We take better care o’ things. The highboys just rip and zap and let the
splinters fall where they may. Take a look up thataway.” Thornton twisted around in his chair
and pointed toward a brown scar on the mountainside. “That’s what the highboys do. Clear
the trees outta their way, spill tailings all over the place, and leave a mess behind. Now, down
here, we take what we need and do what we gotta do to get the crystals, but we don’t just
smash up the place. We gotta live here, ya see.”

   Gloria nodded and said nothing.

   One of the boomrats stepped forward and removed his hat as he looked at her. “Miz
Gloria,” he said, “you probably think we’re just a bunch of crazy old boomrats, and some of us
may be, but what we’re tellin’ you about the Voice is the Spirit’s own truth. If you was to
spend some time out here, might be you’d hear it yourself. The Voice might just talk to
someone like you.”

    There was general agreement with this sentiment. Gloria suspected that they were just
trying to get her to stay for a while, but she couldn’t ignore the evident sincerity in their voices
and faces. “Who knows the most about the Voice?” she asked.

   “Old Abel,” said the boomrat. “ ‘cept he won’t talk about it none. Mebbe he’d talk to you,
though.”

   “Mebbe he would at that,” Thornton agreed.

   “And just who is Old Abel, and where can I find him?”

    “You don’t find him. He finds you, ma’am. If he wants to,” Thornton explained. “But even
Old Abel ain’t so crazy that he wouldn’t want to talk to a gal like you. As to who he is, well, all
anyone knows is that he was already here when the rest of us arrived. Some say he helped
build the Lodge, way back in the beginning, and just stayed on. He lives in the forests
upstream from here, somewhere, no one can say, prezackly. Kinda like the Voice, himself, is
Old Abel. If anyone knows what it is, it’d be him. But he won’t say.”

    Another boomer stepped forward. This one was younger than most of them, and a little
better groomed. “Miss VanDeen,” he said, “my name’s Ted Oberlin, and unlike most of these
riverrats, I’ve had some education and can speak the Emperor’s English.”

    That produced a round of jeers and laughs, but Oberlin ignored it. “We’ve heard that you
are here to register voters so that the Emperor can appoint an Imperial Governor. Is that true?”

   “It is,” Gloria said. “A team from Dexta will be here in about a week to start enrolling
voters. And, yes, the Emperor does intend to appoint an Imperial Governor.”

   “And what will happen then?” Oberlin asked her.

    “I can’t tell you that with any certainty. But one thing that definitely will happen is that all
of your rights will be respected. You won’t be at Grunfeld’s mercy any longer, that’s one thing I
can promise you.”

    The boomrats cheered at that, but Oberlin continued standing there, a look of deep
concern on his face. “Whose mercy will we be at?” he asked her. “Imperium’s? Excelsior’s?
Prizm’s? I studied a little law once, Miss VanDeen, and I know that when this territory is
incorporated, the Emperor can grant a concession to any or all of the Big Twelve. Where will
that leave us?”
   “Under the protection of the Homestead Acts.”

    “We’re supposed to be under the protection of the Homestead Acts right now—for all the
good that’s done us. But we’ll also come under the aegis of the Eminent Domain Statutes, isn’t
that true?”

    “Eminent Fuckin’ Domain!” roared another boomrat. “You know what they can do with
that!” The boomers joined in a nearly unanimous and profane condemnation of the Eminent
Domain Statutes.

    When the outcry had subsided, Gloria got to her feet and slowly turned to look each one of
the boomers in the eyes. “Men,” she said, “I know that you’re concerned about what the
Eminent Domain Statutes could mean for you. And you’re right to be concerned. A lot of
things will change once the territory is incorporated, and I won’t try to stand here and tell you
that all of the changes will be to your liking. But there’s one thing that I can tell you. Until you
have an Imperial Governor who can protect your rights, absolutely nothing will change. The
law on Sylvania will still be whatever Grunfeld and the Lodge say it is. So, if you like things the
way they are and don’t mind being terrorized by Grunfeld and his pukes, then, by all means,
don’t register. But if you are willing to take a chance on a better future—uncertain as it may
be—then my people will be here in a week or so to sign you up. I hope you’ll be as kind to
them as you have been to me. And now, I think Stu and I have to be leaving if we’re going to
see the high country today. Thank you for your hospitality, Your Highness, and thanks to all of
you. I’ll be seeing you again real soon.”

    As quickly as they could, Eckstein and Gloria made their way back to the skimmer, rose
into the air, and turned up the valley of the rushing stream, cautiously ascending toward the
slopes.

   “I hated that,” Gloria said, more to herself than to Eckstein.

   “You didn’t lie to them,” Eckstein reassured her. “And if what we’re trying to do works—”

    “What if it doesn’t?” Gloria demanded. “What happens to those men then? What happens
to this valley?”

   “Then,” Eckstein told her, “the corporates will peel this valley like an apple, and core it.
Everything you’ve seen today will be gone. Forever.”




                                           Chapter 8

AFTER SPENDING MOST OF THE MIDDAY WITH A small group of highboys on the slopes,
Gloria and Eckstein carefully picked out a circuitous route that was accessible for a skimmer,
leading up to an alpine meadow at the summit of one of the peaks rimming the valley. They
got out, and Gloria drank in the magnificent view, south toward the river and the sea and
north toward the jagged range of mountains. Perhaps it was just the thin air, but she felt
light-headed, giddy, and intensely alive.
   Eckstein stood close behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. He began stroking
and massaging her navel, sending shivers of warm sensation coursing through her. Finally, she
shuddered in uncontrolled ecstasy, gasping in the thin air as the orgasm overtook her.

   She twisted around and kissed Eckstein on his throat and neck. “I shouldn’t have told you
about that,” she said.

   “But I notice you always dress in a way that lets me get at it.”

   “You noticed that, did you?” Gloria began snaking herself out of the bodysuit. “Show me
what else you’ve noticed about me.”




THEY LAY DOWN IN THE SOFT GRASSES, AND Eckstein proceeded to offer a detailed
inventory of all the things he had noticed about her. The thin, firm lips that curved upward at
the corners in a smile that never quite went away. The delicate chin and throat where her veins
visibly pulsed in urgent throbs. The soft globular mounds of her breasts and the dark conical
protrusions that rose to stiff, swollen, cylindrical nipples standing like silos on hilltops. The
exquisitely whorled cavity of her magical umbilicus. The smooth, brown expanse of her belly
and the rising counterpoint of her pubic mound, with its wispy, honey-colored curls. The
engorged, pink bud of clitoris, where even the slightest pressure of finger or tongue brought
spasms of electric pleasure.

    He slid into her as one might enter a cathedral, with awe and respect, but as eagerly as if
plunging into a hot, soapy bath on a cold night. Her genetically enhanced vaginal muscles
clutched at him, and he could feel the explosions rippling through the interior nerve clusters
that the genetic sculptors of long ago had bequeathed her. Gloria, Gloria, he wondered, what
are you? And how did I come to be here, inside you?

     Too soon, he surged in ecstatic release, and Gloria twisted and writhed beneath him, timing
her own seismic convulsions to match his own. Her orgasms continued long after his had run
its course, and even after he had finally withdrawn from her and rolled away, she shuddered in
rhythmic gasps until, at last, she lay still.




THEY LAY IN SILENCE BENEATH THE COOL SUN of Sylvania for a long while, until Gloria
said, “I’ll always remember this. Especially if … if all of this is gone someday.”

   “And it will be,” Eckstein answered softly, “unless we can come up with something soon.
You saw for yourself, the cliff faces are just too exposed for our purposes.”

   “Maybe a cave?”

   “Any caves along the outcrop layer have already been found by the miners. We need
something else.”

    Gloria turned onto her side and threw her arm across Eckstein’s chest. “Dammit,” she said,
pulling herself close to him, “I just hate this. Everything in my heart is telling me that we can’t
let them destroy this valley and the lives of those good men we met today. And everything in
my head is telling me that if we don’t register those voters, Charles will throw Norman Mingus
to the wolves. Without him, Dexta and the Empire itself might fall apart, Fergusite or no
Fergusite. I can’t imagine what will become of the Empire after he’s gone and there’s no one
left to stand in Charles’s way. Dammit, Stu, what can we do?”

   “I wish I knew.”

   “I always think better after a good fuck,” she told him, giving his earlobe a quick kiss. “So I
ought to come up with the best idea in the whole history of good ideas, now. What was that
they said, about how only some of the highboys can use their plasma drills?”

   “Only the ones who have sold their claims to Grunfeld,” Eckstein said. “They can continue
working them, but Grunfeld gets a cut, and will control the claim when it comes time for the
Eminent Domain vote.”

   “How come?”

    “Grunfeld has the only plasma recharger on the planet,” Eckstein explained. “The only
alternative would be to take their drills back to Palmyra after every twenty shots, and that
would just be too expensive. So if they want to use plasma drills, they have to play ball with
Grunfeld. In a way, that’s good, because it slows down the work and limits the amount of
incidental damage that’s done to the outcrops. But, of course, it also means that the miners will
get royally screwed by Eminent Domain.”

   “Because Grunfeld owns the claims.”

    “It’s more than that. You saw the difference between the riverrats’ camp and the highboys’
camp, didn’t you? The claims on the slopes are worked by only a few men at any one site,
sometimes by just a single man. But the camp on the river belongs to forty or fifty people. So
there are lots of claims held by just a few people on the ridges, but only a few claims on the
rivers, held by many people. But each claim just counts for one vote in an Eminent Domain
poll.”

   “I see,” said Gloria. “So if there were another plasma recharger around, one not controlled
by Grunfeld, that would make for a lot more claims on the slopes.”

   “True, but that wouldn’t help the riverrats.”

    “No, but it might make the Eminent Domain vote more interesting. Just exactly what is a
plasma recharger, anyway?”

    “Well, you know that plasma weapons have to be recharged after a few shots, right? Same
thing with a drill, which typically gets about twenty shots before it needs to be recharged.”

   “Yes, but what does it do?”

   “It recharges the plasma, simple as that.”

   “Remember that you’re talking to a technological moron, Mr. Imperial Geologist,” Gloria
reminded him. “Spell it out for me.”

   Eckstein chuckled, then turned to face her. “All right, Ms. Moron, it’s like this. Plasma is
the fourth state of matter, atoms stripped of electrons, but really, it’s more like concentrated
energy. You can only store the stuff in a magnetic containment vessel. That’s the replaceable
cylindrical thing you see in plasma pistols. When you’ve discharged all your plasma, you need
to get more. To get it, you need a fusion reactor, but you can’t carry one of those around with
you. So you go find a plasma recharger. The Imperial Marines have small, portable ones,
specifically designed for their weapons. But to recharge a drill, you need a big, industrial-sized
recharger, which is basically just a fusion reactor with a few refinements for storing and
releasing the plasma it creates.”

   “Thank you. I think I get it now. The fusion reactor can just keep turning out more plasma,
more energy?”

   “Continuously, if necessary. Of course, a recharger doesn’t generally need that much, so
you only turn it on when you need it.”

   “But it could just keep going, couldn’t it? If you wanted it to, right?”

    Eckstein caught on, but shook his head. “I see where you want to go with this, and yes, a
suitably modified plasma recharger could do the job for us. It’s not what I had in mind
originally, but yes, it would work. But we’d still need a place to put it, and anywhere we put it
on the slopes would be discovered.”

    “On the slopes, yes,” Gloria declared, a big grin slowly spreading across her face. “But what
if we had another place to put it where it wouldn’t be discovered? Or rather, where it would be
seen by everyone, but no one would know what we were really doing with it?”

   “You have someplace in mind?”

    Gloria sprang to her feet and spun around, raising her right fist in triumph. “Oh, yes,” she
cried. “I know the very place!”

   “Tell me,” insisted Eckstein.

   So Gloria told him, and soon the mountainside echoed with the sound of their laughter.




PETRA HAD SPENT THE NIGHT—OR RATHER, THE morning—sharing a room with three
other bar girls. They were friendly and informative, glad to fill her in on details of life at Elba’s.
Debbie Hansen, the frizzy redhead she had seen earlier, had been there six months. She had
come to Sylvania with her boyfriend, who was off on the slopes hoping to strike it rich. He
didn’t want her working the rooms, and wasn’t crazy about her being a bar girl, either, so she
was the only one of the three who wore a G-string. Myra Gazivoda and Lynisha Moses had
been there about four months; they shared a bed, making it clear why they chose not to work
the rooms.

    The men, they agreed, were generous, lovable, and mostly harmless. None of them had
ever had any real trouble with the boomers, possibly due to the presence of Ernie the Bouncer,
but also because there was no need for them to accost unwilling bar girls when the hookers
were so readily available. Grunfeld’s thugs, on the other hand, could be a problem both in and
out of Elba’s. Even Ernie refrained from tangling with them, but an informal truce between
Grunfeld and Elba offered them a degree of protection while they were in the Emporium. Out
on the streets, it was another story. Hank Frezzo, whose knee Gloria had bashed that morning,
had once raped Lynisha. She seemed to take it philosophically, reckoning it as just another
hazard of her occupation, but Myra swore she was going to cut off Frezzo’s balls for him one
day. She showed Petra the knife she intended to use for the operation. All three girls advised
Petra to get a knife of her own for when she was outside.

   “What about the Lodge?” she asked them. “I hear the bar girls can pick up some extra tips
doing work up there.”

   “Myra and I do,” Lynisha said, “but Debbie won’t go near the place.”

  “Weird stuff happens up there,” said Debbie. “I heard there was a girl here about a year ago
who went up to the Lodge and never came back.”

   “What kind of weird stuff?”

   “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”

    “Oh, Debbie’s just jumping at shadows,” Myra said. “We’ve never had much trouble up
there. It kind of depends on who’s there. Old Man Rankus is just as sweet as he can be, as long
as you don’t break any dishes or sweep stuff under the beds. But sometimes they have guests
who don’t really know or care that’s there’s a difference between us bar girls and the hookers.
We’re just there to look pretty and do the chores, and the girls from the rooms are supposed to
handle the sex part.”

   “How do you get along with the girls in the rooms?” Petra wondered.

    “About like Cinderella got along with her stepsisters.” Lynisha sniffed. “They think they are
Spirit’s gift to the galaxy, and we’re just dipshit little serving girls. Every now and then, one of
us gets into a fight with one of them, which the boomrats all love, of course. But mostly, we get
along okay.” Lynisha took a closer look at Petra and added, “I’m surprised Elba doesn’t have
you working the rooms. You’d make a fortune with a face and body like yours.”

   “Everyone keeps telling me that.” Petra sighed.

   “Then why not? Shit, I’d do it myself, except for the fact that I just don’t like having sex
with men. You feel that way too?”

   “Uh, no … no, I like it fine. Just not ten in one night.”

     “One, ten, what difference does it make?” Lynisha asked. “If you’re gonna let ‘em do it at
all, you might as well let ‘em do it a lot. There’s big money to be made in those rooms, Petra.”

   “Yes, well, maybe after I’ve been here a while.”

   “Speaking of money,” Myra advised, “ditch that G-string. Your tips’ll go up 50, 60 percent.
Ours did.”

   “Or are you saving it for someone special?” Lynisha giggled. “Mr. Right, maybe?”

   “Not exactly,” Petra said. “I’m just a little shy, I guess.”

   “Get over it, honey,” Myra said.
    “Oh, just ignore them, Petra,” Debbie said. “They only want to see yours. Honestly, you’d
think a woman could have a little privacy!”




THAT AFTERNOON, WHILE ON A BREAK, PETRA hesitantly entered the little alcove that
served as Elba’s first-floor office. Elba looked up from her desk, smiled, and bade Petra to come
take a load off. Petra was glad for the chance to sit down; aside from the occasional tweaks of
her ass and tits, being a bar girl was hardest on the feet. High heels took some getting used to.

     “So, how ya gettin’ along, hon?” Elba asked her.

    “I’m doing okay,” Petra told her, and honestly, she was. Already, being nearly naked in
front of so many people didn’t bother her as much as she had expected it would. It wasn’t so
different, really, from Visitation Day in Central Park. It was surprising how quickly you could
get used to something like that.

    “Lotta talk ‘bout you, girl,” Elba said. “One o’ the boys offered me two thousand for an
all-nighter with you. That’s twice the goin’ rate, ya know, and half of it’s yours, just one man.”

     Two thousand! Petra was impressed, in spite of herself.

     “Uh …”

     “Just don’t like the idea of sellin’ it, huh?”

     “Well …”

     “Shitfire, hon, it ain’t like you’d be sellin’ your soul, or even your body. Just rentin’ it.”

     “I know. But, I guess I just don’t like the idea of being … a commodity … like a … a …”

     “Piece o’ meat?” Elba laughed. “Heard that one plenty o’ times. Hell, girl, ya know what a
side o’ beef costs around here? Look, I been a businesswoman all my life, and lemme tell ya,
it’s all about supply and demand. If supply is short, demand is high. And the supply o’ pretty
girls is pretty damn short around Sylvania. And it ain’t got nothin’ to do with bein’ a
vulnerable, oppressed woman. ‘Bout eighty years ago, I ran a place just like this on Beta
Nakashima. Was just after one o’ the Frontier Wars, and those bastard Skoonzi reptiles used a
biological weapon that killed 90 percent of the males on Beta N. So then, it was men who was
in short supply. So I didn’t have girls workin’ the rooms, I had men! Did a pretty brisk
business, lemme tell ya, although the profit margin was kinda low. Women can handle ten in a
night, but those boys got all tuckered out after three or four.” Elba erupted into mirthful
laughter at the memory.

     “I understand what you’re saying,” Petra said, “but, still …”

     “Come on, hon, you can’t tell me you never thought about doin’ it.”

     “Well, sure,” Petra admitted, blushing a little, “I suppose every woman has thought about it
…”

     “Then why not do it, this one time in your life? Shit, you’re a zillion miles from wherever ya
came from, so who’s gonna know? Who’s gonna care?”

   “I’ll know,” Petra responded quickly. “I’ll care.”

   “And you think you’ll feel worse about yourself ‘cause ya did it? Feel all lowly and
degraded?”

   “Sort of.”

   “Ya think I’m lowly and degraded?”

  “No,” Petra protested. “No, not at all! Elba, I swear, you are one of the most amazing
women I’ve ever met. I have a tremendous amount of respect for you, I truly do!”

   “But ya couldn’t respect yourself if ya did what I’ve done?”

   “I … I just don’t know. I’m not sure.”

    “Well, then,” Elba said, “let’s just leave it be for now. I don’t want to push ya into nothin’ ya
really don’t want to do. But do us both a favor, and think about it, at least.”

   “I will, Elba, I promise.”

   “So,” said Elba, “what did ya wanta see me ‘bout, then?”

   “I wanted to ask if I could get on the list to work up at the Lodge,” Petra told her.

   “The Lodge!” Elba flung herself back into her chair and looked up at the ceiling for a
moment. “O’ course, I shoulda known. I couldn’t understand why Dexta would send someone
here just to spy on me. But you wanta spy on the Lodge!”

   Petra was aghast. “You knew?”

    “Not right away,” Elba said. “But when I saw you and Gloria together last night, somethin’
clicked in my old brain. We get the news here, ya know. Late, but we get it.”

   “Spirit! Does anyone else know?”

    Elba shook her head emphatically. “Hell, no. I’m about the only one who bothers to watch
the news vids. Remembered you from that Mynjeeno business, few months back. You lost
your man there, didn’t ya, hon?”

   Petra nodded.

   “Damn sorry about that. I know how ya feel, dear, and I offer my sincerest sympathies, but
you’ll get over it. Truly, you will. I’ll tell ya, I’ve lost more men than you’ve probably ever had.
Wars, brawls, accidents. Hell, I killed one o’ them myself. Hated to do it, but he was cheatin’ on
me—not just with other women, but on my accounts. Couldn’t let him do that, now could I?
Anyway, I was younger then. Man did that to me today, I’d probably just hire someone to
stomp the shit outta him, then send him on his way. Gettin’ mellow in my old age, I guess.”

   “Elba,” Petra said, “this is very important. No one else can know why I’m here.”

   “Don’t worry, darlin’, your secret is safe with me. And you want to get into the Lodge,
consider it done. I’ll send ya up in the next batch, and good luck to ya. But you be careful up
there, hear me? It ain’t no picnic up there, and if they catch ya doin’ somethin’ they don’t like,
it could go rough on ya. Very rough. That old Rankus may seem friendly, but he’s as tough
and mean a bastard as you’ll ever come across. And he ain’t stupid, like Grunfeld. Grunfeld
works for him, ya know. And it ain’t just Rankus ya gotta worry about. He has some very
peculiar people up there, sometimes, like those corporate reps he’s got up there now.”

   “Do you know anything about them?”

    “Not much. They don’t come down here and mingle with the masses, but I hear things
now and then. I hear somethin’ interestin’, I’ll be sure to let ya know. I don’t know what you
Dexta people are up to, but I think I’d trust you and your friend Gloria before I’d trust them
bastards up at the Lodge.”

   “Thank you, Elba,” Petra said. “It means a lot.”

   “But ya gotta do me a favor in return, hon. Eighty-six that G-string, okay?”

   “What?” Petra was shocked. “Why? Does the extra tip money mean that much to you?”

   “Don’t mean a thing,” Elba said, smiling.

   “Then why?”

   “Ain’t askin’ for myself, hon. I want ya to do it for you. And if ya wanta know why, ask
your friend Gloria. She’ll understand. Hell, I think you’ll understand it for yourself pretty
quick if you’re as smart as I think you are. Just do it, hon.”

    Reluctant and mystified, Petra nevertheless got to her feet, peeled off the G-string, and
tossed it to Elba, who caught it and smiled.

   “Have fun,” Elba told her.

    Petra walked back out to the main room, naked as the Spirit made her, feeling very
strange.




KEVIN GRUNFELD DIDN’T SEE WHAT WAS SO fucking funny about it. Even Doc Harkins
snickered a little as he was bandaging the fingers, until Grunfeld shut him up with a
threatening look. The doc had given him an injection of Quik-Knit, which hurt like a son of a
bitch, but would heal the breaks in a week or two.

    But it wasn’t just the doc. In the streets, he thought he could hear the guarded laughter of
people he passed, and everyone seemed to sneak a peak at the white bandages on his fingers
and look away before Grunfeld could meet their eyes. And that old bastard Rankus didn’t even
try to hide the fact that he thought it was just one big hoot.

    Rankus had summoned him up to the Lodge after he got word that the Dexta bitch was in
town. Grunfeld had grown to hate these trips up the slope to wait on the pleasure of the man
who had hired him a dozen years ago. It had been easy, then—just a matter of keeping the
locals in line with tough looks and the occasional stomping. Kind of dull, really. But then came
the boom, and life had gotten very interesting and very busy. And aside from keeping Rankus
and the Lodge happy, there had been a lot of opportunities for a clever man to make some
serious money. Grunfeld had difficulty keeping track of everything he had going these days,
but he knew he had several million crowns salted away in a bank on Palmyra. He had enough
money to buy himself a spot at the Lodge, if he wanted to, but Rankus would never let that
happen.

   To Rankus and the barons of the Lodge, Grunfeld was just hired help, and that was all he
would ever be. He ran this planet for them, but that didn’t keep them from looking down on
him. They got a cut of everything he made—or they thought they did, at least—and if it hadn’t
been for him, they would already have lost control of their little paradise. Some of the corpos
had even made him offers on the sly, but Grunfeld turned them down—for the moment. He
had too sweet a deal to risk it for the word of some Big Twelve slicker. Still, it could be even
sweeter.

    Elba had been a thorn in his side ever since she got here and set up the Emporium. That old
bitch wasn’t afraid of him at all, and she was too popular for him to take a chance on simply
shutting her down or forcing her out. But if he could finally get his hands on the Emporium,
his control of Greenlodge and the valley would be absolute. He had been willing to wait her
out, knowing that she was old and tired and wanted to leave anyway, but now, with Dexta
back in town, things had changed.

    That VanDeen bitch wanted to register enough voters to get the territory incorporated, and
he wasn’t fool enough to think that she could be stopped. She was right; if the Emperor and
Mingus and the Big Twelve wanted to take control of Sylvania, they would—and nothing
Grunfeld or even Rankus could do would prevent that from happening. He could do things
that would make it later rather than sooner, but he had to be careful. He had heard about what
the Dexta IntSec people had done on some other planets, and he didn’t want to tangle with the
Bugs if it could be avoided.

     So, the end was in sight, and Grunfeld knew it. He supposed he could just walk away from
it all, take his money, and set himself up in style on some other planet, like maybe Vegas Two.
He had been there on vacation a few years back, and it was the kind of place where a man
could have a real nice life if he had the crowns to swing it.

   But the problem was, he didn’t want to leave. He liked it on Sylvania, liked being the top
dog. He knew he couldn’t compete with an Imperial Governor and the Big Twelve, but it
might at least be possible for him to stay and maintain his position in Greenlodge, no matter
what changes were coming. What he needed, he realized, was a solid base—something that
would be his to have and hold even after the day came when he was no longer Mayor. What he
needed, in short, was Elba’s Emporium.

   He gave the matter some thought as he sat in the back of the skimmer on his way down
from the Lodge. Rankus had told him to be careful with the Dexta people, and Grunfeld had
nodded and yessirred as usual, although he hadn’t made any promises as far as VanDeen was
concerned. He had a score to settle with her, and not even Rankus was going to keep him from
doing it. But as for Elba, the time had come—before Dexta and that VanDeen bitch could find
a way to fuck it all up for him.

  Grunfeld signaled to Karl and Hank in the front seat of the skimmer. “Take me to the
Emporium,” he told them. “We got some business to settle there.”
    They walked into the main room with their usual swagger—except for Hank, whose usual
swagger was slowed by a limp—and paused to look around. The noise from the gambling
tables and the bar faded slowly as people noticed them. All was as normal—except that,
tonight, somehow, it wasn’t quite normal.

   It slowly dawned on Grunfeld that people were laughing at him. Not quite laughing out
loud, not quite openly defying him, but he saw the hidden smiles and mocking grins of the
boomers. He saw them staring at Hank’s limp, and the bandages on Karl’s face where the glass
had cut him on his way through the window, and the white splints on his two middle fingers,
where that VanDeen bitch had snapped them.

    Grunfeld had probably not felt embarrassment since he was twelve years old, but he felt it
now, and the realization brought a sense of outrage and anger that outdid anything he had ever
felt in his life. He wanted to grab the nearest boomer and smash the grin right off his
face—except that he couldn’t grab or smash anyone with his fingers in these fucking splints!

     He forced himself to calm down. He had business there tonight. Once that was taken care
of, there would be plenty of time to make the goddamn boomers rue the day they had laughed
at him. Grunfeld even paused to congratulate himself for his growing sense of maturity. Time
was, he’d have tried to set everything straight right there, now, tonight—starting with that
VanDeen bitch, who was sitting at a table along with Elba and Eckstein, looking at him with
that superior smile of hers.

    Grunfeld walked over to the table. He carefully avoided looking at VanDeen, even though
her tits were all but bare and she was taunting him with those blue eyes, and concentrated on
Elba. He gave her his best sneer and said, “I’m tired of waitin’ on you, Elba. We got business to
do, and we’re gonna get it done right now.”

   “What business you think we got, Kevin?” Elba asked him.

    “I’m buyin’ the Emporium from you. I’ll give ya a fair price, like we already talked about.
Ain’t gonna try and cheat ya none. But I’m buyin’ and you’re sellin’—tonight—and that’s all
there is to it.”

   “Really?” Elba asked sweetly.

   “Really,” he said. He turned to Cleveland and said, “Got a seegar, Karl?”

   “Sure do, Boss,” Cleveland said eagerly. He took one from a pocket and handed it to
Grunfeld, who bit the tip off, spat it out, and stuck the cigar in the corner of his mouth.

  “Ya see, Elba,” he said, sounding like the Voice of Reason itself, “if you don’t sell me the
Emporium tonight, it might just be that by tomorrow, you won’t have nothin’ left to sell.”

    Grunfeld pulled a matchbox out of his vest pocket, extracted a match, and tried to strike it.
But with his splinted fingers, he couldn’t quite manage it. He dropped the first match unlit,
which pretty well spoiled the dramatic demonstration he had planned. The idea was to drop a
lit match on the wooden floor, so everyone could imagine what might happen to the
Emporium if Elba refused to sell it. He tried again, but just couldn’t get the fucking match lit
…

   “Poor boy,” Elba cooed. Before he could stop her, Elba scooped up the dropped match, lit
it, and ignited the cigar for him. “That better, hon?”

   “Listen, you old bitch, I ain’t playin’ games here. You’re sellin’ the fuckin’ Emporium, and
you’re sellin’ it tonight!”

   “That’s right, Kevin, I surely am. In fact, I already sold it. So if you wanta buy it, you’re
gonna hafta make a deal with the new owner.”

   Gloria got to her feet and smiled.

   Grunfeld’s jaw dropped, and the cigar fell to the floor. Gloria carefully stepped on it,
crushing it out.

    “In the future,” she said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d use the ashtrays, Kevin. I intend to run a
tidy establishment.”




                                           Chapter 9

GLORIA AND ECKSTEIN FINISHED THEIR LATE breakfast in the nearly deserted main
room of the Emporium. No one was around except for Petra and another bar girl, who were
sweeping up the place; a few scattered, hungover boomers; and one of the professional
gamblers who leased tables from Elba. Slim Jim Zuni was sitting alone at his table, knocking
back bourbons and dealing himself solitaire hands.

   “I hate like hell to leave you here alone,” Eckstein said.

   “I won’t be alone. Petra’s here, and Elba will stay until Althea and the team arrive.”

   “Let me rephrase that, then. I hate like hell to leave you.”

    Gloria reached for him and squeezed his hand. “I know,” she said. “I hate it too. But you’ve
got to get the technical team and the equipment lined up on Palmyra, and you’ll only have a
week to do it.”

    Eckstein nodded. “That will be enough time, I think. I already have the people in mind,
and I know where we can get a recharger. The modifications shouldn’t take more than a couple
of days. I guess what really bothers me is that I won’t be coming back with the Dexta team.”

   “We already discussed that, Stu. You know you can’t be seen around here until after we’re
up and running. If anyone connects you with what’s supposed to happen here—”

   “I know. I can’t come back until we’re ready to do the survey. And I have to delay that as
long as I decently can in order to give you the time that you need. It could be two or three
months before I see you again. That’s what bothers me.”

   “Do you think that doesn’t bother me, too?” Gloria gave him a sad smile.

   “Oh, I flatter myself that you’ll miss me … for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes.”
    “Nonsense!” She laughed. “It’ll be at least an hour.” She leaned over and kissed him on the
lips. “Maybe two,” she added.

  “Well,” he said, “just do me a favor and don’t take the next guy up to that spot on the
mountain. I want that to be exclusively ours.”

   “I want that, too,” she said in a soft whisper.

   Petra came up behind them and politely cleared her throat. “Will there be anything else
today? More coffee?”

    “No, I think we’re all set, Miss … Petra, isn’t it?” Gloria grinned at her, not failing to note
that Petra’s body was now entirely uncovered.

   “That’s right, ma’am,” Petra said as she bent over the table to clear the dishes. “I’m looking
forward to being in your employ, Ms. VanDeen.” As she worked, she added in a harsh
whisper, “I’m also looking forward to seeing how in the world you are going to explain to the
Comptroller’s Office that Dexta has just bought itself a bawdy house!”

    “Oh, they won’t mind,” Gloria airily assured her. “We’ll probably even turn a profit. Of
course, it would probably help the cash flow if I could get you to work the rooms. I hear you’re
quite an attraction around here. What happened to the fig leaf?”

    “As a matter of fact, I want to talk to you about that. But not now. I should get moving, but
I just wanted to let you know that I’m on the list for the Lodge.”

   “Elba told me. Be careful up there. Oh, and Stu, this reminds me. Make sure you tell Althea
and the others not to let on that they know Petra. Tell them that she’s here working
undercover—figuratively, at least.”

    Petra stuck her tongue out at Gloria, then gathered up the tray. She started to leave, but
Gloria grabbed her elbow to stop her. She reached into her purse and tossed some coins onto
the tray. “You’re doing a great job, Petra. Thanks!”

   “My pleasure, ma’am,” Petra answered, then walked off toward the kitchen, her bare
behind swaying freely.

    Eckstein watched her go, then turned back to Gloria. “You know, she raised a good point.
Just how in hell are you going to explain this to Dexta?”

    “It’s all in the Code,” Gloria assured him. “Look it up sometime. Chapter Forty-two,
Paragraph Three, Subsection B. It authorizes Level XII personnel and above—that’s me—to
purchase, lease, rent, or otherwise acquire on an emergency basis such businesses, enterprises,
or other facilities, the continued operation of which is deemed necessary to assure the
economic well-being of a region within their jurisdiction. It further authorizes said personnel to
operate such enterprises on an ad hoc basis until a suitable disposition of them can be
arranged.”

   “Whew,” Eckstein whistled. “That’s some Code, that Dexta Code.”

   “Sure is,” Gloria agreed.
GLORIA DROVE THE SKIMMER OVER TO THE PIER and helped Eckstein with his bags.
The freighter in the slip was already clearing its throat, in anticipation of the daylong journey
back to Palmyra.

    “Listen,” Eckstein said, “I know you think you can take care of yourself, and I know you
think Grunfeld won’t want to risk the wrath of Dexta, but you embarrassed him yesterday and
made it personal. He’s bound to try something.”

   “I know. But I think I’ll be safe precisely because I did make it personal. He won’t just have
someone sneak up from behind me and burn my head off. Whatever he does, he’ll try to fuck
me first. His ego will demand that.”

   “That doesn’t exactly make you any safer.”

   “But it will give me time and opportunity. Relax, Stu. I’ll be fine.”

    A blast from the freighter’s air horn prevented Eckstein from registering any further
protests. They had time for one last, urgent kiss, then he was running down the pier toward
the freighter’s hatch.

   Gloria stayed to watch the freighter back out of the slip, maneuver out into the river, and
make its noisy ascent into the deep blue skies of Sylvania. Then she got back into the skimmer
and headed upriver.

    She spent the day visiting the camps of the riverrats along both banks of the Rankus and its
tributaries. Everyone had heard about her by then, and she received a warm and enthusiastic
welcome wherever she went. The news that she had acquired Elba’s had traveled fast, and her
new status earned her the nearly reverent devotion of everyone she met. She might have been
the Emperor’s ex-wife, a Dexta big shot, and the darling of the Empire’s media, but what really
mattered to the boomers was that she was now the proprietor of the Emporium.

   It didn’t hurt that she had stripped off her red flannel shirt on this sunny day and was
wearing nothing but her low-cut jeans. She was completely on her own, on a strange and
dangerous world, and that somehow made her feel recklessly alive.

    Everyone wanted to know if she was going to work the rooms herself, and her answer was
always ambiguous. In fact, she hadn’t really decided about that. Every man on the planet
wanted to fuck her, and she didn’t object to the idea in principle. Still, she had an entirely
different job to occupy her time and attention, and she couldn’t let sex get in the way of that.
However, the idea of sex never left her mind, and she made certain that it assumed a central
position in the minds of everyone she met. In the battle to come, her personal appeal to the
boomers would be the most powerful weapon she would have.

    She stopped for lunch in Pizen Flats, sharing a fish fry with King Gus Thornton and some
of the other riverrats, including Ted Oberlin, the law-student-turned-prospector. He wanted to
raise more questions about the voter registration drive, the Homestead Acts, the Eminent
Domain Statutes, and the Big Twelve. In fact, he raised entirely too many questions for Gloria’s
comfort or the patience of the other riverrats, who were much more interested in what Gloria
intended to do with the Emporium. She told them that she had a few changes in mind, and
maybe a couple of surprises, but that her main goal was to keep it running as well as Elba had.
That produced a lot of happy smiles.

    As she was returning to her skimmer, she buttonholed Ted Oberlin and told him, quietly,
“I’m planning to camp tonight upstream near the waterfall. If you can find the time to drop by,
maybe we can discuss some of those questions you raised in a little more detail.” He smiled in
surprise, then nodded. Gloria got back into the skimmer and flew onward toward the next
camp, feeling pleased with herself. After all, it had been at least three hours since Stu Eckstein
had departed.




AS SHE CONTINUED HER JOURNEY, THE RIVER narrowed and became swifter, rowdier.
The deep forests lining the river gave way to steep inclines and sheer cliffs, as the enclosing
mountains tightened their embrace. The skimmer negotiated a passage through a towering
canyon and brought her to a place that simply took her breath away.

    It was like a deep bowl, almost circular, bisected by the river. Forests on each side framed
the scene and offered a tranquil respite from the furious activity of the river itself. Foam boiled
and spumed everywhere in the shadow of the most dramatic waterfall Gloria had ever seen or
imagined. She had to tilt her head all the way back just to get a glimpse of the top through the
swirling mists that floated through the little valley. The falls must have dropped a thousand
meters or more in three stages, with a final plunge of five hundred meters straight down. The
roar of falling water was almost deafening, and Gloria’s heart was in her throat as she tried to
take in the magnificence of what she was seeing.

   “Spirit,” she whispered.

     She halted the skimmer a few meters above the rushing waters, perhaps a kilometer away
from the base of the falls, and just sat there and stared in awe and wonder. Stu had said the
falls were spectacular, but his vocabulary was simply too limited to fully describe what she was
seeing. There were no words adequate to the task in any language. Gloria didn’t even try to
think. She let nature engulf her and lost herself in the majesty of it all.

    After some unmarked passage of time, she forced herself to run the skimmer over to the
east bank of the river, where a calm and sedate pool had formed in the lee of the falls. She
parked on a little bluff several meters above the pool and got out. It had been easy to think that
she had been witnessing some scene from the beginning of time, but she was quickly brought
back to her own era by the sight of the ashes of an old campfire and some thoughtlessly
discarded trash. It looked obscene.

     Even before she set up her own campsite, she collected all the trash and stuffed it into the
back of her skimmer. Satisfied with her efforts, she set about arranging her own equipment.
She found a level spot, laid out her tent, pushed a button on it, then stepped back to watch as
the tent erected itself. Carbon dioxide charges thrust the pegs into the soil to provide a firm
anchor, then the smart composites in the poles remembered their proper shape and assumed
it. The smart fabrics of the tent top and sides unrolled themselves from the poles, latched onto
the appropriate tabs, and the operation was complete in less than fifteen seconds. Gloria
suspected that Lewis and Clark had not done it quite this way, but she was content with the
result.

    She unpacked her remaining gear, then walked over to the edge of the bluff to stare some
more at the waterfall. The water would be cold, but the day was warm, and she could not
resist. She kicked off her boots, slipped out of her jeans, got a running start, and dived into the
pool, ten meters below.

    Gasping as she returned to the surface, the shock of the icy water driving the breath from
her lungs, she struggled for a moment before finding her equilibrium. Then she began to
swim, cutting through the water like some aquatic mammal, heedless of the cold. She rolled
over onto her back and floated for a while, gazing upward at the incredible waterfall, feeling
the warmth of the sun on her face. The pool, she decided, was too calm, and willed herself to
challenge the riotous river and all its power. She fought against the current, battling it with
every atom of strength in her body, until finally she was nearly under the waterfall itself. The
plummeting water would probably knock her unconscious, so she dived deep and surfaced
behind it, deafened by the roar, veiled by the swirling mists. She lingered there, simply
treading water and marveling that she was in such a place. At last, cold and exhaustion drove
her back to the bank, where she dragged herself onto the smooth rocks and picked out a route
up to the top of the bluff. There, she simply sprawled on her back and lay still and drained in
the cool grasses and soft, warm sunlight.

    At length, some primal instinct told her that she was not alone. She sprang to her feet,
whirled around, and saw a small, wizened, stoop-shouldered man standing at the edge of the
forest. They stared at each other wordlessly for several moments. Then he stepped forward a
few paces and said, “Never seen that before.”

   Gloria took a few steps toward him. He had long, untamed white hair, a scraggly beard,
and wore unclassifiable garments that might have been made of animal hides. His face was
pinched and forbidding, but his blue-gray eyes seemed to sparkle.

   “Never seen what?” Gloria asked him.

   “Someone swimming out that far in the river. You swim well.”

   “Thank you. Are you Old Abel?”

    “That’s what they call me,” he said. His voice sounded like a piece of sandpaper being
ripped apart.

   “My name’s Gloria.”

   “Knew that. Glad to meet ya.”

   “The pleasure’s all mine.”

   “Not from where I’m standin’,” he said, a hint of a smile forming beneath his tangled
whiskers.

   Gloria smiled back at him. “I was going to make some coffee,” she said. “Will you join me?”

    He shook his head. “Not just now, thankee. We’ll talk some other time, mebbe. Just wanted
to meet ya, and compliment you on your swimming … and everything else.”
    Abel turned to go, but Gloria called to him. “Wait, please,” she begged him. “I wanted to
ask you about the Voice.”

   He cocked his head to one side. “You heard it yet?”

   “No.”

   He nodded. “When you do, then mebbe we’ll talk about it.”

   “What if I don’t hear it?”

    Abel offered her another smile. “I ’spect mebbe you will.” He nodded politely, then turned
and walked away into the forest. Gloria stood there for a moment, then started after him, but
by the time she reached the edge of the forest, he had completely vanished from view.

    Nude and shivering a little, Gloria hesitated, then continued into the forest. The trees
seemed to muffle the sound of the waterfall, and by the time she had gone a few meters into
the woods, it was as if she had entered a completely different world. Here, the dashing waters
and blunt, shiny boulders were gone; soft leaves and mosses on the forest floor made each step
easy and sensual, and each massive tree trunk seemed to beckon her onward to the next. She
walked for uncounted minutes, realizing somewhere deep in her mind that she had no idea
where she was, or what might be waiting ahead of her in the darkening woods. Somehow, it
didn’t seem to matter. She kept walking …

   Who are you?

   Gloria stopped in her tracks, whirled around—but no one was there. Had she heard
something? She couldn’t be sure …

   Who are you?

    Again, she whirled, and again, saw no one. She was completely alone, yet she was certain
she had heard … the Voice?

   “I’m Gloria,” she said, barely whispering.

   Gloria.

   “Yes! I’m Gloria! And—”

   You are not like the others.

  Gloria wasn’t sure what the Voice had meant at first, but then figured it out. “I’m a
woman,” she said. “A female.”

   Yes.

   “And who are you? Are you the Voice that I’ve heard about?”

   I am … here.

   “Yes, I know, but—”

   You must not let them hurt me.

   “What? What do you mean?”
   Don’t … let them hurt … me …

   “But …” Gloria didn’t know how to respond, and in her moment of hesitation, she
suddenly—somehow—became aware that the Voice was gone. She called to it for several
minutes, but hers was the only voice in the forest.

   Alone, she walked slowly back to the river.




WITH THE SUN LOWERING BEHIND THE MOUNTAINS, the air had turned cool. There was
something indescribably sensual about being nude in the great forest, so she compromised and
donned only her shirt. She tossed an artificial log from her kit into the ashes of the old
campfire, started it, and squatted down in front of it for a few minutes to warm up. Then she
went down to the river for water, set up a kettle over the fire, and waited for it to boil. She had
some freeze-dried glop she could prepare for dinner, but decided to wait to see if she would be
cooking for two.

    The answer soon came in the form of a battered old utility skimmer that materialized from
the mists on the river and came to rest on the bluff next to her own skimmer. Ted Oberlin got
out, looking as if he had perhaps taken a bath and done his laundry since the last time she had
seen him. Gloria unbuttoned her shirt and walked over to meet him.

   His eyes popped out a bit as he stared at her. “Hi,” he said, “I—”

     Gloria raised a finger to her lips and shushed him. She leaned forward on tiptoes and kissed
him on the lips, hungrily, expertly, then slowly moved downward. Later, lying nude on the
grasses by the fire as the sun went down, Oberlin returned the favor. Gloria simply lay back
and let him take her from one rippling orgasm to the next, until he thrust into her and kept on
thrusting for a long, liquid time, at last bringing them both to a climax that was as dramatic, in
its own way, as the roaring waterfall above them.

    They cooked dinner and made coffee, enjoying it along with a bottle of cheap but effective
whisky that Oberlin had brought with him. Warmed inside and out, Gloria left her clothes off,
but Oberlin decided to get back into his trousers and shirt. They talked a little, and Oberlin
told her something of his past—college, law school, family conflicts, angry departure,
determination to make it on his own, arrival on Sylvania—but mostly they were content to
stare at each other and listen to the rushing waters.

    He was a good-looking man, now that he had cleaned himself up a bit, with long dark hair,
a newly trimmed beard, and intelligent brown eyes. He was the same age as Gloria—the first
time she had been with someone that young in quite a while. Older, more confident and
powerful men generally got there ahead of the young ones, but Gloria was pleased to have had
this opportunity. Benjamin Franklin had once said something famous about older women
being grateful, but Gloria had found that this was also true of younger men.

   “You don’t give a man much chance to make conversation,” Oberlin said. He took a swig
from the whisky bottle and passed it to Gloria, who took a long pull at it.

   “Sometimes words just get in the way.”
   “Sometimes they do,” Oberlin agreed, “but there are some things I wanted to talk about
with you.”

   “So talk, while I get us a treat.” Gloria began rummaging around in her backpack.

    “Well, there are a lot of things. You do a good job of selling this voter registration drive of
yours to the riverrats, Gloria, I admit. But you know as well as I do what’s going to happen
once this territory becomes incorporated. The Empire will strike a deal with the corporates, and
they’ll come in here and rip up the valley and drive all the boomers off their claims.”

    “You’re forgetting about Eminent Domain,” Gloria said. She fished a long, fat cigarette out
of her pack. “The corporates will need to get the proxies for 60 percent of the registered claims
before they can drive anyone off the land.” She held the cigarette close to the fire to get it
started, then took a long drag at it, coughing slightly. She handed it to Oberlin.

   “What’s this? Marijuana?”

   Gloria noisily exhaled, shaking her head. “Better,” she explained. “It’s called jigli, and it
comes from Mynjhino. I brought some back with me.”

    Oberlin took an experimental puff, then another, deeper one. He tried to say something,
but exploded in spasms of coughs. Gloria handed him the whisky bottle, while she retrieved
the jigli and took another pull at it.

    Between smoke and drink, it was a while before Oberlin was able to respond to Gloria’s
point about Eminent Domain. “Look,” he finally insisted, “between the claims Grunfeld and
the Lodge already control, and the claims of the highboys who will want to get what they can
for their work, it’ll be no problem for them to get that 60 percent. And once they have it, the
riverrats and anyone else who wants to hang on will be removed, by force, if necessary. Say,
what the hell is this stuff, anyway?”

    “It is,” Gloria declared, “the most powerful natural aphrodisiac in the Empire, and you and
I are consuming heroic quantities of a specially refined and potent version of it.”

    Oberlin’s eyebrows went up as he examined the stub of the cigarette in his hand. “No
kidding,” he said, and took another drag, ending up burning his fingertips. He stuck them in
his mouth, while Gloria poured more whisky into hers.

   “Anyway … where was I? Yes, the Eminent Domain Statutes. They’ll get their 60 percent,
Gloria. You know it and I know it.”

  “Maybe they will,” she said, “and maybe they won’t. And maybe even if they do get it, they
won’t want it once they have it.”

   “What do you mean by that?”

    “I mean, Ted, my dear, that there is more going on here than meets the eye. So don’t get in
the way of what I have to do, okay?”

   “I knew it!” Oberlin said, a hint of anger in his voice. “You’ve been busy distracting me all
night, trying to keep me from having my say.”

   Gloria shrugged. “You’ve had it, haven’t you?”
   “Not really. There were a lot of things—”

    “That you spent all afternoon rehearsing,” Gloria interrupted. “Lots of fine, legal-mind kind
of points that would have gotten you a good grade in law school. Look, Ted, just consider them
said, okay? And let me explain something to you. The Empire is coming to Sylvania, and it’s
coming in with both feet. If you try to lead some heroic opposition to voter registration, you’re
just going to fail in the end, and maybe even get yourself hurt in the process.”

   Oberlin started to protest at what sounded like a threat, but Gloria shushed him again.

    “Think about it, Ted,” she said. “If you try to organize opposition to voter registration,
that’s going to put you on the same side as Grunfeld—for the moment, at least. Do you really
want to be there? Is he the kind of ally you can trust? Besides, he’ll sell you out in the end.
Right now, he wants to keep his little dictatorship-of-the-pukes, but sooner or later he’ll see the
light and decide to cash in his claims. And meanwhile, you’ll be opposing some very powerful
corporate interests, who will squash both you and Grunfeld like bugs, if it suits their
purposes.”

   “Yes, but—”

    “Listen to me, Ted. You can’t stop what’s going to happen, and you could get hurt if you
try. Don’t fight me on this.”

   “And what about all the boomers? What will happen to them? What will happen to all
of”—he flung his arm out to encompass the valley—“this?”

   Gloria leaned over to kiss him. Then she started unbuttoning his shirt.

    “Ted,” she said, “your heart is in the right place.” She put her palm on his bare chest and
smiled. “Right there, in fact. I can feel it. Now, feel mine.” She took his hand and guided it to
her own chest. “See? Mine’s in the right place too.”

    Oberlin felt her heart, seized the moment, and moved on to feel her breasts and swollen,
erect nipples.

   “Wait a minute!” he snarled abruptly. “You’re doing it again. You’ve seduced me, plied me
with drugs and whisky—”

   “You brought the whisky,” she reminded him.

   “Oh. Yeah.”

   “I’m half-drunk already,” she said. “Consider me successfully plied. I am officially at your
mercy.” She opened his trousers and took his cock in her hand, making it unclear just who
was actually at whose mercy at the moment. Gloria took his lengthening member into her
mouth and moved up and down on it a few times.

   “Wait a minute!” he cried with the last of his resistance.

    She paused and looked up at him. “Ted, please,” she said primly, “I can’t do this and talk at
the same time. So just shut up and listen to me for a minute, and then we’ll get down to the
real reason you’re here. Listen to me, Ted—I heard the Voice!”

   “What? Spirit, not you too!”
   “Ted, it’s not just superstition, it’s real! I heard it as clearly as I can hear you. And that was
before the whisky and jigli. It’s real, Ted. Please accept that.”

   Oberlin stared at her dubiously, then blew out some air and said, “Okay, you heard the
Voice. So what did it say?”

   “It said, ‘Don’t let them hurt me.’ And Ted, I’m not going to.”

   “What do you mean? Hurt whom?”

   “The planet, Ted! This place.”

   “But—”

    “I think the Voice is … well, never mind what I think it is. All that matters is that you
believe me when I tell you that I am not going to let this place be destroyed. Not the place, or
the people who live in it. Do you understand me? Do you believe me?”

   Oberlin looked down at her and met her blue, intense eyes. He had a million questions, and
10 million concerns, but somehow, he found it impossible to doubt her.

   “I believe you, Gloria,” he said at last.

   “Good,” she said. “Now, please, stop interrupting me.”

   Gloria resumed what she had been doing, and Oberlin decided that he had said enough for
one night.




                                           Chapter 10

GLORIA SPENT THE NEXT THREE DAYS MEETING with the highboys, spreading her gospel
of voter registration. That entailed a great deal of hiking and climbing, since the skimmer could
not safely negotiate the steeper slopes, but by the time she returned to her campsite on the
third night, she calculated that she had personally met with more than half of the boomers on
the planet. Their enthusiasm for Gloria was undoubted, but whether she had sold them on
registration remained an open question.

    In the late afternoons and evenings, she had gone for a swim and wandered again through
the forest, nude and questing. But she did not hear the Voice again, and was beginning to
wonder if she had ever really heard it at all. Nor did she see Old Abel, although there were
moments when she sensed that he was out there somewhere, watching her.

    She had time for a lot of serious thinking each night as she sat before her campfire or
curled up in her sleeping bag. Gloria was not, by nature, philosophically inclined. She tended
to take what came, and generally ignored the deeper meaning of it all—if, indeed, there was
any. But it was hard to ignore the Voice, and she puzzled over what it meant and what it was.

    Ted Oberlin managed to borrow the skimmer again and joined her on the third night,
bringing with him some fresh antelope steaks and another bottle of whisky. Gloria provided
some wild onionlike vegetables she had found, a freeze-dried potato concoction, and some
more jigli. They made love to the point of mutual exhaustion, and by the time a steady rain
began to fall, they were ready to retreat inside the tent and talk of immediate prospects and
eternal questions.

   “I have a theory about the Voice,” she told him.

   “Everybody has a theory about the Voice,” Oberlin replied. “Okay, what’s yours?”

    “Well … it’s just a theory, but I think it might be like the Spirit. Maybe it’s Sylvania’s
version of the Spirit, only not as articulate because until humans got here, this planet never had
any intelligent life. Maybe every planet has such a … a being, a presence. A lot of alien races
have similar stories and legends.”

   “It’s a theory,” Oberlin agreed.

   “But you don’t like it.”

   “I don’t even think the Spirit was real, Gloria. Do you mean to tell me that you do?”

    Gloria shrugged. “I never quite made up my mind about that,” she said. “But if the Spirit is
real, then maybe the Voice is the same sort of thing.”

    “You’re welcome to your theory. But I prefer to deal in facts. I mean, look at what the Voice
actually says. It tells the highboys to leave it alone and go away, presumably because they do
the most damage to the planet. It tells the riverrats, ‘Don’t hurt me.’ But what did it say to
you?”

   “It said, ‘Don’t let them hurt me.’ ”

   Oberlin nodded. “Right. Very different. But what did it say to you first? It asked who you
were, didn’t it?”

   “Yes.”

   “Which implies that it didn’t know anything about you. Not even that you were a woman,
because it mentioned that you were different from the others.”

   “Okay. So?”

   “So, if it didn’t know anything about you, how did it know that you were in a position
where you could prevent anyone from hurting it?”

  Gloria frowned, her brow wrinkled. She didn’t like Oberlin’s point, but she got it. After a
moment, she said, “That’s just your legal-beagle mind, Ted. Law school makes you cynical.”

   “Undoubtedly. But the question remains. What we have here is a logical inconsistency in
what the Voice said. Would some sort of mystical planetary spirit make a mistake like that?
Sounds like a pretty human mistake to me.”

   “But there was no one else around! There never is.”

   “Convenient, isn’t it?”

   Gloria punched him in the ribs. “Cynic!”
   “Pushover,” Oberlin parried.

   “I am not a pushover! I’m just … receptive … to different possibilities.”

   Oberlin grinned at her. “You’re certainly receptive,” he agreed. “As to those different
possibilities …”

   “Careful! You’re going to knock over the tent poles.”

   As it turned out, he did. But Gloria didn’t mind.




PETRA RODE UP TO THE LODGE IN THE BACK OF a utility skimmer along with another
bar girl named Rana Mohr and two of the hookers, Eva Shields and Lulu Villegas. The
skimmer followed a grassy path, not really a road, up a series of switchbacks along the side of a
mountain that overlooked Greenlodge and the river. After half an hour, they came within sight
of the Lodge, which was really a series of connected wooden cabins surrounding a large,
circular central building with a broad veranda and big plate-glass windows.

    It was the first time Petra had even been outside in days, and she luxuriated in the fresh air
and the magnificent scenery. She was also relieved to be wearing clothing again, even the
ridiculous costume that had been provided for her. Someone at the Lodge had evidently seen
too many millennium-old French bedroom farces and decided to clothe the help in
upstairs-maid outfits—very short black dresses with white lace trim around their plunging
necklines. Petra’s was too large for her, which meant that her crotch and fanny were covered
but that her breasts were all but completely exposed. She couldn’t bend over without flashing
her nipples, which somehow seemed a lot more risqué than simply baring it all at Elba’s.

    Rana, a thin, dark-haired, dark-skinned beauty, had worked the Lodge before and assured
Petra that the work was usually routine and perfunctory—beds to be made, silver to be
polished, meals to be served. Eva and Lulu looked down their noses at such labors and teased
Rana and Petra about being too scared to work the rooms. They wore fancy, revealing, and
slightly outlandish dresses, and spent a lot of time checking their hair and makeup.

    When the skimmer had parked next to the central part of the Lodge, they got out and were
led inside to a basement workroom, where they were inspected by Preston Thawley, the Lodge
Manager. He was a fit, wiry, silver-haired man of about sixty, who had all the charm and
subtlety of an Imperial Marine drill sergeant. “Lulu, Eva, you know what’s expected of you,”
he barked. “Mr. Rankus will give you your assignments later. In the meantime, just go to your
rooms and keep out of the way. Rana, you’ll perform the usual tasks, under the direction of
Mrs. Thawley. And your name is Petra?”

   “Yessir,” Petra said.

   “Welcome to the Lodge. You’ll find the work easy enough if you do as you’re told, and the
payment will be more than what you’re accustomed to down at the Emporium. If you do a
good job, you’ll be asked back. I’ll be checking on you periodically. We have guests coming for
dinner tonight, so I expect you to be efficient and accommodating in every respect.
Understood?”
    Petra wanted to ask what he meant by “accommodating,” but decided against it. She
figured she would find out soon enough.

    Mrs. Thawley was as robust and healthy as her husband, but softer spoken and a bit
motherly. She showed Petra around the main part of the Lodge, acquainted her with the
kitchen and closets, then sent her off to begin tidying up the cabins. There were a dozen of
them, all told, but only three of them were currently occupied by guests. Claude Rankus and
the other barons from Palmyra had their own permanent quarters on the upper floors of the
central building.

   On her way to the cabins, Petra got a good look at the land on the other side of the peak,
away from Greenlodge and the coast. In the small valley below, she saw a farm and cattle
ranch, stables, an orchard, a nine-hole golf course, bridle paths, and a lake with boathouses for
canoes and sailboats. Scattered around the valley were small homes for the Lodge’s permanent
workers, who tended the animals, raised the crops, and trimmed the fairways. The valley was
known as Overhill, and its denizens rarely ventured into Greenlodge.

    Two of the workers from Overhill were eager to make her acquaintance. Ed Watson and
Ramdath Knipper ogled her from a polite distance and offered to show her around the
establishment. Petra declined the offer, but the two young men said that they’d be seeing her
again.

    Petra told herself that she wasn’t really changing linen, sweeping floors, and scrubbing
toilets; rather, she was embarking on her new career as a spy. She dutifully searched for
evidence of conspiracies and plots, but found nothing that qualified. In the occupied cabins she
did find some unlocked suitcases, but a quick check of them revealed nothing more
incriminating than a bottle of hair dye and some antigerontological drugs. If there were any
hidden microphones or clandestine comm units around, they eluded her. The only
conversation of any note that she overheard was between the chef and Mrs. Thawley, who
disagreed about the relative ripeness of some blueberries. Mrs. Thawley’s point of view
prevailed. Meanwhile, there were more toilets to clean.




GLORIA WAS HAVING AN EQUALLY TEDIOUS DAY at the Emporium. Upon her return
from her campsite, she huddled with Elba to get a quick course in brothel management, but
found the course neither quick nor easy. There was more to the business than she had ever
imagined.

    The care and maintenance of whores was a major topic, as was the proper tone to strike
when dealing with menials, bartenders, bar girls, and general store clerks. She learned about
the ins and outs of the deals Elba had struck with the professional gamblers who leased tables,
the importance of clean sheets, clean dishes, and clean floors, and the necessity of paying
carefully negotiated kickbacks to the freighter captains who delivered goods from Palmyra, the
jobbers who provided needed merchandise, the liquor suppliers, and even Mayor Grunfeld.
The last one was for “municipal services,” which Gloria decided she would do without.

    Elba showed her the books, which were actual books written in longhand, and required
translation by Elba, who employed a complex system of abbreviations and codes. Gloria
inwardly groaned when she realized that she was going to have to transfer the whole nearly
illegible mess into the Dexta computers when they arrived; the Comptroller’s Office would
insist upon it.

    She had planned to spend the evening in her room, familiarizing herself with the books,
but was rescued by the delivery of an invitation, in beautiful calligraphy, asking her to dine
tonight at the Lodge. Dress was formal, and a limo skimmer would pick her up at eight. She
had been expecting some overture from the Lodge—in fact, she thought it overdue—and
welcomed the opportunity to enjoy a dinner that was not freeze-dried.

   The limo arrived punctually, and the driver, an Overhill man named Gonzales, solicitously
opened the door for her. During the trip up the mountain, he kept glancing back at Gloria, but
managed to get them safely to the Lodge in spite of the distraction.

    Gloria was welcomed at the main entrance to the central building by Mr. and
Mrs. Thawley, who introduced themselves and graciously ushered her into a reception area
where plush divans overlooked the big windows and a darkening view of the distant, faintly
glimmering sea. Six men quickly rose to greet her, and the oldest of them stepped forward and
bowed very formally.

   “Ms. VanDeen,” he said, “we are honored that you have chosen to grace our humble Lodge
with your presence this evening. I am Claude Rankus.”

    “A pleasure, Mr. Rankus,” Gloria said, tilting her head forward slightly, as she had learned
to do during her years at Court. Rankus was a medium-sized man with a bit of a pot belly, but
looked in excellent shape for 140. His hair was white and very thin and his nose was something
of a beak, but his eyes were a clear, unwavering blue, and there was an air of confidence about
him. He wore a black tie and dinner jacket with a cummerbund that seemed to be some sort of
tartan.

    “Allow me to introduce my associates and guests, Ms. VanDeen. Myron Vigo is my oldest
friend and helped me to found the Lodge some twenty years ago. And Rahim Ogunbayo is a
mere parvenu, who joined us just seventeen years back. My guests this evening are men of
power and substance, as befits their mission here. May I present Mr. Thomas Shoop of
Imperium, Mr. Sherwin Lund of Excelsior, and Mr. Gaspar Norfleet of Servitor?”

    Each man, in turn, bowed to Gloria, who repeated her aristocratic head tilt to them. They
tried to meet her eyes, but found it difficult in light of what she was wearing. Realizing that
Rankus was a conservative and formal sort of man, she wore a frilly white dress that covered
her from neck to knees, although it dipped deep enough in back to reveal most of her derriere.
Also remembering the Lodge’s notorious reputation, she had set the transparency of the smart
fabric of her dress at 80 percent, making her look as if she were clothed in nothing but a thin
white mist.

    Vigo and Ogunbayo also looked to be centenarians, although somewhat younger and better
preserved than Rankus; both of them wore the same tartan cummerbund, apparently a symbol
of the Lodge. The corporate reps were men in their fifties or sixties, their prime, and each gave
her a wary but probing stare. Everyone in the room, including Gloria, was well aware that this
small group would be determining the future of Sylvania.

   She sat on a divan next to Rankus and made inconsequential small-talk compliments about
the beauty of the Lodge and its surroundings. Then Petra and Rana served them champagne
and canapés. Since the two women already worked for her at the Emporium, she greeted them
by name, making no attempt to pretend that she didn’t know Petra. Both women curtsied to
her, then left.

    “I hope you intend to continue Elba’s arrangement with us, Ms. VanDeen. We could find
serving girls in Overhill, I suppose, but yours have an undeniable charm.”

    “By all means, Mr. Rankus. I’ll be making a few changes at the Emporium, but that won’t
be one of them. I hope you’ve found their work to be satisfactory.”

    “Very much so. Rana is well known to us, and Petra promises to be a fine addition to our
staff.”

   “Ms. VanDeen,” said Sherwin Lund, the Excelsior rep, “I understand that the rest of your
Dexta team will be arriving in a few days to begin voter registration.” Lund was a thin man
with very white skin and very dark, slicked-back hair.

    “Oh, please, Sherwin,” Rankus interjected, “we have plenty of time for that. I prefer to get
to know Ms. VanDeen as a person, and she us, before we plunge into the inevitable. Tell me,
Ms. VanDeen, have you enjoyed your stay thus far on Sylvania?”

    “Immensely, Mr. Rankus—and please, call me Gloria. I’ve spent some time upriver and I
camped out near the waterfall for several nights. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such a beautiful
place.”

   Rankus smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Gloria,” he said. “We are very proud of it.”

   “Does it have a name?” Gloria wondered.

   “Rankus Falls, of course,” said Myron Vigo. “There is also a Mt. Vigo around here
somewhere, and even a Lake Ogunbayo—a small one. We’re very modest men, you see.”

    “We shall have to name a mountain after you, Gloria. I know the very one.” Ogunbayo
laughed and exchanged a sly look with Vigo.

   “Oh?” asked Gloria.

   The two men snickered like teenagers, but Rankus put a quick end to that with a stern
look. Then he turned to Gloria and said, “Forgive my friends’ rather low sense of humor, my
dear. They were, I believe, referring to the twin prominences to the southwest of the falls.”

   “I apologize most humbly, Gloria,” said Ogunbayo.

    “No offense taken, Mr. Ogunbayo,” Gloria assured him. “Tell me, Mr. Rankus, how have
you managed to keep such a large and loyal staff at the Lodge since the boom began? I would
think many of the people in Overhill must have been very tempted to leave the Lodge and try
their luck at mining.”

   “Some few gave in to temptation,” Rankus admitted, a sour look on his face. “But we are a
unique community here—more of an extended family, really. Everyone knows his place and
performs his duties. We have little truck with the boomers and have preserved our way of life
in spite of the distractions.” He glanced at the corporate reps, who looked a little
uncomfortable.

    “We shall hold out to the bitter end,” Vigo said, “and the last man standing will die on the
ramparts cloaked in our sacred tartan. At least, Claude insists that we shall, and Claude always
gets his way.”

    “If that were true”—Rankus sniffed—“none of you would be here tonight—except, of
course, for our lovely guest. My dear, may I take you on a little tour of the Lodge?” Rankus
rose, held out his arm, and escorted Gloria to the stairway.

    They paused briefly on the next floor and the one above it to see some of the quarters of the
other Lodge trustees, then continued to the top floor, which belonged to Rankus. The view
from the circular balcony was spectacular even at night, and the rooms Rankus occupied were
self-indulgently luxurious without being flashy. Rankus took notable pride in showing Gloria
some old golfing trophies and his gun collection. In a display case along one wall there were
some early-model plasma weapons, a few lasers, and a number of gunpowder-and-lead
antiques, ranging from rifles and shotguns to Colt revolvers, a Kentucky long rifle, a Brown
Bess musket, and even an arquebus. Gloria made note of the layout of the apartment, paying
particular attention to the location of the private office. The information might be useful for
Petra.

     At dinner, Rankus sat at the head of the table, with Gloria next to him. The wine was
first-rate, and they dined on a native-Sylvanian version of salmon and imported game hens.
The conversation remained general, with Ogunbayo pressing her for details about her
adventures on Mynjhino. That topic seemed to discomfit Gaspar Norfleet; Gloria’s actions had
cost his company, Servitor, potential billions. Thomas Shoop, of Imperium, Ltd.—the ultimate
beneficiary of the outcome on Mynjhino—didn’t seem to mind.

    By the time they reached coffee and brandy, the inevitable could no longer be ignored.
Sherwin Lund, of Excelsior, repeated his earlier question about voter registration and wanted
to know how long it would take.

    “As soon as the team is in place, in a few days, we should be ready to start registering
voters,” Gloria told him. “I’ve been doing some groundwork in the last few days, talking up the
idea to the boomers, so I expect we could get a fairly good response immediately. But as to how
long it will take to reach five thousand, I couldn’t say. At least a month, possibly two—I hope
no more than that. But there will be opposition to the drive.”

   “Some of it right here in this room,” Lund said with a nod toward Rankus.

    “You may rely on it, Ms. VanDeen,” Rankus said. “I have no intention of turning this world
into an incorporated territory, subject to the whims of Dexta and an Imperial Governor, and
the none-too-tender mercies of our corporate friends. Do you know what they will do to
Sylvania if they have their way?”

   “I have a pretty good idea,” said Gloria.

   “They will destroy it,” Rankus said, with some heat. “Destroy it utterly!”

    “Oh, now, Claude,” Vigo soothed, “it may not be that bad. You know that all of the
interested parties have assured us that they won’t touch the Lodge or Overhill. Isn’t that right,
gentlemen?”
   “Absolutely,” said Norfleet.

    “Nonsense,” snarled Rankus. “You’ll rip up the ranges on both sides of the river all the way
up to the falls. Whether you despoil the Lodge directly or indirectly is of no moment. You’ll
turn this place into a goddamn industrial wasteland.”

   “You can’t fight it forever, Claude,” said Ogunbayo. “I regret the necessity as deeply as you,
and I shall certainly miss all that we have come to enjoy here, but you know as well as I do that
we cannot go on battling the tide.”

   “I know no such thing! If you two and the other trustees would show a little spine, we
could keep these corporate jackals at arm’s length indefinitely.”

   “We are not jackals, Mr. Rankus,” said Lund, a little stiffly. “We are businessmen, and we
do what we must for the benefit of our stockholders and, ultimately, the Empire itself.”

    “Bushwah!” Rankus snorted. “I try to be tolerant, but I’d throw the three of you out of here
right now if my … colleagues … didn’t insist on making you welcome.”

   “It’s to our ultimate advantage, Claude,” insisted Vigo. “Whatever happens, we need the
goodwill and understanding of these gentlemen and their corporations. I apologize to you,
gentlemen, on behalf of the Lodge and its sometimes cantankerous and disagreeable founder.”

   Rankus snorted again, then turned to Gloria. “As for you, my dear,” he said, “charming as
you are, I hope you realize that I will use every means in my power to oppose you.”

    “Every legal means, Claude,” Vigo quickly interjected. “I’m a lawyer by trade, Gloria, and I
have to tell you that there are some legal cards we can play that will make your job more
difficult.”

    “Play them as you will, Mr. Vigo,” Gloria said pleasantly. “Dexta has no shortage of lawyers.
But speaking of legal matters, let me caution you, Mr. Rankus, that your Mayor Grunfeld is
treading on very thin ice. You might mention to him that any strong-arm tactics employed
against Dexta personnel will be met with swift and severe reprisals.”

     “Ah, Mayor Grunfeld,” said Rankus. “He is, I admit, a bit crude, as are some of his
methods. Nevertheless, he has proven useful in the past, and may in the future, as well. I heard
about your little meeting with him the other day.” Rankus grinned. “Very creative, very
enterprising, and very courageous of you, Gloria. And it doesn’t hurt to give Mayor Grunfeld a
little comeuppance now and then. Reminds him of his place in the grand scheme of things.
Still, he is the existing legal authority in Greenlodge at the moment, and I would advise you
and your people not to overstep your legal bounds.”

   “I might say the same thing to you, Mr. Rankus,” Gloria replied. “With all due respect. The
boomers have rights, and Dexta will protect them. You may have founded the Lodge and
brought humans to Sylvania in the first place, but this is not a proprietary colony. It’s not your
feudal fiefdom.”

    “More’s the pity,” grumbled Rankus. “You know, I tried to get a grant from old Darius, but
he wouldn’t even accept my petition. Seems my blood isn’t blue enough. And now that young
rascal Charles is in league with these corporate hooligans. I wonder, sometimes, what is to
become of the Empire in this age.”
   “Whatever you or I may think of Charles, Mr. Rankus,” Gloria said, “he is the Emperor,
and he has a strong interest in this matter. He expressed his wishes directly to Norman Mingus,
who personally gave me my orders. I have every intention of carrying them out.”

   “Spirit be praised!” Sherwin Lund sighed. “We’ll do everything we can to assist you,
Ms. VanDeen. The sooner we get those voters registered, the sooner things can proceed.”

    “Thank you, Mr. Lund, but I would advise you to stay out of it as well. Dexta is perfectly
capable of handling its mission, and interference from the corporates or any other source”—she
glanced at Rankus—“would not be welcome.”

    Rankus abruptly got to his feet. “Very well, then. The gauntlet is down. The challenge is
clear. Do what you think you must, Ms. VanDeen. As I shall.”

   Rankus walked from the room and up the stairs to his private apartment. The others
watched him go in silence. Finally, Vigo said, “Forgive him, Gloria, gentlemen. Claude is not a
well man these days, and this business is taking a toll on him. But don’t underestimate him just
because he is old and tired. Claude Rankus will not go down without a fight.”




                                        Chapter 11

THE SMALL, SLEEK DEXTA CRUISER GURGLED into the pier, and Gloria was waiting there
to greet her team as they disembarked. They emerged into the sunlight, toting their bags and
looking around dubiously, as if unsure whether they had landed on the right planet. Althea
Dante was wearing khaki shirt and shorts and a pith helmet, as if she were planning to go off
with Stanley, in search of Livingston.

    “Gloria, darling, how grand to see you again!” Althea called to her. Gloria walked over to
her and gave her a hand with one of her bags.

   “Is this it?” Althea wondered as she gave the small town a once-over.

   “What were you expecting? Paris?”

   “If only!”

   “How was the trip? Any problems?”

   “None that led to bloodshed. Where’s the hotel?”

   Gloria turned and pointed to the Emporium.

   “Seriously, Gloria. I’m sure everyone is looking forward to getting settled in their rooms.”

   “Then they should be happy with the Emporium. Did you meet Stu Eckstein on Palmyra?”

   “He came up to the Palmyra Orbital Station during our layover,” Althea confirmed. “He
was distressingly vague about details, although he did mention that our dear little Petra is now
some sort of spy. Was he serious?”
    Gloria nodded. “Entirely. You and the team are not to acknowledge knowing her. Is that
clear to everyone?” The team had gathered around them by that time, so Gloria looked at each
one in turn. Everyone nodded in the affirmative.

    “Good,” Gloria said. “Now, as to the immediate future, we have temporary rooms for you
in the Emporium, over there.”

   “And then we transfer to a hotel?” asked Sintra Garbedian.

     “Not exactly. Tomorrow, you’ll be taking up residence in a local boardinghouse. The
nearest hotel is back on Palmyra. You’ll be roughing it here, but it’s really not as bad as it looks
at first sight.”

   “How could it be?” wondered Wilmer DeGrasse.

   “Oh, don’t be a snob, Wilmer,” piped Jillian Clymer. “I think this is going to be fun!”

   “Fun, I can’t guarantee,” said Gloria. “But it will definitely be interesting. For one thing,
we’ve had a slight change of plans. Althea, I have another assignment for you.”

   “On Palmyra?” Althea asked hopefully.

    “No such luck,” Gloria told her. “I’ll give you the details in a moment. But this means that
we need to appoint someone to lead the registration team in your place.” She turned to Raul
Tellemacher. “Raul, you’re senior, so you get the job.”

   “My pleasure.”

   “I’ll give you your marching orders later, but for now, get things organized and take
everyone down to that black utility skimmer at the end of the pier. I think we should be able to
crowd everyone in.”

    “After a week in a Cruiser, it will seem downright roomy,” Garbedian assured her as he
hefted his bags. Tellemacher led the team toward the skimmer, amid an undertone of
grumbles.

   “Now, then, Althea,” Gloria said, grinning, “let me tell you about your new job.”

   Althea frowned skeptically. “Am I going to like it?”

   Gloria laughed. “You know,” she said, “I think you just might.”




“SO,” PETRA ASKED LATER, IN GLORIA’S OFFICE, “how did Althea take the news that
she’s going to be the new madam at Elba’s?”

    “Not as badly as you might expect.” Gloria shrugged. “I mean, I don’t think that Althea
actually knows a Vassilian hit man. Anyway, I’m sure I saw that wicked little gleam in her eye
once she calmed down. Trust me, she’ll take to it like a duck to water. And how goes it with
you, kiddo? You seemed to be doing fine the other night at the Lodge.”

   “I’ve gotten to be very proficient at scrubbing toilets. They’ve asked me back, so I guess
that means that I’m doing something right. I never realized the spy business could be so
glamorous.”

    “You want glamour, go ask Althea if you can work the rooms. As to the spy business, I’ve
got something for you.”

   “Really?” Petra seemed positively giddy at the news.

    “I need you to find out everything you can about someone who may have been involved in
building the Lodge, twenty years ago. Do you think you can get upstairs to Rankus’s quarters
and tap into his computer?”

   “No chance,” Petra said, shaking her head. “Mrs. Thawley handles everything above the
main floor herself. If they even saw me trying to go upstairs, they’d kick me out—at a
minimum.”

   “Damn.”

    “However,” Petra added, “if it’s employment records you need checked, I think I might be
able to manage that.”

   Gloria smiled. “I knew you’d make a great spy. How will you work it?”

    “Mr. Thawley has a console in the workroom in the basement. I think he uses it to keep
track of all the work assignments, payments, and general personnel records. I don’t know if the
database goes back twenty years, but I don’t see why it wouldn’t.”

   “Great. And can you get at it safely?”

    “I think so. He seems to be elsewhere a lot of the time, and I have to go back and forth to
the workroom a lot for tools and mops and such. If I can stick my pad somewhere within a few
feet of the console, it ought to be able to get at anything that’s stored there.”

    Petra’s pad was not the standard-issue Dexta utility. It had been a gift from Gloria to
celebrate Petra’s promotion to a Thirteen, and it was the fanciest device on the market. It had
thousands of functions, most of which Petra had never tried, but one of them was a decryption
algorithm that allowed it to tap into most standard computers, even from a distance.

    “What I need,” Gloria said, “is anything you can find on a man named Abel. I don’t know if
that’s his first name or last. He’s been here forever, and people seem to think that he was on
the crew that built the Lodge.” Gloria decided not to mention her encounter with the Voice, or
the reason for her curiosity about Abel.

   “If anything’s there,” Petra promised, “I’ll find it.”

   “Great. Now, about the Dexta team. They all know you’re working undercover, so they’ll
pretend they don’t know you and you’ll pretend you don’t know them. You’ll undoubtedly
have to deal with them in your role as a bar girl, and I’m sorry, Petra, but there’s nothing I can
do about that. If I started putting clothes on the bar girls, the boomers would riot.”

   “No problem. I’m getting used to it, anyway.”

   “Is that why you got rid of the G-string?” Gloria asked.
   Petra shook her head. “It was a favor to Elba,” she said. “Although Elba seemed to think it
was a favor to me. She said if I wondered why, I should ask you.” Petra looked at her
expectantly.

   “I see,” said Gloria. “To tell you the truth, I think she just wanted to boost your confidence.
I mean, if you can handle being naked in a roomful of lonely boomrats, what can’t you
handle?”

   Petra grinned. “I see what you mean.”

   “Maybe you should try working the rooms.”

   Petra thought about it for a moment, then said, “I will if you will.”

   “Hmmm. I’m tempted, but it would get in the way of too many other things I have to get
done. Maybe before we leave.”

   “Scaredy cat!” Petra made a face at Gloria, then left the office, smiling happily.




AN HOUR LATER, THE DEXTA TEAM CROWDED into Gloria’s unfurnished office and stood
waiting, some of them as if they were expecting a firing squad. It was already apparent that the
volunteers, Jillian Clymer and Palmer Ellison, were champing at the bit and ready to plunge
into their assignment with gusto; and that the draftees—Sintra Garbedian, Wilmer DeGrasse,
Randolph Alexander, Pearl Shuzuki, and Raul Tellemacher—were, in varying degrees,
dreading every moment of their time on Sylvania. Tellemacher’s presence still bothered Gloria,
but if he had a brain in his head—and he did—he should have realized that he had absolutely
no chance of bedding her. Personal matters aside, he had the necessary qualities of intelligence
and leadership for his new position, and she was reasonably confident that he would perform
well.

     “Here’s the plan,” Gloria told her troops. “Tomorrow, we’ll get you settled in at the
boardinghouse. Then Raul will assign you to two-person teams; we’ve leased three skimmers
for your use, although you may end up doing a lot of hiking. Skimmers can be dangerous in
mountainous country because of the mass-repulsion unit. If the ground beneath you rises or
falls away suddenly, the skimmer can flip over—so be very careful with them, and if you’re in
any doubt, get out and walk. Some of you look as if you can use the exercise.

    “I’ll have maps available for you, but they aren’t great and the precise location of the miners
and their camps is not known. I want you to be as thorough as reasonably possible and get to
everyone you can. The situation is different along the rivers, and you’ll have no trouble spotting
the major concentrations of boomers in that area.”

    “Gloria?” Palmer Ellison started to raise his hand as if he were still in school, but managed
to stop himself. “What about all the people in town? Shouldn’t we start with them? There must
be a couple of thousand of them, from what I’ve seen.”

    “They’ll come to us,” Gloria replied, “or I hope they will. While the mobile teams are off
tracking down miners, the seventh person will stay here and register voters at the front desk of
the Emporium. Depending on how things go, later on we may have to do a house-to-house,
tent-to-tent canvass. There are also several hundred people in a place called Overhill in a valley
beyond the Lodge. We’ll leave them alone for the present, but eventually we’ll try to get them
registered, as well.

    “By the way, we’ll use wristcoms to keep in touch, but be advised that there are no comsats
here, so communication will be short-range and unscrambled. So if you have anything to say
that you don’t want overheard, don’t say it over the comm. I assume you all have your
registration pads?”

   They all held up their pads, which were a little larger than ordinary models.

     “Take good care of them, and download everything you get each night into the office
computer.” She looked around the bare office and added, “I promise you, we’ll have one soon.
And when you are registering people, make damn good and sure that you get the retinal scan,
because every registration we record is likely to be challenged. Don’t take no for an answer.
That’s important, because a lot of boomers would rather not become part of any official nose
count. You’ll find an astonishing number of people up in the hills named Smith or Jones. Just
assure everyone that the registration scans are inviolate and will be used for no other purpose.
If they want to be Smith or Jones, that’s fine with us.”

    “And what about this Grunfeld character?” asked Garbedian. “I’ve already heard that he’s
going to try to prevent the registration drive.”

    “The boomers themselves may have some worries about Grunfeld and his thugs,” Gloria
told him, “but I’ve already made it very clear that any attempt to interfere with Dexta
personnel will get them a trip to Grisham Three. I think they got the message. Nevertheless, I
want every team to carry at least one plasma pistol. I doubt that Grunfeld will try anything, but
I don’t want to underestimate his stupidity.”

    “And what of Rankus and the people at the Lodge?” Jill Clymer asked. “Where do they
stand in all of this?”

    “Mr. Rankus,” Gloria said, “is determined to resist us, but he has a smart lawyer named
Myron Vigo who will probably be his point man. If necessary, we’ll import some legal talent of
our own from the Dexta office on Palmyra. Just do your jobs and don’t worry about that aspect
of things. I think some of the Lodge trustees would just as soon go along with us anyway, if
they could find a way around Rankus. Also, there are some corporate reps in temporary
residence at the Lodge. They, of course, want registration to go as quickly as possible, and may
attempt to speed things along. Ignore them, too. This is our job, and we don’t want or need
assistance from anyone else. Does anyone have any questions?”

   Wilmer DeGrasse stepped forward. He was a lumpy, middle-aged man who had been a
Level XIII for thirty years; he was also heir apparent to a vast fortune, and had been unhappily
marking time at Dexta while waiting for nature to take its course.

   “Ms. VanDeen,” DeGrasse began, “is what I hear about this place true?”

   “It depends, Mr. DeGrasse. Just what have you heard?” Gloria gave him a patient smile.

   “I have heard,” he said, “that Dexta has acquired—or rather, that you have acquired on
Dexta’s behalf—this … this bawdy house we find ourselves occupying. Is that correct?”
    Gloria nodded. “Indeed I have. We needed a base of operations, and this is it. In addition, it
seemed necessary to acquire the Emporium to keep it from falling into the hands of Grunfeld.
If he had it, he would gain complete control over virtually every aspect of life on Sylvania. Not
only would that be disastrous for the boomers, it would also make our job nearly impossible.”

   “And you intend to keep this house of ill fame in operation, as before?”

   “Better than ever, in fact.”

   “That,” DeGrasse declared, “is nothing short of an outrage, Ms. VanDeen! When I was
dragooned into this venture, I had assumed that it would at least be a reputable and honorable
undertaking. I was willing to go along with that for the sake of Dexta—”

   “For the sake of your job, you mean,” Jillian Clymer snorted.

    “Be that as it may,” DeGrasse continued, “I have no intention of working or dwelling in this
bordello! I am a Christian, Ms. VanDeen, not one of your anything-goes Spiritists, and morality
and decency still have some meaning for me. I am not surprised that you feel at home in such a
place—indeed, it is exactly where you belong! But I shall have nothing whatsoever to do with
this project under the circumstances. Do you hear me? Nothing!”

   Gloria ignored the personal insult; she’d heard far worse. But for a long, silent moment she
gave him her most officious stare while the other members of the team waited in suspense.

    “Mr. DeGrasse,” she said at last, “Dexta has just brought you, at considerable expense,
some 540 light-years on a field assignment you accepted before departure. Am I to understand
that you are now refusing to carry out your duties? Before you answer, let me remind you of
the sections of the Dexta Code relating to willful misconduct, disobedience, and neglect of
responsibilities during the course of a field assignment. Let me further remind you of Chapter
Thirty-seven, Paragraph Nine, Subsection G, which specifically prohibits Dexta personnel from
making derogatory or prejudicial statements or comments concerning the racial, ethnic,
linguistic, sexual, or religious orientation of other Dexta personnel. Now … would you care to
answer my question? Or would you prefer to apologize to your colleagues and get on with your
assignment?”

   DeGrasse needed only a few seconds to think it over. He turned to the others and
mumbled, “I offer my most sincere apologies if I have inadvertently offended anyone. And to
you, as well, Ms. VanDeen. I shall, of course, carry out my assignment as lawfully directed by
superior authority.”

   “Nice save, Wilmer,” said Palmer Ellison with a smirk.

   “Oh,” said Gloria, glad to be past the awkward moment, “I forgot to mention one thing.
The fact is, the other night I promised the boomers that anyone who registered would get a
hug and a kiss from me. Tell them that they can collect on that right here at the Emporium,
any night.”

   “What about us?” asked Tellemacher. “Fair’s fair. Shouldn’t we get a hug and a kiss for
every boomer we register?”

   “Absolutely, Raul. But not from me. On that one, you’re on your own. That, I think, covers
our immediate business. But let me invite you all to join in the party tonight. We’re giving Elba
a big, bawdy send-off, and hugs and kisses should be freely available for all. If you want more
than that—well, I think we can offer a discount for Dexta people. But you’ll have to check with
Althea about that.”




FIVE HUNDRED BOOMERS CROWDED INTO THE main room of Elba’s Emporium,
threatening to burst the structure at its rickety seams. Scores more in the street outside wanted
to get in, but Ernie the Bouncer stood squarely in the middle of the doorway, preventing
further access. A big banner hung from the second-floor balcony, shouting, “Good-bye Elba!
We’ll Miss You!” in meter-high red letters. There were far more boomers than chairs and tables
to accommodate them, so the mass of ragged, odoriferous humanity swirled around the
wooden floor like a school of fish drifting in a tidal current.

   When Gloria emerged from her room and stood at the balcony like a dictator about to
address her subjects, there was a sustained roar of approval for the new mistress of the
Emporium. Her approval rating was undoubtedly boosted by the fact that she was entirely
nude. She raised her arms and slowly quelled the vocal enthusiasm of the mob below her,
eventually gaining enough silence to permit her to speak.

   “Ladies and gentlemen!” she shouted, “My name is Gloria, and I’ll be your server this
evening!”

  That produced another round of roaring, whooping, and foot-stomping. The entire
Emporium shuddered and creaked ominously.

   When she could speak again, Gloria proclaimed, “For tonight only, I’ll be working the bar
and the tables!” More huzzahs.

  “And since I’m new at this,” she went on after a minute, “just to make things easy for
myself … drinks are on the house!”

    Sylvania was a geologically quiescent world, but if Stu Eckstein had bothered to set up any
seismometers in the region, they would have gone off the scale.

     After more sustained celebration, Gloria raised her arms again and was finally able to
continue. “Now,” she said, “I have an announcement that concerns all of you, customers and
staff alike. Tomorrow morning, a freighter is scheduled to arrive here, bringing a work crew
and a lot of new amenities for the Emporium—including a few surprises. We will need time to
install the new equipment, and it will also be necessary to shore up the foundations of this
building. It was built in a hurry, but we’d like it to be around for a while—assuming it doesn’t
fall down tonight! But this means that beginning tomorrow, and for the next week, the
Emporium will be closed for renovations.”

    The boomers didn’t like that at all, and let Gloria know it. She waited until their protests
had subsided, then continued. “I’m sorry, but there’s just no other way to do this. All the
resident staff will be transferred to boardinghouses and tents for the duration. Just think of this
as a vacation with pay. For the rest of you, I apologize for the inconvenience, but I think that
after tonight, most of you will be nursing hangovers for the next week, anyway!” The boomers
roared their agreement.
   “And before we get on with the party, I just want to introduce the members of our Dexta
team. You all know why they’re here, but for tonight, we won’t be registering anyone. I know
you’ll all be as kind to them as you have been to me. Stand up and let everyone see you.”

    The Dexta people, sharing a large table at one end of the main room, reluctantly got to their
feet. The boomers seemed unsure how to react at first, but finally greeted them with a round of
tepid applause. The bureaucrats quickly sat down again.

    “Finally,” Gloria said, “I want to reassure all of you that we’re going to continue business as
usual here—in fact, better than usual, as you’ll discover at our grand reopening in a week. But
this is not going to become Gloria’s Emporium. It will always be what it has always been—
Elba’s Emporium!”

    More cheers and huzzahs followed that announcement, and when she judged the time was
right, Gloria launched into her finale. “We are all here tonight to say a fond farewell to the
magnificent lady who created the Emporium and made Greenlodge the town that it is today.
We’ll follow in her footsteps, but we can never fill her shoes. So let’s hear everything you’ve got
for the grandest old broad in the Empire—Miss Elba Larkspur!”

    With that, Elba emerged from a room and stood next to Gloria on the balcony, while the
boomrats went crazy. She basked in the reception, put her arm around Gloria, and gave her a
kiss on the cheek, as if performing a rite of succession.

    When the uproar had finally died away, Elba looked down at the swarm of boomrats and
said, “I wanna thank ya for your bein’ here tonight, even though I see some o’ ya ain’t bothered
to wipe the mud off your boots. Don’t matter none to me now, but Gloria’s a goddamn lady,
an’ ya oughta treat her right.”

   She looked around the big room for a few moments, then sniffled for a second, but neatly
covered the lapse into sentimentality by wiping her nose with the back of her wrist.

     “Sign there says you’ll miss me. Well, I gotta tell ya, I ain’t gonna miss none o’ you bastards
for a second. Oh, I guess I’ll think about ya some. Every time I see some poor drunk galoot
pukin’ his guts out on a street corner, every time I see some fool bettin’ his last crown on
double zero, every time I see a pretty gal with muddy fingerprints all over her … well, I guess
I’ll think about the ol’ Emporium for a second or two. Shit, maybe I’ll even miss it. You
bastards do kinda grow on a gal. But enough o’ this slop … let’s get them free drinks!”

    Elba and Gloria descended the stairway arm in arm, to the heartfelt cheers of the boomers.
They made way as Gloria escorted Elba to a table at the center of the room. Someone started
singing “Auld Lang Syne,” everyone picked it up, and the Emporium resounded with bad
harmony and the sound of tough, flinty boomrats choking back sobs. As soon as the song
ended, the bar girls and hookers arrived at the tables with the first round of free drinks, and
unrestrained merriment ensued. Gloria, grinning from ear to ear, reflected that there might be
worse ways to spend one’s life than as the madam of a boomworld bawdy house.

   As the evening unfolded, Gloria found that being a bar girl was not quite as easy as it
looked. She was soon glistening from head to toe with spilled beer and the slobbering kisses of
boomrats. However, the boomers, remembering what she had done to Grunfeld, treated her
with a measure of caution and respect. She’d been handled less gently in some Manhattan
nightclubs.
    She and Petra brought several pitchers of beer to the Dexta table, where everyone seemed
to be having a good time. Jillian Clymer was wearing a skimpy red dress that showed off most
of her ample bosom, and Sintra Garbedian was demonstrating some ethnic folk dance to
Carmela Evanueli, one of the hookers. Raul Tellemacher was off somewhere, possibly with one
of the whores. Young Palmer Ellison was happily watching every motion of both Gloria and
Petra, while the normally stuffy Randolph Alexander and the normally reserved Pearl Shuzuki
were exchanging hungry glances. Wilmer DeGrasse had attracted the attention of Lulu Villegas,
who had wormed her way into his lap. DeGrasse looked a little at odds with himself over it.

   “Lulu can smell money,” Petra explained to Gloria.

    Althea Dante, wearing only a flimsy piece of black lace tied low on her hips, was circulating
throughout the throng, playing the role of charming hostess to the absolute hilt. She
approached the Dexta table and laughed lasciviously at what she found there.

    “Ah, my children,” she cooed, “I’m glad to see that you’re blending in with the
surroundings. Wilmer, the drinks are free, but Lulu isn’t. But I’ll give you a rate, for tonight
only.”

    “That won’t be necessary, Ms. Dante,” DeGrasse replied. Althea simply laughed and moved
on through the crowd, her hips swaying.

   Eventually, Gloria found time to take a break and joined Elba at her table. Elba was in her
cups by then, but still coherent. Gloria leaned close to make herself heard above the continuing
uproar.

   “Elba,” she said, “I wanted to ask you about Old Abel. What can you tell me about him?”

   Elba gamely focused on Gloria, gathered her thoughts, then said, “I can tell ya he’s the
smelliest ol’ varmint on the planet. But he ain’t so bad. Why?”

   “I was just curious. They say you give him free meals and drinks, so I guess I should do the
same.”

   “Free?” Elba laughed. “Hell, no! Do I look like a goddamn charity? He pays, same as
everyone else. Runs a tab, in fact.”

   “He does?”

   “Sure. Right there in the books. You’ll see it.”

   “But how does he pay? He doesn’t seem to have any visible means of support.”

   “Got a bank account on Palmyra. Never had any trouble with the payments.”

   Gloria’s brow creased. “That’s a bit of a surprise. Do you know where he got his money?”

   “I never pry, hon. You oughta make that a rule o’ your own. But Old Abel has what he
needs. He even gets packages shipped to him here.”

   “Really? Do you know what’s in them?”

   “Told ya, I never pry. Stuff he needs, I guess. Can’t imagine what that would be, what with
him livin’ out in the woods like an animal. Probably just girlie magazines or some shit like that.
Why all the curiosity?”

   “Well,” Gloria said, “I met him once, up near the falls. And I wanted to ask him about—”

   “The Voice?” Elba asked. “You heard it, hon?”

   “As a matter of fact, I did. Have you?”

    Elba shook her head. “Hell, no. I don’t get out in the woods much, and that damn Voice is
just for lonely ol’ boomrats and crazy people.” Elba paused, then leaned closer to Gloria.
“Although there was one time, late at night when I was closin’ up and I was all alone here. I
coulda sworn …”

   “What?”

   Elba shook her head again, but she had a wistful look in her eyes. “Just the delusion of a
drunk ol’ woman, hon. Nothin’ more’n that.”

   “But what did you think you heard?”

    “I thought I heard this voice—I don’t know, maybe it was the Voice—sayin’ ‘Thank you.’
Didn’t say nothin’ more, and I was probably imaginin’ the whole thing. Still, makes ya wonder
a bit, don’t it?”

   Gloria nodded. “It does, indeed. Thanks, Elba.”

    The noise level in the Emporium suddenly dropped sharply, and Gloria got up to look
around. At the main entrance, she saw Mayor Grunfeld and four of his thugs advancing into
the room. Grunfeld stopped and waited until the noise had died to zero. He looked around,
sneering, cleared his throat, then spat on the floor.

    “Listen up, all you assholes!” he bellowed. “I see you’re havin’ yourselves a high old time
tonight. Well, that’s just fine with me. Drink yourselves sick. But just remember come
tomorrow mornin’ that nothin’ has changed around here. And ain’t nothin’ gonna change! You
keep that in mind when these Dexta people start tryin’ to sign you up. I’m still the law around
here, and I will be long after these fuckin’ bureaucrats have gone. You boys keep that in mind.
Whatever happens, you’re still gonna have to answer to me!”

   Grunfeld regarded the boomers with a satisfied sneer. When he was certain the message
had sunk in, he started to turn to leave, but was stopped in his tracks by an anonymous
boomrat in the middle of the crowd, who stood up and called, “Hey, Grunfeld!”

   Grunfeld stared at him. “What?” he demanded.

   “How’s your finger?” The boomer held his right hand high, middle finger extended.

    The boomers roared, and within seconds, Grunfeld found himself staring at five hundred
defiant digits. He took in the sight for several seconds, then spat on the floor again and
stomped out of the Emporium.
                                         Chapter 12

GLORIA MET THE FREIGHTER AT THE DOCK, boarded it, and huddled with Samuel Roosa,
the head of the work crew, as the stevedores began unloading the cargo. Roosa was a small,
florid man, with curly red hair and a pug nose. He led Gloria into his tiny stateroom, closed the
door, and offered her a seat on his bed, which she declined.

    “Eckstein told me to look for you, Ms. VanDeen,” said Roosa, “but I don’t think there’s
much chance I would have missed you. A pleasure to be working with you.” Gloria, in her
jeans and a nearly transparent tee shirt, smiled at Roosa and shook hands.

   “I assume Stu gave you all the particulars.”

   Roosa nodded. “We know what’s involved here. I told the five men in my crew everything
they need to know to get the job done.”

   “Can they be trusted?”

   “For what they’re being paid, they can be trusted about as far as anyone can be, I suppose.”

   That didn’t entirely satisfy Gloria. “Sometimes money isn’t enough,” she said.

   “If it isn’t,” said Roosa, “then protecting their own backsides ought to do it.”

   “So they know what’s really going on here?”

    “They do. And they know that if anyone finds out about it, they’ll be in just as much
trouble as you and Eckstein. What about your Dexta people? Do they know?”

    “No, and I want to keep it that way. The Emporium will be off-limits to everyone but you
and your crew for the next week. The cover story is that we want to make sure nobody finds
out about our surprises until the grand opening. But don’t take any chances. Seal off all the
doors and windows, and don’t let anyone get inside or see the equipment you’re bringing in.
Ernie the Bouncer will help you guard the door, but don’t let him inside, either.”

   “Understood.”

   “Now, can you really get this done in a week? The way Stu described it, there will be an
awful lot of digging to do.”

    “Not digging, exactly. Plasma drills will do the job, and there won’t be any dirt or rocks to
dispose of. A lot depends on how accurate Eckstein’s estimate is. Here,” said Roosa, “let me
show you a schematic of what we have in mind. Of course, it’s based on the sketches Eckstein
showed us, and we may have to make a few changes once we see the actual layout, but I think
we can do this in a week.”

    Roosa pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and spread it out on the bed.
Gloria studied it for a few moments and nodded. The plasma recharger would be set up in the
anteroom, in full view of everyone. While boomers recharged their drills, the device’s fusion
reactor would be quietly pumping a fatal overdose of energy into the Fergusite layer below.
That was the plan, anyway.

   “That’s Room 9,” she said, pointing to a small box in the schematic. “That’s normally one of
the hookers’ rooms, but I’ll instruct Althea Dante to reserve it for you. No one else will be
allowed in, and you’ll stay in it for as long as you’re here.”

    “Me and one other guy, Ms. VanDeen. His name’s Dwayne Cherry. It’ll take two of us to
keep this up and running. The rest of the crew will leave next week, as soon as we complete the
installation.”

    “Good. And it might be helpful if you could tell them all to scatter as soon as they get back
to Palmyra. I don’t want to take a chance on them talking about it and being overheard.”

   “Already done,” said Roosa. “And I’m glad to see you’ve thought this thing through so well,
Ms. VanDeen.”

   “It’s Gloria. And you’re Sam?”

   “Right.”

   “Well, Sam, I hope I’ve thought it through completely. But if you think of anything I’ve
missed, don’t hesitate to tell me. We’ve all got a lot at stake here.”

    “No doubt of that,” Roosa said, grinning. “I mean, I’ve done a lot of things in my life, but
this will be the first time I’ve committed treason.”

   “That makes two of us,” Gloria told him.




AS THE WORK BEGAN, IT ATTRACTED THE ATTENTION of crowds of idle boomers, who
collected in the streets outside the Emporium and tried to converse with the workers. Roosa’s
crew simply ignored them and focused on the job. Their covered freight skimmer backed up
to the front door of the Emporium and tarpaulins were quickly spread over the entrance and
all the windows.

    Gloria offered herself as a distraction while the unloading continued. Dispensing with her
tee shirt, she strolled among the boomers in her low-slung jeans, giving them a good look as
she engaged them in idle conversation. The boomrats quickly decided that Gloria was a lot
more interesting than a bunch of workers, and she became the center of attention.

   “You gonna be workin’ the tables again, Miz VanDeen?” one of them asked eagerly.

   “You never know, boys,” she said. “I had fun doing it last night, and I might just make a
habit of it, if I have the time.”

   “And what about the rooms? You gonna be in the rooms?” asked another.

   Gloria just smiled enigmatically. “We’ll have to see about that,” she said.

   “Well, that Miz Althea said you might. Said she might just work the rooms herself, too.
Might pretty lady, that Althea.”

   “Althea will do whatever she feels like doing, as usual,” Gloria assured them. “Tell me, how
do you men feel about registering?”
   That produced some foot shuffling and throat clearing. After a few seconds, one of the
older boomrats said, “Hard to see how that’d do a man any good, Miz Gloria. They say if
enough of us sign up, they’ll bring in an Imperial Gov’nor. That don’t sound too good to me.”

  “It might put Grunfeld outta business, though,” said someone else. “Can’t tell me that
wouldn’t be a good thing.”

   “Yeah, but what about the corporates comin’ in and takin’ over all the claims?” one
boomrat demanded.

    “They won’t just take ‘em over, ya thimblewit,” someone responded. “The way I hear it,
this Eminent Domain stuff means they gotta pay everyone for what they take. Shit, the luck
I’ve had up in those hills, they can have my claim for the price of a ticket back to Palmyra.”

    That statement brought a small storm of comments, with highboys generally agreeing with
the opinion and riverrats generally disputing it. Distinguishing between the two was easy
enough even without their comments; the riverrats were streaked with dried river mud, while
the highboys were dustier and wore hiking boots instead of slick waders.

    The split between highboys and riverrats was not something Gloria had anticipated. She
wasn’t sure whether it represented an opportunity or a possible problem. In terms of absolute
numbers, she estimated that the two groups were about equal in size. However, the highboys
held far more individual claims, which would give them greater weight in the Eminent
Domain battle. Based on her limited sampling of opinion, it seemed likely that the highboys
would be more willing to give their proxies to the corporates. Although some of the highboys
had already made genuine fortunes in the hills, the majority of them probably would have
been happy to get what they could for their claims and call it quits.

    As the debate continued in the streets, Gloria saw Karl Cleveland and another of Grunfeld’s
men, “Noz” Gnozdziewicz, emerge from City Hall and saunter over toward the crowd in front
of the Emporium. They casually shoved a few people out of their way and pushed in close to
Gloria. The boomers stepped back to stare at them, but said nothing. Grunfeld’s men wore
their usual self-satisfied sneers.

   “Mornin’, Miz VanDeen,” said Cleveland. “You’re lookin’ real good today.”

   “Anything I can do for you boys?” Gloria asked them.

   Both men thought that was funny and allowed themselves a few snickers.

    “You can do ‘bout any damn thing ya want for us, Miz VanDeen,” said Noz. “Mebbe we’ll
give ya the ‘zact particulars sometime.”

   “I’ll look forward to it,” Gloria told them. “But maybe you ought to shave first,
Karl—remember what happened the last time.”

   Now it was the boomers’ turn to snicker. Cleveland gave them a menacing glare, which
more or less shut them up. He looked back at Gloria.

   “Hear ya sent those Dexta people o’ yours out today,” he said.

   “That’s right. And if you or any of your pals get in their way—”
    “Shit, no, Miz VanDeen! We ain’t gonna do nothin’—not to them, anyhow. But it can be
kinda dangerous up in them hills, ya know. Never can tell what might happen to a body,
’specially someone who don’t know their way ‘round. People get lost up there and never get
themselves found. Know what I mean?”

    “I know exactly what you mean, Karl. That’s why all of our people have wristcoms with
locational transponders. You might mention that to your boss, just in case he’s having another
attack of acute stupidity.”

  The boomers laughed, and Cleveland decided that he’d endured enough of that for one
morning. He and Noz turned to leave, but Cleveland paused and looked back at Gloria.

   “The Mayor ain’t done with you, Miz VanDeen. Ain’t done at all.”

   “And I’m not done with him, Karl. He’s still got eight fingers I haven’t broken yet.”

    Cleveland couldn’t seem to think of a comeback to that, so he just pushed his way through
the crowd and headed back to City Hall.

   “Miz VanDeen?” one of the boomrats said. “We sure do like the way ya handle Grunfeld
and his pukes. But that don’t mean we ain’t worried about ya. That Grunfeld, he’s one mean
man. Don’t go pushin’ him too hard. We’d hate like the devil to see you get hurt.”

   “Never happen,” Gloria told them, smiling. “I’ve got too many friends here.”

   “You got that, for sure, ma’am. But you be careful, just the same.”

   “You boys be careful, too. For now, Grunfeld and his pukes are still a force around here.
But once we get enough of you registered, all of that will change. You have my word on it.”




REGISTRATION WORK WENT SLOWLY AT FIRST. On the first day, two teams went up into
the hills on each side of the river, and the third team went along the river itself to the camps of
the riverrats. Tellemacher, not needed for the moment at the Emporium, accompanied the
river team, which consisted of Palmer Ellison and Jillian Clymer. Each team found varying
degrees of resistance.

     The highboys on the slopes were harder to find but easier to convince. Those who had
already sold their claims to Grunfeld had nothing to gain from the arrival of the corporates and
were reluctant to register, but many independents, discouraged by months of hard labor with
little to show for it, saw the eventual sale of their claims as their surest road to a profit;
accordingly, they had their retinas scanned and signed their names on the registration pads.
Down on the river, there were many different opinions and much discussion, but few actual
registrations. Jillian Clymer quickly adopted Gloria’s strategy of a hug and a kiss for a signing,
and got quite a few takers. Ellison doggedly pursued any riverrat who seemed remotely
sympathetic, while Tellemacher wandered around the camps and spoke in very general terms
of the inevitability of what was coming. He didn’t seem to impress many of the boomers, and
didn’t seem to care whether he did or not.

   The first day’s harvest amounted to seventy-four registrations. The next day, they got
eighty-one. The day after that, only fifty-four. Each night, the Dexta teams returned to their
boardinghouse, compared notes, and sighed wearily. It looked as if it was going to be a long,
hard job.




PETRA, FOR HER PART, RETURNED TO THE LODGE for another session of scrubbing
toilets. She carried her pad with her in a pocket of her French-maid outfit, worrying that the
slight bulge it made might give her away. But she soon realized that she had already become
more or less invisible at the Lodge, except to the young men who worked there. She was
simply hired help. So she turned to her chores and waited for an opportunity to begin her
career as an operational spy.

    She spotted her chance about midmorning, when she returned to the basement workroom
to get some more cleaning fluid. The place was empty, and she hadn’t seen Thawley all
morning. Quickly, Petra walked over to Thawley’s console and looked around. There was no
obvious place to hide her pad in proximity to the console, but then inspiration struck her. She
took the pad out of her pocket and buried it beneath a few crumpled-up papers at the bottom
of a wastebasket. The pad was already programmed to search the console for evidence of the
man named Abel—whoever he was—so all she had to do was come back in a few hours and
retrieve it.

   In the middle of the afternoon she returned to the workroom and found it still empty. She
went over to the wastebasket and reached down to get the pad.

   “What are you doing?”

    Petra, her heart skipping a beat, abruptly straightened up and turned around, concealing
the pad behind her. She saw Mrs. Thawley standing at the foot of the stairs.

   “Oh,” Petra said, “I was just going to empty out some of the wastebaskets down here.”

   “Well, never you mind with that. Just get yourself over to Cabin Four. We’ve got another
guest arriving in half an hour, and I want you to make sure that cabin sparkles.”

   “I’ll get right on it, Mrs. Thawley,” Petra promised, smiling obediently.

   “You do good work, child. Just keep it up.”

   “Thank you, Mrs. Thawley. I certainly will.”

    Petra stood there for a few agonizingly slow seconds until Mrs. Thawley finally nodded to
her and made her way back up the stairs. Petra stuck the pad in her pocket and took a deep
breath. Covert operations!

   At dinner that evening, Petra found out who the new guest was. She was sharing server
duties with Gina Chang, another of the bar girls, and got her first look at Maddie Mitchell, the
representative from Prizm, as she was serving drinks. Petra had an odd, uneasy notion that
Mitchell was staring at her, but tried to take no notice of it.

    Maddie Mitchell was a tall, very slim, thoroughly gorgeous brunette in her thirties, wearing
a black skirt slit to the hipbone and a sheer blue blouse that did almost nothing to hide her
very small breasts and dark, pointed nipples. She reminded Petra of Gloria in her seemingly
boundless confidence in her own beauty and abilities. The other corporate reps deferred to her,
and even Claude Rankus seemed to be beguiled by her charm and intelligence. Petra was able
to overhear only a little of their conversation, but it seemed that the Prizm rep was there to
keep an eye on local events and possibly to cut some sort of deal with the Lodge or the other
corporates. In any event, Mitchell was a new player in the game, and Gloria would want to
know about her arrival.

      Throughout dinner, Petra tried to monitor the conversation without being too obvious
about it. She gained a general impression that Sherwin Lund of Excelsior and Gaspar Norfleet
of Servitor were fencing with Maddie Mitchell, while Thomas Shoop of Imperium seemed
content to watch and listen. Petra knew that Prizm stood to be the big loser if one of the other
corporates began full-scale development of the Sylvania Fergusite deposit, but Mitchell acted as
if it were Servitor and Excelsior who were in peril. Was it merely a ploy, or did Prizm have an
ace up its corporate sleeve? Maybe it was simply the magnetic personality of Mitchell herself
that created the impression. She was witty, incisive, and unperturbed by the sallies of Lund
and Norfleet. Petra found herself liking the Prizm rep.

    As she was clearing the dessert course, Petra’s reaction to Maddie Mitchell took a sudden
and shocking turn in a totally unexpected direction. She felt Maddie’s eyes on her as she bent
over the table, with her ridiculous French maid’s outfit revealing her breasts as she did so. She
glanced up into Maddie’s brown eyes for a moment, then quickly gathered up the dishes and
started to return to the kitchen; Maddie’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

   “I want that one,” she said.

    Petra couldn’t help turning around. She saw Maddie’s long, delicate forefinger pointing at
her.

   Claude Rankus seemed momentarily shocked, as well, but quickly recovered. “Of course,
my dear. See to it, would you, Mrs. Thawley?”

    Mrs. Thawley was suddenly at Petra’s side, a firm grip on her elbow. “Come along, Petra,”
she said.

   Petra stood rooted in place.

   “Now!” hissed Mrs. Thawley, increasing the pressure on Petra’s elbow.

   “But … you mean …?” Petra wasn’t quite certain she understood what was happening.

    Rankus turned in his chair and gazed at her with an impatient frown. “Take her to Cabin
Four, Mrs. Thawley,” he said, with the firmness and clarity of a general ordering a lieutenant to
take a hill.

   “Wait!” cried Petra. “I’m just here to clean and serve. I’m not … I mean, the other girls …”

    “You are here to do what is required of you,” Rankus told her sternly. “Let’s have no more
of this foolishness. You will go where you are told, or you will never work here again.”

    Mrs. Thawley applied enough force to her grip to get Petra in motion toward the kitchen.
Petra looked back over her shoulder in mute appeal, but Rankus had already turned back to
the table. Maddie Mitchell simply gazed at her with a thin, superior smile.
    As she marched Petra off to Cabin Four, Mrs. Thawley lectured Petra on the duties of those
who served the Lodge. There was no distinction between cleaning a bedroom and making
herself available for a guest’s pleasure in that same room. Any woman who worked in a place
like the Emporium should understand and accept that requirement. Petra’s protests that she
was not a prostitute but simply a waitress left Mrs. Thawley unmoved. She roughly shoved
Petra into Cabin Four, then locked the door behind her.

    Petra, stunned and afraid, thought furiously. She had not expected anything like this, and
she didn’t think that Gloria would have knowingly sent her into such a situation. She could
simply refuse to have anything to do with Maddie Mitchell, storm out of the cabin as soon as
the door opened, and, if necessary, walk back down the mountain to Greenlodge. It didn’t
seem likely that Rankus would forcibly detain her against her will; if nothing else, that might
poison his relationship with the Emporium and its new proprietor, who just happened to be
the Dexta representative on this planet.

    On the other hand, a flat refusal would end Petra’s usefulness at the Lodge. She had already
gathered what seemed to be worthwhile information, although she didn’t know what, if
anything, the pad had acquired concerning the man named Abel. Gloria thought it important
to her plans—whatever they were—to have a spy at the Lodge, and Petra had agreed to accept
the job. Yet the job never included mandatory sex with anyone—at the Emporium or the
Lodge, male or female. But now …

   The door opened, and Petra whirled around to face Maddie Mitchell, who closed the door
behind her.

   “Your name is Petra?” she asked.

   “Yes … but listen, this isn’t …”

   “Yes, I know. You’re just a serving girl.”

   “Yes!”

    “Then serve me.” Maddie pulled off her blouse, then unfastened her skirt and let it drop.
She was wearing nothing underneath it, and stood before Petra with an expectant look on her
face.

   “I … I can’t …” Petra stammered.

   “I won’t hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

   “No … no, I didn’t … that is …”

    “Mr. Rankus expects it of you,” Maddie reminded her. “He wouldn’t like it if you
disappointed me.”

   “I know, but this isn’t what … what I expected. All I’ve ever done here is clean toilets!”

   Maddie smiled wolfishly. “Then this would be a step up, wouldn’t it?”

   “No! I mean …”

   “You find me less appealing than cleaning a toilet?” Maddie raised an eyebrow.
   “That’s not what I meant,” Petra protested. “I just meant that I didn’t sign up to have sex
with anyone.”

  “You accepted employment here, and according to Claude, that means you agreed to do
whatever was required of you.”

   “Yes, but …”

   “Then take off your clothes, Petra. I won’t bite.”

    Petra shut her eyes and tried to think. This was insane. And yet, if she didn’t go along with
Maddie’s desires, her mission to Sylvania would be a failure. Spirit only knew what impact that
failure might have on the entire course of events on this world. She couldn’t let Gloria down …
but how much could Gloria ask of her? How much did she owe Gloria? Would Gloria do this?

   Silly question, she thought.

   “Would you like me to take your clothes off for you?” Maddie asked.

    If Maddie started stripping her, Petra realized, she would certainly find the pad. And if that
happened, the consequences might be much more serious than simply being fired.
Reluctantly, Petra began unbuttoning her maid’s uniform. She carefully laid it on a side table,
fearing that the pad would make an audible thump if she simply dropped the outfit.

   “Those too,” Maddie said, indicating with her eyes the frilly black panties Petra wore.

   “No,” Petra said. “I can’t do this!”

   To Petra’s surprise, Maddie backed off. “Oh, all right,” she said. “I just wanted to see if you
were game.”

   “Well, I’m not!” Petra gasped. She darted around Maddie and retreated across the room.

   “And here I thought Dexta people were made of sterner stuff,” said Maddie.

   “What?”

   Maddie smiled. “Relax, Petra. I know who and what you are, and why you’re here.”

   “You do? But—”

   “I’m your contact, Petra. Or you’re mine. Anyway, I need you to relay messages to Gloria. I
can’t use the comm without being overheard, and it would look suspicious if I kept running
down to the Emporium to meet with her.”

   Petra’s head was swimming. “You mean,” she asked, “that all of this was a sham?”

   “Not for a moment,” Maddie replied. “I really do want you, Petra, and I had hoped that
you might want me. But I can see now that you don’t. A pity, really. I thought we had gotten
beyond all of that centuries ago, but I guess you’re one of those throwbacks who see something
shameful about this.”

   “Uh … no … uh, not really.”

   “Have you ever been with a woman?”
     “No … I just don’t … I don’t feel that way. And anyway, I just didn’t want to be forced into
it, with anyone.”

     Maddie nodded. “I can understand that, I suppose. Still, you and I are going to have to act
like lovers, Petra, even if you insist on playing the shy virgin in reality. We’ll have to share the
bed tonight, of course, but nothing will happen unless you want it to. And in the morning, I’ll
tell Rankus that you were entirely satisfactory, and that I want the arrangement to continue
throughout my stay here. That way, you won’t have to sleep with anyone else, and I’ll have a
secure line of communication with Gloria.”

    Petra took a deep breath, then let the air out slowly. She felt immense relief, although the
arrangement Maddie had described still seemed vaguely troubling.

   “How much has Gloria told you about … about what we’re doing here?” Maddie asked her.

   “Umm … who’s we?”

   Maddie nodded to herself. “I see,” she said. “If Gloria thinks it best to keep you in the dark,
then I’ll do the same. And it’s for your own good, Petra. If things go wrong … well, the less you
know, the better off you’ll be.”

   Petra found herself feeling irritated with Gloria. She had accepted the fact that there was
more going on than Gloria had told her, but it rankled, somehow. She wanted to know more.

   “Is Prizm involved in some sort of plot with Dexta? Or Gloria?”

    Maddie smiled. She was a remarkably attractive woman, perhaps even the equal of Gloria,
although of a different type.

    “Ask me no questions, Petra, and I’ll tell you no lies. Come here and sit beside me, at least.
We can’t conspire properly from opposite sides of the room.” Maddie patted the bed next to
her. Petra walked slowly across the room and cautiously sat down. Maddie patted her on her
thigh as if to reassure her. If that was the point of the gesture, it failed utterly.

   “Petra,” Maddie said, her voice dropping to little more than a whisper, “I’ve learned
something that Gloria needs to know. Servitor and Excelsior are going to bring in a transport
with a thousand people on it. They’ll set up a camp outside of town, and every one of those
people will register as voters.”

   Petra’s eyes widened slightly. Suddenly, she felt like a real spy again.

   “That would just about clinch the registration, wouldn’t it?” she said.

    “If it doesn’t, they’ll bring in another thousand,” Maddie said. “They intend to get the
territory incorporated just as soon as possible. I don’t know the date of the first shipment, but
it will probably be within a couple of weeks.”

   “I’ll tell Gloria,” Petra said. “Is there anything else she needs to know?”

    “That’s all I have for the moment. But ask Gloria to tell me all she can about her end of
things. I’m a little in the dark up here.”

   “Aren’t we all?”
                                           Chapter 13

THE LODGE UTILITY SKIMMER DELIVERED PETRA and the other girls to the Emporium
the next morning. Petra didn’t follow the others to their tent, but went off in search of Gloria.
After a nervous, sleepless night, she was feeling drained and weary and more than a little odd;
she desperately needed to have a talk with Gloria.

   She learned from one of the workmen that Gloria was inside the Emporium, where Petra
was not allowed to go. She waited outside, feeling too conspicuous in her skimpy maid’s
uniform with the pad bulging in her pocket.

   Gloria appeared at the front entrance, wearing her gravity-defying jeans and nothing else.
She seemed to know immediately from the expression on her assistant’s face that something
was wrong.

    “Let’s go for a little walk,” Gloria said. “I can’t let you inside, and I don’t want to talk in one
of the tents where we could be overheard.”

   “But won’t we attract attention being together like this?”

   “Why? You’re just another of my employees. And people are used to seeing me walk
around town like this.”

    They might have been used to it, but they certainly didn’t take it for granted. As they
strolled down the main street—mud-free for once, after a week of dry weather—every head
turned to follow their progress. People waved and said hi, and Gloria happily returned their
greetings.

   “Here,” Petra said, handing her pad to Gloria. “I shouldn’t be seen with this.”

   Gloria took it and used a little hook attachment to hang it from one of her belt loops. “Did
you get anything?”

   “I haven’t had a chance to check. But if there was anything there about Abel, we should
have it now.”

   “Good work, Petra. Did you have any problems?”

    Petra looked around quickly. People were staring at them as they made their way down the
street, but no one was within earshot.

   “Uh … not a problem, exactly. I was … uh … approached … by Maddie Mitchell, the rep
from Prizm. She says I’m supposed to be her contact with you.”

  Gloria brightened. “She’s here? Great. I’ve been expecting her, but I didn’t know when she
would arrive.”

   “You know her?”
    “We met back on Earth last month. And I left a message for her about you at the Palmyra
Station. Did she have any messages for me?”

   “Yes. She said to tell you that Servitor and Excelsior are bringing in a shipload of a
thousand people to be registered. She doesn’t know when they’re due, but thinks it will be
within a couple of weeks.”

    Gloria nodded. “I’ve been expecting them to do something like that,” she said. She paused
for a second to say hello to a passing boomer.

    “Gloria?” Petra asked when they were alone again. “There’s more going on here than just
registering voters, isn’t there?”

   “Did Maddie tell you something?”

   “No. She said that the less I know, the safer I’ll be.”

    “She’s right. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, Petra. I don’t like keeping things from you. It’s
not that I don’t trust you—you know that, don’t you?”

   “Sure I do,” Petra said, smiling at her boss. “And I trust you, too. But did you know …
about Maddie?”

   Gloria looked at Petra for a few seconds, then caught on. “Ah,” she said. “I see.”

   “She said she wanted me, and Rankus sent me to her cabin. At first, she tried … well, never
mind about that. Anyway, Maddie says it will make a good cover for us, and it will keep me
from having to sleep with anyone else.”

   “But you slept with her?”

   “No!” Petra replied. “We just spent the night in the same bed, is all. But …”

   “But she did want you.”

   Petra sighed and shook her head. “Spirit, Gloria! Ever since I got to this planet, I’ve been
fending off men who want to sleep with me, women who want to sleep with me, women who
want me to sleep with men, and men who want me to sleep with women!”

   “And you haven’t slept with anyone, have you?”

   “Should I have?” Petra asked forlornly.

    “That’s entirely up to you, Petra,” Gloria told her. “Look, I would never ask you to do that,
although I admit that I knew there was a chance something might happen at the Lodge. But I
trusted you to handle it, and I see that you have. Still, if things get too uncomfortable for you, I
won’t hold it against you if you decide to back out.”

   “I won’t do that, Gloria. I said I’d do this job, and I will.”

    Gloria frowned and chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “I can tell you this much,
Petra,” she said. “This job we have may be the most important thing you and I will ever do.
The whole future of the Empire may be riding on it. There’s not much that I wouldn’t do to
ensure our success, but I can’t ask that from you, Petra. The last thing I want is to see you hurt
in any way.”
   Petra gave an artificial laugh. “I knew the job was dangerous when I took it,” she said. “But
… I don’t know, Gloria. There are some things … I mean, I’m not like you.”

   Now it was Gloria’s turn to laugh. “Be glad of that, kiddo,” she said. “Let me tell you
something, Petra. Every man on this planet wants to fuck me—hell, every man in the Empire
wants to fuck me. But if you asked all the men at Elba’s on any given night to choose between
you and me, a lot of them would choose you.”

   “That’s ridiculous,” Petra responded.

    “No,” Gloria insisted, “it’s not. Oh, I suppose most of them would grab me first for a night
or two, but you’re the one they’d want to take home to meet their parents and spend the rest
of their lives with. You’re a genuinely nice person, Petra. I’m not.”

   “That’s not true,” Petra objected. “You’re nice, Gloria. I mean, most of the time.”

    “When it suits my purposes, yes,” Gloria acknowledged. “And when it suits my purposes, I
can also be entirely cold-blooded and ruthless. That’s the real difference between us, Petra. You
know what happened that first day with Grunfeld, don’t you? I dressed in a way that invited
Grunfeld to try something. And when he did, I let him stick his grubby finger inside me—and
then I broke that finger, plus another one, and kicked a couple of more asses in the bargain. All
of that didn’t just happen, Petra. I planned every bit of it, right down to throwing Karl
Cleveland out the window by his beard. Cold-blooded and ruthless, you see?”

   “Yes, but—”

   “There’s no ‘but’ about it. Even if you knew Qatsima, could you have done that, Petra?”

   “Umm …”

   “We both know the answer. You’re right. You aren’t like me, and you shouldn’t try to be.
Oh, I think it might be good for you if you loosened up a bit. Elba saw that. I just wish you
could see that.”

   “You think I should have sex with Maddie?”

   “Let’s just say that I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t. She’s a wonderful lover, you
know.”

   Petra looked at her. “You … and she …?”

   “Of course. Maddie has the same genetic … advantages … that I do, and sex with her is
something very special. So why shouldn’t you have sex with her? Or with anyone else around
here? Back on Mynjhino, you were with Ricardo, and then with Bryce, our favorite news
weasel. Why not with Maddie, or a boomer, or maybe with one of the Dexta team? I think
Palmer Ellison has his eye on you.”

   “He does? I mean … uh … well, I’ll think about it, Gloria. I really will.”

   “Whatever you do,” Gloria said, “I promise I won’t tell your mother.”

   Petra returned Gloria’s grin. “Well,” she said, “at least that’s one less thing to worry about.”

   She was about to let the matter drop, but a thought occurred to her, and she turned to look
at her boss. “Gloria?” Petra said. “Could I ask you a personal question?”

   “Of course you can, Petra. You’re my best buddy, you know.”

   “What do you want?” Petra asked. “I mean, in life?”

    Gloria chuckled. “Now you sound like my mother. Do you mean, do I want a husband and
children? I don’t know … maybe, someday. There’s still plenty of time for that. But if you
mean what do I want to achieve in my life …?”

   “Yes.”

   “Petra,” Gloria said, “I intend to run Dexta someday.”

   Petra nodded. “I thought maybe that was it.”

    “Norman Mingus will be gone someday, although I dread the prospect. I want to be his
successor, although Charles would stop the stars in their courses—and he can—to prevent that
from happening. But it’s what I want, and I’ll do whatever I have to in order to get it. I told
you, I’m cold-blooded and ruthless, and I have absolutely no sense of shame. Sex is my trump
card, Petra, and I’ll use it any way I have to. I mean, what’s the point of being the most
desirable woman in the Empire if I don’t use that to get what I want?”

   “I guess you’re right,” Petra said.

   “And what about you, Petra? What do you want?”

    “I guess,” Petra said after a moment’s thought, “what I want is to go on being your best
buddy and gal Friday. And when you’re in charge of Dexta, I’ll be right there outside your
door, guarding the gate to the castle.” Petra giggled, then added, “Because that would make me
the most powerful woman in the Empire!”

   Gloria laughed, then stuck out her hand and shook Petra’s.

   “Deal,” she said.




THE GRAND REOPENING OF ELBA’S EMPORIUM was the biggest social event in the brief
history of the town of Greenlodge. Two or three thousand people jammed the street outside,
and everyone wanted in. That was clearly impossible, so Gloria arranged things so that a group
of one hundred would be admitted every ten minutes and allowed to stay for a half an
hour—long enough for a quick guided tour, a free drink, and an invitation to register to vote.
The hookers and bar girls led the tours, while Dexta people manned the main desk for
registration. Meanwhile, Gloria and Althea stood on a platform in front of the building, taking
turns describing the new amenities now offered by the Emporium.

   The boomers in the street didn’t seem to mind the long wait because Gloria wore nothing
but a gold chain around her hips, with a gem-studded brooch that drew attention to her crotch
without actually concealing much of it. Althea, like the bar girls and hookers, was entirely
nude. Like carnival barkers, Gloria and Althea offered a slick line of patter about the wonders
of the revamped Emporium and the great advantages of voter registration. Among the
advantages, as previously promised, were a hug and a kiss from Gloria and, for one day only, a
chance to win a night with Althea.

    It amused Gloria to see how quickly and completely Althea had thrown herself into her
new role. Snob though she was, Althea luxuriated in sex—of any kind with anyone. During her
years at Dexta, she had famously humped her way through most of the Imperial
family—including Charles, before, during, and after his marriage to Gloria. She was even more
uninhibited than Gloria, and her lack of discrimination had hurt her career at Dexta, as had her
bitchy personality and tendency to lose sight of the forest for the trees. For Gloria, Althea
served as a useful object lesson in the dangers of giving in too completely to her own carnal
appetites.

    She had hoped Ted Oberlin would show up for the festivities, but he was nowhere in sight.
In his absence, she was tempted to match Althea and offer herself as another door prize for
registering, but that might get in the way of her job. She didn’t want boomrats fighting over
her.

   Instead of Oberlin, Kevin Grunfeld showed up in a skimmer, along with two of his
pukes—and Myron Vigo. The skimmer parked at the edge of the crowd, and the occupants got
out and looked around. The boomers soon noticed them and grudgingly cleared a path for
them.

    “Welcome to our Grand Reopening, Mr. Mayor—and Mr. Vigo,” Gloria said from the
platform.

    “You ain’t reopenin’ nothin,” Grunfeld snarled. “This here establishment is officially closed
for violations of the fire safety code.”

   The boomers reacted with a chorus of boos and catcalls, but Grunfeld simply stared at
them until they quieted down.

   “I didn’t realize that Greenlodge had any such code,” Gloria said.

   “It does,” Grunfeld assured her.

    “He’s quite right, Ms. VanDeen,” said Myron Vigo. “It’s not explicit, but the Town Charter
includes a provision which adopts, in toto, with appropriate local exceptions, the existing
health and safety codes of Palmyra City.”

   “But for some reason, you’ve never chosen to enforce them until now,” Gloria pointed out.

   “Irrelevant,” said Vigo. “Today, we are enforcing them.”

   “And we’re shuttin’ down your Emporium,” added Grunfeld.

   “Just how do you know we’re in violation of your code?” Gloria asked.

    “Shit, are you kiddin’?” Grunfeld guffawed. “That whole place could burn down if
someone just dropped a seegar on the floor. Surprised it ain’t already. See, we don’t want no
tragedies in our town. So you just get everybody out and shut them doors.”

  The grumbling from the boomers increased, but Gloria remained unperturbed.
“Mr. Mayor,” she said, “Mr. Vigo, I suggest you accompany me on a little tour of our new and
improved Emporium. I think you might find a few surprises.” Gloria descended from the
platform and beckoned the local establishment to follow her inside.

   She ushered them into the anteroom just inside the front door. The Dexta staffers at the
desk watched them in silence, and a tour group of a hundred boomers, led by Petra, backed
away to give them some space.

    “Anybody got a match?” Gloria asked. “And something to burn?” A boomer obligingly
provided her with a matchbox and a copy of one of the flyers that had been circulated to
advertise today’s event. Gloria struck the match, ignited the crumpled-up paper, and tossed it
at one of the walls. A second later, to the sound of a snakelike hiss, a jet of blue chemical fog
gushed out of the wall and instantly extinguished the blaze.

    “We’ve made a few changes,” Gloria said proudly. “You see, Grunfeld, we don’t want any
tragedies, either. If someone were to try to burn this place down—accidentally or
otherwise—they wouldn’t get very far.”

   Grunfeld frowned, then turned to Vigo. “You gonna let her get away with this?”

   Vigo smiled toward Gloria and shrugged. “It seems we have no choice. I’m assuming, of
course, that your fire prevention system extends throughout the building.”

   “It does.”

    “Well, we’ll just see about that!” Grunfeld was about to bull his way through the crowd into
the main room, but Vigo caught his arm and restrained him.

   “I don’t think that will be necessary, Kevin,” he said. “I doubt that Ms. VanDeen has
missed anything.”

   “Not a thing,” Gloria affirmed. “But there are some other points of interest that I think you
might like to see.” Gloria gestured to the left of the front door, toward the entrance to the
general store. There, a tanklike metal structure ten feet high and four feet in diameter stood
embedded in a thick concrete base.

   “What the fuck is that?” Grunfeld demanded.

   “That,” said Gloria, “is our new plasma recharger.”

   “Your what?”

    “As I said. The second one on the planet, but the only one that’s available for general use.
Nobody has to sell out their claim to use our recharger, Grunfeld. All they have to do is register
to vote. And the highboys seem to like the idea.” She looked toward the front desk. “How
many have signed up so far?”

   “Seventy-two, Gloria,” Jillian Clymer said with evident pride.

   “Shit, they can’t do this, Vigo!” Grunfeld insisted.

    Vigo shook his head apologetically. “I’m afraid they can, Mr. Mayor. The local exception for
 your recharger would apply here, as well.” Vigo smiled at Gloria. “Tell me, Ms. VanDeen, are
there any other surprises we should be aware of before we go?”
   “Oh,” said Gloria, “nothing that would concern the local government. Just the usual
amenities. Some new and better slot machines. A new VR booth. It has a program that comes
highly recommended—History’s Greatest Women. You can make love with Helen of Troy,
Cleopatra, Catherine the Great, Marilyn Monroe, Xantha of Delta Albus …”

   “What?” asked Vigo. “Not Gloria VanDeen?”

   “Actually,” she said, “there seems to be a recent addition to the program of some blonde
named Gloria. Surprised me, I can tell you. Not to be compared with the real thing, of course,
but I may just want to take some legal advice about this, Mr. Vigo.”

    Vigo grinned and bowed theatrically. “At your service, Ms. VanDeen. Appropriating your
name and image for commercial purposes without your consent would, of course, be
actionable. You might have a good case—and a profitable one, I shouldn’t doubt. I’d be happy
to represent you, my dear.”

   “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” growled Grunfeld.

   “Nothing that concerns your immediate purposes, Mr. Mayor. I think we’re about finished
here. Thank you for the tour, Ms. VanDeen.”

   “Anytime,” Gloria said.

   Grunfeld stomped out of the Emporium with a look on his face that left no doubt about
what had happened inside. The boomrats on the street roared as Gloria stepped back outside
and waved to them.




THE NEXT DAY, WITH THE DEXTA TEAMS OFF IN search of votes and with Althea taking
charge of the Emporium, Gloria got into a skimmer and headed upriver, wearing nothing but a
pair of sandals and a utility belt around her hips. From the belt hung a registration pad on her
left flank, and a sheathed bush knife on her right. The pad was for business, and the knife was
for anything else that might arise. She knew she had pushed Grunfeld close to his breaking
point and intended to be prepared for his inevitable attempt to teach her a lesson.

    After more than a week of constant work and no sex, Gloria felt as if she were approaching
her own breaking point. If she didn’t get relief soon, she really would offer herself in the
Emporium’s rooms. But that would only cause problems. It was important for her to seem
totally available while still keeping above it all, like some sort of goddess. The boomers, she
believed, preferred her that way. She could attract their support and devotion only by
maintaining her position as an idealized embodiment of sex, not by becoming its hot, sweaty
reality.

    Yet she seriously needed that hot, sweaty reality. Wandering around the town nearly naked
most of the time had stoked her internal fires to the boiling point, and today’s expedition in the
altogether was going to cause steam to come out of her ears. Petra once said she didn’t know
whether to envy her or pity her. Gloria didn’t have the heart to tell her that it should be
envy—definitely, envy. She was an enhanced human being, after all, and normal humans
simply couldn’t understand what that was like. It had taken her years to understand it herself.
But Mynjhino had somehow changed everything for her, and she had come to realize that the
glamorous, daring, totally public sexual icon she had become was what she was always meant
to be. She was like some primal force of nature, unbound, unleashed, unlimited in her
potential. And she would harness that force and use it to run the Empire itself, someday …
someday …

   But first, there was the little matter of Sylvania. And the Fergusite deposit that could
destroy that Empire.




SHE PULLED INTO PIZEN FLATS SHORTLY BEFORE noon. The riverrats dropped what they
were doing and swarmed around her as she made her way to King Gus Thornton’s royal
campfire. She greeted them warmly, some of them by name, and happily gave Gus a kiss that
curled his whiskers. He squeezed her bare bum and sighed in contentment.

    “Sorry I missed the grand reopening,” Gus told her, “but you know how it is when ya got
responsibilities.”

   “Sure do, Gus. What do you say, could you buy a girl lunch and some coffee?”

    Gus gestured to the rickety wooden throne and invited her to take a seat. “Rustle up some
grub for Miz Gloria,” he commanded to no one in particular. His order was obeyed within
seconds, and Gloria sat down to enjoy a fried chicken leg and a cup of the potent brew that
passed for coffee in Pizen Flats.

   “You folks hear we got a recharger at the Emporium now?” she asked between bites.

    There was general assent. “The highboys are pretty damn excited about that,” Gus said.
“Hell, we got a couple of old plasma drills around here, too. Might just take ‘em into town to
get jazzed up again.”

    “You’re more than welcome. Our price is reasonable, and all you have to do is register to
vote.”

   Gus frowned, and there were some unhappy mutters from the assembled riverrats. “Same
damn deal as Grunfeld,” someone complained. “Just sugar-coated.”

   “Go with Grunfeld,” another agreed, “ya lose your claim. Sign up to vote, ya wind up losin’
your claim.”

   “Not true, boys!” Gloria stood up and gestured emphatically with the drumstick. “Listen to
me. Whether you register or not, this territory will wind up being incorporated within a
month. Excelsior and Servitor are bringing in a shipload of a thousand people in a couple of
weeks, and all of them are coming here to register. And if that’s not enough, they’ll bring in a
thousand more, and a thousand more after that.”

    That produced general commotion. No one sounded happy. Ted Oberlin pushed his way
through the mob to face Gloria. He paused a moment to run his eyes over her naked body,
smiled at her for a second, then spoke.

   “If that’s true …” he began.
   “It is.”

   “Then why are you here? Why do you want us to register?”

    “Because the more of you boomers who register, the fewer people the corporates will bring
in. And those people will do more than just register. They’ll start filing claims, too. Ted, you
know what that would mean.”

    Oberlin nodded, pursed his lips, and thought for a moment. He turned to face the other
riverrats.

    “She’s right,” he said. “Look, boys, from what Gloria just told us, incorporation is
inevitable. That means that the only thing that matters now is the fight over Eminent Domain.”

    “Eminent fuckin’ Domain!” someone snorted. “Just an excuse to grab our claims and throw
us out, all legal-like. Whatever we do, we’re gonna lose!”

    “No!” Oberlin shouted down the grumblers. “We can win! And I know how we can do it.
Listen to me, some of you know I studied law. Well, I think I see a way for us to win the
Eminent Domain battle. Let me just think about it for a little while, and I’ll tell you what I have
in mind. It’ll work, dammit, I know it will! Just give me some time to get this organized, okay?
And in the meantime, I think the best thing all of us can do is get registered with Gloria … and
collect our hugs and kisses! And I’m gonna be first!”

    Before anyone could mount a protest, Oberlin stepped next to Gloria. She took the
registration pad from her belt, quickly scanned his retina, then handed him the pad and a
stylus. He scrawled his name, then wrapped her in his arms and collected on her promise.

   “I’ll be at the falls tonight,” she whispered in midclinch. “Can you get a skimmer?”

   “I will,” he vowed, “if I have to build one out of tin cans and twigs!”

   He broke away from her, then called out, “Okay, boys! Who’s next?”

   “I am!” declared Gus Thornton. “By the divine right of kings!”




“ ‘THE WOODS ARE LOVELY, DARK, AND DEEP,’ ” Gloria said to herself as she walked into
the forest in the bowl by the falls, “ ‘and I have promises to keep.’ ”

   Minus her sandals and belt, she padded forward on the soft mosses and looked around.
There was no sign of anyone, but she was certain she wasn’t alone. When she had gone far
enough for the forest to absorb the roar of the falls, she stopped.

   “All right, Abel!” she called. “I know you’re here. I know you can hear me. Come out! You
and I have to talk!”

   Silence. Not even a voice … or the Voice.

   “Come out and talk to me, you old fraud! I need your help!”

   And suddenly, he was there.
   “Fraud, is it?” he said. “That’s a fine thing to call someone, when you need their help.”

   Gloria simply smiled at him.




                                        Chapter 14

GLORIA WATCHED AS THE COMPACT, RED-FACED, curly-haired man who called himself
Sam Russell accepted a metal canister about the size of a large can of tomato juice from a dusty,
bearded highboy. He tapped a button on the big, black plasma recharger beside him, causing a
curved panel to pop open. Russell inserted the canister into the recharger, fiddled with a
connection for a moment, then closed the panel and hit another button on the recharger.
Nothing visible or audible happened, but Russell kept his eye on a digital display for a few
seconds. Then he opened up the recharger, removed the plasma containment canister, and
handed it back to the highboy, whose smile was visible under his dark whiskers.

   “Damn,” he said. “Haven’t used that drill in near about six months! A pleasure doin’
business with ya.”

   As the boomer left, Gloria glanced at Wilmer DeGrasse, who was manning the front desk.
DeGrasse nodded; the boomer had been duly registered.

   She also looked quickly at the man named Sam. He gave her a barely perceptible nod,
which she returned.

    Out on the street, Gloria got into a skimmer next to Palmer Ellison. Tellemacher’s initial
assignment of two-person teams had proved to be ineffective. Ellison and Jillian Clymer had
done well, Randolph Alexander and Pearl Shuzuki had been barely adequate, and the gloomy
pair of DeGrasse and Sintra Garbedian had been an outright disaster. Garbedian tried to be a
good soldier, but his heart clearly wasn’t in it; DeGrasse, meanwhile, seemed to have his mind
on other things these days, namely, Lulu Villegas. Gloria decided to rearrange things, breaking
up the permanent teams and rotating desk duty among the seven, while the other six,
including Tellemacher, spent the day in the field. Today, she was spelling Garbedian, who
claimed he was not feeling well.

    Gloria let Ellison drive. She was a highly skilled driver, and back home, she drove her
Ferrari with delight and enthusiasm; she had even won a couple of skimmer rallies. However,
she had noticed that some people seemed to get very nervous when riding with her. She
couldn’t imagine why—she was in complete control, after all—but in deference to the shakier
nerves of others, she reluctantly relinquished the controls from time to time.

    They crossed the river and headed up into the hills on the western side of the valley. The
highboys were more thinly scattered there than on the east side, where the slopes were higher
and less encumbered by trees. They soon found three of them working a small outcrop with
picks and shovels. It developed that they had sold their plasma drill months ago after its charge
ran out rather than surrender their claim to Grunfeld. They were making a steady return, they
said, although the work was backbreaking. They had heard about the new recharger at the
Emporium, but they had decided not to get a new drill because they figured they would be run
off their claim by the corporates before long. They couldn’t quite see the point of registering,
not even for a kiss and a hug from Gloria, and in the end, Gloria and Ellison moved on without
having accomplished anything.

   “It’s like fishing,” Ellison explained as they moved cautiously along the ridgeline. “You
make your cast, jiggle the bait for a while, and if you don’t get a bite, move on to the next good
spot. Some of these guys just love to argue, so it’s best to avoid getting into an extended debate
with them.”

   “You’ve caught more than your share, Palmer,” Gloria said.

   “It’s Pug,” he said with a slightly embarrassed grin.

   “Pug?”

   “Short for Pugnacious. I used to get into a lot of fights at school.”

   “Did you win them?”

   “Most of them. I try to make a habit of winning.”

   Gloria nodded. “That’s a good habit to get into.”

    Gloria was wearing a pair of thin, white, hip-hugging shorts and an unbuttoned blue shirt,
and Ellison kept glancing in her direction. That had not mattered on the river, but along the
ridgeline, where there were trees to dodge and sudden changes in elevation, his inattention was
enough to make Gloria a little nervous. After their next stop—again, no takers—she decided to
take the controls herself and Ellison obediently slid over.

    At their third stop, they found only a single lonesome highboy, clacking away at the rocks
with a hammer. They had to hike a considerable distance up the slope from where they had
parked to get to him, and when he saw them, he stood up and grinned at Gloria. “Damn,” he
said, “it’s my day for company. You’re the second bunch come through here today.”

   “We are?” Gloria asked. “Who else was here?”

     “Couple o’ city types,” the highboy answered. “New boots, not hardly broken in. You could
tell their feet hurt.”

   “Who were they?”

   “Said they were from Excelsior. Offered me ten thousand crowns for my proxy, damned if
they didn’t!”

   “And did you take it?”

   “Do I look like some kinda idiot?” he demanded. “Damn right I took it! Ten thousand
crowns! And they said when the Eminent Domain deal goes through, I’d probably get another
hundred thousand for my claim! How ‘bout them apples?”

   Gloria and Ellison looked at each other. “At that price, they could get the proxies for just
about every claim in the valley for ten or twenty million,” Ellison calculated.

   “Cheap at twice the price,” said Gloria.
   “What’s that?” the highboy asked. “You sayin’ I got hornswoggled?”

   “You sold low,” Gloria told him. “Sorry, but it’s the truth.”

   The highboy sagged visibly, sank, and plopped down on a rock. “Shit,” he said. “Never
been no damn good at the business end o’ things. Shoulda known better.”

    “Well,” said Gloria, “as long as you sold your proxy, you might as well register to vote. That
will speed things up, anyway. The sooner we get people registered, the sooner you’ll get paid
for your claim if the corporates have their way. But next time, don’t take the first offer you
hear.”

    The boomer accepted Gloria’s logic and registered. “Might just go on down to your new
Emporium, Miz Gloria,” he said, trying to salvage something from his day. “Play a little poker,
get some decent grub … hell, can’t let them crowns burn a hole in my pocket, now can I?”

    On their hike back down to the skimmer, Ellison said, “It’s amazing any of those boys hang
on to a penny.”

    “A few do, most don’t,” said Gloria. “It’s always that way in a boom, they say. Between
cards and girls, he’ll probably drop most of that ten thousand at the Emporium tonight. Sad,
really. I’d cut prices, but I have a payroll to meet and a Comptroller to satisfy.”

   “Getting softhearted, Gloria?”

   “I have my moments,” she conceded.

   “Then,” said Ellison, “maybe I should take advantage of the moment while it lasts.” He
suddenly put his arms around her, pulled her close, and kissed her.

    Gloria didn’t quite resist, but didn’t cooperate, either. When he slid his hand inside her
shirt and began stroking her breasts, she finally backed away. Ellison stood there looking at
her, his face revealing a combination of desire and doubt. He was a good-looking young man,
with short brown hair, a sharp nose, and active blue eyes flecked with gray.

    “I’m crazy about you, Gloria,” he said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have done that, but I don’t
regret it.”

    Gloria thought for a moment, then said, “If you want to fuck me, Pug, you can. We’ll do it
right now, down under those trees.”

   Ellison looked as if he couldn’t believe his luck. “Really? You mean it?”

    “Absolutely,” Gloria told him. “Of course, if we do this, then you’ll never be able to work
for me again.”

   Ellison’s brow creased. “What do you mean?”

   “I mean that I like you, Pug, and I like your attitude and ability. I was going to ask you to
come join the OSI when we got back to Manhattan. I think you’d be a real asset to the Office.
But I’m not going to have sex with you or anyone else who works for me. Too many
complications.”

   “Uh …” Ellison had, in seconds, plunged from the summit of joy into the crevasse of
indecision.

   “You can fuck me or work for me,” Gloria said. “But you can’t do both.”

   Ellison thought about it for several seconds, but both of them already knew what his
decision would be. Finally, he kicked at a loose rock and sent it bouncing down the slope.

   “Shit,” he said.

   Gloria smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Pug. One roll in the
pine needles with me just isn’t worth it.”

   “Yeah,” he said, “I guess you’re right.”

   “You’re smart and ambitious, and I’ll be glad to have you on my team. You should go far at
Dexta—if you avoid temptation.”

   “That won’t exactly be easy if I’m working for you,” Ellison pointed out. “You are
temptation personified.”

  “You’ll get over it. People do, you know. Anyway, there are plenty of other women around
who would be happy to be with you. I saw you looking at Petra the other night.”

   “Petra? Uh … yeah, she’s quite a lady. You think she’d be interested in me?”

   “Find out for yourself, Pug. What do I look like, Cupid?”

    They returned to the skimmer. Gloria congratulated herself on having done her good deed
for the day.




PETRA, BACK FROM ANOTHER SESSION AT THE Lodge, was waiting in Gloria’s office
when she returned to the Emporium that evening. Gloria was covered with dust and wanted
nothing more than a hot bath and some cold beer. She sat down at her desk—now complete
with a computer console—and started taking off her boots and socks.

   “How’d it go?” Gloria asked.

    “No problems,” Petra told her. “Another message from Maddie. She said that the other two
trustees of the Lodge were due to arrive this afternoon. They’re younger men who inherited
their spots on the board from their deceased fathers.”

   “Interesting,” said Gloria. “I get the feeling old Claude is about to be sold out.”

   “Maddie said the same thing. She thinks Excelsior and Servitor have cut some sort of deal
with the other trustees, but she doesn’t know any of the details. But you’ll probably find out
soon enough. Here.” Petra pulled a square envelope from her pocket and handed it to Gloria.

   “Ah. I’m invited to dinner tomorrow night. I guess the two new trustees want a look at
me.”

   “Who wouldn’t?” Petra asked.
    Gloria peeled off her socks, got to her feet, and removed the shorts and shirt. She wiggled
her toes and sighed. “How are you getting along with Maddie?” she asked as she gathered up
her clothes, setting loose a small dust storm in the office.

   “Um … we … uh … manage.”

   “Well, don’t let her bully you.”

   “I won’t.”

   Gloria headed for the door to her own room, but paused for a moment.

   “I spent the day with Pug Ellison out in the field.”

   “Pug?”

    “Short for Pugnacious, he says. He’s really quite a nice guy, and very promising. I’ve
invited him to join OSI permanently when we get back to Manhattan. Maybe you ought to
look him up and have dinner with him tonight. I’m sure he’d be glad to get the lowdown on
what it’s really like to have me for a boss.”

   “You think so?”

   “Sure do. Enjoy your dinner. I’m gonna go get wet.”

   Gloria went into her room, shut the door behind her, and smiled. Two good deeds in one
day!




WHEN SHE ARRIVED AT THE LODGE THE NEXT evening, Gloria was considerably
surprised to find Raul Tellemacher already there. The explanation for his presence was soon
forthcoming. It seemed that Tellemacher and Joe Pollas, one of the two younger trustees, were
old school chums. Pollas was another wealthy ski-bum type; Sidney Taplin, the other new
trustee, was older and more serious-looking. Both Pollas and Taplin made a production out of
welcoming Gloria, while Rankus, Vigo, and Ogunbayo were more subdued.

    Rankus, in fact, looked older and wearier than he had the last time Gloria had seen him. His
skin had a grayish cast to it, and his eyes had lost some of their usual fire. Gloria realized that
he was dying. Vigo had said that he was ill, and the prospect of losing control of the Lodge and
his beloved Sylvania was probably sucking the remaining life out of him. Gloria felt no
particular pity for him, but thought it sad that everyone around Rankus was probably waiting
impatiently for his demise.

     The four corporate reps—Shoop, Lund, Norfleet, and now, Mitchell—also extended their
greetings. Maddie pretended not to know her, but made a show of fondling Petra’s buttocks
when she came in to serve drinks. Maddie was stunning this evening in a long, very sheer
white dress that was slashed in a wide V from her neck nearly to her crotch, while Gloria wore
a little black minidress that kept no secrets.

   “I really must come down to your famous Emporium some evening,” Maddie said to
Gloria. “Are all your girls as pretty as Petra?”
   “We have something for everyone,” Gloria said noncommittally. “You gentlemen are
welcome, too.”

    “Our guests rarely … descend … to the level of the town,” Rankus said, making it clear what
he thought of the Emporium and its denizens.

   “Really? I’d think the Lodge would get a little boring at times. After all, you three
gentlemen have been here for weeks, now. Although I gather that you’ve been keeping busy.”

   “How, exactly, did you gather that, Ms. VanDeen, if I may ask?” said Lund.

   “Up in the hills yesterday, I discovered that some of your Excelsior people have been going
around buying up proxies from the miners. Getting them very cheaply, too, from what I hear.”

    “Carpe diem,” Lund replied. “The price will only go up as we get closer to incorporation. I
assume you’ve heard by now that we’re bringing in a thousand people next week.”

    Gloria turned to look at Thomas Shoop, the Imperium representative. He was quieter than
the others, but Gloria wasn’t sure if that meant he was playing his cards closer to the vest, or
was just naturally reticent. He was of medium height, a little overweight, and had a face that
might have been mass-produced on one of Imperium’s assembly lines.

   “Is Imperium busy seizing the day, as well, Mr. Shoop?” Gloria asked him.

   “If we are,” Shoop answered, “we won’t advertise the fact.”

   “Well, even if you don’t have people out in the valley, maybe you should try to find the
time to get out there yourself,” Gloria suggested. “See it before it’s gone.”

    “That, Ms. VanDeen,” Rankus declared, “is the most intelligent thing I have yet heard you
say. It will be gone, you know. These fine gentlemen—and Ms. Mitchell, as well, should Prizm
prevail—will soon bring in their planet-raping machines and turn this paradise into a pit. I’m
grateful I shall not live to see it.”

   “As usual, my old friend,” said Myron Vigo, “you’re being too hard on yourself, and
everyone else. The Lodge and Overhill will survive—and so will you, Claude, if you’ll just perk
up a bit.”

   Rankus’s only response to that was a wordless snort.

   “Gloria,” said Joe Pollas, “Raul tells me that the voter registration drive is going very well.”

    “It’s proceeding as planned,” Gloria affirmed. She gave Tellemacher a short, not very subtle
glare. “Tell me, Mr. Pollas, don’t you share some of Claude’s reluctance to see the corporates
come in?”

    “Please, call me Joe. And yes, I admit I’ve felt a twinge or two about it. I spent every
summer here when I was a kid. Used to go prowling along the ridges, boating in the river. We
even have a little ski lodge, way up in the mountains, although we never got around to fixing
up a real ski run. You know, I even found Fergusite crystals up in the hills. Pretty green things.
If only I’d known!”

   “Praise whatever powers there be that you didn’t,” said Rankus, “or we’d have lost our
planet a dozen years ago.”
    “Now, Claude,” Pollas soothed, “we aren’t really losing it. We’ll still have the Lodge and the
lake—and I intend to bring my children here someday.”

   “Your father would have horsewhipped you for selling out to these corporate Visigoths!”
Rankus said with some heat.

   “My father would have made the same deal as I have,” Pollas responded. “And he’d have
horsewhipped you if you had tried to stop him!”

   Myron Vigo stepped between the two and tried to pour a little oil on the troubled waters. “I
knew Old Joe for seventy years,” he said, “and I never once saw him horsewhip anyone. Other
than the occasional horse, mind you. Ms. VanDeen, how goes it at your new and improved
Emporium?”

   “We seem to be flourishing,” Gloria told him.

   “I apologize for Grunfeld’s behavior the other day,” said Vigo. “And I’m not surprised that
you anticipated our little ploy. Still, we do what we must. I expect Claude will insist that we
challenge every registration.”

   “I will,” said Rankus.

    “I’ve told him that it will be a waste of time, but Claude is within his rights.” Vigo turned to
look at the corporate reps. “We may also be challenging some of your proxies. I’m a lawyer,”
he added with a self-conscious grin, “so it is my sworn duty to make everything as difficult and
expensive as possible for everyone.”

   “Joe,” Gloria said to Pollas, “you alluded to some sort of deal with the corporates? Might I
inquire …?”

   “Certainly. Nothing secret about it. When the boom first started, some of us planned ahead
and acquired some proxies from the first wave of miners, who needed financial support that
we were able to provide.”

    “I should have expected that from you and young Taplin here,” growled Rankus, “but it
grieves me that Ogunbayo was in on it. I expected more than that from you, Rahim.”

    “You’re just annoyed that you didn’t think of it first, Claude,” Ogunbayo blithely
responded. “In any case, Gloria, we do have a considerable number of proxies among us, and
our friends from the corporates will find it necessary to secure our cooperation if they expect to
get the necessary 60 percent for Eminent Domain proceedings.”

    “And what of Prizm?” Gloria asked, turning to Maddie. She didn’t want to make their
connection conspicuous by too obviously ignoring her. “Will you be involved in the proxy
battle?”

   “Oh”—Maddie smiled—“we’ll have a horse in the race.”

   “A damned dark one,” put in Gaspar Norfleet. “Face it, Maddie, you’re already beaten.”

   “Music to my ears, boys,” she responded. “A key part of our strategy is to rely on the usual
myopic overconfidence of our competitors—especially Servitor. That’s what got your ass
whipped on Mynjhino, isn’t it, Gassy?”
    “Only thanks to Ms. VanDeen’s rather unfortunate intervention,” Norfleet said, nodding
his head toward Gloria. “I trust that won’t become a factor here, as well. Dexta is here to
register voters, not to meddle in corporate or Imperial affairs. Isn’t that right,
Mr. Tellemacher?”

    “That’s our assignment,” Raul agreed. “Of course, I’m not the boss. What about it, Gloria,
are we going to be doing any meddling?”

   Gloria gave him a frosty gaze. “We’ll do what we’ve come here to do,” she said simply.

  “Was running a whorehouse part of the assignment?” he asked. “I don’t recall hearing you
mention that back on Earth.”

   “When there’s something I think you should know, Raul, I’ll be sure to tell you.”

   “Hah!” barked Pollas. “Put you in your place, didn’t she, Rowdy?”

    With that, the party repaired to the dinner table, where the conversation continued in
much the same vein—a high-level fencing match in which no actual blood was drawn but
points were scored. Gloria spoke in glowing terms of her visits to Rankus Falls, although she
didn’t mention Old Abel or the Voice. Rankus warmed to the topic, and went on at some
length about the early days on Sylvania, when he and a small group of friends had been the
only humans on the planet. When he began to repeat himself, Vigo gently steered the
conversation in another direction.

   The future was becoming clear to all of them. Rankus’s days were numbered, his influence
waning, and only Vigo’s continuing support kept him in the game at all. Soon, the requisite
number of voters would be registered, an Imperial Governor would be appointed, and the
business of dividing up the Fergusite spoils would begin in earnest. The initial jockeying for
position among the corporates, and the proxies held by Pollas and the other trustees, would
determine the shape and flow of the battle to come. There was little Gloria could
do—directly—to influence the course of events, but she wondered if some indirect influence
might be possible.

   Following dinner, Gloria went out to the veranda to drink in the night scene, and was
quickly joined by Shoop, Lund, and Norfleet. Maddie Mitchell made as if to join them, but
Gloria gave her a quick, subtle headshake. Maddie understood, and retired.

   “It really is a magnificent planet,” Gloria said. “You’ve missed a lot by rooting yourselves
here in the Lodge, gentlemen.”

   “I’m not here as a sightseer,” said Lund.

   “Too bad,” Gloria said. “I’m planning a little expedition back to the Falls tomorrow. I was
hoping I could persuade you all to come with me. That’s if you don’t mind camping out
overnight.”

   “Spirit!” Lund grunted. “Next, you’ll be asking us to toast marshmallows over a campfire.”

   “Great idea!” said Gloria. “I wonder if we have any marshmallows down at the Emporium
general store? I know we have some hot dogs.”

   “Hmm,” Norfleet pondered. “Peking duck’s on the menu here for tomorrow night. Quite a
choice.”

   “Menu and your obvious charms aside, Gloria,” Lund said, “I see no point in your little
nature tour. I believe I’ll pass.”

   “I admit, I am tempted,” said Norfleet. “But I’m not exactly the wilderness type. I didn’t
even camp out when I was a boy.”

   “And what about you, Mr. Shoop?”

   Shoop granted Gloria one of his rare smiles. “I like hot dogs,” he said.




                                         Chapter 15

GLORIA CRAWLED TOWARD THE LIGHT. THE BLUE-GREEN glow far ahead of her seemed
impossibly distant, and the dark rocks around her seemed to close in on her; they seemed to
suck up the very air she breathed.

   “This is not claustrophobia,” she whispered to herself. “I do not have claustrophobia!”

   “What was that, Gloria?” Sam Roosa asked from behind her. His words echoed faintly back
and forth along the length of the tunnel.

   “Nothing, Sam,” she assured him.

    The tunnel was no more than four feet in diameter and extended for a good hundred feet,
from ten feet beneath Room 9 to the position of the plasma recharger under the entrance
anteroom of the Emporium. Roosa and his team had used their drills to carve out the
passageway during the week of renovations, and no one was the wiser. Althea was aware that
something odd was going on in Room 9, but was smart enough not to ask questions. One of
the two recharger operators—Sam or his assistant Dwayne—was nearly always shut up in the
room while the other manned the desk, and it was rare to see either of them take time for a
meal or a drink. They also ignored the girls.

    Gloria took deep breaths and forced herself to keep moving. It wasn’t really necessary for
her to be there, but since she was in charge of the operation, her sense of duty compelled her to
see the underground works for herself. Anyway, she was curious about how it all fit together.
A few minutes in a dark, dank, dim enclosed space beneath the surface of the planet would
surely do her no harm. None at all. After all, she was an enhanced human being and therefore
not subject to the failings of mere mortals, whose skin might feel clammy and whose breath
might become labored in a narrow, constricted, gloomy, downright spooky place where they
might easily be trapped beneath tons of rock and dirt if anything went wrong. Those were
symptoms of claustrophobia, which Gloria definitely did not have—no sir!

    She forced herself to move forward, sensing Roosa close on her heels behind her. At last,
she arrived at the cubical gallery that had been cut away around the vertical shaft. The gallery
was about ten feet on a side and six feet high, and would have seemed roomy but for the array
of controls and monitoring equipment that had been installed there. Gloria slid away from the
tunnel exit to make way for Roosa, who scrambled into the gallery after her.

    A photosensitive cylindrical shield encased the vertical shaft in the center of the gallery. Its
darkened surface let through only a small fraction of the intense light produced by the plasma
beam coursing down from above, but even that was enough to leave Gloria momentarily
dazzled. She sat there blinking while Roosa got to his feet and methodically moved around the
gallery, checking readings on each of the instruments. He came back to where he had begun
and sat down on the cold stone floor next to Gloria.

   “So,” he asked her, “what do you think? Did you get your money’s worth?”

   “I don’t know,” she replied. “Did we?”

    “I think you probably did,” Roosa said. “At any rate, we’re doing exactly what we came
here to do. Eckstein’s estimates were pretty damned good. He said we’d hit the Fergusite layer
at a hundred meters, and we hit it at eighty-nine.”

   “Is there any way to tell if we’re having the desired effect?”

   “Not directly,” Roosa said. He pointed at the shaft. “Obviously, we can’t get down there,
but we did send a drone down before we went operational. Got some samples back, and
Eckstein was right on the button again. The Fergusite matrix is just about the density he
predicted, which means that we should be getting the results we’d hoped for. Otherwise, the
amount of energy we’ve pumped down there would be melting the bedrock by now.”

    Gloria thought of something. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Why doesn’t the constant plasma
beam destroy the lattice of the Fergusite directly below it? Wouldn’t that ruin its energy
transference properties?”

    “It would, if the beam didn’t move and always struck the same spot. In fact, we’ve altered
the recharger so that the beam slowly moves in an ever-widening spiral. Right now, the spiral is
about six centimeters in diameter. And, of course, we’ve only affected the upper layer of the
deposit. By the time we’re through here, the spiral will be more than a meter in diameter, at a
depth of three of four meters into the Fergusite layer.”

   Gloria nodded. “So the plasma energy is dispersing throughout the Fergusite layer?”

    “Seems to be. We’ve probably ruined all the Fergusite crystals within a couple of kilometers
of here. That should amount to maybe 1 or 2 percent of the entire deposit.” Roosa grinned
suddenly. “Think of that—we’ve already destroyed about twenty trillion crowns’ worth of the
stuff!”

   “The greatest act of vandalism in history,” Gloria noted.

   “Something to tell our grandchildren.”

   “Hardly! Sam, this goes to our graves with us.”

   Roosa frowned but nodded in agreement. “I suppose so.”

   “Have any problems come up?” Gloria asked him.

    “None that we can see. If we had hit any major obstructions in the deposit, we’d be getting
a gradual buildup of energy—heat, in other words. Our monitors would detect it, but so far
there’s no sign of it. As best we can tell, the energy is being dispersed at a fairly steady rate
throughout the Fergusite layer.”

   “So you’ll be able to tell if we do hit something?”

    “For now, yes,” said Roosa. “But in a week or two, the dispersal field will be so wide that
there won’t necessarily be any feedback where we can detect it. According to Eckstein, the
joker in the deck would be any igneous intrusion that cuts all the way across the deposit. That
would keep us from getting at the rest of the layer.”

   “And what would happen in that case?”

    “Eckstein said that the energy being distributed by the Fergusite would eventually melt the
intrusion. That might get it out of our way, or it might just bring down the overlying rock and
continue to block us. It might also cause some earthquakes.”

   “I see,” Gloria said. She hadn’t counted on anything quite that dramatic.

    “The second problem Eckstein mentioned,” Roosa continued, “is that the density of the
matrix might change as we get deeper into the deposit. From the samples we’ve taken and the
analysis Eckstein did of the surface deposits, the density is just right to allow us to do our little
trick here. That is, the average density of the Fergusite crystals within the matrix is such that it
permits direct energy transfer between the crystals. But we have no way of knowing if that
density remains constant throughout the entire layer. If it changes too much in either direction,
that could shut off the energy transfer and ruin our little plot.”

    “So,” said Gloria, “if the density remains constant, if the layer is fully contiguous, and if
there are no igneous intrusions, then we’ll succeed.”

   “You forgot one big if,” Roosa reminded her.

   “What?”

   “If no one finds out what we’re up to.”

   Gloria gave him a weak grin. “Well, yes,” she said. “There’s that, isn’t there?”




GLORIA AND THOMAS SHOOP ARRIVED AT PIZEN Flats just in time to see the end of the
brawl. It wasn’t really much of a brawl, considering that the highboys were outnumbered by
about four to one, but they put up a good fight against the riverrats for a few minutes. Noses
were bloodied, some teeth were lost, and one of the highboys might have had a rib cracked,
but no serious damage was done except to the pride of some who thought they were better
brawlers than they turned out to be.

   As they got out of their skimmer, Gloria and Shoop saw a couple of good punches landed,
but the scene resembled a rugby scrum more than it did a battle. People began to notice
Gloria’s arrival, and most of them quickly decided that they would rather watch her than roll
around in the mud with other miners. The commotion gradually subsided, and the riverrats
and highboys stood around the campsite breathing hard and feeling, perhaps, a little foolish.
   “What’s all this, then?” Gloria asked Gus Thornton. The King of Pizen Flats was a little
bloody but clearly unbowed by the festivities.

   “Just sortin’ out what’s what, is all,” Gus explained.

   “We were discussing some of the finer points of the law,” Ted Oberlin amplified. His hair
was mussed, but he did not seem to have suffered much damage. He started to smile at Gloria,
but his face froze when he saw that she was accompanied by another man.

    “Law, my maiden Aunt Matilda!” shouted one of the highboys, wiping some blood from
his chin. “These goddamn riverrats are tryin’ to steal what we got comin’ to us!”

   “What you got comin’, Slick,” a riverrat responded, “is another ass-kickin’!”

   “Why don’t you just try it?” the highboy challenged.

    The brawl might have resumed then and there had Gloria not exercised one of her
lesser-known talents. She stuck two fingers into her mouth and loosed a shrill, piercing whistle
that echoed across the valley. Anyone who hadn’t already been looking at her turned now to
do so.

   “Hey, boys,” she called, “Give it a rest! Gus? Why don’t you take a stab at explaining this,
and everybody else just shut up, okay?”

   Everybody else did, reluctantly.

     “Well, Miz Gloria,” Gus said, “it’s like this. These highboys here decided to come down and
tell us what they thought about our plans. Didn’t think much of ‘em, and said so. And then we
told ‘em what we thought about their plans. Took a whole bunch o’ tellin’, what with their
heads bein’ so hard. But I think we made our point.”

    The riverrats noisily agreed with Gus for a few moments, while the highboys registered
their dissent.

   “And what are these plans that everyone is so excited about?” Gloria asked.

   “Best let Ted tell ya, Miz Gloria,” Gus said, “since he’s the one that thunk ‘em up.”

    At the urging of the other riverrats, Oberlin stepped forward and launched into an
explanation. “We’re going to refile our claim, Gloria,” he said. “Right now, there are fifty people
at Pizen Flats, but only one claim. But these ten or twelve highboys here have maybe six or
seven claims among them. So we’re going to redress the balance.”

  “Redress yer ass!” shouted one of the highboys. “They just wanta steal the damn Eminent
Domain vote.”

   Undeterred, Oberlin continued. “This may seem like just a disorderly encampment, Gloria,
but it’s really the Pizen Flats Mining Company. Everyone here has a share in it. In order to
work the rivers properly, you need a division of labor and some room to spread out. So, in the
beginning, it seemed best to incorporate and file a single claim on this stretch of the river. But
we’ve decided to adapt to the changing circumstances.”

   “I see,” Gloria said. “And how will you do that?”
    “We’re going into town tomorrow to dissolve the company. Then each of us will file
individual claims, dividing up the same land that the company held. That way, each of us will
have a voice in the Eminent Domain battle. At the same time, we’re sticking together and
reorganizing ourselves as the Pizen Flats Cooperative Association. We’ll share the profits, same
as before, but we’ll retain our individual claim rights.”

    “And that’s just plain wrong!” declared one of the highboys. “You can’t change the rules in
the middle of the game, dammit! Us highboys work hard up on the slopes to make a go of our
claims, while these sissies on the river take it easy with their damn company. Well, if that’s how
they wanted to do it, fine. We got no problem with that. What we got a problem with is them
tryin’ to turn one claim into fifty all of a sudden, just ‘cause it’s convenient now. That just ain’t
right!”

   “But it’s legal, Fred,” Oberlin reminded him, “and that’s all that really matters.”

   “Is that true, Miz Gloria?” the highboy asked. “Can they get away with doin’ this?”

   Gloria silently mulled it over for a few moments, then said, “I think they probably can,
Fred. But there are still a lot more highboys than there are riverrats at Pizen Flats.”

    “But it ain’t just Pizen Flats,” Fred insisted. “This legal-talkin’ bastard here’s been gettin’ all
the river camps organized and fixin’ to do the same damn thing!”

   “Is that true, Ted?”

    “I’ve been trying, Gloria,” he told her. “Not all of the camps have decided yet, but we’re
making some progress. If we get everyone together on this, we should have at least 40 percent
of the total claims by the time we’re through. And that,” he added triumphantly, turning to
face the other riverrats, “will be enough to keep the corporates from taking our land!”

    The riverrats roared. Gloria glanced at Shoop to see how he was taking the news, but his
face remained impassive, as always.

    Gloria was proud of Oberlin for what he had accomplished, but she harbored no illusions.
The dream of 40 percent was likely to prove a chimera. Too much power and money was
aligned against the riverrats. When the price the corporates were willing to pay for proxies
went high enough, even the most loyal members of the Pizen Flats Cooperative Association
would find themselves sorely tempted to sell out. Still, Oberlin might round up enough votes
to make the Eminent Domain battle interesting, and she supposed that there was even a
chance that they would win. If only she could have counted on that, her underground plot
would never have been necessary.

    When things had settled down, Gus Thornton invited Gloria and her guest to share some
lunch. Gloria introduced Shoop to the riverrats, but identified him only as a friend who wanted
to see the river and the falls. In the present atmosphere, telling them that he was from
Imperium could have been risky. As it was, only Ted Oberlin seemed upset by Shoop’s
presence.

    The Pizen Flats men were eager to hear Gloria’s approval and enthusiasm for their plans,
but she explained to them that she had to remain strictly neutral. Nevertheless, she wished
them well. She also urged them to be cautious. The brawl with the highboys had reminded her
that the game was beginning to get very serious.
   Without being obvious about it, Gloria tried to avoid Oberlin; that proved to be easy, since
he had decided to retreat into a sulk. Men were such babies—but that was not exactly a
revelation to Gloria. She wondered if Shoop had noticed the dirty glances he was getting from
Oberlin. It was hard to tell about Shoop, but Gloria expected to get to know him much better
before the day was through.




THE FOREST, THE CANYONS, AND THE FALLS LEFT Thomas Shoop even more speechless
than usual. But, Gloria thought, the quality of his silence had changed. It no longer seemed to
flow from reticence, but rather, from awe. His eyes wide, his lips slightly parted, he let Gloria
show him the natural wonders of Sylvania with scarcely a word. Finally, Gloria parked the
skimmer on the bank to the side of the falls at her usual campsite, and they got out.

    “We’ll set up the tent here,” Gloria said. “Later, we’ll start a fire. But for now, I think I’m
going to take a swim. Care to join me?”

   “In there?” Shoop asked, amazed, as he pointed toward the churning river. It was the first
time Gloria had managed to impress him.

   “I do it whenever I’m here,” she said. “It’s fun.”

   “I’ll take your word for it,” Shoop said. “From where I’m standing, it looks cold and
dangerous.”

   “That’s what makes it fun!” Without further preamble, Gloria stripped off her shirt and
shorts and plunged into the frigid waters of the Rankus River. Shoop sat down on the bank to
watch.

    Gloria paddled back and forth with vigor, then turned to float on her back for a while,
being careful to give Shoop a good view. She knew he wanted her, but his natural reticence
seemed to extend to the matter of sex. Neither of them had brought up the subject, although
the prospect of sharing the same small tent tonight made the outcome obvious and all but
inevitable. At least, Gloria assumed as much.

    She felt a little uneasy about it. She was never reluctant to have sex with a man for whom
she felt an attraction, even a total stranger if the circumstances were right. But a deliberate and,
yes, cold-blooded, seduction of a specific man for a specific purpose went somewhere beyond
her comfort zone. She would have preferred another approach to Shoop, but she had to work
with what tools she had. Considering what was at stake, this was no time for half measures.
And maybe something good would come from it, she thought. Maybe Thomas Shoop would
enlist in her cause merely because she was a fabulous lay, and because her cause was right.

   And then again, maybe not. Just in case, she did not intend to count on sex alone. The
seduction of Thomas Shoop would involve two stages, only one of which depended on the
sexual appeal of Gloria VanDeen. The second would rely on the clever fraud of a wizened old
wood gnome. At least, it would if Old Abel was on the ball …

   Gloria gave Shoop a cheerful wave and pointed toward the falls. Then she dived deep,
swam submerged until her lungs were ready to burst, then surfaced behind the cascading
curtain of water. She crawled up onto a big, slippery boulder and waited while Abel
orchestrated his illusion.

    At first, Gloria had sincerely believed in the Voice. Part of her had desperately wanted it to
be real, and for her theory to be true. If the Voice were a Sylvanian cousin of the Spirit, then
the universe would finally make sense and life itself would resonate with some deeper, holier
meaning. The appeal of such an idea was primal, and for the first and only time in her life,
Gloria had believed that she understood the force that drew people to religions and some
conception of God. If only it were all true!

    But the skeptic in her could not ignore the doubts that Oberlin had planted. If the Voice
knew that Gloria could prevent people from hurting it, then why did it have to ask her who
she was? A very human sort of mistake, Ted had suggested. And Gloria was unable to persuade
herself that he was wrong.

   If there was a key to the mystery of the Voice, it had to be Old Abel. She resolved to clear
away some of the mist that shrouded his origins and even his identity. So she dispatched Petra
on her spy mission, and was rewarded with the answer, whole and complete.

   Stored in Preston Thawley’s employment files at the Lodge was a record of everyone who
had ever worked there, all the way back to the very beginning, twenty years earlier. Not only
was there an “Abel Brookshire” listed among the laborers who had built the Lodge, there was
even a copy of his employment application and his résumé. Abel Brookshire, it seemed, had
worked for more than forty years on Palmyra and several other worlds—as an audio engineer.

    When she finally confronted Abel, he had given her a crooked smile and a wink, then
admitted that her suspicions were correct. He had come to Sylvania in search of a place to
retire, and had immediately fallen in love with this pristine world. When the work on the
Lodge was complete, he had simply drifted into the forests with a minimum of supplies and a
pad loaded with all his favorite books; Walden was near the top of the list. He had survived for
years in contented solitude, learning all there was to know about his new home.

    When the boom began, he told her, he had realized that the life and the planet he had come
to love were dangerously, perhaps fatally threatened. So, using the skills from his former life,
he had invented the Voice. He bought the equipment he needed on Palmyra, had it delivered
to Elba’s, and set about spooking the boomers. It was easy enough for an audio engineer to
employ microamplifiers and resonators to create an ethereal whisper that seemed to come from
everywhere and nowhere. His intimate knowledge of the valley allowed him to come and go
unseen, planting his nearly invisible devices in places he knew were frequented by the miners.

    He managed to scare off some of them, and even those who stayed began to treat the valley
with a measure of respect. He concentrated on the highboys, who did the most damage, and
had some considerable success among them. For the less destructive riverrats, his message was
less a threat and more an entreaty. He realized that he would never be able to get everyone to
leave, but he hoped that he could slow down the boom and delay the inevitable until after he
was gone.

   “I was afraid I might be getting a little too cute when I tried it on you,” he told Gloria.
“Ignorant boomrat miners don’t ask too many questions, but I knew you were a smart cookie.
Should have known better.”
   “You almost had me,” Gloria admitted. “I really wanted to believe in the Voice.”

   “But then that young bastard Oberlin caught me out.”

   “You heard that conversation?” Gloria asked him.

    “O’ course I did. Got that whole campsite area bugged. That damn Oberlin kid spotted my
mistakes right off. Shouldn’t have asked you who you were. Never did that before. In fact, I
never even tried to start a conversation with anyone. Just tried to scare ‘em. But I knew you
were important, and I guess I wanted to show how clever I was—you know, just sorta
grandstandin’ for a pretty girl. So I had the Voice ask you some questions first, kinda like
breakin’ the ice, ya know? But I forgot that the Voice wouldn’t have had to ask. Damn stupid
of me. So, now that ya know, what are ya gonna do about it?”

    What Gloria decided to do about it was to enlist Abel in her scheme. So, as Gloria sat under
the falls, shivering, Thomas Shoop was going to have his own encounter with the Voice. Fraud,
pure and simple, she thought. It might even work.

   When she judged the time was right, Gloria slid back into the water, dived under the falls,
and swam back to the bank. As she clambered up the rocks, she saw Shoop standing there
watching her, his mouth hanging open.

   “Did … did you hear it?” he shouted to her above the roar of the falls.

    “I couldn’t hear anything where I was. Why, what did you …” With what she thought was
the right combination of curiosity and dawning comprehension, Gloria let her eyes widen and
looked at Shoop in feigned wonder. “You heard the Voice?” she cried.

     “I … I think so,” Shoop responded. “Rankus talked about it, but I … I never really believed
it. Until now.”

    Gloria gathered up her clothes and began walking toward the campsite. Shoop trailed along
after her, staring at her magnificent nude body and trying to find the right words for the
moment.

   “What did it say to you?” Gloria asked him. She reached into her pack, pulled out a towel,
and started drying herself off.

   “It just said, ‘Don’t hurt me.’ It said that twice.”

   “That’s about the same as it said to me,” Gloria told him.

   “You’ve heard it too?”

   “Just once. I brought you here because I wanted to hear it again, and I hoped you would
hear it, too.” She smiled at him as she spread her towel on the grass, picked a log out of her
pack, and ignited it. “I’m glad you heard it, Thomas.”

  Shoop dazedly plopped down next to her and shook his head. “I never … I mean, in my
whole life, I never …”

   Gloria patted him on his thigh. “I know,” she said. “Me too.”

   He broke into an embarrassed grin. “I would never have believed it,” he said.
    “Believe it,” Gloria told him. “Believe it, and accept it.” Gloria put her arms around Shoop’s
shoulders, drew him close, and kissed him. After a moment, Shoop kissed her back. Moments
later, he was fondling her breasts and she was unzipping his jeans. His penis was already
hardening as she set to work, determined to make a believer out of Thomas Shoop.




LATER, AS THE SUN WENT DOWN, THEY SAT before the fire roasting hot dogs that they
had skewered on long sticks. Shoop had put his clothes back on, but Gloria remained
completely nude and totally available.

    “Officially,”   Gloria      said,  “I     have     to     be     scrupulously  neutral.    But
unofficially—personally—after I heard the Voice, I became utterly and unreservedly committed
to saving this planet. I think the Voice is kind of like the Spirit, back home—sort of a planetary
entity, a consciousness. It wants our help, Thomas.”

   “It wants a lot, then,” Shoop commented. “I’m in awe of this place, Gloria, and if the Voice
doesn’t want me to hurt it, I sure as hell won’t. But you know as well as I do what’s going to
happen here, and nothing you or I can do will prevent it.”

   “Are you sure of that?”

   Shoop removed his hot dog from the fire for a moment and turned to look Gloria in her
eyes. “I’m just a regional rep, Gloria. Can you imagine what would happen if I went back to
Earth and told the Imperium Board that we should turn our backs on mining a quadrillion
crowns’ worth of Fergusite just because some disembodied voice wants us to?” Shoop gave a
short, cynical laugh. “They’d have me committed!”

    “Maybe you don’t have to tell them,” Gloria suggested. “Maybe there are things you can do
right here that would help save Sylvania.”

    “Even if there were,” Shoop replied, “you’re forgetting that Imperium isn’t the only player
in this game. Or were you planning to bring Lund and Norfleet here and seduce them, too?”

    “I would if I thought it would help. Please don’t take that personally, Thomas. I truly like
you, and I was glad that you were the only one who accepted my invitation. Lund and Norfleet
are not my idea of fun dates. But I’d gladly fuck everyone on the boards of each of the Big
Twelve if I thought that would save this place.”

    Shoop contemplated his roasting hot dog for a few moments. When he judged it
sufficiently blackened, he clamped a bun around it, removed it from the stick, squirted some
mustard on it, and took a bite.

    “I don’t know the details,” Gloria said, “but just from watching Lund and Norfleet, it was
easy to see that they’ve got some sort of deal, probably in conjunction with Pollas and some of
the other trustees. It’s an obvious match. Servitor has the financial resources and the influence
at Court. Excelsior is one of the smaller of the Big Twelve, but it has the equipment for the job
and wants to catch up with Imperium and Prizm. If they get the concession, that would leave
Imperium out in the cold.”

   “Maybe not,” Shoop said. “We know they have the inside track, but we think we can get
enough proxies to force Servitor and Excelsior to let us in on the deal.”

   “What if you worked with Prizm and the riverrats? If you combined your resources, you
might be able to get more than 40 percent of the proxies and block development altogether.”

    “And what would be in it for Imperium? Prizm would naturally like to prevent exploitation
of the Fergusite, and the riverrats want to keep their claims and go on doing what they’ve been
doing. But what would Imperium stand to gain?”

   “Maybe a deal with Prizm? A piece of their existing Fergusite operations?”

   Shoop said, “Hmmpf.”

    “I’m serious,” Gloria insisted. “Why not try it? Instead of a small piece of the
Servitor-Excelsior deal, Imperium could get a big piece of a partnership with Prizm. It would
make sense for Prizm to save half a loaf instead of getting none, and you could get your half of
the loaf without having to risk a big investment on the mining operation.”

    Shoop took another bite of his hot dog. After some more beer, he said, “I’d hate to have to
try and sell that to the Board. I admit, there’s a certain plausibility to the argument. But it
would put Imperium at odds with the Emperor, and that could have a detrimental effect on
everything else we do.”

    “You’d have Dexta’s support. I can tell you in strictest confidence that Norman Mingus is
seriously concerned about the potential effect of using Sylvanian Fergusite on a large scale. Its
quality is uncertain, and if significant problems arose, that could undermine the stability of the
Empire itself.”

   “That doesn’t seem to concern the Emperor,” Shoop pointed out.

   “Charles is only interested in the profits and graft he can make on the Sylvania deposit.
He’s a selfish and shortsighted man, Thomas. Believe me, I know.”

   Shoop laughed. “I guess you would,” he agreed. “But I still don’t think the Imperium Board
would be thrilled to find themselves facing the Emperor’s wrath. They would never go along
with this.”

   “Maybe they would if you presented them with a fait accompli. If you and Maddie Mitchell
can work out a deal between yourselves to block Servitor and Excelsior, that would give Prizm
and Imperium time to formalize it. That would be worth trying, wouldn’t it? To save
Sylvania?” Gloria looked at him hopefully, nude and glowing in the firelight.

    Shoop stared at her for a minute, then shook his head and smiled. “Why do I get the feeling
that you’ve presented me with a fait accompli?”

    “Because,” Gloria explained, “you’re a very perceptive man.” She threw their hot dogs into
the fire and continued her seduction of Thomas Shoop. She no longer felt the least bit uneasy
about it. In fact, she thoroughly enjoyed it.

   So did Thomas Shoop.
                                           Chapter 16

GLORIA AND SHOOP GOT A LATE START THE next morning. They almost didn’t get
started at all; both of them would have preferred to spend the entire day in the idyllic setting.
With or without the Voice, Gloria felt a reverence for the place that defied rational analysis.
And it wouldn’t hurt to let Shoop share that feeling.

    For all his reticence, Shoop had proved to be an ardent and creative lover. Gloria shared
some jigli with him over breakfast, and they spent a long hour or two on the bed of soft,
springy mosses until Shoop was utterly exhausted. Gloria practically had to scoop him up and
pour him back into the skimmer.

    By the time they got back to Greenlodge, the boomers from Pizen Flats had already arrived.
Their fleet of battered old utility skimmers was parked at river’s edge, and all fifty of the
riverrats were gathered in front of City Hall. Gloria parked her skimmer next to the
Emporium, then walked over to City Hall with Shoop trailing along behind her.

    She saw Mayor Grunfeld, flanked by Hank Frezzo and Noz Gnozdziewicz, standing on the
front steps, sneering defiantly at the mob. It was easy enough to figure out what was
happening. Gloria saw that the occasion would call for a little more of her star power, so she
unbuttoned her shirt to reveal her breasts more completely and tugged her low-riding shorts
even lower. Still riding the jigli high, heart racing, nerves tingling, she plunged into the crowd
and made her way to the base of the steps.

    There, she found Ted Oberlin angrily trying to stare down Grunfeld, who reacted to her
arrival with a snort of contempt.

   “You just stay outta this, VanDeen,” Grunfeld warned her. “Ain’t none o’ Dexta’s business.
This here’s a local matter!”

   “Local, hell!” Oberlin responded. “Our claims and legal filing have to be registered with the
District authorities on Palmyra.”

   “Then take ‘em to Palmyra!”

    “We don’t have to do that. We have every right to make the initial filings right here, with
the existing local government. Unfortunately, that means you, Grunfeld. Whether you like it or
not, you have to accept our filing.”

    The riverrats cheered heartily, but Grunfeld remained unimpressed. He pointed an index
finger at Oberlin (splints gone, his middle fingers seemed to have healed) and shook it
menacingly. “I don’t have to do a fuckin’ thing, kid,” he snarled. “And I don’t need some
snot-nosed punk tellin’ me what the law says. I’m the law ‘round here, and you best not forget
that.”

   “You’re wrong,” Gloria said politely.

   “I told you to stay the fuck outta this!” Grunfeld reiterated.

    “I’m afraid I can’t, Mr. Mayor,” Gloria replied, unperturbed. “You’ve misrepresented the
situation, and I can’t let that stand. You, Mr. Mayor, are not the law. You are merely the local
representative of the law, charged with obeying and enforcing it. If you are incapable of
performing that function—”

   “Horseshit! I can perform any damn function I want, and you can’t say no different!”
Grunfeld turned to Frezzo and said, “Hank, go bring Vigo out here. ‘Bout time that old bastard
earned his cut.” Frezzo obediently went inside City Hall and returned a moment later with
Myron Vigo at his side.

   Vigo emerged into the sunlight, blinked a few times, then noticed Gloria. He smiled and
bowed slightly in her direction. “Ah,” he said brightly, “Ms. VanDeen! You’re looking
exceptionally lovely this morning. I was hoping you would be here.”

    “At your service, Mr. Vigo,” Gloria said. “And I’m glad to see that Mayor Grunfeld has a
qualified legal advisor present. It seems that he could profit from your guidance. I don’t think
he fully understands his responsibilities.”

   “Aw, cut the crap, Vigo,” Grunfeld snapped. “Just tell ‘em.”

   “Exactly what would you like me to tell them?” Vigo inquired.

    “Tell ‘em this is local business, goddammit! And Dexta can just go fuck itself, ‘cause it ain’t
got no damn excuse to horn in on this.”

    “Ah.” Vigo nodded, then turned back to Gloria, still smiling. “My learned colleague may
have expressed it a bit crudely, Ms. VanDeen, but I believe he has grasped the nub of the
matter. The filing of routine claims and legal documents is, of course, a purely local matter and
not subject to interference by Imperial or Dexta representatives. But I’m sure you already know
that.”

    “Of course, Mr. Vigo,” Gloria agreed. “That’s entirely true. However, if I understand what’s
going on here, it would seem that Mayor Grunfeld is, for some reason, refusing to accept these
claims and filings.”

   “You got that right, VanDeen. Ain’t nobody filin’ nothin’ here today!”

    The riverrats responded with a volley of jeers and catcalls. Gloria quieted them by
ascending the first couple of steps of City Hall and letting them get a good look at her. She
smiled at them and held up one hand for a few seconds.

   “Settle down, boys,” she said. “We’ll get this cleared up, I promise you.”

   “Ain’t nothin’ to clear up,” Grunfeld said.

    “Oh, but there is,” she assured him sweetly. “Tell him, Mr. Vigo. Remind him of the
constitutional responsibility of local government to conform with and efficaciously carry out all
of the lawful requirements enumerated in the Imperial Code.”

   “Ms. VanDeen—”

    “Aw, shut up, Vigo! Listen here, all of ya! Dexta ain’t got nothin’ to say about any o’ this!
You keep buttin’ in, VanDeen, an’ I might just hafta place you under arrest for … for … uh,
indecent exposure!”

   That produced a cascade of jeers and laughter from the riverrats, and even an amused titter
from Vigo.

    “Oh really?” Gloria asked innocently. She hooked her thumbs in the top of her shorts and
slowly pulled them downward until her exposure was, if not indecent, then nearly complete. “I
certainly don’t want to violate any local ordinances, Mr. Mayor. Perhaps if you could show me
the relevant sections of the local statutes, I’d be able to comply with them more precisely. As it
stands, I don’t know if I’m allowed to expose my breasts”—she casually removed her shirt and
tossed it into the crowd to the sound of lusty cheers—“or my—”

    “Now, you just cut that out!” Grunfeld demanded, realizing he was being unfairly
upstaged. “I’ll arrest you for incitin’ a fuckin’ riot, then! You and every one o’ these … uh …
rioters. What we got here is a disorderly assembly. That’s what we got here, a fuckin’ disorderly
assembly!”

    Gloria doffed her shorts and threw them to the crowd, as well. “What about it, boys?” she
shouted. “Are you planning to start a riot? If you are, I’m afraid I’ll have to put my clothes back
on!”

       “Hell, no!” cried one leather-lunged riverrat. “We ain’t gonna start no riot!”

       “Then I can count on you all to be well behaved and orderly, can’t I?”

       “Bet yer sweet ass, ya can!”

    “Then would you please prove that to the Mayor? Would you all just sit down and be quiet
as church mice for the next few minutes?”

   As a man, without a word, the boomers sat down in the street, even though some of them
had to do it in mud puddles. They sat there, heads tilted up to keep their eyes on Gloria, as
quiet and orderly as a convention of Sunday school teachers. Gloria turned back to look at
Grunfeld.

    “There you are, Mr. Mayor. No riot. No disorderly assembly. No reason at all to ignore the
legitimate requests of these peaceful citizens. Isn’t that right, Mr. Vigo?”

    Vigo scratched his balding head for a moment. “Um,” he said thoughtfully, “I admire your,
uh, technique, Ms. VanDeen. And I confess that I see no cause for anyone to be arrested, at the
moment.”

       “Aw, fuck you, Vigo! What the hell good are ya?”

   “There you are, Mr. Mayor,” Gloria said. “Even your legal advisor concedes that there has
been no violation of the law. Except, perhaps, on your part. So why don’t you just get your
Town Clerk to start registering the filings of your constituents?”

       “Town Clerk?” Grunfeld looked around in confusion for a moment. “Noz? That’s you, ain’t
it?”

       “Me? Hell no! I think it’s Hank.”

    Frezzo shook his mangy head. “Ain’t me. I think that’s Luther. I,” he added with evident
pride, “am the Commissioner of Health and Human Services!”

       “Well, then,” Grunfeld growled, “why don’t you just go and fetch the honorable
Mr. Luther Dominguez, Town Clerk, and get his distinguished ass out here?”

   “Can’t, Boss,” Frezzo protested. “Ain’t here. Remember? You sent him over to—”

    “Keep yer mouth shut! Fuck this shit.” Grunfeld glared at Gloria. “There, ya see? There ain’t
no Town Clerk here today. Don’t matter what the law is or ain’t, we got no clerk to record this
shit!”

   “I see,” said Gloria. “Then you’re telling us that the legally constituted government of
Greenlodge is presently incapable of performing its designated functions and duties?”

    Vigo saw what was about to happen, but before he could intervene, Grunfeld smugly
answered Gloria’s question. “That’s what I’m tellin’ ya,” he declared. “So all you bastards might
just as well go back to your fuckin’ mud pies.” He folded his arms in satisfaction. “Ain’t gonna
be nothin’ registered here today, and that’s all there is to it!”

   “Not quite,” Gloria said. Vigo sighed and shook his head.

    “Mr. Mayor,” Gloria said formally—or as formally as she could, standing naked in front of a
crowd that had swelled to hundreds—“you have just affirmed, in front of witnesses, that the
government of Greenlodge is presently incapable of performing its lawfully designated
functions and duties, as regards the registration of legal documents. Therefore, I, in my
capacity as senior Dexta representative in this jurisdiction, under the provisions of Chapter
Thirty-nine, Paragraphs One through Eight of the Dexta Code, declare that henceforth and until
such time as local authority may be reestablished, all necessary functions of local government
will be carried out by Dexta personnel. I’ll require you to surrender immediately all relevant
documents, records, and computer files. Failure to do so will result in seizure of said records
and the arrest and imprisonment of any responsible local officials who are in noncompliance
with Dexta regulations. Penalties may include prison terms not to exceed five years, and fines
of not less than one hundred thousand crowns.”

    Gloria paused for breath. Everyone stared at her in amazed silence for a moment. Then the
crowd started to cheer, but Gloria calmed them down with a single look. She turned back to
face Grunfeld. “Let’s have those records, Mr. Mayor.”

   Grunfeld looked for a second as if he were about to swing at her, but thought better of it.
He appealed to Vigo for support, but Vigo simply shook his head.

   “She’s got you,” he said.

    Without so much as a parting sneer, Grunfeld and his men stormed back into their seat of
government, slamming the door behind them. The riverrats leaped to their feet and cheered
like madmen.

    “Deftly done,” Vigo told Gloria. “Spirit save lawyers from clients who can’t keep their
mouths shut! I might have outfoxed you yet, Ms. VanDeen, if not for the stupidity of our
distinguished Mayor. Oh, well. I’ll have those records for you within the hour.”

    “Thank you, Mr. Vigo. We’ll be setting up operations at the front desk of the Emporium,
just as soon as I recall our field teams.”

   “It won’t change anything, you know. Not in the long run.”
   “We’ll see, Mr. Vigo.”

   “Indeed we shall. And Ms. VanDeen? If I may add a word of purely personal advice, please
be careful. Grunfeld is a loose cannon. There’s no telling what he may do. I’m afraid that
Claude is no longer able to control him.”

   “Who does, then?” Gloria asked him.

    Vigo started to say something, but stopped short. Then he shook his head sadly and went
into City Hall.

    Gloria descended the steps, the cheers still ringing in her ears. Oberlin walked along beside
her as she headed toward the Emporium. “Thanks,” he said. “You probably saved our bacon.”

   “Just doing my job.”

   “You couldn’t have done it with your clothes on?”

   “Probably,” Gloria chuckled. “But you know what I am, Ted. Don’t expect me to be
something else just because you and I have been close.”

    They came upon Shoop at the edge of the crowd, and paused. “You truly are amazing,” he
said, smiling. “I have to get back to the Lodge now, Gloria. But I just wanted to thank you for
… for everything. I promise you, I’ll think about what you said.”

    Gloria gave him a quick kiss, and he departed. Oberlin didn’t look happy. “The Lodge?” he
said. “Who the hell is that guy, anyway?”

   “He’s the rep from Imperium,” Gloria told him.

   “Imperium? A corporate rep?”

   “Ted, it was necessary. Don’t ask me for explanations I can’t give you.”

     “No explanations necessary!” Oberlin fumed. “The great Gloria VanDeen can fuck anyone
she wants, and doesn’t have to explain it to anyone! But did you have to take him there? To the
falls? To our place?”

    Gloria suddenly understood. Men were so incredibly, instinctively, bullheadedly territorial!
Even if they knew they couldn’t possess her, they wanted to possess the place where they’d had
her. Stu Eckstein didn’t want her to take anyone else up to their alpine meadow, and now Ted
Oberlin wanted exclusive rights to the falls. The wonder was that they didn’t go around pissing
on bushes to mark their turf!

   “Ted,” she said, “don’t make an issue out of it, okay? I’m going to be very busy for the next
few days, but after that, maybe we can—”

   “Sure! You bet! I’ll just take a number, okay?”

   “Ted—”

   But Oberlin had already whirled away from her and stomped off in the opposite direction.

   Gloria sighed. Sometimes, she reflected, it was not easy being the Sweetheart of the Empire.
THERE WAS A LOT OF SKIMMER TRAFFIC TO AND from the Lodge that day. Petra tried to
keep track of it as she went from cabin to cabin, making beds, sweeping floors, and scrubbing
toilets. Myron Vigo had left early in the morning, and somewhat later, Thomas Shoop
returned. Then Vigo came back, and a few minutes later, Petra saw Joe Pollas and Sidney
Taplin depart.

   That afternoon, when she went out to the swimming pool to serve a drink to Maddie
Mitchell, she noticed that Pollas’s skimmer was back, along with a utility skimmer from town.
Maddie was lolling in the sun on a chaise lounge big enough for two, naked and shiny with
perspiration. Petra put the drink down on a table next to Maddie and asked if there would be
anything else.

   Maddie pushed her sunglasses up and smiled at Petra. She looked around and saw that
they were alone, except for two of the Overhill boys working in the yard beyond the pool. They
pretended they were too busy to look.

   “Yes, Petra,” Maddie said. “Would you put some lotion on my back, please?” She rolled
over onto her stomach and wiggled around for a bit to get comfortable.

    “Yes, Ms. Mitchell,” Petra said obediently. She sat next to Maddie on the chaise, poured
some lotion on her hands, and began massaging it into Maddie’s flesh over the knobby
projections of her shoulder bones and rib cage. Maddie was downright skinny, Petra thought,
and sleeping with her could be more than a little uncomfortable. She had sharp knees and
elbows to go with her sharp tongue.

    But sleeping was still all that they had done together. Maddie never stopped trying, but
Petra believed that she had come to terms with the situation. It was flattering, in a way, that
Maddie wanted her, but she had lately come to realize that Pug Ellison wanted her, too, and
that she wanted him. They hadn’t done anything about it yet, but Petra was scheduled for an
evening off later in the week.

    “Don’t miss anything,” Maddie said when Petra paused at the lower reaches of her spine.
Petra pursed her lips, then moved on, pouring more lotion onto Maddie’s suntanned buttocks.
Maddie gave a little moan of pleasure as Petra ran her hands over her, and sighed in seeming
contentment. It was no different than cleaning a toilet, Petra told herself—just another chore to
be performed.

   When Petra believed she was finished, Maddie suddenly rolled over onto her freshly oiled
back. “Now,” she said, “do my front.”

   “Maddie!” Petra gasped.

   “Just do it!” Maddie said in an urgent whisper. “People are watching. Mrs. Thawley is at
one of the windows. Remember, you and I are lovers, and this isn’t anything you haven’t done
before.”

    “The hell it isn’t!” Petra whispered back. But she didn’t see how she could avoid it, so she
reluctantly poured some lotion onto Maddie’s chest. She swirled it around over her sternum,
took a deep breath, and went to work on Maddie’s small breasts and dark, pointy nipples. The
boys in the yard found that their work took them a little closer.

   “Try to act like you’re enjoying this,” Maddie said softly. “After all, why shouldn’t you?”

    The fact was, Petra realized, she did enjoy it. She could no longer deny that she felt an odd
attraction to Maddie. The woman was drop-dead gorgeous and exuded a sexual aura that Petra
found herself unable to ignore. There was a delicious tang of naughtiness about all of it. And
Weehawken, after all, was still five hundred light-years away.

    “That’s better.” Maddie sighed as Petra moved downward to her flat, sensuous belly. “It’s
not so awful, is it?”

    “I never said I thought it was awful,” Petra replied. “I just didn’t want to be maneuvered
into something I didn’t really want to do.”

   “Lower, please.” Petra hesitated, then ran her slick palm over the tangle of Maddie’s dark
pubic hair. She felt an odd thrill as she did so, but resisted when Maddie asked her to go even
lower.

    “I don’t think you’re going to get a sunburn there,” Petra told her. “Now, if there’s nothing
else …”

   “There is!” Maddie whispered. “Something’s going on here.”

   Petra leaned close to her and said, “What?”

   At that moment, Mrs. Thawley emerged from the house and came out onto the deck.
“Petra,” she said, “we need you in Cabin Six.”

    “Oh, no, Mrs. Thawley,” Maddie objected. “Surely, you can spare Petra for a little while.
After all, you said she would be at my disposal.”

   “Well, yes, Ms. Mitchell,” Mrs. Thawley said, “but that doesn’t mean we can spare her
indefinitely from her regular duties.”

   “Oh, just another half hour or so,” Maddie insisted. “Really, Mrs. Thawley, I don’t see
what’s so important about Petra’s scrubbing another toilet right this minute. I’d hate to have to
complain to Mr. Rankus.”

   Mrs. Thawley frowned, hesitated, then said in an unhappy tone, “Very well, then,
Ms. Mitchell. Half an hour, then.” Mrs. Thawley briskly walked back indoors.

   “Take off your clothes, Petra,” Maddie said, smiling wickedly. “You could use some sun.”

   “Oh, no! If you think I’m going to—”

   “Just do it!” Maddie hissed. “Dammit, we’re being watched, so we have to make this look
good!”

    Petra half suspected that this was just another of Maddie’s ploys, but out of the corner of
her eye, she saw motion in one of the Lodge windows. Mrs. Thawley, no doubt. Gritting her
teeth, Petra pulled her maid’s uniform off, dispensed with her panties, and lay facedown on the
chaise next to Maddie.

   Maddie leaned over her and began spreading lotion across her back. “Listen,” she said
softly, “I saw Grunfeld and two of his men arrive here about an hour ago. And that’s not all. I
know they went upstairs—to see Rankus, I assume. But I have a sneaking suspicion that they’re
also meeting with Pollas and Taplin. And somebody else. I heard another voice, but I didn’t see
who it was.”

   “What do you think it’s about?”

    “I don’t know,” Maddie said, “but it smells to high heaven.” Maddie finished with Petra’s
back and slid her palms downward over her round buttocks. Petra couldn’t help flinching. She
also couldn’t help feeling a warm sense of pleasure welling in her groin. Yikes, she thought, I’m
really letting her do this … and it’s not so bad!

  “Now roll over,” Maddie commanded. That was more than Petra was prepared for, but
Maddie wouldn’t take no for an answer, and physically turned Petra onto her back.

   “Maddie …”

   “Just listen to me. In a few minutes, you and I are going to have a lovers’ spat.”

   “Why not right now?” Petra asked. “Dammit, Maddie.”

   “Just go along with it for now and stop whining! Act like you enjoy it even if you don’t.”

   Maddie began massaging the lotion onto Petra’s pert breasts. Her pink nipples were erect,
and she felt her breath coming in short, urgent gasps. Spirit, how did she get herself into this?
And how could she let herself enjoy it so much?

   “After we have our quarrel, I’ll tell Mrs. Thawley that I don’t want you here tonight. That
should leave you free to go back down to town this evening and tell Gloria what’s happening.”

   “But what is happening?”

    “I’ve told you all I know for sure.” Maddie spread more lotion over Petra’s belly and smiled
as she rubbed it in. “Petra, I hope you’re enjoying this as much as I am.”

   “Uh, Maddie, please, I don’t—”

    “Oh, shut up. Now that I’ve finally got my hands on you, I’m not going to stop now. And
don’t pretend that you don’t like it. I know better!” Maddie’s hand darted downward, through
Petra’s brown pubic curls. Petra’s pelvis lurched upward in sudden pleasure, and she had to
gasp for breath.

   “After a couple of days, I’ll tell Mrs. Thawley that I’ve changed my mind and want you
back, okay? And maybe by then, you’ll even want me. But let me give you something to think
about in the meantime.”

    Maddie’s fingers stroked Petra’s vaginal cleft, parted her labia, and plunged in. Deftly,
expertly, she massaged Petra’s swollen clitoris until Petra, stunned, fascinated, and strangely
helpless, exploded in an orgasm so intense that she cried out in sharp, electric ecstasy. Maddie
continued what she was doing and Petra lost herself in the strange, surreal moment.

   “Aww, ain’t that cute?”

   Maddie and Petra both looked up and saw Kevin Grunfeld and two of his men standing on
the deck, grinning.

   “What the hell are you doing here?” Maddie demanded.

   “Oh, just shut up, lady. This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.” At the nod of Grunfeld’s
head, his two men advanced and seized Petra, each grabbing her by an arm and yanking her
bodily off the chaise lounge.

    “Stop it!” Maddie screeched, while Petra screamed incoherently. “Mrs. Thawley, what is
the meaning of this?”

   “Just stay the fuck out of it, lady,” Grunfeld snarled as his men dragged Petra back into the
Lodge. “You don’t,” he added as he paused at the door, “maybe next time, we’ll come and get
you!”




GRUNFELD DISAPPEARED INSIDE. MADDIE LEAPED to her feet in pursuit, but was met at
the door by a stern-faced Mrs. Thawley, her arms folded across her chest.

   “Now, now, Ms. Mitchell,” Mrs. Thawley said, “there’s no need for you to be upset. This is
a matter of internal security at the Lodge and none of your concern.”

   “The hell it isn’t. I want to see Rankus right now!”

    “Mr. Rankus is indisposed this afternoon. I’m sure he’ll be happy to listen to you when he’s
feeling better. After all, you are his guest, and he wants nothing more than for his guests to be
content.”

   “Get out of my way, you old cow,” Maddie threatened. “I’m not about to let—”

   Maddie was astonished to find herself suddenly in the powerful grip of the old cow.
Mrs. Thawley held Maddie’s arm behind her back and force-marched her to the chaise longue.
Mrs. Thawley threw her back down onto it.

    “Now, then,” said Mrs. Thawley, “would you care for another drink, Ms. Mitchell? Or shall
I have some of our people come and confine you to your cabin?”

   “What are you going to do to her?” Maddie demanded.

    “That’s none of your concern. Would you care for iced tea? Or perhaps, something a little
stronger?”

    Maddie settled for something a little stronger. Out in the yard, the two boys went about
their labors, as if they had seen and heard nothing.




                                         Chapter 17
GLORIA KEPT HER EYES ON SLIM JIM ZUNI THAT evening as she ate dinner with Jill
Clymer. After the high of her performance on the steps of City Hall, and the drudgery of an
afternoon of bureaucratic punctilio, she felt mentally drained. What she needed was an early
evening and some uncomplicated sex; Slim Jim looked like just the man for that.

    One of the professional gamblers who leased a table from the Emporium, Slim Jim Zuni
was a very tall man with dark hair and eyes and gaunt, almost cadaverous features. He was
quiet and well-spoken, and carried himself with an air of confidence that Gloria found very
attractive. No one seemed to know him very well, but everyone said that he ran a clean game.
His long, nimble fingers handled playing cards expertly, and Gloria found herself wondering
what else he could do with them.

    Her sex life lately had been active, but unusually taxing. With Stu Eckstein, there had been
a sense of desperation, as befitting the desperate risks they were sharing. Ted Oberlin was an
attractive and engaging young man, but she had been actively trying to control him and keep
him from leading some harebrained antiregistration drive. And with Thomas Shoop, it had
been pure manipulation from the start. She didn’t regret anything she had done, and she
honestly liked each of the three men, but she longed for a good dose of pure pleasure without
any attendant baggage. Tonight, she hoped, Slim Jim Zuni would provide it.

   Jill Clymer distracted her with a question. “Aren’t we supposed to be neutral?”

   “Huh? What? I’m sorry, Jill, what did you say?”

   “I asked if we weren’t supposed to be neutral in everything going on around here. I mean,
you didn’t seem very neutral at City Hall today, Gloria.”

   “The boomers have rights,” Gloria replied. “And protecting them is part of our job. As for
neutrality … Spirit, Jill, how can anyone be neutral about a reptile like Grunfeld?”

   “Point taken,” said Jill. “Still, I think we need to be careful about what we do.”

   “Agreed. We have been, and we will continue to be. I wasn’t taking sides today, I was just
keeping the game fair.”

   “Maybe you should wear a striped jersey, then,” Jill grinned. “Or something!”

   Gloria returned her grin. “People expect me to be a little outrageous,” she said.

   “And you’re happy to meet their expectations.”

    “I loved every second of it, Jill. And so did all those boomers. When I make myself the
center of attention like that, I get to control the agenda. Instead of a riot, we wound up with the
rule of law firmly established. It’s all about physical authority, I think. Grunfeld and his thugs
are big, tough bruisers and they use their physical strength to get what they want. I use my
body to help me get what I want—a different kind of body, a different kind of strength, but it
works. And Grunfeld can’t compete.”

   “Not on your terms,” Jill agreed. “But he can on his terms. Isn’t what you do kind of risky?”

   “I can take care of myself,” Gloria assured her, “and I made sure that Grunfeld knows it.”

   “So I heard. Still, I’d be a little more careful if I were you. Grunfeld’s bound to try
something, especially if you keep publicly humiliating him.”

    “I’m counting on that,” Gloria said with smug confidence. “If he takes me on, he takes on
Dexta. Then I can bring in the Bugs and put that bastard away for keeps. I’m the bait in the
trap, Jill.”

   Jill shook her head dubiously. “Dangerous job, Gloria. You know, sometimes the rat gets
away with the cheese.”

   “Not if the cheese is smart. I’m not just a lump of Limburger, Jill. I’ll be okay.”

    With that, Gloria rose to her feet, bade Jill good night, and casually sauntered across the
room to the table where Slim Jim Zuni was dealing a hand of five-card stud to some optimistic
boomrats. Gloria watched for a moment as Slim Jim proved once again that a pair of sevens
were enough to beat a busted flush and an inside straight that went unfilled. As he pulled the
chips across the table, Gloria whispered a few words in Slim Jim’s ear, then retired to her room.

   Ten minutes later, he arrived. “What took you so long?” Gloria asked him.

   “I like to take my time, ma’am,” he said, then proceeded to prove it.




“GLORIA! I NEED YOU OUT HERE!”

    Althea’s urgent voice at the door brought Gloria back from her interlude with Slim Jim.
She forced herself to get out of bed and went to the door. She opened it and stood there, nude,
in front of Althea and two goggle-eyed teenage boys.

   “Gloria, something has happened at the Lodge!”

   “What?” Gloria’s sex-softened senses abruptly became fully alert.

   “I’m not sure, but it seems that Grunfeld and his men have taken Petra.”

   “Spirit!”

    “These two young gentlemen,” Althea said, indicating the boys standing behind her, “work
at the Lodge. They say that Maddie Mitchell sent them here to tell you.”

   “Tell me what? What happened?”

    One of the boys shyly stepped forward, trying but failing to keeps his eyes on hers, instead
of her breasts and belly. “My name’s Ed Watson, ma’am,” he said. “And this here’s Ramdath
Knipper. We work up at the Lodge.”

   “Yes, yes,” Gloria said impatiently. “Tell me what happened!”

   “Well, ma’am, it’s like this. We was workin’ in the yard out by the pool. And Miz Petra
came out, and she and Miz Mitchell were, well, they was sorta doin’ stuff to each other, you
know? And then, all of a sudden, Grunfeld and two of his guys—”

   “It was Noz and Hank,” Ramdath put in.
    “Yeah, anyway, they just grabbed Miz Petra and carried her inside. And Miz Mitchell tried
to stop ‘em, but then Miz Thawley stopped her. Told her they’d lock her up in her cabin if she
tried to do anything.”

   “So then,” Ramdath said, “Miz Mitchell just kinda pretended that she didn’t care no more,
and just had herself another drink. But when Miz Thawley left, Miz Mitchell called to us. Told
us we should get down here to the Emporium and tell you what happened, and so, that’s what
we done.”

   “Miz Mitchell said you’d give us a hundred crowns apiece,” Ed Watson added.

   “Thanks for coming, boys. Now, this is important. Do you know where they took Petra and
what they did with her?”

   “No, ma’am,” Ramdath said. “They probably took her to one of the cabins, but we don’t
know which one, or what they done there.”

   “And who else is at the Lodge?”

   “Don’t know for sure, ma’am,” said Ed. “Mr. Rankus is feelin’ poorly today, they said, so I
expect he’s upstairs in his room. And Mr. and Miz Thawley are there.”

   “Saw Mr. Shoop come back,” Ramdath added. “But he looked kinda tired, like he was just
gonna go to his cabin and sleep. Didn’t see him again.”

   “Mr. Pollas and Mr. Taplin were there,” Ed added. “And some other guy I don’t
know—didn’t really get a good look at him. And, lemme see, I think Mr. Lund and
Mr. Norfleet went down to the lake for the day. Didn’t see them around. Didn’t see Mr. Vigo
or Mr. Ogunbayo, neither.”

   “Anyone else?”

   “Not that we saw, ma’am. We was outside, though, so could be there’s some more inside.
Ma’am? I sure hope they don’t do nothin’ to Miz Petra. She’s a real nice lady.”

   “She sure is,” Gloria agreed. “Thank you for coming, boys. Althea? Give these young
gentlemen two hundred crowns apiece, and—” Gloria paused and looked very carefully at Ed
and Ramdath.

   “How old are you two?”

   “Sixteen, ma’am!” Ed declared.

   “Both of us!” Ramdath insisted.

   Gloria nodded. “And give them anything else they want. Understand?”

   Althea grinned. “I understand perfectly.”

    “But first, find Pug Ellison and tell him to meet me downstairs. Tell him to bring his plasma
pistol.”

   “Will do. And Gloria? Be careful!”

   Gloria quickly slithered into a bodysuit. “Anything I can do to help?” Slim Jim Zuni asked
her.

   “Just keep an eye on things around here,” Gloria told him as she fastened a utility belt low
around her hips and attached her holstered plasma pistol.

    “You be careful, Gloria. I mean that. If you run into Grunfeld, don’t turn your back on him,
not for a second.”

   “If I run into Grunfeld,” Gloria replied, “I’ll kill him.”




GLORIA GUNNED THE SKIMMER STRAIGHT UP the side of the mountain, ignoring the
road and its complicated switchbacks. Skimming above a steep slope like this required a
delicate touch on the controls and precise attention to the mass-repulsion output, but Gloria
had no time for caution and no doubt about her abilities. Beside her, Pug Ellison seemed to
have quite a few doubts.

   “If you flip us over, we won’t be any help to Petra,” he pointed out.

   “I’ll get us there, Pug. Don’t worry about that.”

    “If you say so,” Ellison said, sounding as if he didn’t quite believe her. “But what are we
going to do once we get there? I mean, there’s only two of us. Maybe we should have brought
some of the others?”

   “Who?” Gloria snorted. “Garbedian? DeGrasse?”

   “Well, then, maybe some of the boomers. They’d be glad to help.”

    “We don’t have time to recruit an army. You and I will do better than a disorganized mob.
Just stay sharp and do as I tell you. And don’t hesitate to use that pistol if you need to. This isn’t
some brawl in a school dormitory, Pug.”

   “I know that. If those bastards have hurt Petra—”

    Gloria almost lost it for a second, and the skimmer pitched upward until it was nearly
vertical. Her fingers danced over the controls, reducing lift on the forward repeller and
increasing it on the aft. The nose of the skimmer came down abruptly and tapped against the
ground before rebounding. Gloria quickly restored equilibrium and resumed their dash up the
mountainside.

   When she saw the lights of the Lodge two hundred yards ahead, she cut power and
brought the skimmer to a halt. She and Ellison jumped out and scrambled up the slope. “Front
door,” Gloria told him. “I’ll go in first, you come in behind me a couple of seconds later.”

   Gloria had planned to open the door with a Qatsima kick, but found that it was already
open. She dived into the Lodge, rolled on the plush carpet, and came up to a kneeling firing
position, her pistol leveled at the first person she saw, who turned out to be Preston Thawley.
Mrs. Thawley stood on the other side of the room, looking surprised and outraged. Ellison
charged in a second later and spun around, waving his pistol, looking for someone to shoot.
   “Where is she?” Gloria demanded as she got to her feet.

    “I have nothing to say to you, Ms. VanDeen,” Thawley said. “And I don’t know what you
think you’re doing, bursting in here like—”

    “Where is she?” Gloria advanced on Thawley and stuck the barrel of the pistol against the
side of his head. Thawley started to make a move of some sort, but thought better of it.

   “You’ll get nothing from me,” Thawley repeated.

   “Really? We’ll see about that. Pug, watch him. If he tries anything, burn him.”

   “Gladly.” Ellison grabbed Thawley by the back of his collar and held the pistol firmly
against his spine.

   Gloria crossed the room and roughly seized Mrs. Thawley by her upper arm. “Where is
she?”

   “I won’t tell you anything!” Mrs. Thawley insisted.

   Gloria broke her arm.

   Mr. Thawley instinctively lunged forward as his wife howled in pain, but Ellison held on
and restrained him. Gloria grabbed Mrs. Thawley’s other arm. “Where is she?” Gloria
demanded.

   “Cabin Six,” Mrs. Thawley sobbed. “She’s in Cabin Six!”

   “Pug,” Gloria ordered, “stay here and watch them!”

   “Like hell!” Ellison bashed Mr. Thawley on the back of the head with the butt of his pistol,
and Thawley unceremoniously collapsed. Mrs. Thawley howled again, so Gloria treated her the
same way.

    Gloria dashed down a long corridor that connected the main Lodge with each of the cabins.
The corridor curved to the right, following the contours of the ridge; as far ahead as she could
see, it was deserted. When she reached Cabin Four, she slowed down, flattened herself against
the inner curve of the wall, and advanced cautiously, with Ellison following her.

    When they were opposite the door of Cabin Five, Gloria made a sudden rush ahead, once
again diving and rolling. But the corridor was still empty. She savagely kicked at the doorknob
of Cabin Six, and the door flew open. Ellison bulled his way past her, ready to fire at anything
or anyone. There was no need. The only person inside the cabin was Petra.

   Gloria felt her heart in her mouth as she looked down at the bloody bedsheets and the
small form curled up on them. At first, she thought Petra was dead, and for a moment, her
mind stopped functioning. But then, Petra moaned and slowly turned her head.

    “I knew you’d come,” Petra whispered in a muffled, indistinct voice. Her face was swollen
almost beyond recognition, her eyes were narrow slits, and her jaw hung at an odd angle.
There were fresh red bruises and raw lacerations all over her body, and she was bleeding at the
crotch.

   Ellison made an animal noise, and Gloria could only gasp. She bent over the bed and
cupped Petra’s puffy cheek in her hand.

   “Petra, Petra! I’m so sorry! I—”

    Behind her, Gloria heard a thump, and she whirled to see Ellison pitching forward to the
floor. Hank Frezzo, Noz Gnozdziewicz, and two men she had never seen before stood there,
plasma pistols in their hands and hateful grins on their faces.

   “We knew you’d come, too.” Frezzo laughed. “Boss said you’d be here, right about this
time.”

   “Where is he?”

   “Oh, he’ll be along, Miz Gloria, don’t you worry none ‘bout that. He’s got some business to
tend to first, ya see, but he’ll be along. No way he’d miss this!”

    The two men she didn’t know grabbed Gloria by her arms and pinned them behind her.
Then Noz unfastened her utility belt and took her gun. He took Ellison’s, as well, pausing to
give the unconscious man a kick in the ribs.

   They walked Gloria out of the cabin and down the corridor to the next cabin. She squirmed
and tugged instinctively, but the men who held her were too strong, and she had no Qatsima
moves adequate to the situation. She cursed herself for charging into the Lodge the way she
had, with no help, no backup. Spirit! What had she been thinking?

   In Cabin Seven, they began tying her arms to the bedposts. “No,” commanded Frezzo.
“The other way ‘round. I think Miz Gloria’s the type that likes it up the ass. What about that,
Miz Gloria, you like it that way?”

   Gloria tried to spit in his face, but missed.

    Frezzo laughed. “Just one o’ them days when nothin’ goes right, eh, Miz Gloria? Now, just
so ya don’t get too scared, gotta tell ya that the Boss gave us strict orders. So we ain’t gonna cut
ya or bruise ya none. Not the way we did that little spy o’ yours. No, we’re gonna be real gentle
with Miz Gloria VanDeen of Dexta. Ain’t that right, boys?”

   “Right,” said Noz. “We’re gonna fuck you every which way there is, but we ain’t gonna
hurt ya none.”

   Gloria shut her eyes tightly and choked back a sob. Fear and horror gripped her as never
before. She felt Frezzo moving around on the bed behind her. The moment seemed unreal,
unnatural. This couldn’t be happening—and yet it was.

   One of the two strangers suddenly burst into the cabin. “A whole bunch of skimmers
headed this way!” he shouted. “Let’s get the fuck out of here—now!”

   “Shit!” cried Frezzo. He scrambled off the bed, grabbed his clothes, and disappeared.

    Gloria took a deep, relieved breath and tried to calm herself. It was over. Over. She was still
alive, and it was over.

   Spirit! How could I have been so stupid? Stupid! Smug and arrogant and stupid!

   Long minutes later, Jill Clymer came through the door. Slim Jim Zuni and Thomas Shoop
were with her. Each of them paused to look and react, then Slim Jim swiftly moved to the bed
and began loosening her bonds.

   “Petra—”

   “We know,” said Jill. “Althea and some woman named Maddie are with her. My God,
Gloria, are you all right?”

    “I will be,” Gloria told her. “As soon as I get my hands on Grunfeld and his pukes.” Zuni
released her hands, and Gloria jumped out of bed and raced through the corridor to the next
cabin. There, she found Pug Ellison staggering with Petra in his arms, wrapped in a sheet. He
insisted on carrying her himself, but he was still groggy and couldn’t resist when Zuni took her
from him.

   “I’ve already called the Emporium and told them to get a doctor,” Althea said. “Gloria? Did
they …?”

    “Forget about what they did to me,” Gloria snapped. “All I want to think about is what I’m
going to do to them!”

   They all followed Zuni down the corridor and out of the Lodge to where a half dozen
skimmers were parked. A swarm of boomers from the Emporium stood there, looking angry.
“Bastards got away!” someone shouted. “Took off into the hills in a black skimmer. No way we
can follow them at night.”

    Thomas Shoop laid his hand gently on Gloria’s shoulder, and she whirled around. “Gloria,”
he said, “you have to get a grip. I know how you must feel—”

   “You have no idea how I feel!”

    They laid Petra in the back of a utility skimmer, and Gloria and Maddie got in next to her,
while Zuni drove. Petra was unconscious and still bleeding. Gloria cradled her head in her lap
and tried to blink back tears. There would be plenty of time for tears later. Shoop was right,
she had to get a grip. She had to think.

   “They locked me in my cabin, and Shoop in his,” Maddie said. “I don’t know what the hell
happened here, but I think Rankus may be dead. Your friends from the Emporium finally
came and let me out. They got worried and mounted an expedition to help you. Spirit, Gloria,
why the hell didn’t you bring enough people with you in the first place?”

   Gloria looked up at Maddie and stared at her for a moment, without saying anything.

    Petra stirred and moaned faintly. Gloria gazed at her friend’s battered face and choked back
a sob.

   “Gloria?”

   “I’m here, Petra. We’re taking you to a doctor. You’re going to be fine. Don’t try to talk.
Everything is going to be fine.”

   “No … Gloria. I heard them. They’re going to attack the camp. The one at Pizen Flats.
Tonight …”

   Petra seemed to sigh and lay still again.
                                          Chapter 18

ABEL HEARD THEM COMING.

    He had bugged virtually the entire valley, and not much happened there that escaped his
notice if he paid attention. Unfortunately he hadn’t been paying attention that afternoon, or he
would have had time to warn the boomers at Pizen Flats.

    He couldn’t spend all of his time with his monitors and equipment. As usual, he had been
out and around, enjoying the valley and the life that flourished there. Two chicks had hatched
in the nest of the eaglelike birds that made their home in the tall trees at the base of the western
slopes. And the creatures that he thought of as foxes had been out of their den, teaching their
young kits to hunt.

    It was early evening by the time he returned to his own den, deep in a camouflaged cave
that no one had discovered in twenty years. People thought he lived like an animal, and he
supposed that was true enough. He often slept in makeshift burrows and lean-tos, or out in the
open under the stars. But even animals had safe and comfortable places to hide, and Abel was
no exception. With a small fusion reactor to provide power, light, and heat, and money enough
to buy small amenities, Abel lived better than most of the pathetic boomrats out on the slopes
and rivers.

    He fixed himself a light dinner and read a chapter of Parkman’s The Oregon Trail while he
ate. Then he switched on his console and dutifully scanned a digest of the day’s events in the
valley, as recorded by the innumerable listening devices he had planted over the years. There
was a big to-do at City Hall, and he enjoyed reading Gloria’s back-and-forth with Grunfeld.
Quite a gal, that Gloria.

    The business about refiling claims at the Emporium proved to be boring, although he was
interested to see that the bunch at Pizen Flats had actually gone ahead with their plan. They
had been debating it for days, and Abel had had his doubts that they would ever get around to
doing it. The boomrats were big on talk, but usually pretty short on action. But the Oberlin kid
had finally made them see the light.

    Nothing else of note seemed to be happening at the Emporium. Lulu Villegas had a little
trouble with one of the boomers who seemed to have some unusual notions about sex, but
Althea had straightened things out quickly enough. Abel had grown to like Althea and her
silky, superior voice. In some ways, she did a better job of running the Emporium than Elba
had. Maybe, the next trip into town, he’d see about Althea for himself.

    The digests from the Lodge caught his attention. There were annoying gaps in his records
from the Lodge, however. He’d bugged the place when he helped build it, but that had been
twenty years ago, and some of the equipment had given out in the meantime. Still, he gathered
that something was wrong up in Rankus’s quarters; maybe the old bastard had finally kicked
the bucket. It was hard to tell.
     Then, there were a lot of people coming and going, lots of whispered conversations and
elliptical comments. There were just too many gaps to be sure just what was going on, but he
was certain, at least, that Grunfeld and some of his men had been there. And later, there had
been some sort of altercation outside near the pool, but it was impossible to tell who had done
what to whom. But there were some screams that might have come from Petra, that spy Gloria
had planted in the Lodge.

    Abel wondered if he should somehow alert Gloria. The digests from the afternoon at the
Lodge were already several hours old, however, so he decided to read through the more recent
events before making a move. What he read alarmed him, but he feared that it was already too
late to do anything about it.

    Switching on the live monitors, he heard the distinct thrum and whine of skimmer
engines, at least three or four of them, all apparently headed toward Pizen Flats. Spirit, what to
do?

   He had to warn them … somehow.




GUS THORNTON POURED SOME MORE BOOZE into Ted Oberlin’s coffee. “Drink up,
son,” he said. “You earned it!”

   Other riverrats gathered around the campfire echoed the sentiment. Oberlin couldn’t help
blushing a little. He raised his cup high and said, “Here’s to the Pizen Flats Cooperative
Association!”

   Everyone drank to that.

    “And here’s to Ted Oberlin!” shouted one of the riverrats. “For someone who didn’t know a
sluice box from a shit hole when he got here, he turned out pretty damn good!”

    Everyone drank to that, too, and Oberlin could only grin in embarrassment. Pizen Flats was
a hell of a long way from Philadelphia, and yet, for the first time in his life, he felt as if he had
found a home. These were good people. Good people.

    His own people, the family he had abandoned in anger and defiance two years before, were
not good people. That was a hell of a thing to say about your own flesh and blood, but it was
true. Selfish, stiff-necked, mean-spirited, and cold. They had expected him to be the same way,
but somehow he hadn’t been. He saw other possibilities in life, and broader horizons than a
law office on Chestnut Street. And he longed for the warmth that he saw in others but never in
his own family. To his amazement and pride, he realized that he had finally found it here, five
hundred light-years from Chestnut Street, among people his family would have found
contemptible.

    Oh, they’d sock you in the jaw over some imagined slight or insult, but afterward they’d
help you up, dust you off, and lend you their last crown. They looked after each other and
genuinely cared what happened to a person. They were crude, semiliterate bumpkins, most of
them, but they had a sort of wisdom that came from somewhere deep inside. They knew when
you were happy, and they knew when you were hurting.
    He had never said a word to any of them about his relationship with Gloria, but all of them
seemed to know. So when they saw Gloria with that Shoop character, and saw how Ted
reacted, they knew he was hurting. No one actually said anything about it, but they all seemed
to try to prop him up and keep him smiling through his pain.

   And, he supposed, he was being pretty silly about it. She was Gloria VanDeen, for Spirit’s
sake! Ex-wife of the Emperor, no less. And yet, she had shared a few passionate evenings with
him, Ted Oberlin, in the most beautiful place in the galaxy! What the hell did he have to
complain about? If he lived to be two hundred, the thought of Gloria and their time together
would always bring a warm smile to his face.

   He resolved to go back into town tomorrow, find Gloria, and apologize to her for having
been such an idiot. Maybe they would even steal a few more evenings together before her
business here was ended and the tides of the Empire swept her away from him forever.

    Well, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. He had business of his own to take care of. There
were dozens of other camps up and down the river that were considering doing the same thing
that the Pizen Flats people had done. He needed to get them copies of the template he had
created, so they could refile their own claims. All they would need to do would be to fill in the
proper names and locations, then take the forms into the Emporium to be properly registered.

    He knew that the odds were still against them. He had no illusions about the power of the
corporate interests that wanted to rape this valley, and the nabobs at the Lodge and their pet
apes who wanted to terrorize and dominate everyone who lived here. But if a solitary woman
like Gloria could stand up to them and prevail, then who was to say that a united front of
boomers—riverrats and highboys alike—could not do the same?

   It could happen, he told himself. He could make it happen! The thought made him as
happy as he had ever been in his life.

   He held his cup out to Gus. “Gimme another shot, Your Highness,” he said. “I feel like
howling at the moons tonight!”

   Before Gus could pour him some more booze, the Voice spoke to them.

   It came from everywhere and nowhere, but for once, it did not whisper. It shouted.

   They are coming! They are coming! Protect yourselves! Protect yourselves!

    But before anyone could do anything, the blue-green bolts of plasma crisscrossed the
campsite. The thunderclaps they caused echoed across the valley, drowning out the words of
the Voice.




THEY PUT PETRA ON THE BED IN ALTHEA’S FIRST-FLOOR room. Doc Harkins, the
drunken old sot who ministered to the broken bones and bellyaches in Greenlodge, was
already there, waiting for them. Gloria watched in agonized silence as he ran his instruments
over her ravaged body. Petra was still unconscious and her breathing was ragged and shallow.
Twice on the trip down the mountain, it had seemed to stop altogether, and Gloria pressed her
lips to Petra’s and tried to breathe life back into her.
   “Massive hematoma, apparent fractures of occipital and mandibula. Fractures of left radius
and ulna. Trauma to nose and eyes. Probable rib fractures. Vaginal and rectal bleeding.
Probably some internal bleeding, but I can’t be sure.”

   “Will she live?” Gloria demanded.

   Harkins shook his head in an indeterminate motion. “She should, if we get her to a
hospital. There’s not much I can do for her here.”

   “Althea, find the Cruiser pilot! We’re taking her to Palmyra!”

   Jill Clymer came in as Althea departed. She paused to take a look at Petra, then turned to
Gloria. “I can’t raise anyone at Pizen Flats on the comm,” she said.

   “Shit!”

   “Calm down, Gloria. It may not mean anything. Pizen Flats is at extreme range for the
comm without a satellite link, and it’s nestled down in the valley.”

   Gloria pushed her way past Jill and went out onto the main floor of the Emporium. The
boomers fell silent and turned to look at her.

    “Listen to me, everyone!” she shouted. “Grunfeld and his men are going to attack the camp
at Pizen Flats! I need everyone with a plasma pistol and a skimmer to meet me out front in ten
minutes. If you don’t have a gun or a skimmer, then find someone who does. We need your
help, and we need it now!”

    The boomers stared at her in shocked silence for several seconds, then scrambled to their
feet and headed for the doors. Gloria ran upstairs to her own room and allowed herself a
minute in the shower, as hot as she could stand it. Then she threw on jeans, a shirt, and some
boots and raced back downstairs. She bumped into Raul Tellemacher at the foot of the steps.

   “Where the hell have you been all day?” she demanded.

    Unperturbed, Tellemacher replied, “Out with DeGrasse, registering voters at the far end of
the valley, like a good little bureaucrat. We never heard the recall signal. What’s happening?”

   “Just grab your pistol and come on. I don’t have time to explain!” Gloria dashed outside
and found at least fifty or sixty boomers and a couple of dozen skimmers assembled there.

   “I don’t know what the situation is at Pizen Flats,” she cried, “but be prepared for anything!
But do not fire your weapons unless fired upon, without a specific order from me! Does
everyone understand?”

   “We’re with ya, Gloria!” someone shouted.

   “Then let’s go!”

   Gloria shoved Pug Ellison out of the driver’s seat of their skimmer, powered up, and
headed for the river. The armada from the Emporium followed close behind.
THEY WERE TOO LATE. AS THEY ROUNDED A bend in the river and came within view of
the point of land known as Pizen Flats, they saw the flames and smoke, glowing orange in the
firelight, billowing upward from the scorched remains of the tents and shanties. There was no
sound but the whine of their engines and the slap of waves against the shore.

   Gloria grounded her skimmer and leaped out, borrowed pistol at the ready. But there was
nowhere to aim, nothing to shoot.

   She tripped over the first body, barely ten yards from the river. It had no head.

   Pug Ellison helped her to her feet. As other boomers rushed past them, they paused for a
moment and stared at the corpse. There was no way to identify it, but it was someone Gloria
had known, someone she had kissed and hugged and laughed with just days ago.

    She forced herself to move on, the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach growing stronger
with each step. There were more mangled bodies, burned and dismembered, the closer she
came to the center of the camp. Then she saw Gus Thornton’s “throne,” and in it, a headless,
legless torso.

   It was too much for her. She doubled over and vomited.

   Others, not far from her, were doing the same.

    The boomers were a tough lot, but few of them had ever experienced anything like this. A
handful of older men, who had served in the war with the Ch’gnth, forty-odd years earlier,
recognized the sights and smells, but even they had a hard time accepting what lay before
them.

   The massacre of Pizen Flats was thorough. There were no survivors. Someone with a strong
stomach and a sense of order eventually counted forty-nine bodies. One of them was Ted
Oberlin’s.

    Gloria stood above it and stared at the wreckage of what had been a marvelous young man.
Half his head was burned away. The lips that had kissed hers and the eyes that had stared at
her with hunger and passion were gone. The magnificent brain that had helped her solve the
mystery of the Voice and had rallied the riverrats was spilling out of his shattered skull and
onto the ground.

   She felt someone’s arm around her waist. “Gloria,” Jill Clymer said softly, “come with me.”

   “No,” Gloria told her. “I need to … I need …”

   “There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do now.”

    Gloria didn’t have the strength to resist. She let Jill guide her back to the riverbank and sit
her down in the front seat of a skimmer.

    She could not tell what she felt at this moment, could not give a name to the emotions that
flooded through her. Anger, hatred, disgust, despair, horror, pain … all of them were present,
and much more. And beyond it all was the certain, undeniable truth that everything that had
happened on this terrible day had been her fault.

   Petra … Ted … Gus … and so many others … all had paid the price for her arrogance and
smug certainty that she could handle anything. She was Gloria VanDeen! Heroine of
Mynjhino! Sweetheart of the Fucking Empire!

   Spirit save her!

   She began to sob. She knew people were watching, but she could not help herself. At last,
something that the great Gloria VanDeen could not control. Herself!

    Poor Ted. The last time she had seen him—just hours ago—he had been angry with her.
She had toyed with his emotions because it suited her purposes, and now he was dead and she
could never, never make it up to him and tell him how much he had really meant to her, what
a special man he was!

    And good, gentle, genial Gus, the King of Pizen Flats. Another special man. Everyone who
knew him loved and respected him. And most of those people were dead, too, vaporized into
clouds of uncaring ions drifting in the night winds. Dead, all dead.

   If only … if only … if only what? What could she have done, should she have done, to
prevent all of this from happening? If only she hadn’t gone out of her way to antagonize
Grunfeld. Maybe then … but would it have mattered?

    Dammit, she was supposed to have been the bait in the trap! The rats hadn’t gotten the
cheese, not quite, but the moment of helpless horror on that bed had been the worst of her
life—and that was nothing! Nothing! She would go through it all again, a hundred times, a
thousand times, if it would bring back the riverrats of Pizen Flats, if it would erase the terrible
hurt that had been done to Petra.

    Petra! At least she was still alive—Spirit, she had to be alive!—but would life ever be the
same for her? How could she have been so stupid, so uncaring, to send her closest friend, the
person she loved above all others, into what was so obviously—obvious now!—a dangerous
trap? Would Petra ever be able to forgive her? Would she ever be able to forgive herself?

    The tears and sobs would not stop, but gradually she became aware that a small crowd had
gathered around her. Dexta people, and Slim Jim Zuni, and a few other boomers. Most of
them were keeping a respectful distance, but the sight of proud, confident, glamorous Gloria
VanDeen, weeping uncontrollably, was, in a strange way, as upsetting as anything they had
seen on this awful night.

   She forced herself to rally. There would be plenty of time for tears. Later, later …

    Gloria looked up, wiped away a string of mucous dangling from her nostril, and tried to
focus her blurred vision.

   “Gloria?” Jill Clymer asked softly. “We need to make some decisions.”

   Gloria nodded. “I know,” she said in a choked voice.

   “The … bodies,” said Jill. “Some of the boomers want to get them buried as soon as
possible.”

    “No,” said Gloria. “We need … no, wait … yes, we should do that. But first, I want someone
to image the entire scene. Every bit of it. And someone will have to try to identify everyone, if
we can. I know it’s asking a lot, but …”
   “We’ll take care of it, Gloria,” said one of the boomers. “Don’t you worry about it. We
know these folks, and we’ll do right by ‘em.”

   “And I’ll do the imaging,” said Pug Ellison.

   “Thank you. And … Jill? I can’t think. What else?”

    “Well … what do we do about Grunfeld? Should we organize search teams, or what? For
that matter, how do we even know it was Grunfeld? I mean, all we have is Petra’s word for it.”

   Gloria’s eyes narrowed and she stared at Jillian for a long, tense moment. Then she said,
“That’s good enough for me.”

   Jill nodded. “I didn’t mean anything by that, Gloria. It’s just that …”

   “I know. I’m sorry, Jill.”

   “It might not be enough for an Imperial Court,” Raul Tellemacher pointed out. “I don’t
mean to be indelicate, and Spirit forbid that it should happen, but if Petra can’t testify …”

    “Shut your mouth, Raul! Just shut it. I’m going to Palmyra with Petra tonight, and she’s
going to be fine!”

   “And who’s in charge here while you’re gone?” Tellemacher wanted to know.

   “Jill is,” Gloria said.

   “I’m senior,” Tellemacher protested.

     “Fuck your seniority!” Gloria sprang to her feet and looked ready to attack Tellemacher, but
she regained control quickly. “I can appoint any deputy I want, and Jill is it. You’ll take orders
from her and no one else. I should be back in a day or two, and I’ll be bringing Internal
Security and Imperial Marshals with me. In the meantime, I want every outgoing ship,
commercial or private, searched before departure, just in case Grunfeld and his pukes try to get
away. And get someone up to the Lodge to image the scene there. Take statements from
Maddie Mitchell and Thomas Shoop, and those two boys. And find out what’s happened to
Rankus. If you can find Mr. and Mrs. Thawley, put them in custody. Beyond that, it’s business
as usual, understand? Althea will run the Emporium, and you’ll go on registering voters and
filing legal documents. Is everybody clear on that?”

   “Got it, Gloria,” Jill said. “Is there anything else?”

   Gloria shook her head, then sagged back down into the skimmer.

   “Just one more thing,” she said. “Would someone please get me back to town? I don’t think
I’m in any shape to drive.”

   “I’ll take you,” said Slim Jim Zuni. “Just leave everything to me.”




                                           Chapter 19
THE DEXTA CRUISER LANDED AT PALMYRA CITY in the middle of the night. They had
radioed ahead after reentering normal space, and an ambulance was waiting to meet them,
along with Jennifer Astuni from the Dexta office. Gloria had hovered over Petra throughout the
eight-hour trip, but Petra never stirred.

    Gloria went with the ambulance and breathed an inner sigh of relief when trained and
competent medical personnel began attending to Petra. At the hospital, a team of specialists
took over and rushed Petra into a treatment room. Gloria tried to follow, but was barred from
access. Jennifer Astuni pulled her away and led her to a waiting room. She collapsed onto a
couch, and, in spite of everything, immediately fell into a troubled and exhausted slumber.

    When she awoke, Sabaru Graff and Stu Eckstein were there. Eckstein sat down next to her
and put his arm around her shoulders. Gloria shrugged him off, got to her feet, and insisted on
seeing the head of the medical team that was treating Petra. Jennifer assured her that he had
already been summoned. Gloria paced around the small room in agitation, ignoring all
attempts by the others to get her to sit down.

   When Dr. Hamdoon arrived, he was smiling and pleased with himself. “She’ll be fine,
Ms. VanDeen. There is no permanent damage, and I anticipate a full recovery.”

   Gloria’s relief was such that she couldn’t breathe for a moment. Finally, she was able to
whisper, “Can I see her?”

   “She’s still under anesthesia.”

   “I want to see her.”

   “Very well.” Dr. Hamdoon led the party down a long corridor and into a recovery room.
There, Gloria saw Petra, swathed in bandages and connected to a multitude of tubes and wires,
breathing slowly and regularly. She stared at her in silence for several moments, privately
thanking the Spirit for keeping her friend alive.

    “There was some serious trauma and considerable bleeding in the cranial cavity due to the
fractured occipital,” Hamdoon explained. “If you hadn’t gotten her here when you did, there
could have been permanent brain damage. As it is, I’m confident that we’ve avoided that. As
for the rest—well, it looked worse than it really was. We’ve administered nanomeds, and they
are already repairing the damage cell by cell. Within a month, she’ll be as good as new. No
scars, no disabilities. However,” he added, “considering what she endured, she will
undoubtedly need psychological counseling.”

   Gloria thought about that for a moment, then said, “No.”

   “What’s that, Ms. VanDeen? Perhaps you don’t understand—”

   “I understand perfectly. But I can’t permit that. Petra was doing confidential work for
Dexta, and I can’t have her talking about that to some shrink.”

   “But,” Hamdoon protested, “her psychological recovery will require—”

   “It doesn’t require talking to unauthorized personnel. That’s final. If she needs to talk to
someone, she can talk to Jennifer Astuni.”

   “With respect to Ms. Astuni, she is not qualified—”
   “By the time she’s needed, she will be. Jennifer? I want you to take a crash course in
counseling. Arrange it with Dr. Hamdoon and the staff here, all right?”

   “Whatever you say, Gloria.”

   “This is highly irregular,” Hamdoon said, frowning, “and I can’t be held responsible for—”

   “It’s my responsibility,” Gloria said firmly. “When will Petra be conscious?”

   “I’d like to keep her under for at least the next day.”

   “Fine. I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Thank you for everything, Dr. Hamdoon.”

   “Just a moment, Ms. VanDeen. I understand that you were assaulted as well. I’d like to
examine you before you leave.”

   “Not necessary, Doctor. As you can see, I’m fine.”

   “What I see,” said Hamdoon, “is a young woman in a state of nervous exhaustion and
post-traumatic stress. Not to mention denial. I’d like to give you a complete physical and some
appropriate medication. And whether you think you need it or not, I strongly recommend that
you receive counseling, as well.”

   “Thank you for your opinion, Doctor. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Gloria brusquely turned and
marched away down the corridor, with the others bringing up the rear.




AT THE DEXTA OFFICES, JENNIFER HAD BREAKFAST delivered, and the four of them sat
around a conference table drinking coffee and picking at their meals. Gloria described for them
the recent course of events on Sylvania and answered their questions. Eckstein had little to say,
realizing that Gloria would make a private report to him later on. Graff kept frowning and
shaking his head, but it was unclear whether his disapproval applied to the situation on
Sylvania or to Gloria’s conduct there.

  “What I need now,” Gloria concluded, “is an Internal Security team and some Imperial
Marshals. They’ll accompany me back to Sylvania on the Cruiser.”

   “I see,” said Graff. “And just how many will you need?”

   “A dozen Bugs, and at least three or four Marshals.”

     “Out of the question,” Graff replied. “This isn’t Earth or one of the big colonies, Gloria. Our
full Internal Security staff on Palmyra only totals sixteen. As for Marshals, there aren’t half a
dozen on the entire planet.”

   “All right then, you’ve got sixteen Bugs, I’ll take eight. And two Marshals.”

   “I can let you have four, at most. The Imperial Marshal’s office will have to make its own
decisions on personnel allocation.”

   Gloria turned her weary gaze toward Graff. “You don’t seem to understand, Mr. Imperial
Secretary,” she said. “That wasn’t a request, it was an order.”
   “That would leave us seriously shorthanded here. I can’t possibly—”

   “You can’t possibly mean to say that you intend to disobey my order,” Gloria interjected.

    “Now, look here, Ms. VanDeen. I know Secretary Mingus is very taken with his notion of
an Office of Strategic Intervention. But we in the local offices have responsibilities, as well, and
I cannot believe that Mr. Mingus ever intended that we should be stripped of essential
personnel just to satisfy the momentary needs of this OSI of his.”

   “If you want to know what Secretary Mingus intends, I’ll be happy to order you back to
Earth immediately so you can hear it from his own mouth.”

   Before Graff could respond, Jennifer smoothly intervened. “You’ll have your eight Bugs,
Gloria. And I’ll call the Marshal’s Office.”

   “Good,” Gloria said. “Also, I want a ‘round-the-clock Internal Security guard put on Petra’s
door at the hospital.”

    “Now, really!” Graff sniffed. “I understand your concern, but I don’t see what possible need
there could be for such a misallocation of personnel. She’ll be perfectly safe here.”

   “Secretary Graff,” Gloria said, slowly and patiently, “Petra is the only surviving witness who
has knowledge of the massacre at Pizen Flats. Whoever planned that crime is undoubtedly
aware of that.”

   “But I thought it was clear that it was Grunfeld. And he’s still on Sylvania.”

    “We don’t know where he is for certain. And I have serious doubts that Grunfeld was the
only party involved in the massacre. Two of the men who assaulted Petra and me were
strangers, not part of Grunfeld’s gang. They had to have come from somewhere, at someone’s
orders. Grunfeld may have carried out the massacre, but he didn’t plan it.”

   “Then who?” Graff demanded.

   “I don’t know, yet,” Gloria replied. “But it had to have been one or more of the corporate
representatives on Sylvania and the Lodge trustees.”

   “The Lodge trustees?” Graff cried in genuine alarm. “You can’t be serious!”

   Gloria was beginning to lose her patience. “Look at me, Graff,” she snapped. “Do I look as if
I’m not serious?”

   Graff did look at her, and seemed startled by her intensity. Nevertheless, he insisted on
making his point. “Ms. VanDeen, you are talking about members of five of the most
prominent and powerful families on Palmyra. Claude Rankus, if he still lives, as well as Myron
Vigo, Rahim Ogunbayo, Sidney Taplin, and young Joe Pollas.”

   “I know exactly who I’m talking about, and that’s precisely why Petra needs a full-time
guard.”

   “She’ll have it,” Jennifer assured her.

   “This is outrageous,” Graff muttered. “Do you have any idea of what you are suggesting?
The ramifications and consequences of placing these citizens under suspicion? This is not
Sylvania, it’s Palmyra, a settled and civilized world! I’ll not have you going about making wild
and unsupported accusations just because you and your assistant were badly treated. I believe
you are placing your personal desire for revenge above your duties as a Dexta officer. If you
persist in this, Ms. VanDeen, I shall file the strongest possible protest with Secretary Mingus!”

    “File to your heart’s content, Secretary Graff. And, in the meantime, I’m also going to need
a judge. Is there a reasonably honest and competent Imperial Judge on this planet who doesn’t
have ties to your precious prominent families?”

   “There is,” said Jennifer.

   Graff gave her a startled look. “You can’t mean—”

    “I do,” said Jennifer. She turned to Gloria. “Judge Otis Kershaw. He’s the maverick on the
local Imperial bench. He’s been here forever and hates everyone impartially.”

    “Good. Get him, and tell him to pack for a trip to Sylvania. But first, we’ll need warrants to
investigate the finances of each of the Lodge trustees, as well as those of Kevin Grunfeld. Get
your Financial people on it immediately. I’m specifically interested in any transactions between
the trustees and Grunfeld. Also, any transactions involving Excelsior, Servitor, or Imperium. I
want a preliminary report before I return to Sylvania.”

   “Now you’ve gone too far! Really, Ms. VanDeen,” Graff objected, “Judge Kershaw is 130
years old—”

   “So is Norman Mingus,” Gloria reminded him.

    “I only hope that Secretary Mingus is not as befuddled as Judge Kershaw. The man is an
irresponsible, shoot-from-the-hip, troublemaking scoundrel. I really must put my foot down,
Ms. VanDeen. Assignment of Imperial Judges is not even a Dexta matter, as I’m sure you must
know. It’s the exclusive province of the Imperial Governor, and I can assure you on his behalf
that such an assignment will not be forthcoming. And speaking of the Governor, I can also
assure you that he will be deeply upset by the actions you intend to take and the aspersions
you are casting upon the Lodge trustees. I intend to take this matter up with him at the earliest
opportunity.”

   “You won’t have that opportunity, Graff,” Gloria told him icily.

   “And just what do you mean by that?” Graff demanded.

    “The problem with Imperial Secretaries,” Gloria said, “is that too many of them think that
their primary responsibility is to ingratiate themselves with the local power structure and keep
them happy. In fact, their primary responsibility is to do, efficiently and without complaint,
whatever Dexta requires of them. You’ve made it clear that you are incapable of doing that,
Mr. Graff. Effective immediately, I am removing you from your present assignment. You will
report back to Dexta Headquarters to make yourself available for reassignment. And,
Mr. Graff, by immediately, I mean you are to take the very next ship leaving the Orbital
Station for Earth. There should be one this afternoon, so I suggest you return to your quarters
and start packing.”

   Graff blustered and sputtered. “You have no authority—”

   “I’m a Ten, you’re a Twelve, Graff, and the OSI Charter gives me all the authority I need.
Now get out of my sight. I will not have you hanging around, creating problems for me. You
are not to attempt to communicate with any of the Lodge trustees, their families, or
representatives. And if you are not off-planet by this afternoon, I’ll have the Bugs put you in
detention. Jennifer? Congratulations, you’re the new Imperial Secretary.”

   “Thank you,” Jennifer said. She looked at Graff. “Shall I call you a cab?”




GLORIA SPENT THE REST OF THE DAY TENDING to endless details and trying to think of
anything else that needed to be done. She had arrived on Palmyra wearing the same jeans and
shirt that she had been wearing when she left the Emporium, so she dispatched a Dexta
worker to acquire shoes, a skirt, and a blouse. The resulting outfit was the most conservative
one she had worn in years, although in a concession to her public image, she left the loose gray
blouse unbuttoned to the waist. She didn’t even want to think about sex at the moment, but
sex was an essential part of her arsenal and she knew it would be an asset in the meetings she
had scheduled.

   First, she met with the Chief Imperial Marshal in his office and explained the situation on
Sylvania. The massacre was, of course, a violation of the Imperial Code, and the Chief was
properly outraged and cooperative. He assigned two Marshals to accompany her back to
Sylvania, with the promise of two more to come, if necessary.

    Next, she sat down with the eight Internal Security officers who had been hastily assembled
from all over the planet. The massacre itself was an Imperial matter, but the assaults on two
Dexta representatives were a violation of the Dexta Code and came under the aegis of the IntSec
Bugs. The massacre and the assaults were obviously related, so the Imperial and Dexta
investigations would proceed in harness. Gloria explained to the Bugs what she expected of
them, and they were eager to get started. There wasn’t really a lot to keep them busy on
Palmyra, aside from essentially bureaucratic matters, and they welcomed an opportunity to
flex their muscles and put their training to use. Moreover, the Bugs were personally incensed
by the assaults; their main task was the protection of Dexta personnel, and they tended to view
an attack on one as an attack on all.




THEN, IT WAS ON TO A HASTILY ARRANGED luncheon with Imperial Governor Vincent
DiGrazia. He was a sturdily built, suavely handsome man, who was delighted to meet Gloria
and eager to be of assistance. He was momentarily unsettled by the sudden loss of his Imperial
Secretary, but quickly recovered. Imperial Governors were political appointees, and DiGrazia
had made a career out of being pleasing and accommodating to anyone who seemed to have
more power than he did. Technically, Dexta had no authority over an Imperial Governor, but
DiGrazia was not about to stand up to Gloria VanDeen. If the Emperor himself couldn’t control
her, DiGrazia had no intention of trying.

    When Gloria made it clear that some of Palmyra’s leading families were under suspicion,
DiGrazia was not happy. He didn’t want to annoy the very people he had so assiduously
cultivated during his time in office there, but if any of them were involved in the massacre, he
was determined not to be tainted by his association with them. The wind had changed
suddenly, and DiGrazia was an experienced political sailor who knew when to trim his sails.

   He had no objection to assigning Judge Kershaw to Sylvania; in fact, he was glad to have an
excuse to get him out of his hair, if only temporarily. The cantankerous old jurist had been a
thorn in the side of every Imperial Governor of Palmyra for the past thirty years.

   DiGrazia’s only real disappointment was that he had been hoping to get some media
mileage out of his meeting with Gloria, but she had quickly squelched his plans. Word of the
massacre would be released in due course, but Gloria told him that she wanted to keep the
media away from Sylvania (and from her) for as long as reasonably possible.




HER FINAL MEETING OF THE DAY WAS WITH Judge Otis Kershaw, a white-haired,
bushy-eyebrowed, craggy-faced relic who ogled her partly exposed breasts with the relish of a
man a century younger. Gloria noticed, and subtly maneuvered to give him a better view as
she sat across from him in the Dexta offices, explaining why he was needed. Kershaw nodded
gravely when she described the basis for her suspicions of the Lodge trustees.

     “Vicious bastards, the lot of ‘em,” Kershaw said. “Wouldn’t put it past any of ‘em. You’ll get
all the warrants you need, Ms. VanDeen.”

    “We’ll also need you on Sylvania for several weeks, Judge. I want you available in case of
challenges to the voter registration—although if Rankus really is dead, I doubt there will be any
challenge. After that, there will be Eminent Domain hearings, and I’d like you to oversee those,
as well.”

   Kershaw nodded. “Will I have any time to do some fishing?”

   “All the time you want,” Gloria assured him.

   “Good. Been there a few times as a guest at the Lodge, but I preferred it down in
Greenlodge. Is Elba still around?”

   “Elba has retired, but I think you’ll find the Emporium in good hands.”

   “In that case, Ms. VanDeen, I’m all yours, for as long as you need me.”




WHEN HER MEETINGS HAD FINALLY CONCLUDED, Gloria squirreled herself away in a
vacant Dexta office and began writing reports to go out on a courier. She wrote formal reports
for the OSI office and Mingus, but spent most of her time on a long, private, encrypted report
for Mingus’s eyes only.

   After spelling out everything that had happened on Sylvania since her arrival, and
providing a progress report on Roosa’s work, she at last unburdened herself to the Dexta
Secretary.

   “Norman,” she wrote, “I feel awful about what’s happened. I’m afraid I’ve made a mess of
everything. The massacre might never have happened if I hadn’t been so damned sure I could
handle Grunfeld. I might even have provoked him into it by humiliating him in public so
often. There’s probably a lot more to it, as I’ve outlined, but I can’t even be sure of that much.
And I don’t know if I can forgive myself for what happened to Petra. She had no training as an
undercover operative, and I had no business sending her up to the Lodge to be a spy. I was an
idiot, and Petra paid the price.

    “Spirit knows, I’m flattered by your confidence in trusting me with this assignment. But
with so much at stake, I wonder if you made a good decision. I was just too damned smug and
sure of myself, too busy being the glamorous Gloria VanDeen! I can’t undo the damage I’ve
already done, and I’m frightened by the thought that I’ll do more. People have died because of
me! Maybe I’m just not ready for that kind of responsibility. I feel that I have failed you,
Norman, and I will understand completely if you decide to relieve me of my present
assignment. Don’t let your personal feelings for me interfere with what you must do. As you
pointed out when you gave me this job, the future of the Empire is at stake. Do what you
must!”




AFTER A LONG DAY, EXHAUSTED AND DRAINED, Gloria finally accompanied Stu
Eckstein to his apartment, where he cooked her a meal that she hardly touched. Later, they sat
together on the couch and she gave him a full account of events on Sylvania. She also brought
him up to date on Sam Roosa’s progress.

   “Sounds good,” said Eckstein. “There are bound to be at least some intrusions in the
Fergusite layer, but I think it’s unlikely that we’ll be completely blocked.”

   “When are you going to start taking samples?”

   “The Survey Office is already trying to get me moving. I gather that some of the corporates
have been giving them some heat about the delay. But I think I can use the massacre as an
excuse to put it off a few more weeks.”

   “It’s an ill wind that blows no good,” Gloria observed sourly.

    “In any case, I can plot Roosa’s results over time and use that to begin the sampling in spots
where the Fergusite has already been ruined. But this is still going to be hit-or-miss, Gloria.
Even if the plasma injection goes perfectly, there will still be isolated patches of Fergusite that
are unaffected.”

   “You mean that all of this might be for nothing?”

   “I didn’t say that. I just meant that it won’t be a case of simply taking a couple of samples
and declaring the entire layer worthless. And don’t forget, the corporate geologists will be
looking over my shoulder the whole time.”

   “Corporate geologists, and maybe corporate assassins,” Gloria pointed out. “Two of the
men who assaulted me were total strangers. They had to have been sent there by one of the
corporates.”

   “Or maybe just by someone at the Lodge. They have their own interests to protect.”
    “True,” Gloria conceded. “What I don’t understand, though, is why they did it when they
did. Grunfeld and his men are effectively outlaws now. He’s cut himself out of the spoils.”

    “Not necessarily. He probably already cut a deal and sold all of his claims and proxies to
someone. The massacre was probably part of the deal. At a minimum, what happened at Pizen
Flats is going to make the other riverrats think twice about refiling their claims. That could be
enough to tilt the Eminent Domain results to the corporates. And there’s one other thing,
Gloria. I hate to bring this up, but have you considered what would have happened if your
friends at the Emporium hadn’t gotten worried and gone up to the Lodge to find you?”

   Gloria thought about it for a few seconds, then nodded grimly. “They’d have taken Petra
and me away and killed us,” she said.

    “In which case,” Eckstein said, “there would have been no witnesses to connect Grunfeld to
the massacre. They’d probably have blamed it on the highboys—they did have that brawl with
the riverrats, after all. Grunfeld would still be in business.”

   “He counted on me charging up to Lodge all by myself, with no backup. And I did,
dammit. Spirit, I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker! I’ve been a complete idiot, Stu. Mingus
should relieve me.”

   Eckstein looked at her carefully. “Is that what you want?” he asked.

    Gloria didn’t know how to answer his question, so she ignored it. “What I want,” she said
finally, “is a good night’s sleep. Alone, Stu.”

   “I understand,” he said, “but—”

    “Yes, yes, I know what you’re going to say. I’ve been through a terrible experience, but all I
really need is for a good, strong, tender, loving, sensitive man to take me in his arms and make
everything right again. I know. But not now, Stu. Not yet.”

   “When you think the time is right, Gloria, let me know. In the meantime, the bedroom is
yours, and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

   Gloria managed a weak smile. “It may be a while,” she told him.

   “I’m not in any hurry,” he said.

   She leaned toward him and kissed him. “You’re a good man, Stu.”

   “But a man, nonetheless.”

   “They’re not my favorite sex at the moment,” Gloria conceded. “When those bastards were
about to rape me I felt … Spirit, I can’t even describe what I felt. The only thing that saved me
was sheer dumb luck. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for Petra.”

   “You can’t blame yourself for that. It wasn’t your fault.”

   “Wasn’t it?”

   Eckstein shook his head. “You did what you thought you had to do. Nobody’s right all the
time, Gloria. Not even you.”

   “Lately, I haven’t even been right some of the time.”
   “It will average out eventually. Everything does, you know. Trust me, I’m a scientist. I
know about things like that.” Eckstein put his arm around her and held her close.




THE NEXT MORNING, GLORIA RETURNED TO THE hospital. She sat down in a chair next
to Petra’s bed and waited to be noticed. Petra was awake but groggy and far from alert. Her
face, where it wasn’t covered with bandages, was still red and swollen.

   “Gloria?”

   Gloria reached for Petra’s hand and squeezed it. “I’m here, kiddo,” she said.

   Petra’s voice was slurred and strained; she had to speak through her teeth, since her broken
jaw was secured in the shut position.

   “Where am I?” she mumbled.

   “You’re in a hospital on Palmyra. Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine. The doctors say
you’ll make a complete recovery.”

   “Recovery from what?”

   “Um … what’s the last thing you remember?”

    Petra thought about it for several moments before responding. “I was in the skimmer on
the way up to the Lodge. What happened? Did we crash?”

    Gloria hesitated before saying anything. It might be a blessing if Petra had no memory of
the assault, but it would also mean that there was no one who could connect Grunfeld to the
massacre.

   “Petra,” Gloria said, “someone at the Lodge found out that you were spying on them. Do
you remember that?”

   “Uh … no. Is that what … what happened to me?”

    Gloria nodded. “They beat and raped you, Petra. I’m so sorry. I should never have sent you
there. It’s all my fault.”

   “No,” Petra protested weakly. “I knew the risks.”

    “So did I, and I sent you there anyway. It was a stupid thing to do, and I just hope that you
can forgive me somehow.” She squeezed Petra’s hand harder. “I just don’t know if I’ll ever be
able to forgive myself.”

   “No … no … you were just doing your job. And I was doing mine. If they found out I was a
spy, I must have screwed up.”

   “No! You didn’t screw up, Petra—I did!”

   Petra considered that for a moment. Then she said, “If you screwed up, then what are you
doing here, holding my hand? Get that beautiful ass of yours back to Sylvania and fix things!”
   “Petra—”

    “Just do it! How am I ever going to become the most powerful woman in the Empire if you
just sit here blaming yourself? Get back to work this instant, you hear me?”

   Gloria found herself grinning at her assistant. “Yes, ma’am,” she said.




GLORIA SPENT MOST OF THE DAY MEETING WITH the Dexta Office’s Financial staff as
they sorted through a mass of computer records. Nothing incriminating leaped out at them.
The likelihood was that any payoffs to Grunfeld would have been handled through off-world
accounts, probably via banks on New Helvetia, where privacy was considered a sacred (and
very profitable) trust. Still, a careful analysis of the records of the Lodge trustees might lead to
other accounts. Realistically, the whole investigation would have to be taken over by Dexta
Headquarters on Earth, and would undoubtedly take months. Nevertheless, Gloria urged the
Palmyra staff to keep at it and send her regular reports after she returned to Sylvania.

    She was planning to leave that night, along with the Marshals and Bugs, but first, she
returned to the hospital to say good-bye to Petra. As she walked down the long corridor to
Petra’s room, Gloria was overtaken by a harried and apprehensive-looking administrator.

   “Ms. VanDeen?” she said. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this but … Ms. Nash is gone.”

   “Gone?” Gloria gasped. “You mean, she’s …?”

   “I mean, she’s gone. She disappeared from her room about an hour ago. We have no idea
where she is.”




                                          Chapter 20

GLORIA MET IN THE ADMINISTRATOR’S OFFICE with Dr. Hamdoon and Glenn Wong, the
hastily summoned head of the Palmyra Dexta Internal Security Office. The administrator, a
Ms. Suharto, seemed to regard Petra’s disappearance as a bureaucratic tragedy, Hamdoon
viewed it as a frustrating medical development, and Wong saw it as a major crime that had
occurred in his own backyard. The Bug who had been assigned to guard Petra’s door had been
found, drugged and unconscious, under her bed; someone had evidently slipped something
into his coffee.

    To Gloria, it was like the latest phase of a nightmare from which she was unable to awaken.
It echoed what she’d felt when Grunfeld’s thugs had tied her to that bed—this couldn’t be
happening, and yet it was.

    “Medically,” Dr. Hamdoon opined, “we had already done everything necessary to assure
her recovery. Quik-Knit will repair her fractures within a few weeks, and the bone braces for
her wrist and jaw will dissolve when their work is done. The nanomeds will complete their
repairs of her various wounds. My concern is that she may receive insufficient post-treatment
care—proper changing of bandages, prevention of infection, and so forth. Also, of course, there
would be a heightened risk of reinjury, were she to be subjected to any further trauma.”

   “But she will recover?” Gloria asked.

   “All things being equal, assuredly so.”

    “We can’t count on those other things being equal, Doctor,” said Wong. “I’ve already
alerted the local police and Internal Security on Palmyra Orbital Station. But the kidnappers
had a head start, so there’s no telling where they’ve taken her by now. They could be anywhere
on Palmyra, or even off-world.”

   “I want a full report on departures from the Orbital Station,” Gloria told him.

   “Already in the works. But Palmyra is a very busy port. During the critical window, there
were probably half a dozen commercial departures, and probably several private vessels, as
well.”

   “And they could be headed anywhere.”

   “Too true.”

    “Well, it’s a big Empire,” Gloria said, “and we can’t do anything about it now if they’ve
already gone off-world. Let’s focus on what we can deal with. Did anyone in or near the
hospital see anything that could help us?”

    “The police are already working that angle,” said Wong. “They’ll be here soon to start
interviewing hospital workers. And I’m going to bring in my own officers—at least, the ones
you aren’t taking with you to Sylvania—to begin our own investigation.”

    Gloria turned to Ms. Suharto. “How could they have gotten in and out without being
noticed?”

    Suharto shrugged. “It’s hardly unusual to see a patient being carted down the corridor on a
gurney,” she said. “It would be unlikely to attract any notice. And Ms. Nash’s room was at the
far end of the Pollas Wing, near the doors—”

   “The what wing?” Gloria demanded.

   “The Pollas Wing. Named for one of our founders, Joseph Pollas. Why?”

   Gloria sighed. “I suppose you have a Rankus Wing, too,” she said.

   “As a matter of fact, we do. Why, is that important?”

   “It may be. Do the Pollas and Rankus families still have ties to the hospital?”

   “Of course,” said Suharto, as if that were obvious.

     “Young Joe Pollas is on our Board,” Dr. Hamdoon volunteered. “I played golf with him just
last month, in fact. Surely, Ms. VanDeen, you aren’t suggesting that he had anything to do with
this?”

   “For now, Dr. Hamdoon,” Gloria said tersely, “no one on this planet is above suspicion.
And that includes you and Ms. Suharto, and your entire staff. Mr. Wong and his people will
want to talk with each one of you. And if anyone in this place is less than a hundred percent
cooperative, I’ll see to it that they spend the next ten years on a high-gravity prison world. Do
you understand?”

   They earnestly assured her that they did. Gloria stalked out of the hospital, feeling as angry
and frustrated as she ever had in her life.




THAT NIGHT, GLORIA AND THE BUGS, THE Marshals, and Judge Otis Kershaw flew back
to Sylvania. On their approach, she caught sight of the gleaming bulk of the Sylvania Orbital
Station, already nearing completion. When it became operational, within a few weeks, the
equation on Sylvania would change. The corporates could bring in their immense Extractors
and ready them for the task ahead on the surface. On the plus side, communications between
Sylvania and Palmyra would become much easier. From the Orbital Station, it would be
possible to launch fast, unmanned, reusable messengers, and even faster one-way (and
therefore more expensive) couriers.

    Of course, improved communications would also mean that the media would arrive in
strength. So far, the story of a voter registration drive on a backwater world—even if Gloria
VanDeen was involved—had attracted scant attention. The difficulty and expense of getting
news from Sylvania—not to mention the lack of first-class (or any) hotel facilities—had
prevented the major media groups from sending their representatives to cover what was not a
very exciting story to begin with. But with faster and cheaper communications possible, and
the lure of a massacre, the media would soon be swarming all over Sylvania. Gloria dreaded the
prospect. She would once again be thrown into the spotlight, and she was afraid that it would
get in the way of her job. Worse, there was the possibility that some eager beaver might
stumble onto the secret of Room 9 in the Emporium.




THE CRUISER LANDED AT GREENLODGE IN midmorning. Gloria led her charges through
the muddy streets to the Emporium, where she planned to assign them rooms. Althea would
undoubtedly complain about what that would do to the profit margin, but it couldn’t be
helped. Gloria intended to give Judge Kershaw her own room, the best in the house, and then
double up with Althea.

   News of their arrival got to the Emporium before they did, and Jill Clymer ran out to meet
them. “Gloria!” she cried breathlessly. “Thank the Spirit you’re back! How is Petra?”

    “She’s—” Gloria suddenly froze. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the tall, beefy
figure of Mayor Kevin Grunfeld shambling toward the Emporium.

   “That’s Grunfeld!” she shouted to the Marshals and Bugs, pointing in his direction. “Get
him!”

   The khaki-clad Marshals and gray-clad Bugs sprang into action and flocked to Grunfeld like
white corpuscles mobbing an intruding bacterium. They physically dragged an unresisting
Grunfeld back to where Gloria was standing.

   Grunfeld calmly stroked his mustache, smiled, and greeted her in a friendly manner.
“G’mornin’, Miz VanDeen,” he said. “See ya brought some friends back with ya.”

    Gloria was so incensed, she struggled to find the words to express herself. The unexpected
sight of Grunfeld walking around as free as a bird all but unhinged her.

   “Gloria,” Jill Clymer said, “I don’t—”

    “What the hell is this bastard doing here?” Gloria exploded. “Why don’t you have him
locked up?”

   “For what?” Grunfeld asked innocently. He looked at the Bugs holding his arms. “Hey,
boys, lighten up a bit, would ya?”

     Gloria stepped closer to confront Grunfeld. He was a foot taller than she was, so she had to
tilt her head back to look up into his eyes. “You know what for,” she told him, trying to keep
her voice under control. “You abducted, raped, and assaulted Petra. You almost killed her! And
you did kill forty-nine people at Pizen Flats!”

   “Me?” Grunfeld asked, seemingly amazed. “I did all them things? How ya figure that, Miz
VanDeen?”

    “Petra told us it was you, Grunfeld. You and your pukes.” In fact, Gloria was all too aware
that on that awful night, Petra had not actually mentioned Grunfeld’s name. And now, her
memory of those events was gone … and so was she! Gloria felt an unnamable rage boiling
within her at the very sight of Grunfeld.

    “Petra?” Grunfeld asked. “Ya mean that pretty little gal that got herself all busted up? Now
why in hell would she say a damnfool thing like that? Ya think mebbe she got her brains
scrambled?”

    That was almost more than Gloria could take. If they had been alone, she would probably
have killed him. As it was, her body trembled with the unspent energy of the Qatsima moves
she yearned to unleash.

    “Ms. VanDeen,” Judge Kershaw interjected. He was no fool, and could see that Gloria was
on the verge of an explosion. “If Mayor Grunfeld has any explanation he wishes to offer,
perhaps we should hear it now. No charges have been filed against him as yet, and before I
issue a warrant, I’d like to get a handle on this thing. Mayor Grunfeld, do you wish to make a
statement?”

    “Hiya, Judge,” said Grunfeld. “Nice to see ya again. Thanks for rememberin’ that I got some
rights. Seems these Dexta folk forgot about that.”

   Kershaw was not impressed by Grunfeld’s cheerful demeanor. “Your statement?” he said.

    “Ain’t got no statement, ‘zackly. I guess ol’ Myron Vigo will tend to the legal particulars.
But I will say what happened. And I never raped nor assaulted nobody. Not that Petra gal and
not nobody up to Pizen Flats. No sir.”

   “We have a witness who saw you abduct Petra at the Lodge!” Gloria insisted.
   “Abduct? Hell, I didn’t abduct her. I arrested her.”

   “Arrested her?” Gloria screeched. Jill Clymer put her hand on Gloria’s shoulder.

   “Sure,” said Grunfeld placidly. “Arrested her on suspicion o’ murderin’ poor ol’ Mr. Claude
Rankus.”

   “What?”

   Grunfeld looked at the judge. “Hey, how’m I gonna say what happened if ya let this gal
keep interruptin’ me?”

  “Ms. VanDeen,” Kershaw said, “please try to restrain yourself. Continue, if you would,
Mayor Grunfeld.”

    “Thankee, Judge. Y’see, I got a call from the Thawleys that somethin’ terrible had happened
up at the Lodge, so I went up there to investigate. Found ol’ Mr. Rankus sittin’ in the easy chair
up in his room, half his head blowed off. Had one o’ them antique pistols o’ his in his hand,
like he done it to himself. But it looked kinda fishy to me—o’ course, I ain’t no trained
investigator, like these here Marshals. So I said to myself, ‘Kevin, you’d best just clamp a lid on
this whole business until we can get us some Imperial Marshals here from Palmyra to look into
this all legal and proper.’ And that’s what I done.”

   “And why did you arrest Ms. Nash?” asked Kershaw.

    “On account o’ she was a suspect. Wasn’t hardly nobody up there at the time, just the
Thawleys and that Petra gal, and a couple of them corporate reps—Miz Mitchell and
Mr. Shoop. Didn’t seem like they was suspects, but just to be sure, later on I locked both o’
them in their cabins. Just like I locked up Miz Petra in one o’ the cabins. Seemed like the best
thing to do, seein’ as how we ain’t got no proper jail facilities down here in Greenlodge. Then,
that night, Mr. Pollas went off to Palmyra to fetch the Marshals. But I guess he didn’t need to
do that, after all.” Grunfeld offered the Marshals an ingratiating grin.

    “I know about Pollas,” Gloria said. The records they had obtained at the Palmyra Orbital
Station showed that Pollas had arrived there in his yacht several hours before Gloria’s Cruiser.
They also showed that he had departed the Station barely an hour after Petra’s disappearance
from the hospital.

   “Then,” said Grunfeld, “I ’spect you’ll be talkin’ to him soon enough. He’ll back up
everything I’ve said.”

    “And,” Kershaw continued, “I assume you will maintain that you had nothing to do with
the massacre at Pizen Flats.”

   “O’ course! Wasn’t anywhere near Pizen Flats that night. To tell ya the truth, I was in
Overhill that night, visitin’ a little gal I know there. She’ll tell ya I was there the whole damn
night.”

    “Of that,” said Kershaw, “I have no doubt.” He turned toward Gloria. “Ms. VanDeen? Is
there anything else?”

   “Frezzo and Gnozdziewicz,” she said. “They and two other men raped and assaulted Petra.
They also … they also assaulted me later that night.”
    “You?” Grunfeld sounded astonished. “Y’mean someone assaulted you, Miz VanDeen? That
don’t hardly seem possible! You don’t look like nobody so much as mussed a hair on your
pretty little head!”

   “They didn’t beat me the way they did Petra. They just manhandled me and tied me up.
They were going to rape me, but they didn’t get the chance.”

    “You don’t say? Well, knowin’ the kind o’ woman you are, you must’ve been real
disappointed.”

   Jill clamped both hands on Gloria’s shoulders and held her back.

   “Where are they?” Gloria demanded.

    “Hank and Noz? Ain’t seen them around, the last couple o’ days. Don’t rightly know where
they are. You fixin’ to have them arrested for what you say they done to ya? Now, that might
be real interestin’. Now, I don’t know for a fact, but I ’spect ol’ Hank and Noz would just say
that you begged them to fuck ya, like ya been fuckin’ half the men in the Territory. Runnin’
‘round naked, fuckin’ like a mink … you got yourself quite a reputation, Miz VanDeen.
Wonder what a jury would say about this here ‘rape’ ya say almost happened to ya? Might be
real interestin’. Anyway, I ain’t seen Hank and Noz.”

    “Under the circumstances,” Kershaw said quickly, before Gloria could respond, “I don’t
believe I see sufficient evidence to justify issuing a warrant for Mayor Grunfeld’s arrest at this
time. Release him, if you would, gentlemen. However,” he added with a stern gaze directed at
Grunfeld, “the investigation of the incidents here has just begun. Mayor Grunfeld, you are
instructed not to attempt to leave this jurisdiction without first obtaining the consent of this
court—meaning me. Ms. VanDeen? Gentlemen? I suggest that we get settled in our rooms and
meet in half an hour. Perhaps we can begin to sort this out.”

   “Thankee, Judge,” said a grinning Grunfeld. “Pleasure havin’ ya back in town.”




THAT AFTERNOON, GLORIA RETURNED TO THE Lodge in the company of Judge Kershaw,
the two Marshals, and Greg Remchuk, commander of the Internal Security detachment.
Myron Vigo met them at the door and ushered them into the dining room, where Joe Pollas,
Sidney Taplin, Rahim Ogunbayo, Thomas Shoop, and Maddie Mitchell were already sitting
around the big table. There was no sign of the Thawleys.

   Vigo was more subdued and less witty than usual as he made the appropriate introductions
and bade everyone to take a seat. “Ms. VanDeen,” he said, “before we get started, I feel that I
should inform you that we may be filing charges against you and Mr. Ellison for your actions
several nights ago.”

   After a day of unpleasant surprises, Gloria barely even reacted to this one. But Judge
Kershaw asked what charges Vigo intended to file.

   “Unlawful entry and felonious assault against poor Mrs. Thawley, for starters. We may have
more to come,” Vigo replied.
   “And just where is poor Mrs. Thawley?” Gloria asked.

   “She and her husband are on medical leave,” Vigo explained. “Mr. Pollas took them to
Palmyra that same night.”

   Gloria looked at Pollas, who returned her level gaze. “Is that true?” she asked.

   “It is. Mrs. Thawley needed medical attention which she could not receive on Sylvania. Her
husband naturally accompanied her. In addition, it was necessary to transport Mr. Rankus’s
body back home for cremation and interment in the family crypt.”

    Kershaw’s bushy eyebrows shot upward. “Cremation? Are you aware, Mr. Pollas, that your
actions may constitute tampering with evidence in a capital case?”

   “Well, we couldn’t just leave him here, you know!”

   “As for the cremation,” Vigo quickly added, “that was the wish of his family. A complete
postmortem was conducted beforehand, not that there was any doubt about the cause of
death. Before removing the body, we carefully imaged the scene. The pistol is still here, and
you are welcome to it.”

    “Mr. Pollas,” the judge said, “while you were on Palmyra, why did you not report the death
of Mr. Rankus to the proper authorities?”

    “I did. I met with my family attorney, Bill Bullock—you know him, Judge. I gave him a
complete statement. He said that he would bring the matter to the attention of Judge Hasbrouk
the following day, and I assume that he did. Apparently Judge Hasbrouk didn’t feel it was
necessary to inform you.”

  “He might at least have informed the Imperial Marshal’s office,” said Marshal Boris
Morales.

   “Maybe you left Palmyra before he did,” Vigo suggested.

   “Speaking of leaving Palmyra,” Gloria said, “you left just a few hours before we did,
Mr. Pollas. But I didn’t see your yacht in the harbor.”

   “I seldom use the harbor, Ms. VanDeen. I generally use the lake. It’s there now.”

    Gloria looked at Morales and Remchuk. “Get people down there as soon as you can. I want
that yacht examined microscopically.”

   “For what, if I might inquire?” asked Vigo.

    “For any evidence that Petra Nash was aboard it. She was kidnapped from the hospital on
Palmyra an hour before Mr. Pollas’s departure.” Gloria stared at Vigo and waited for him to
respond. Vigo appeared mildly surprised and concerned.

    “Kidnapped, you say? I’m very sorry to hear that, Ms. VanDeen. All the more so because I
was hoping we could get a definitive statement from her about what transpired here. But
surely you aren’t suggesting that Mr. Pollas had anything to do with her abduction.”

   “She’s not suggesting any such thing,” Kershaw quickly assured him.

   “The hell I’m not!” Gloria had been trying to keep a rein on her temper ever since her
arrival at the Lodge, but Vigo’s bland pronouncements were pushing her close to her limit.

    “The fact is,” Marshal Morales put in, “we would want to examine every vessel that left
Palmyra in the hours following the disappearance of Ms. Nash. Since your vessel qualifies,
Mr. Pollas, and since it is close at hand, we intend to examine it just as soon as Judge Kershaw
issues the warrant.”

    “Which I will as soon as we are finished here,” Kershaw said. “But first, I’d like to return to
the events of the night in question. I suppose the Thawleys gave you their version of events,
Mr. Vigo. Would you be good enough to share that with us?”

    “Certainly. As instructed by Mayor Grunfeld, they locked Mr. Shoop and Ms. Mitchell in
their cabins—”

   “They forcibly dragged me into mine!” Maddie Mitchell interjected.

   “And I was already in mine, asleep,” said Shoop. “I didn’t even know anything was
happening.”

   “Where were Lund and Norfleet?” Gloria asked.

   “They apparently spent the day down on the lake, sailing,” said Vigo. “They’ve grown quite
fond of it, I gather. Afterward, I understand that they had dinner in Overhill and spent the
night there with … uh … friends.”

   “We’ll want to talk to them, as well,” said Morales.

   “Certainly,” said Vigo. “I believe they are down on the lake again today. Of course, I don’t
represent them, but I’ll tell them.”

   “If we could get back to the Thawleys …” Kershaw prodded.

   “Yes,” said Vigo. “They stated to me that at about eight o’clock that evening, Ms. VanDeen
and a young man later identified as Palmer Ellison, a Dexta employee, broke in the front
door—”

   “It was already open!”

   “Ms. VanDeen, if you please!”

   “Sorry, Judge.”

   “—burst in the front door, aimed plasma pistols at Mr. and Mrs. Thawley, and verbally and
physically abused them. Ms. VanDeen then broke Mrs. Thawley’s arm.”

  “I don’t suppose she happened to mention the four men who were already here. The men
who beat and raped Petra.”

    “No, Ms. VanDeen, they didn’t,” Vigo said. “However, Mr. and Mrs. Thawley had been
upstairs in the private quarters … uh … cleaning up some of the mess. If the four men you
allege assaulted Ms. Nash were here, the Thawleys did not see or hear them.”

   “What happened next, Mr. Vigo?” Kershaw asked.

   “After Ms. VanDeen attacked Mrs. Thawley, she and her husband went down to Overhill
to seek medical attention. They remained there until departing on Mr. Pollas’s yacht later that
evening.”

   Kershaw turned to Shoop and Mitchell. “Did either of you hear the four men in question?”

   They shook their heads.

   “So, the only remaining witness who actually saw them is you, Ms. VanDeen.”

   “And Petra!”

   “And Ms. Nash, of course. Unfortunately, her testimony is not available at the moment.”

    “Spirit!” Gloria cried in exasperation. “You can’t be telling me that you doubt their
existence. They beat Petra half to death!”

    “I assure you, Ms. VanDeen,” Kershaw said calmly, “I am well aware of that fact. Clearly,
Ms. Nash was criminally assaulted. As you know, I’ve already issued warrants for Frezzo and
Gnozdziewicz and the two unknown men. However, unless someone here has anything new to
volunteer, it seems to me that we have taken this investigation as far as it will go, for now. No?
Very well, then. Marshal Morales, Mr. Remchuk, and their people will be meeting with each of
you individually in the days to come. I expect each of you to make yourselves available, and
not to leave the planet without first informing me. I think that’s all for today. Ms. VanDeen?
Gentlemen?”

   Judge Kershaw got to his feet and the others followed. Gloria paused to look at Vigo.

    “Nicely done, Mr. Vigo,” she said. “But forty-nine people died at Pizen Flats that night. And
Petra knew it was going to happen, because she heard about it right here in the Lodge.”

   “I wish you the best of luck in your investigation of that tragedy, Ms. VanDeen,” Vigo said
smoothly. “It is my earnest hope that you will find the parties responsible for the—”

    “Put a cork in it, Vigo!” Gloria snarled. “I already know who was responsible. And I’m going
to prove it!”




THAT EVENING, WHEN SHE RETURNED TO HER office in the Emporium, Gloria found a
folded piece of paper on her desk. On it, printed in block letters, was a single sentence:


                       “IF YOU WANT HER BACK, STAY OUT OF THE WAY!”




                                         Chapter 21

GLORIA SAT ALONE IN HER TENT, SPOONING cold beans out of a can and staring at the
driving rain outside. A beautiful day had suddenly turned miserable as soon as she arrived at
the falls—an apt metaphor, she thought, for her entire mission to Sylvania.

    Nearly three weeks had passed since the massacre and Petra’s kidnapping. By precise
calculation, exactly zero progress had been made since then toward solving either crime. Petra
could be anywhere in the Empire—although Gloria was convinced that she was right here on
Sylvania—and the same could be said for the killers.

    The two Marshals and eight Bugs had made a diligent effort to investigate everything that
had happened, but every result so far had been negative—in one case, a little too negative. The
search of the Pollas yacht had turned up no trace, macro- or microscopic, of Petra, no hairs or
blood or sweat or miniscule fragments of her DNA. Strangely, the search had also turned up
no evidence that the Thawleys—or even Joe Pollas himself—had ever been on the yacht.
Indeed, there was no evidence that any living being had ever been aboard the vessel.

    Boris Morales explained to Gloria that there existed a class of chemical oxidants that were
wonderfully efficient at destroying every organic molecule they encountered. Some of the
oxidants also had the useful property of breaking down to their basic components, which were
nothing more sinister than atoms of hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen. Dispersing such a
substance within a confined area, such as the interior of a space vessel, would quickly and
efficiently destroy literally everything that was not made out of metal, plastic, stone, or
composite.

   Someone had clearly used some such substance in the Pollas yacht. That seemed highly
suspicious to Gloria and Morales, but there was, Pollas maintained, a perfectly innocent
explanation. The corpse of Claude Rankus, it seemed, had been not only messy, but smelly.
Upon his return to Sylvania, Pollas, in the interests of sanitation and good scents, had set off an
oxidant dispersal packet inside his yacht. Of course, it never occurred to him that in the
process, he might be destroying evidence.

    Judge Kershaw had agreed with Gloria that Pollas had been attempting to cover his tracks.
However, he disagreed with her that this somehow constituted incriminating evidence, in and
of itself. “His explanation is as phony as a three-crown note,” Kershaw said, “but it’s valid.
Absent additional evidence, there’s nothing that can be done with what you have. It’s the dog
that didn’t bark. It may be curious that the dog didn’t bark, but not barking is not a crime.”
Having said that, Judge Kershaw then went fishing.

    Pollas also managed to shed no light on the identity of the third person, heard but not seen
by Maddie Mitchell, early that afternoon in the Lodge. Maddie had seen Pollas and Taplin, and
was certain she heard a third person, but Pollas maintained that no one else had been there at
the time. Probably, he suggested, the mysterious third person was simply Mr. Thawley.
Maddie was certain that it had not been either one of the Thawleys, but the voice had been too
distant and muffled for her to offer any positive identification.

    Thomas Shoop had been no help at all. He had returned to the Lodge that morning in a
state of exhaustion after spending the night at the falls with Gloria. He fell asleep around noon
and didn’t wake up until that evening, when the rescue team from the Emporium arrived and
unlocked his door.

   If events at the Lodge remained murky, the details of the massacre were all but
impenetrable. Plasma bolts left no identifying physical traces; the killings at Pizen Flats could
have been accomplished by one or many plasma pistols or rifles. They could even have been
done by plasma drills mounted on skimmers. That, in fact, was the favored explanation being
pushed by the Lodge and Grunfeld.

    It was obvious, they maintained, that the massacre had been carried out by highboys, still
angry over having been beaten up by the riverrats the previous day. The highboys felt
threatened by the refiling of the Pizen Flats claims. Turning one claim into forty might
overturn the majority of claims, now held by the highboys, and cost them the money they
expected to make from Eminent Domain payments. The massacre at Pizen Flats was not only
retaliation, but a warning to every other riverrat camp.

    If it had been a warning, it had proved to be an effective one. The other camps along the
river had been considering following the Pizen Flats example and refiling their claims; after the
massacre, none did. Whether it was highboys or Grunfeld or (as some conspiracy theorists
maintained) a return to hostilities by the long-since-defeated Ch’gnth, the killers remained at
large. As long as they did, the other riverrats had no desire to provoke another massacre.

    The Bugs and Marshals had investigated the possibility that the highboys were the culprits,
but found no evidence that pointed one way or another. The highboys who had been involved
in the brawl at Pizen Flats all had mutually supporting alibis for their whereabouts the night of
the massacre.

    The Bugs had also conducted a thorough, if not exhaustive, search of Overhill. Without
specific evidence, Judge Kershaw refused to issue search warrants that would have permitted
the Bugs to make a clean sweep. Nevertheless, they established a presence in Overhill, kept a
watch, and made themselves unpopular, but they turned up no evidence or witnesses who
could shed any light on Petra’s whereabouts. On both the night of the massacre and the night
of Pollas’s return, no one in Overhill had seen or heard anything.

    Gloria finished her beans and restrained an urge to toss the empty can out into the rain.
Instead, she dutifully packed it away in her kit bag. Might as well respect the environment for
as long as it lasted.

   It wasn’t likely to last much longer. The Orbital Station, though construction was not yet
complete, was finally operational. Gloria had learned from Shoop that the first of Excelsior’s
immense Extractors was due to arrive shortly.

    Excelsior had already established a presence on the ground. The first shipment of a
thousand people had arrived two weeks earlier. They quickly set up a tent city on the outskirts
of Greenlodge. Soon thereafter, strangers began filing into the Emporium to register as voters.
The total count was over forty-five hundred, and the target figure of five thousand was within
easy reach. Soon, Charles would be able to appoint an Imperial Governor and legally
incorporate the Territory of Sylvania. Well, Gloria reflected, at least Charles couldn’t complain
about the job she had done getting the voters registered. If nothing else, that one aspect of her
mission to Sylvania had gone swimmingly.

    But the real mission had suddenly run into problems. Sam Roosa, looking tired and
worried, had told her the previous night that they were beginning to detect evidence of a
buildup of heat at the bottom of the shaft. Somewhere far beneath the surface of the planet,
the transfer of energy from the plasma recharger was being blocked. The problem might be
temporary, or it might become worse—there was no way to know. All they could do was keep
pumping energy into the Fergusite layer and wait to see what happened.
   If the sabotage operation failed, the only way to block the corporates’ mining operations
would be to prevent them from getting 60 percent of the proxies in the Eminent Domain
hearings. But without the refiling of claims by the riverrats, that seemed an impossible goal.
Shoop and Mitchell had already agreed that it would be pointless to pool the proxies of Prizm
and Imperium without a substantial increase in the number of claims by the riverrats.

    Gloria knew that she could have done more. She could have visited the camps and rallied
the riverrats—as Ted Oberlin would have done. She could have promised protection—even if
the Bugs and Marshals weren’t numerous enough to provide it—and encouraged them to
reorganize their companies and refile their claims. If enough of them did, it might still be
possible to keep Excelsior and Servitor from amassing 60 percent of the proxies.

   But Gloria had done nothing. She had stayed out of the way.

    Guilt gnawed at her. Guilt over her role in determining the fate of this special and
spectacular valley. Guilt over what had happened to Petra … and what might yet happen to
her.

   Was saving this valley worth sacrificing Petra’s life?

   Was saving Petra’s life worth sacrificing this valley?

   And, of course, there was still the minor matter of the future of the Empire …




ASIDE FROM EVERYTHING ELSE, GLORIA HAD very personal demons with which to
wrestle. Dr. Hamdoon had said that she was in denial, but Gloria knew that she was denying
nothing. She was all too aware of what had happened … and what had almost happened. The
memory of it clawed at her mind with razor-sharp talons.

   Frezzo, Gnozdziewicz, and the two unknown men had not been seen. Conceivably, they
had found a way to get off-world, possibly with Pollas on that same night. Yet Gloria was
convinced that they were still on Sylvania, just as she was certain that Petra was there. Possibly
they were even the ones who were holding her hostage; find them, find her. Gloria sometimes
found herself fantasizing about what she would do to them if she caught them … when she
caught them.

    Rape was something that had never worried her. Growing up rich and privileged at Court,
it had never really been a consideration. During her marriage to Charles, there had usually
been security guards close at hand. When they were away from Court, Charles himself had
been all the protection she needed; like everyone in the line of succession, he had been trained
from an early age in the most sophisticated and deadly forms of martial arts. After she left him,
she took up Qatsima and quickly became an expert in that graceful but violent discipline.

    But even Qatsima had been useless against four large, powerful, and thoroughly depraved
brutes. They had seized her without difficulty, leaving her feeling helpless, humiliated, and
stupid. Gloria VanDeen, the sexiest woman in the Empire, nearly hoist on her own petard! Or
maybe on Frezzo and Gnozdziewicz’s petards—she wasn’t sure exactly what a petard was. Sex
had always been her strong suit, her trump card, useful on every occasion, in every situation.
She had become, she realized, smug and arrogant about it, so proud of herself that she couldn’t
or wouldn’t see the inevitable fall that awaited her.

     Sometimes she wondered if she would ever feel the same about sex. She had gone without
it since that awful night, although Slim Jim Zuni and even Althea had made some thinly veiled
advances. She knew that she was no candidate for a convent; yet, for the first time, she found
that she associated sex and guilt. In the age of Spiritism, that was not only unusual, but—for
Gloria—almost inconceivable.

    At some level, she understood that if she was ever to enjoy sex again, the way it was meant
to be enjoyed, she would have to do something about the guilt. But the guilt would never go
away if anything happened to Petra.

   If? Something had already happened to her, something infinitely more horrible than
anything Gloria had experienced. She couldn’t imagine what it had been like for her. It would
be a blessing from the Spirit if Petra’s memory of that night never returned; but Gloria’s
memory of it never left her. When she remembered the sight of Petra, curled up on that
bloodstained sheet, Gloria felt physically ill.

    Gloria ran her hands through her damp hair. At times, she felt like yanking it out by the
roots. At other times, she just wanted to roll up into a ball and cry. Tonight, alone in the rain,
far from everyone, she began to cry.

   No one but Abel heard her.




THE NEXT MORNING, FEELING DRAINED AND defeated, Gloria headed back to town
through another storm. The rainy season was beginning on Sylvania’s only continent, and the
landscape was rapidly turning to thick, gooey mud. When she came to the point of land at
Pizen Flats, Gloria veered the skimmer all the way to the opposite side of the river. She didn’t
ever want to see the place again.

   Approaching Greenlodge, she saw that two freighters had arrived overnight. More of
Excelsior’s “voters,” she figured. Well, they would have a jolly time pitching their tents in the
gumbo.

   By the time she parked outside the Emporium, the rain was coming down in sheets. In her
optimism the previous day, she had neglected even to pack a jacket. Just getting from her
skimmer to the front door of the Emporium left her soaked to the skin.

   Inside, she found a small, rather unruly mob waiting for her in the anteroom. The media
had arrived on Sylvania.

    They aimed their imagers at her and shouted questions. Gloria stood passively inside the
front door, taking in the scene while the media reps focused on her. She was wearing only a
thin white tee shirt and brief, hip-hugging shorts, now drenched, plastered to her skin, and
utterly transparent. Gloria normally enjoyed parading her body before the media, but in light
of recent events, she could take no pleasure in it on this day.

   “Ms. VanDeen! Is it true that you not only run this bordello, but also work in it as a
prostitute?”

   “Ms. VanDeen! Is it true that you were raped by the gang that committed the massacre?”

   “Ms. VanDeen! Why is Dexta operating a whorehouse?”

   “Ms. VanDeen! Can we get rooms here? It’s the only half-decent place to stay on the whole
goddamn planet!”

   Ms. VanDeen suppressed a sigh. Trust the media to concentrate on the essentials.

    She held up her hands for a few moments until the media reps settled down. “Welcome to
Sylvania,” she said, managing a smile. “I’m not going to take your questions now, but we’ll set
up a briefing for you tomorrow. As for rooms—you’re on your own, folks. We don’t have
enough to go around, so you’ll have to check the boardinghouses or pitch your own tents.
Furthermore, although you are welcome to sample whatever the Emporium has to offer, you
will not be permitted to go inside with your imaging equipment. In fact, you’ll be searched,
and anyone caught violating this rule will be permanently banned from the Emporium. People
come here to relax and enjoy themselves, and I am not going to subject them to the glare of the
media. Our customers are entitled to their privacy, and it will be respected! That’s all I have for
you now.”

    With that, Gloria pushed her way through the crowd in the anteroom amid a cacophony of
complaints, questions, and more complaints. When the media reps attempted to follow her
into the main room, Ernie the Bouncer stood in their way, and no one was inclined to dispute
his authority.

    Inside, Gloria found another surprise awaiting her. Arkady Volkonski, OSI’s Coordinator
for Internal Security, had arrived, bringing six more Bugs with him. A further surprise was the
presence of Dina Westerbrook, deputy to OSI Administrator Grant Enright.

   “Mingus thought you could use a little help,” Volkonski explained. “Jillian has already
brought us up to speed on where things stand.”

   “Did she mention that we don’t have anywhere to put you?”

    Volkonski, a dark, glowering Russian, known for his single, unpunctuated eyebrow and his
ingrained sense of irony, shrugged expressively. “No problem,” he said. “We brought our own
tents. Internal Security is prepared for anything.”

   “In that case, once you get settled, we’ll discuss assignments. Welcome to Sylvania, Arkady.
And you, too, Dina. Are you here as den mother for Arkady and his juvenile delinquents?”

   “More or less,” Dina said. “But we need to talk. Maybe this evening?”

   “Fine, we’ll have dinner. Right now, I just want to get a hot shower and some dry clothing.
Arkady? I’ll see you in half an hour, okay?”

   “Anywhere, anytime.”
THAT EVENING, GLORIA MET DINA FOR DINNER in a small, semiprivate room of the
Emporium, just off the main room. Gloria felt uncharacteristically shabby in her jeans and old
sweatshirt when she saw Dina, looking ethereally beautiful in a thin, nearly transparent, pale
blue dress, which she had fastened only at the waist. Although she was a Dexta Tiger, Dina’s
choice in apparel was normally more subdued; but tonight, her small breasts and pink, erect
nipples were almost totally exposed, and her sparse nether hair flashed in and out of view as
she walked to the table and sat down to join Gloria.

    “You’re looking great, Dina,” Gloria observed. “Field duty must agree with you. That’s sort
of a new look for you, isn’t it?”

   “No,” Dina said with a little laugh, “an old one.”

   “Oh?”

   “Twenty-five years ago,” Dina said, “I was Gloria VanDeen before there was a Gloria
VanDeen.”

   “I didn’t realize I was infringing on your copyright,” Gloria said, amused.

    “Oh, it’s not mine. I think it goes back to Cleopatra or Helen of Troy or someone. You and I
are just the latest in a long, long line.”

    Gloria poured them some wine, picked up her glass, and proposed a toast. “Here’s to our
distinguished forbears, then. Spirit bless ‘em.”

     After they had ordered dinner, Gloria spent a few moments staring at Dina. She was at least
fifty, but antigerontologicals made her look no more than a mature, worldly thirty. She had
delicately sculpted Nordic features, very fine blond hair, and wintry, blue-gray eyes. Gloria had
always thought Dina looked a little sad—haunted, perhaps—but that night she seemed to have
rekindled some forgotten inner flame.

   “So,” Gloria said, “you were me before I was?”

    “I was the up-and-coming Tiger of my era,” Dina affirmed. “I was screwing all the best men
in all the best nightclubs and flouncing around in the nude when you were still just a twinkle
in the eye of some gene-twister. I’ve got the same genetic advantages that you do, Gloria. The
S-complex, I think they call it in the business.”

   “I didn’t realize you knew about me.”

   “I can tell. Takes one to know one, you might say.”

   “You seem to have learned to control it,” Gloria pointed out. “Better than I do, at least.”

     “Experience helps, of course,” Dina conceded. “But I wouldn’t worry about it, Gloria. As far
as I can see, you’re doing just fine.”

   Gloria took a sip of wine and looked down at the tablecloth. “Maybe you haven’t caught up
on current events, then,” she said.

   “No,” Dina said, “I heard. They tried to rape you. And you are busy castigating yourself
because you think your sex appeal somehow constituted an invitation. I did the same after it
happened to me. One of the reasons Mingus sent me here was to offer you some sage advice,
but I don’t really think you need it. You know as well as I do that rape is not about sex, it’s
about violence and domination. It had nothing to do with how sexy you are. Those thugs raped
Petra, they tried to rape you, and they’d have raped their own grandmothers if they thought
the situation called for it.”

   “I suppose you’re right.”

    “You know I am. Don’t let this spoil sex for you, Gloria, or screw up your life. Your body
has its own needs that have nothing to do with what your brain might want. Thanks to that old
S-complex, you and I need, want, and revel in sex. That’s a fact that we both have to live with. I
just hope that you’re not going to be as big an idiot as I was and spend years blaming yourself
for something you couldn’t possibly have controlled.”

   Gloria smiled self-consciously. “Is it all right if I spend a few weeks being an idiot?”

   “Mandatory, in fact,” Dina told her. “But no more than that. I mean it, Gloria. You know
what the Spirit said. Do not deny yourself Joy—it’s the wellspring of happiness.”

   Gloria looked at her. “Is that what happened to you?” she asked. Gloria had never inquired,
but she was aware that something had happened to Dina, years earlier—something that had
derailed her Dexta career. Before Gloria tapped her for OSI and had her promoted, Dina had
been a Thirteen for twenty years, and seemed to have a reputation within Dexta as damaged
goods.

    Dina shook her head. “No, not exactly. The rape was part of it, I suppose. But what mainly
screwed up my life was something else entirely. You see, Gloria, I wasn’t unlucky enough to
marry a future Emperor, the way you did. What I did was much, much worse. I had an affair
with Norman Mingus.”

   “Ah,” said Gloria.

   “Ah,” Dina agreed.

   Gloria waited. “Well?” she said, finally.

   Dina closed her eyes for a moment and smiled, as if recalling a pleasant dream. “It was
wonderful for a while,” she said. “Oh, we tried to be discreet, but people at Dexta knew. They
always do, somehow. Norman was between wives at the time, and I thought I had a good
chance to fill that position. But he thought I had a bright future at Dexta, and didn’t want to
compromise my usefulness. Dexta always comes first with him, you know.”

   Gloria nodded. “I know,” she said.

   “And then,” Dina said, sighing audibly, “he sent me on a secret mission. Something like the
one he’s sent you on, I suppose. He didn’t tell me what you’re really doing here, Gloria, and
I’m not going to tell you about my own mission. Just that it was very important and very
sensitive. I was twenty-nine years old, and suddenly the future of the Empire was in my
hands—or so it seemed at the time. I suppose it wasn’t, really—I mean, it seems to have
survived, despite the fact that I made a mess of everything. You see, Gloria, I failed. Failed the
Empire, failed Dexta, failed Norman. Worst of all, I failed myself.” She looked Gloria in the eye.
“And that is why Norman sent me here. To tell you that you mustn’t fail the way I did, Gloria.
You mustn’t!”
   “I see,” Gloria said.

   “No, you don’t.”

   “I don’t?”

   Dina shook her head. “Gloria, failure happens to everyone, sooner or later. My mistake
wasn’t failing—it was the way I failed. The reason I failed.”

   “And what was that?”

    “I lost faith in Dina Westerbrook. I got scared. Overwhelmed by the responsibility. The
great big Empire depends on little old me? I let it get to me, Gloria, and once that happened, I
was lost. Every time some little thing went wrong, it seemed like a catastrophe. Every time
something big went wrong, it felt like Armageddon. And so the failures just kept snowballing,
getting bigger and bigger until finally, the failure was complete. I failed because I came to
believe that it was no longer possible for me not to fail. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

   “I … I think so.”

   “You’ve had some failures lately, Gloria. Big ones.”

   “Whoppers.”

   “The massacre. Petra. The assault. Any one of those things would be enough to knock you
back on your heels. All three together would probably have destroyed any normal person. But
Gloria—you aren’t a normal person! You can’t afford the luxury of reacting like a normal
person. I lost faith in Dina Westerbrook, but you can’t lose faith in Gloria VanDeen! Yes, I
know—in the middle of the night, when you’re all alone, you’re still just a frightened little girl.
But that little girl has grown up to be Gloria VanDeen, and now you’ve got to be her! The Gloria
VanDeen that makes strong men tremble and awes the Empire with her beauty, strength, and
courage. You created that Gloria VanDeen, and you can’t let anything that happened prevent
you from being her. Don’t fail, Gloria. Don’t let yourself fail !”

    Dina’s words struck Gloria with a force that was almost physical. She realized suddenly that
ever since the awful night when everything had gone wrong, she had been waiting for the next
disaster to strike. She expected things to get worse, and so they had. Petra had been
kidnapped. Grunfeld and the barons of the Lodge had gotten off the hook. The rapists and
murderers had gotten away. Sylvania was about to be strip-mined, and the Empire was going
to be held together by dangerous, low-grade Fergusite. And she had done nothing! Failure begat
failure and still more failure, and she had watched it all happening, feeling too small and
helpless to do anything about it.

    Dina reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I know exactly how you feel,” she
said. “But you can’t let it throw you, the way it did me. I may have been the first Gloria
VanDeen, but I don’t want you to become the next Dina Westerbrook.”

  Gloria looked at her and managed a smile. “I don’t know,” she said. “The Dina
Westerbrook I see tonight seems to be doing pretty well.”

   “After a brief twenty-year time-out.”

   “What happened, Dina? To you, I mean?”
     Dina hesitated, and for a moment a wistful expression came over her. “I told you that I
failed myself. I mean that literally. After I screwed up my secret mission, I gave myself a failing
grade—in life. I figured that I was worthless, and spent years proving myself right. Norman
ended our relationship, not because I botched my mission, but because he couldn’t stand being
around me, the way I was. He can’t abide losers, you know. He’s been a winner all his life, and
he didn’t have the time or inclination to hold my hand and nurse me back to health.”

   “Why did you stay in Dexta all these years?” Gloria wondered aloud. “It must have been
tremendously painful for you.”

    “It was—and that was just what I deserved. I wanted to make sure that I was punished for
all my failures. But there was something else. I think I was hoping for a second chance—from
Norman or Dexta or just life, I don’t know. And finally, Gloria, you gave it to me. Why did you
ask me to join OSI?”

    “I knew you a little from Sector 8,” Gloria replied, “and I thought you were dependable and
a good worker. And … don’t take this wrong, but I think I pitied you. I didn’t know your
story, but I knew you were a Tiger who had made a mistake somewhere along the way. And I
knew that the same thing could happen to me someday. I suppose I thought that if I could
help you, maybe someday someone would do the same for me. I just didn’t expect the day to
come so soon, or for the someone to be you.”

    “Partly me, partly Norman,” Dina said. “When he got your courier, he asked me to come
up to his office. It was the first time I had been alone with him in twenty years. He told me he
needed my help. Imagine how I felt when I heard that! And then he explained that things were
going badly for you, and asked me to come here and talk to you. He thought I might be the
one person who could get you back on track.”

   Gloria smiled. “Wise man, that Norman Mingus.”

   Dina returned the smile. “And so, here I am. I hope I’ve done some good.”

   “More than you know.”

    “I’m glad. So stop feeling sorry for yourself, kid. Let us see the real Gloria VanDeen—every
bit of her! The Empire just can’t afford to have a Gloria VanDeen who mopes around in sloppy
old sweatshirts.”

    “You’re right.” Gloria laughed, and promptly removed the offending garment, leaving her
in nothing but her low-slung jeans. She got to her feet and took Dina by the hand.

    “Come on,” she said. “I want to introduce you to some people here. But I warn you, Althea
will want you to work the rooms.”

   “I may just take her up on that. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”




                                         Chapter 22
GLORIA SPENT THE NIGHT WITH SLIM JIM ZUNI. She fixed some jigli tea and consumed
enough of the potent aphrodisiac to overwhelm any lingering reservations she might have had
concerning sex. Slim Jim needed two cups of the tea just to keep up with her, and by the time
they finally drifted off to sleep, he was exhausted and she was feeling like herself again.

    Slim Jim was a curious man, in some ways. He was a marvelous lover, and yet he played at
love in much the same way he played cards. He held his hand close to his vest and didn’t reveal
much of himself, retreating behind his poker face whenever Gloria tried for something more
than physical intimacy. She didn’t really mind, but she wondered about him.

     The next morning she met with the media for the promised briefing. Still tingling with the
jigli high and determined to follow Dina’s advice, she let the Empire see the Gloria VanDeen
they expected to see—all of her. She wore only a sheer white camisole top, unlaced to fully
reveal her breasts, and a smart-fabric band skirt, set for maximum transparency and less than
minimum coverage. It rode so low on her hips that her blond pubic thatch was partially
exposed.

   If yesterday’s near nudity before the media had been inadvertent and unwanted, today’s
was calculated and invigorating. She wanted everyone to see—and to convince herself, in the
bargain—that she was unintimidated by the assault on her, and that sex was and would
continue to be a vital element in the complete VanDeen package. She had succeeded at Dexta
and on Mynjhino by playing to her strengths, not by denying what she was, and she was now
more determined than ever to succeed on Sylvania the same way. Gloria stood before the
media reps and smiled as they ogled her with eyes and imagers, drawing strength and energy
from their attention.

    Her briefing was brisk and businesslike. She brought the media reps up to date on the
voter registration drive and estimated that the five thousand figure should be reached within
the next week or two. Concerning the massacre at Pizen Flats, she would say only that the
incident was under active investigation by both Dexta and the Imperial Marshals and,
therefore, she could make no comment on it. For the same reason, she refused comment on
reports of the assault and kidnapping of a Dexta official.

     When asked directly about the assault on her, she did make a comment. “Yes,” she said,
“it’s true. I was assaulted by four men, two of whom were then employed by the Mayor of
Greenlodge. I don’t know the identity of the other two. All four men have since disappeared,
although I have reason to believe that they are still on Sylvania. They attempted to rape me, but
were prevented by the timely arrival of my friends from the Emporium. If they are listening,
I’d like to invite them to take another shot at me. I would welcome the opportunity to meet
them again.”

   “Ms. VanDeen,” said a shocked media rep, “let me get this straight. Are you saying that
you want them to rape you?”

    “No, I’m saying that I want them to try. Of course, being the cowards that they are, I doubt
that they’ll have the balls to make the attempt. Nevertheless, they know where to find me if
they’re game. That’s all I have for you today. Thanks, and check with Jillian Clymer about the
schedule for future briefings.”
LATER THAT DAY, GLORIA SNEAKED OUT A SIDE door of the Emporium and walked to
City Hall through a light rain. The boomers, tired of waiting for municipal government to do
something, had taken it upon themselves to lay out wooden plank boardwalks around town, so
she made it to City Hall without having to tramp through the ubiquitous mud. She entered the
building and encountered Grunfeld’s three remaining pukes in the hallway—Karl Cleveland,
Luther Dominguez, and Anselmo Maharaj. “Hi, boys,” she said cheerily as she let herself into
Grunfeld’s office.

    Grunfeld was in his chair, feet propped up on his desk, apparently snoozing. Gloria cleared
her throat and said, “We have to talk, Grunfeld.”

    The Mayor opened his eyes, noticed Gloria, then took his feet down and stared at her. The
rain had left her minimal garments entirely transparent, and Grunfeld’s gaze fixed on her fully
revealed crotch. Gloria let him look.

    “You want it, don’t you, Kevin?” Gloria said. “A shame you missed your chance that night
at the Lodge. What did Hank and Noz tell you about me?”

    Grunfeld started to say something, but caught himself. He met her eyes and gave her a
wary smile. “Didn’t say nothin’ that I heard, Miz Gloria. Didn’t see ‘em no more. You must
think I’m real stupid.”

   “Not as stupid as they are. In fact, I think you’re probably smart enough to see that time is
running out. In about two weeks, this territory will be incorporated, and the new Imperial
Governor will have the authority to pull the plug on your little kingdom. And, of course, by
then the big shots up at the Lodge will probably have sold you out, anyway. You’ve served
your purpose, Kevin, and now you’re becoming an embarrassment. The media are here, you
know.”

   “Yeah,” he said. “They been comin’ ‘round here all day, askin’ for interviews. Ain’t made
up my mind about that, yet. Mebbe I could use a little good publicity.”

    Gloria gave a short, sharp laugh. “Good publicity? Kevin, I don’t quite know how to tell
you this, but they’ll make you look even worse than you really are. That would be a stretch, I
know, but they’re capable of it. From one end of the Empire to the other, you’ll be known as a
stupid, brutal, small-town tyrant. They’ll ask you questions you don’t want to answer, they’ll
try to embarrass you, and they’ll make you lose your temper. You’ll probably end up slugging
one of them, which is just what they want. That’ll look great on the news vids.”

   Grunfeld thought about that for a moment. “Don’t suppose I could arrest them, could I?”

   “What am I, Kevin? Your new media advisor? I’m on the other side, remember?”

   “Ain’t likely I’d forget that,” he said.

   “But that doesn’t mean we have to be enemies all the time,” Gloria told him. “It doesn’t
mean that you can’t fuck me. You can, you know. All you want. You won’t even have to rape
me. I’ll give you the best fuck of your life, Kevin, the best fuck in the Empire. And you know I
can do it.”
   Slowly, Gloria removed the camisole and tossed it onto a chair. Then she hooked her
thumbs in the band skirt and pulled it still lower until, finally, she stepped out of it and
dropped it on the chair.

   Grunfeld appeared to have frozen in place, but Gloria noticed tiny beads of perspiration
breaking out on his forehead. He breathed hard, then said, “You must think I’m some kinda
complete idiot. Last time I stuck somethin’ in there, you busted it!”

   “Not this time, Kevin. This time, I promise you, we’ll both enjoy it.”

    Grunfeld gave her a wolfish smile. “Miz Gloria,” he said, “I could sit here all day watchin’
ya. I really could. That’s gotta be the best pussy in the Empire, and you gotta be the best fuck
in the galaxy.”

   “It is, and I am,” she said.

   “So whaddya want from me?” Grunfeld demanded.

   “Petra,” Gloria said.

   “Petra? That cute little bitch what got herself kidnapped?”

   “That’s right, Kevin.” Gloria looked Grunfeld in the eye. “I get Petra back, safe and
unharmed, and you get me. You can have me for a full week, and I’ll do anything and
everything you want. I might even teach you a few things, Kevin. Here, let me give you a
preview.”

   Gloria got out of the chair, went around the desk, and knelt next to a flabbergasted
Grunfeld. She unfastened his fly and pulled out his turgid organ. For the next thirty seconds,
Grunfeld sat there in dazed rapture, a look of utter astonishment on his face.

   And then she was away from him, standing on the other side of his desk. “Like I said,
Kevin—the best.”

   “Spirit’s holy shit!” Grunfeld exclaimed. “You ain’t gonna leave me like this?”

   “Just a preview, Kevin, just a preview.”

   “Yeah, but—”

    “Think about it, Kevin.” Gloria slipped back into her wisps of clothing as Grunfeld gasped
for air and tried to make up his mind what to do.

   “I get Petra, you get me,” she said. A second later, she was out the door and gone.




THAT EVENING, KARL CLEVELAND SHOWED UP at the Emporium and approached Gloria
at the table where she was finishing a late dinner with Jill Clymer and Dina Westerbrook.
Cleveland carefully kept his distance and said, “Boss wants to see ya.”

   “I’ll just bet he does.” Gloria laughed.

   “He’s in his office,” Cleveland said.
   “Tell him I’ll meet him on the pier in fifteen minutes.”

   “That’s not how he wants it.”

   “That’s how it’s going to be. You go and tell him, then come back here with Luther and
Anselmo. The three of you stay here, and drinks are on the house. My friend Arkady
Volkonski and some of his friends will keep you company. When I come back, you can leave.”

   “Boss ain’t gonna like that,” said Cleveland.

   “Tough,” said Gloria. “Go tell him.”

    Fifteen minutes later, Gloria walked out onto the pier. The rain had stopped and a few stars
were visible, along with one of Sylvania’s two small and unimpressive moons. There was a
slight chill in the air, but Gloria had not bothered with any additional clothing. She saw
Grunfeld standing in a pool of light on the nearly deserted pier and approached him.

   Grunfeld looked more wary and less smug than usual. His mustache seemed to droop a bit,
and his eyes had the look of long and sustained worry.

   “Evening, Kevin,” Gloria said pleasantly. “Made up your mind?”

  “Still thinkin’ ‘bout it,” he said. His eyes swept over her nearly nude body. “You sure do
make it tough on a man.”

   Gloria smiled. “What’s so hard about it? You want me, don’t you?”

   “That ain’t the point. It’s the price that bothers me.”

   “You know the price, Kevin. Release Petra and I’m yours.”

   “And how do I know I can trust you?”

   “How do I know I can trust you? Release her, and that will establish a basis for some trust.”

   “Look, I ain’t sayin’ I know anything. But it just might be that I could find out where she is
and maybe set her loose. But I gotta have some guarantees. Mebbe you got it in mind to turn
around and arrest me for assault and kidnappin’, soon as I let her go.”

    “No evidence,” Gloria pointed out. “The kidnapping occurred on Palmyra, and you weren’t
there. And you weren’t directly involved in the assaults that night at the Lodge. Oh, I heard
your men talking about how you would love fucking me when you got there, but that would
never stand up in court. And, of course, you have your alibi, don’t you? That girl in Overhill?”

   “That’s right, I do. And ain’t nothin’ gonna shake her story.”

     “Shake it, no, probably not. But you know, Kevin, the Bugs and Marshals have questioned
her three times, and each time, her story came out a little different. Of course, we both know
it’s all bullshit, anyway. After all, how likely is it that you would spend the night with your girl
in Overhill, when you thought I was there for the taking at the Lodge? The only reason you
weren’t at the Lodge that night is because you had important business elsewhere—at Pizen
Flats.”

  Grunfeld snorted in contempt. “There, ya see? How in hell am I supposed to trust you
when ya pull shit like that? I ain’t about to let you pin Pizen Flats on me.”
   Gloria shrugged. “I probably won’t have to. At the appropriate moment, your friends at the
Lodge will do that.”

   Grunfeld pivoted sharply and walked a few steps away from her. When he turned back
toward her, he looked angry. “You got it all figured out, don’t ya?”

    “Kevin, it’s blindingly obvious. You know too much, and they need a fall guy for the
massacre. You see any other candidates around? Here’s how it will go, Kevin. They’ll invite you
up to the Lodge for a meeting, and as soon as you get there, they’ll kill you. Then Vigo will tell
the Marshals some perfectly plausible story about how you threatened them or tried to
blackmail them, or you were drunk and dangerous. Whatever. They won’t try to make it look
like suicide, of course, the way they did with Rankus. In fact, while they’re at it, maybe they’ll
blame you for that, too.”

   “Bullshit. He was dead when I got there.”

    “As a matter of fact, Kevin, I believe you. And I just can’t buy Rankus as a suicide. He may
have been sick, but I think he was prepared to fight it out to the very end. But then his friends
got tired of waiting for him to die, so they gave nature an assist.”

    “Damn right they did. Found that old bastard just sittin’ there in his easy chair, that old
gun in his hand and his brains blowed out. Never seen a man got shot by one o’ them
bullet-pistols before. Real mess. I know damn well he didn’t do it to himself, but I don’t know
who really did it. If I did, mebbe I’d tell ya. But I don’t.”

    Gloria nodded. “But you do know a lot of other things, Kevin. Right now, your only way
out is to start talking, before they kill you. I’m prepared to offer you a deal.”

   “What kind of deal?”

     “You testify against them, and you walk. I’d have to talk to Judge Kershaw and the
Marshals about it, but I think they’d go for it. You give us the person or persons at the Lodge
who ordered the Pizen Flats massacre, and you’ll go free. Why not be smart, for once in your
life, Kevin? You don’t owe those bastards a thing.”

   Grunfeld tugged at one end of his mustache for a moment. “You’re pretty smart, Miz
Gloria,” he said. “But it could be that you ain’t got everything figured out as good as you think.
Mebbe I got some leverage o’ my own.”

   “Or maybe you just think you do. What you do have, Kevin, is 3.7 million crowns in a
bank on Palmyra, and another account on New Helvetia. We don’t know yet how much you
have in that one, but we we’ll find out eventually. You could have a pretty good life with that
kind of money, if you don’t go on being greedy and stupid. Get out now, while you still can.”

    “Mebbe I can get out without your help. Mebbe I don’t need nobody’s help. I ain’t as
stupid as you think I am. I can figure things, too, Miz Gloria, and I ain’t about to let any o’
those bastards at the Lodge sell me out.”

   “Kevin, Kevin,” Gloria said, “Myron Vigo has been outsmarting people a hell of a lot
smarter than you for nearly a century. That’s what he does, for Spirit’s sake! Whatever angles
you think you’ve figured, he’s figured a dozen more.”

   Grunfeld said nothing for nearly a minute. Gloria waited patiently.
   “I gotta think ‘bout this some more,” he said at last.

   “Have it your way. But don’t take too long. And in the meantime, the deal for Petra still
goes. Don’t take too long making up your mind about that, either. I know she’s still on
Sylvania. If we find her first, the deal’s off, and the only way you’ll ever fuck me is in your
dreams.”




TWO DAYS LATER, THE IMPERIAL GEOLOGICAL Survey team landed. They arrived in a
Land-Air-Sea-Space (LASS) vehicle, similar to those used by the Imperial Marines but about a
quarter the size. The vessel splashed down in the river because a water landing was more
economical of fuel, but it could just as easily have landed on Main Street or on top of a
mountain.

    Stu Eckstein and his crew of five greeted Gloria at the Emporium. Gloria threw her arms
around him and gave him a bearish hug. His five geologists had to settle for handshakes, and
glared at their leader with a mixture of admiration and envy. There were no rooms available at
the Emporium, or anywhere else in town thanks to the crush of new arrivals, so Eckstein and
his people decided to stay aboard their LASS.

    Eckstein took Gloria on a brief tour of the vessel, whose mission was to take samples from
the Fergusite layer beneath the valley and surrounding mountains. Plasma drills, powered by
the LASS’s fusion reactor, unfolded from the fuselage and would be used to create boreholes
down to the Fergusite. A variety of drones would then be sent down the holes to collect
samples and make measurements. The samples would be delivered to the onboard geological
laboratory for analysis.

    “First,” Eckstein explained, “we need to map the area in several wavelengths and get a
better picture of the lay of the land. The existing geological maps are just first-order work, not
really good enough for sampling purposes. Then, once we’ve got everything plotted, we’ll start
drilling holes and taking samples.”

   “How long will it all take?” Gloria asked.

    “A couple of weeks to get a representative set of samples. Then we’ll use that data to map
the quality of the Fergusite layer. It’s bound to vary from place to place, but we’ll be able to
establish upper and lower values as well as an average value for the layer as a whole. And that
will determine whether it’s worth mining.”

     Gloria nodded. “The geologists from Excelsior, Servitor, and Imperium are already here,”
she said. “They’re staying up at the Lodge, but as soon as they find out you’re here, they’ll be
all over you. ‘Eager’ doesn’t begin to describe them.”

   “No one from Prizm?”

   “Maddie Mitchell says Prizm is willing to accept the IGS results and doesn’t feel the need to
kibbitz. They seem to have developed a fatalistic attitude about the whole thing.”

  “So have I,” said Eckstein, looking around to make sure they were alone in a corner of the
LASS. “I’ve had a report from Sam Roosa. It doesn’t look very promising.”
   “I know,” Gloria said. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

   “Hard to say. I want to get down there and check out the readings as soon as possible.”

    “No time like the present. The Emporium’s not very busy during the day, so we can get
into Room 9 without attracting attention.”

   “Lead on,” said Eckstein.




THEY FOLLOWED SAM ROOSA THROUGH THE tunnel to the gallery on hands and knees.
Gloria again felt the symptoms that she refused to believe had anything to do with
claustrophobia, and was relieved to arrive at the larger space of the gallery. Eckstein
immediately surveyed the instruments, looking and sounding like a doctor making rounds in a
ward full of seriously ill patients.

   “I don’t like it,” he said when he was finished. “Too much heat buildup, and it’s lasted too
long.”

   “That’s what I thought,” Roosa agreed.

   “We should have melted any small igneous intrusion by now. It’s possible that there’s a
break in the layer itself, and the energy just isn’t getting to most of the Fergusite.”

   “Can we do anything about that?” Gloria asked.

    Eckstein shook his head. “We’d need to map the break and set up operations on the other
side of it. Under the circumstances, I don’t see any way to do that.”

   “But at least we’ve ruined all the nearby Fergusite, right?”

    “Maybe.” Eckstein pointed toward the blue-green glow of the plasma beam. “Nothing like
this has ever been done before, for obvious reasons,” he said. “It should work, in theory, but
reality is a hell of a lot sloppier than theory. What worked in my computer sims may not work
at all in the ground.”

   Gloria frowned. “You never mentioned that,” she said.

    “I didn’t think I needed to. Anyway, I didn’t want to discourage you—and I still don’t. This
may yet work, and if it doesn’t, there may be another dodge we can try. I need to think about
that some more. In the meantime, though, if I were you, I’d concentrate on winning the
Eminent Domain vote. Right now, that looks like our best bet.”

    “Then we’re in worse trouble than you think, Stu. After the Pizen Flats massacre, the
riverrats were too scared to refile their claims. As far as I can tell, there’s a solid majority of
claims that will go with the corporates.”

   “Sixty percent?”

   “Probably, but there’s no way to be sure. This isn’t an exact science either, you know.”

   “Then you’d better start changing some minds, Gloria.”
   “I know, I know.” But she also knew that if she did anything at all to rally the riverrats, it
could cost Petra her life. If she couldn’t tempt Grunfeld into accepting her deal, she wouldn’t
dare let herself be seen taking an active role in the Eminent Domain battle.

   Stay out of the way , they had told her.




GLORIA SPENT THAT NIGHT WITH ECKSTEIN AT the Emporium. She was happy to be
back with him. He didn’t have the youth and energy of Ted Oberlin or the virtuosity of Slim
Jim Zuni, but she felt more comfortable with him. She wasn’t in love with Stu Eckstein, but
she liked him a great deal and admired his intelligence and courage; after all, he was taking the
same risk she was. With poor Ted, there had not been time enough to establish that deep a
bond, and Slim Jim was content to keep an emotional distance between them. Eckstein was an
attentive and intuitive lover, and had the maturity to keep things in perspective. Gloria nestled
in his arms and slept well.

    The next afternoon, the Dexta team crowded into Gloria’s office and watched over her
shoulder as she downloaded the day’s results from the pads of each registration team. They had
been working Overhill of late, where resistance to registration had abruptly faded following the
death of Claude Rankus. With each new data set, the total number of registered voters climbed
toward five thousand. When the computer tallied the data from the final pad, the total number
flashed in red on the console screen: 5007.

   The weary bureaucrats shouted and whooped. They had succeeded in their mission and
were justly proud of themselves. There were handshakes, hugs, and kisses all around, and
Gloria promised them free drinks, free dinner, and free anything else that they might choose to
sample from the Emporium’s wares. But, happy as they were, most of them had only one
question in their minds.

   “When can we go home?” Sintra Garbedian asked.

   “Soon,” Gloria told them. The answer was not well received.

    “What does ‘soon’ mean?” demanded Wilmer DeGrasse. “We were brought here to do a
job, and we’ve done it. We should be allowed to return to Earth immediately.”

    “We’re not quite done, people,” Gloria explained. “There may still be some refiling of
claims before the Eminent Domain hearing, and we’ll have to handle that. So for now, we
stay.”

   “And when will this hearing happen?” Garbedian wanted to know.

    “As soon as Charles appoints an Imperial Governor and formally incorporates the territory.
Then the Governor can accept the Eminent Domain petitions from the corporates and set a
date for the hearing. From what I’ve heard from HQ, it seems that the Governor-designate is
already on his way here. So I’d guess you’ll be here another two or three weeks, at a
minimum.”

   The groans were almost as loud as the cheers had been a few moments before.
    “If it’s any consolation to you,” Gloria said, “I want you to know that I intend to give each
of you the highest possible commendation for your service here under difficult and trying
conditions. I expect you’ll all be looking at promotions when you get back to Manhattan.”

    That mollified them, and the Dexta people made their way out of her office and down to
the main room for the promised free dinner and drinks. Gloria lingered in her office alone. She
was proud of her team—but one member of it was still missing.

   “Petra,” Gloria said aloud, “I’ll get you back. I swear it!”




                                           Chapter 23

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, STU ECKSTEIN ARRIVED at the Emporium lugging an
armful of hard-copy images acquired from the LASS. “It’s all in the computer, of course, but I
like to be able to see it all at once,” he explained to Gloria. “Got a couple of tables where I can
spread this out?”

    They shoved two large tables together in a corner of the main room and Eckstein proceeded
to lay out the images, as carefully as Slim Jim Zuni dealing a hand of cards. When he had
finished, the eastern side of the Rankus River Valley was revealed before them, in all its
complexity.

    “This is just visible wavelengths,” said Eckstein, “but it helps me to study the way it all
looks to the naked eye. My colleagues tell me I’m old-fashioned, but for my money, the best
geological instrument in the galaxy is still a Mark-One Eyeball. You need to get a feel for the
gestalt of a place and see how it all fits together before you can really hope to understand the
subsurface structures. Synclines, anticlines, plutons—the works. See there? That pile of scree at
the base of the cliff tells me volumes about the geological history of that area.”

    “Uh-huh,” said Gloria, who didn’t know anticlines from antimatter. To her, the images
looked pretty, with their sweeping blend of greens and browns, but seemed to convey no more
information than an abstract artist’s painting. She was impressed by Eckstein’s ability to glean
useful data from the apparent chaos.

   Gloria pointed to one corner of the array. “And this is Greenlodge?”

    “In all its glory,” Eckstein affirmed. “And that misshapen monstrosity is the Emporium, as
seen from twenty kilometers overhead.”

    “Hey, careful how you talk about the Emporium, pal!” Gloria objected. “I think it has a
certain dynamic … uh … grace. And this is the Lodge, over here?”

   “Right, and Overhill just beyond it.”

   “Funny, it looks much closer than it seems from the ground.”

    “The straight-line distance is only about six kilometers, but you have to travel twice that far
to get there in a skimmer.”
       Gloria gestured at the images. “And this is the ridgeline where the highboys work?”

    “That’s right. To the east and north, the Fergusite layer is mostly submerged, although I
think there may be a couple of outcrops on the slopes of that second ridgeline, and maybe a
few more as you get up into the mountains.”

     “I see,” said Gloria. Something caught her attention in one of the images, and she pointed
to it. “What’s that?”

    “What?” Eckstein looked to where she was pointing. “Oh, that? Some sort of small
structure on the southwest face of this mountain. I hadn’t really noticed it before—I tend to
concentrate on the rocks.”

       “What sort of structure?”

     “Beats me. I didn’t even realize there was anything up there, that far from the river. Looks
like it might be a house, but I don’t know why anyone would build one there. See how close it
is to the snow line? A few more weeks into the rainy season, and it’ll be half-buried in snow.”

       “Spirit!” Gloria covered her mouth with her hand and stared, wide-eyed, at the image.

       “What?” Eckstein asked her.

       “It’s a ski lodge!” she cried. “Pollas’s ski lodge! He mentioned it once, but I forgot all about
it!”

       “So?”

    Gloria turned to face Eckstein. “That’s where she is,” she exclaimed. “That’s where they’ve
taken Petra!”

    Eckstein was not immediately impressed. It seemed to him that Gloria was overinterpreting
the data. “What makes you think so?”

    “Where else could she be?” Gloria insisted. “The Bugs have searched Greenlodge, Overhill,
and every mining camp in the valley. And, Stu—it’s Pollas’s ski lodge! It all fits! That’s the only
place he could hide her.”

    Eckstein thought about it, nodded, and turned to say something to Gloria. But she was
already gone, racing across the Emporium to find Arkady Volkonski.




GLORIA EASED THE SKIMMER UP THE FINAL slope. Ahead she could see the wooden
structure of the ski lodge, with its steep roof and gingerbread architecture. It was downright
cute, she thought. Beyond, the mountain rose swiftly, with the snow line just a couple of
hundred meters above the house. The top of the peak was cloaked in gray clouds.

   It had taken her over three hours to pilot the skimmer to this spot. The course she followed
had been plotted from the geological images in order to find the most accessible route for a
skimmer. Still, it had been a difficult journey. She made it over the first ridgeline with few
problems, but the second ridge was steeper and offered little in the way of gentle slopes and
unobstructed passage. After negotiating an annoying but necessary series of switchbacks to
gain elevation, she picked her way through a narrow, boulder-strewn defile that led to the
other side of the ridge and a long, nearly straight valley. She followed that to the northeast,
toward the towering peaks in the distance.

    As she drove, Gloria thought about what Eckstein had told her that night in his apartment
on Palmyra: eventually, everything averages out. After so many mistakes and so much
arrogance and stupidity, it seemed to her that she had finally done something right. Still, luck
had its own role to play in the course of events. If she hadn’t taken an interest in Eckstein’s
images, if she hadn’t spotted the little structure on the mountainside … well, that didn’t really
bear thinking about. She had spotted it, and that was all that mattered.

    Petra was there. Gloria felt it as a certainty. Her friend was going to be all right; she was
certain of that, too.

    And, as a welcome bonus, she wouldn’t have to spend that week with Grunfeld. The little
preview in his office had been bad enough; a week with that monster would have been
dreadful beyond imagining. The offer was necessary, and she had been prepared to live up to
her part of the bargain. Fortunately, Grunfeld had been too stupid to seize the opportunity.

    When the ski lodge was in view, she carefully parked the skimmer behind a cluster of tall,
pinelike trees and got out to walk. The air was thin and bracing, and Gloria wished that she
could have worn something more than the molecules-thick white bodysuit she had on. But she
knew she would need every possible edge for what was coming, and the bodysuit was slick
and almost impossible to grip securely. For the same reason, she had set the suit’s transparency
at 90 percent and left the pressure seam open in front all the way to her crotch; bare breasts
and belly might win her a crucial second of distraction, and a second was all she needed. At
least, she hoped so.

   As far as she could tell, there was no one outside on guard duty. In a way, that was good; it
implied that they were securely overconfident. On the other hand, it meant that all four of
them would be inside. She had no doubt that all four men who had assaulted her and Petra
would be there. She would be disappointed if they weren’t.

    She paused at the front door. She had noted another door on the right side and presumed
that there was a rear exit, as well. Curtains obscured the view through the windows. After
considering a dramatic, kick-the-door-open entrance, she decided to settle for a sharp knock
on the door. That, in itself, ought to have been a considerable surprise.

    A few moments later, the door opened and she saw Hank Frezzo standing there, plasma
pistol in hand. Frezzo’s eyes widened.

   “Hello, Hank,” she said, and walked past him into the building.

    Noz was standing behind Hank, and exclaimed, “What the fuck are you doing here?” The
other two men from the lodge were also there—a tall, skinny man with red hair and a red
beard, and a shorter, huskier man with a shaved face and shaved scalp. They stood rooted in
place, and could not have been more surprised if Santa Claus had suddenly dropped down
their chimney.

   Gloria looked around, engraving the details of the interior in her mind. To the right of the
large, central room there was a kitchen, mostly hidden by the angle of the walls. Directly
ahead, she saw a hallway that presumably led to bedrooms and a bathroom. Just to the left of
the hall was a massive stone hearth, with a fire crackling away. Along the left wall sat a large
sofa. A dining area and table was to her immediate right and a vidscreen was on the wall to her
left, with a few chairs and a coffee table scattered aimlessly throughout the room. The place
looked a bit sloppy but expensive and comfortable. Pollas probably liked it there.

   Frezzo shut the door behind her and continued staring at her. The bald man took a step
toward her. “You got your full share of nerve,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”

  “I think she just misses us,” Noz snickered, once he had recovered from his surprise.
“Wants another go-round.”

    “What I want,” Gloria said, “is to make a trade. Let Petra go, and you can have me. But first,
I have to see for myself that she’s all right. Where is she, back there?”

    Gloria pointed toward the hallway, and without waiting for anyone to respond, started
walking in that direction. The red-haired man obligingly stepped out of her way. The first door
on her left was open, and she saw that the room was empty. The first door on her right was
closed. She kicked it open.

   “Gloria!” Petra screeched.

    They threw their arms around each other and hugged so hard it hurt. Gloria had to push
her away so she could get a good look at her. Petra seemed fully recovered, as far as could be
determined simply by looking. The nanomeds had done their job, and her face was unmarred,
her body apparently sound. Her hair was straight again and back to its natural shade of brown.
She was wearing only a much-too-large green flannel shirt that came down almost to her
knees.

   “How are you, kiddo?” Gloria asked her.

   “I … I’m fine. Really! But what are you doing here?” A fearful expression crossed her face.
“They didn’t take you, too, did they?”

   Gloria shook her head and smiled. “No chance of that,” she said.

   “That’s what you think, bitch,” said Red, from behind her. “Both of you, get out here.”

   Gloria put her arm around Petra’s back and gently ushered her into the main room. “Don’t
worry,” she said. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

   The bald one frowned, then shook his head. “I don’t like this,” said Baldy. “Noz, get outside
and keep a watch. I don’t think she’s dumb enough to have come here alone.”

   “Fuck you,” Noz replied. “I ain’t missin’ this!”

   “Just do it,” Baldy snapped. It was clear to Gloria that he was the man in charge. It figured;
no one in his right mind would have put Hank or Noz in charge of anything.

   Noz stared at Baldy for a moment, then reluctantly went to the door and stepped outside.

   “Now,” said Baldy, “suppose you tell me just why you think I should let her go and keep
you, when I can keep both of you?”
    “You don’t need Petra,” Gloria replied. “The whole point of kidnapping her was to keep me
from doing anything to screw up the Eminent Domain vote for Pollas, right?” She watched
Baldy carefully, but his face betrayed no reaction. “Well, if you’ve got me here, I can’t do
anything, can I?”

     “If I let her go, she’ll just go straight to those Bugs you’ve got in town and tell them where
to find us.”

   “She won’t if I tell her not to.”

   “You expect me to believe that? You must think you’re dealing with complete idiots.”

    “No,” said Gloria, “as far as I know, I’m only dealing with two complete idiots. Red, I don’t
know about, and you seem to have at least a few brains under that shiny dome of yours. Let
Petra go, and I promise you, she won’t tell anyone where I am. Right, Petra?”

   Petra looked very uncertain. “Uh, Gloria …”

   “Right, Petra?” Gloria repeated, giving Petra a nudge with her left elbow.

   “Uh … right. If you say so.”

   “I say so.”

   “I still don’t buy it,” said Baldy. “Why don’t I just keep both of you?”

   Noz abruptly reentered the lodge. “There ain’t nothin’ out there,” he declared.

   Baldy turned on him. “Just keep watching, dammit!”

   “Fuck you,” Noz responded. “I’d rather watch her.” He pointed at Gloria. “You said we
couldn’t touch the other bitch, and we didn’t. Nobody said we couldn’t have the VanDeen
cunt.”

   “Is that true, Petra?” Gloria asked her. “They didn’t harm you?”

    “Nobody laid a hand on me,” she said. “Actually, they were kind of nice to me, in a creepy
sort of way. Once I could walk again, they even let me outside sometimes.”

    Gloria looked at Baldy. “Thank you,” she said. “I know it couldn’t have been easy keeping
these morons in line.”

   “Watch that talk, Miz Gloria,” Hank cautioned. “We let you off easy, last time. Could be,
we’ll give you a taste o’ what we gave Petra, this time ‘round.”

    “You’re welcome to try, Hank,” Gloria said evenly. “But if you keep waving that plasma
pistol around, there might not be anything left for you.”

   Hank looked at the pistol, then sheepishly tucked it into his belt.

    Gloria looked into Baldy’s eyes. The man was no fool, and very soon, he was going to make
his decision. There was no doubt what that decision was going to be.

   She willed herself into a Qatsima-state and took the measure of the moment. The discipline
involved mind as much as body, and Gloria felt herself moving into the deep-focus mentality
that the Qatsima masters had taught her. While continuing to stare at Baldy, she registered the
precise location of everyone, everything in the room. Petra was to her left, tense and breathing
rapidly. Ahead of her stood Hank, on the far left, then Noz, Baldy, and Red, lined up about two
meters away from her, a meter apart.

    “Petra,” Gloria said, “you know what they say. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the
kitchen. What about it, Baldy? Think you can stand the heat?”

   “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

    Instead of answering, Gloria took a half step forward, her eyes still locked with Baldy’s.
They were four and she was one, but she was focused and concentrated and knew exactly what
she intended to do, while they were uncertain and uncoordinated. Advantage: VanDeen.

    Gloria suddenly thrust her arms straight out to the sides. The motion provoked
consternation and confusion among the four, but they held their ground and watched her
carefully. She slowly moved her arms up in a circular, windmill motion, and four sets of eyes
could not help following them.

    With no preamble, Gloria abruptly launched herself in a flying kick that planted her right
heel squarely in the soft groin of Hank Frezzo. Even before Frezzo toppled over backwards,
Petra, taking her cue, was dashing toward the kitchen and its door to the outside.

    Gloria rebounded from Hank, whirled to her left and around, coming out of the spin in a
double-scissors-kick move. Noz, Baldy, and Red all ducked back and out of the way, as Gloria
had intended. That gave her room to slide to the right, to the fireplace. She grabbed a long,
brass poker and waved it menacingly as the three men maneuvered to trap her in the corner to
the right of the hearth. Trapped she may have been, but she was precisely where she wanted to
be—no one could get behind her.

    Noz was now on her left, Red in the center, and Baldy on her right. They crouched slightly
and spread their arms a little, as if expecting her to attempt a break through their loose line.
She swung the poker back and forth and made short, thrusting feints with it, keeping them at
a wary distance until they could figure out how to handle her. Across the room, a supine Hank
Frezzo was moaning and clutching himself.

   “You’re gonna get it now, bitch,” Noz promised her.

    Baldy suddenly saw a blur of motion to his right, out of the corner of his eye. “Watch out!”
he shouted to Noz, who turned just in time to see the cast-iron frying pan come crashing into
his face, swung with all the force in her small body by a vengeful and single-minded Petra.

    Before Noz hit the floor, Gloria took a backhand swipe at Baldy with the poker, hitting a
glancing blow on his right cheek, and almost simultaneously launched herself into another
flying kick that connected with Red in precisely the same spot she had connected with Hank.

    With no one blocking her way to the left, Gloria quickly danced past the collapsing Red,
pausing on her way past to give him an elbow to his nose. Out of the corner of her eye she saw
Hank, on the floor, trying to rally and reaching for the pistol in his belt. Petra saw him too and
dashed over to him with the frying pan. Its impact on his face produced a resounding,
satisfying clang!
   Gloria gave Baldy an evil grin. “You’re outnumbered,” she told him. “You want to give up
now, or do I need to break a few bones first?”

   Baldy put his hand to his cheek and wiped away blood from where the poker had struck
him. He looked at the blood in his hand, then looked up at Gloria and returned her grin. “Take
your best shot, bitch,” he snarled.

   “Aw, hell,” said Gloria. “This is too easy. Here, catch!”

     She tossed the poker high into the air, almost to the ceiling. Baldy instinctively reached
upward with his right hand to catch it. Before it came down, she was on him, snaring the
splayed-out little finger of his right hand in her right fist. She quickly broke it and yanked his
arm downward. As he howled in sudden pain, she got a grip on his right thumb with her left
fist, and broke that, too.

    Baldy flailed for her with his left hand but couldn’t catch up with her as she pulled him
around by his right. Then she raised his arm, ducked under it with a twisting move and came
up on the other side of him with a final application of torque that snapped his right wrist. He
bellowed in pain and outrage and Gloria, behind him now, planted a hard kick in the back of
his right knee, dislocating it. He fell forward and Gloria was on him, her knee impacting on his
spine.

   “Frying pan?” Petra asked.

   “No thank you,” Gloria said politely. Instead she simply picked up the poker again and
savagely slashed him across the right side of his face three more times, turning his cheek to
hamburger and scoring the fourth broken nose of the day.

   Arkady Volkonski suddenly stuck his head inside the door. “Internal Security, anyone?” he
asked.

   “You’re early, dammit!” Gloria snapped.

    “Well, I didn’t want you ladies to have all the fun,” Volkonski said. Six gray-clad Bugs
came through the door behind him and stationed themselves over the more or less inert forms
of the four men.

    Then Pug Ellison managed to force his way through the crowd and ran to Petra. She threw
her arms around him. “My hero!” she cried.

   “What’s he doing here?” Gloria demanded.

   Volkonski shrugged. “Couldn’t keep him off the LASS,” he said. “Young love, you know.”

   Volkonski and his Bugs got things organized, and in short order Hank, Noz, and Red, their
arms bound behind them, were sitting on the sofa in varying degrees of consciousness and
pain. Baldy, with his broken arm, was left unshackled, but was seated on a wooden chair with
Bugs on both sides of him.

   Arkady nodded toward Baldy, then looked at Gloria. “This is the leader?”

   “Seems to be,” Gloria affirmed.

   Volkonski kicked him sharply in his good knee to get his attention. “You know who we
are?” he asked.

   “Fucking Bugs,” Baldy responded. He tilted his head back in an effort to staunch the
continuing flow of blood from his nose.

    “That’s right,” said Volkonski. “We’re fucking Bugs, otherwise known as Dexta Internal
Security. We have an Empire-wide reputation for our dedication to the rigid enforcement of all
three thousand pages of the Dexta Code. We are known for our integrity and adherence to the
law. What is not widely known, however, is that we only play by the rules when someone is
watching. No one is watching now.”

   Baldy untilted his head and looked at Volkonski. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

    “No one knows we’re here,” Volkonski told him, “and no one knows you’re here. Figure it
out. You see, we Bugs take a very dim view—in fact, an incredibly dim view—of anyone who
assaults one of our people. And you four idiots assaulted two of our people. Rafferty? Show
them what we think of people who do things like that.”

   One of the Bugs nodded and unceremoniously grabbed a log from next to the hearth and
used it to shatter Red’s kneecap.

   “You fucking people are crazy!” Baldy shouted above Red’s agonized screams.

   “We don’t appreciate verbal abuse, either,” Volkonski informed him. “Gloria? I note that
you broke this man’s arm.”

   “Plus a thumb and a finger,” Gloria amended.

   “Ah, yes, so I see. One of your Qatsima moves? I’m sure my men and I could profit by a
demonstration. Would you be so good as to show us how you did it?”

   “Certainly. Gentlemen?” She looked toward the two Bugs flanking Baldy. They grabbed
him by his upper arms and yanked him to a standing position.

   Baldy, grimacing from his accumulated pains, stared at Gloria in something very close to
horror. “You can’t do that!” he screamed.

   “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Of course I can.” She snatched his left little finger and thumb
and, as the Bugs held him, deftly repeated the maneuver that had broken Baldy’s right wrist.
The crack of the bones in his left wrist sounded like a firecracker going off.

    The Bugs deposited Baldy back in his chair. He doubled over, gasping for air. Volkonski
straightened him up by grasping his broken nose in a viselike grip and pulling. Baldy nearly
passed out from the pain.

    When he had recovered slightly, Volkonski stooped over and addressed him, face-to-face,
from a distance of a few inches. “Now, then,” he said. “Do you understand your situation? We
are going to ask you some questions. You are going to answer them. If we don’t like your
answers, or if we think you are holding anything back, we are going to break more of your
bones. There are, I believe, some 206 of them in the human body. I think we could probably
break about a hundred of them without actually killing you. It might be interesting to find out,
don’t you think? Or would you prefer to talk?”
   Broken and bleeding, the man in the wooden chair talked.




                                         Chapter 24

“DO YOU, VINCENT HASTINGS, AFFIRM THAT THE statement you are about to give is by
your own free will and not made under duress or coercion?”

     Baldy started to laugh in Volkonski’s face when he heard that, but evidently thought better
of it. “I do,” he said. His nose had stopped bleeding and was taped up; he sounded as if he had
a very bad case of hay fever.

   “Will you describe for us the actions taken by you and your confederates—Henry Frezzo,
Herbert Gnozdziewicz, and Franklin McDonald—at approximately 8:00 P.M. on the evening of
June 15, 3217, Standard Calendar, at a place known as the Lodge on the planet Sylvania?”

    Hastings glared at his captors for a moment, than began reciting in a dull monotone the
details of the assault on Petra and Gloria. Petra, hearing for the first time what she still didn’t
remember, listened with an increasingly angry expression on her face. Pug Ellison stood close
behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

   “Now, Mr. Hastings, would you tell us how you came to be on Sylvania at that time?”

    “I was hired by some guy on Palmyra,” he said. “Don’t ask me his name because I don’t
know it. Just some guy. Gave me ten thousand crowns in cash and promised me another forty
for doing a job on Sylvania. I asked him if I could bring along Frank McDonald to help, and he
said okay. They only paid Frank twenty-five. We took a freighter to Sylvania.”

   “Where did you go following your arrival?” Volkonski asked him.

   “Well, first we went to this place called the Emporium. We had a few drinks and—”

   “I think you can skip that part for the moment. Did you then proceed to the Lodge?”

   “Yeah.”

   “And who at the Lodge instructed you in the duties you were to perform?”

   “The guy who runs the place,” said Hastings.

   “Pollas?” Gloria interjected eagerly. “Vigo?”

   “No,” Hastings said, “the guy who runs the place. Thawley.”

   “Thawley!” Gloria exclaimed. She approached Baldy and looked at him carefully. “You
don’t expect us to believe that Thawley was running the show, do you?”

   “Believe whatever the fuck you want. You asked me who gave us our orders, and I told
you. It was Thawley. I saw that Pollas guy once or twice, and Vigo, but I never said anything to
them and they never said anything to me.”
     “Damn!” Gloria was sure Baldy was telling the truth, and the truth was not what she
wanted it to be. She should have expected it, she told herself. Pollas and Vigo were too smart to
let themselves become directly involved. Thawley was the obvious middleman.

    “Mr. Hastings,” said Volkonski patiently, “do you expect us to believe that you were
brought from Palmyra and paid fifty thousand crowns simply to assault and rape two Dexta
officials? What else were you expected to do to earn your money?”

    “There was some other stuff,” Baldy admitted after a moment’s hesitation. “But we never
got around to doing any of it, so you can’t hang that on us.”

   “Hang what on you?”

    “Thawley said we should attack some of the miners’ camps along the river. The way they
did at Pizen Flats that night. Only we never did that.”

   “Why not?”

    “They gave us something else to do a couple of days later.” He nodded toward Petra.
“Someone I’d never seen before showed up with her in a skimmer late at night and told us to
bring her here and keep her here. Also told us not to touch her, and we didn’t. She’ll tell you
that herself.”

    “I see,” said Volkonski. “Now, as to these massacres that you didn’t get a chance to commit,
did you receive any specific instruction as to where, when, and how from Mr. Thawley?”

   “No. Thawley told us to coordinate it with the other guy.”

   “What other guy?”

   “That big clown down in Greenlodge. The guy who did the Pizen Flats job.”

   “And which big clown would that be?” Volkonski inquired.

   “Who do you think?” sniffed Baldy. “That idiot mayor. Grunfeld.”




KEVIN GRUNFELD PACED BACK AND FORTH IN his small office. Too damn small, he
thought. It felt more like a cage than an office.

   It would be neither cage nor office much longer; that much, at least, was clear to him.
VanDeen, damn her, had been right—time was running out. He had thought that he had
planned everything with care and precision, and that the deals he had made would protect
him. He knew enough to bring down Pollas and Vigo and the fat cats at the Lodge, and a
couple of those corporate bastards, to boot. They wouldn’t dare try to sell him out, because that
would just be cutting their own throats.

    Grunfeld had written down everything and stashed it all in a place where no one would
ever find it. And that, it had lately occurred to him, could be a problem. If no one could find it,
then it would pose no threat to anyone if he were dead. He needed a way to make sure that his
story would automatically surface if anything happened to him, but that was no easy thing to
arrange. For starters, he had to make sure that his account could not come to light before he
was dead. But there was no one on the whole Spirit-forsaken planet that he could trust!

    Karl Cleveland had been with him the longest, and was as close to being his friend as
anyone—which was not very close, now that he considered it. Cleveland was reliable but not
exactly trustworthy, and he sure as hell wasn’t very smart. He’d make his own deal with the
Lodge, or get suckered by Vigo, probably both. As he continued pacing, Grunfeld arrived at
the suspicion that Cleveland had probably already sold him out. Luther Dominguez, too.

    In a strange way, he realized, the only person on the planet that he trusted at all was Gloria
VanDeen. She had offered him a deal that was almost too good to be believed, and yet he did
believe it, up to a point. She was tough, but when she stared at him with those too-blue eyes of
hers, it was almost impossible not to believe that she meant what she said. She might fight
him, humiliate him, embarrass him, or tempt him, but he didn’t think that she would lie to
him.

    And just why did he think that? Because she was the greatest piece of ass in the fucking
galaxy, that was why!

   “Kevin, you poor stupid bastard,” he said aloud. “You’re thinkin’ with your cock.”

   Which she had counted on, of course.

    He stopped pacing, sat down behind his desk, propped his head up on his elbows, and
pulled idly at the ends of his drooping mustache. Spirit, how had he gotten himself into this
fix? And how could he get out of it?

    He didn’t see how he could avoid making the deal with VanDeen. He could sit down with
her and the Bugs and Marshals and the Judge and tell them everything he knew about what
had been going on. And then he would walk … free to enjoy his millions on some faraway
world where Pollas and Vigo would never find him. At least, VanDeen said he would walk, if
the Judge and Marshals went along with it. But would they? Would they let him walk away
from the massacre at Pizen Flats?

     Grunfeld was no humanitarian, but he had never felt good about Pizen Flats, not from the
first moment the plan had been explained to him. Oh, there was a certain mad, frenzied
exhilaration about it, he couldn’t deny that. Burning all those people and knowing he would
get away with it had loosed some primal, predatory joy within him. Slaughter for its own
bloody sake had some instinctive appeal to it; it must have, or else why did it keep happening,
again and again, down through the ages?

    And yet, he’d had nothing against those people. Hell, he’d even liked Gus Thornton, a bit.
He didn’t much care for the idea of them all being dead, for no good reason except money.
And was it really about the money? Grunfeld already had more of it than he’d ever dreamed
possible. He was a fucking rich man, incredible as that still seemed to him. Did he really need
the extra money that had been promised to him—enough to kill forty-nine people for it?

    If not the money, then what? What kept him here, long after he should have cashed in his
chips and gotten out of the game?

   What it came down to, he realized, was that Greenlodge was the only home he had ever
known. He had drifted his way here and always figured that someday he’d drift somewhere
else. Instead, he had stayed, and had put down something very like roots. He enjoyed lording it
over the town and the people, and hated to think that he would have to give that up. But more
than that, he had grown attached to the place itself—the tranquil river and the soaring peaks in
the distance, and the slow, unhurried rhythm of the changing seasons. He didn’t want to leave.

     What he really wanted was the Emporium. Damn Elba, for not selling it to him! It was a
good place to while away the hours and days. Good food, drinks, a hand of cards, a few laughs,
all the pretty whores a man could ask for. But then VanDeen aced him out and Dexta took it
over—Dexta! Spirit, how could such a thing have happened?

   And then, that miserable night after VanDeen broke his fingers … they had laughed at
him. Laughed! At him—Mayor Kevin Grunfeld! No one had ever laughed at him before, or if
anyone did, they didn’t laugh for long. After that night, he couldn’t even go back to the
Emporium for a drink or a whore. VanDeen had ruined everything for him.

   VanDeen. Spirit, what ill wind had brought her breezing into his life? He had always
thought he could handle any woman—except maybe Elba—but VanDeen was more than any
man could handle. Even the Emperor. It made Grunfeld feel oddly proud that he had
something in common with the Emperor.

    He could have her for a week. He had no doubt that she’d live up to that part of the deal.
The bitch was sex-mad, he could tell. Oh, she was just trying to use him to get her friend back,
but there was more to it than that. She could have said he could have her for a day, but instead
she’d said a week. She wouldn’t have said a week if she didn’t feel at least something for him.
And lately, she’d taken to calling him “Kevin,” as if she actually liked him a little. Maybe she
even wanted that week as much as he did. Maybe …

    Grunfeld leaned back in his chair and sighed. The goddamn woman had turned his brain
to mush! Like him? Shit, she despised him!

  But … a week. A week. Alone with Gloria VanDeen, the most beautiful woman in the
Empire, the sexiest bitch in existence. Spirit, how could he not take a deal like that?

    It would mean selling out Hank and Noz, of course. He didn’t mind selling out those two
assholes they’d brought in to “help” him—as if he couldn’t handle everything himself. But if he
sold out Hank and Noz, how long would it be before Karl and Luther did the same to him, if
they hadn’t already?

    One thing was becoming crystal clear. Before this was over, somebody was sure as hell
going to get sold out. And Kevin Grunfeld, Honorable Mayor of Greenlodge, was the one man
that everyone could sell out. It could come from above or below, but it was bound to come.

   There was only one possible answer.

   “I’ll do it,” he said aloud. He’d take VanDeen’s deal, and even if she sold him out, too,
maybe he’d at least get his week with her first. A week with that golden body and that
hypnotic face and flowing blond hair …

   His dreams of Gloria were abruptly interrupted by the reality of her. She stood in his
doorway and smiled at him.

   “Time’s up, Kevin,” she said.
   Grunfeld didn’t move. He sat there, staring at her for long moments, then slowly nodded.

    “Figures,” he said. “Just now made up my mind to take your deal. Don’t suppose I can still
get that week with you?”

   Gloria shook her head. “We have Petra back,” she told him. “And the men who had her
have been talking a blue streak. No deals, Kevin. It’s all over.”

    Behind Gloria, Grunfeld could see a couple of the Bugs out in the hallway. Well, it had been
a pretty good run while it lasted. Grunfeld pushed his chair back, got to his feet, and walked
out from behind his desk.

   “We could’ve had a helluva week,” he said to her, managing a weak smile.

    “It might have been interesting,” Gloria conceded. “But right now, you have a date with
Judge Kershaw. If you cooperate and tell us everything you know about the Lodge and Pizen
Flats, it will go easier on you.”

   “Fat chance of that!” Grunfeld laughed.

   “Don’t be so sure, Kevin. You’re not the one we really want. We want Pollas and Vigo, and
you can give them to us.”

    “Mebbe I can,” Grunfeld agreed. “And mebbe I’d turn up dead about two seconds after I
started talkin’. I’d need a bunch o’ protection.”

    “You’ll be in Dexta custody, at least initially,” Gloria assured him. “You’ll be completely
safe.”

    “Hah! Ya think so? Then there’s shit you ain’t got no idea about, Miz Gloria. I don’t think I
like my chances with Dexta.”

   Gloria spread her arms and asked, “What other chance do you have, Kevin?”

   Grunfeld smiled. “One, mebbe,” he said, and then threw himself into the window behind
him. He crashed through wood and glass and splatted down onto the mud outside.

    The impact momentarily knocked the wind out of him, and it took a few moments for him
to get moving. He slopped around in the mud, immediately lost his footing, and went down
face-first. By the time he was on his feet again, Gloria had raced out the front of the building
and into the alley. She tackled him on the fly, and they both went down. They rolled over each
other and all but vanished in the mud.

    He was on top of her, and Gloria could gain no leverage for a Qatsima move. His weight
pressed her down deeper into the gumbo. As she took a last gulp of air, he put his hand over
her face and pushed until the mud closed over her completely.

    It crossed Grunfeld’s mind that he could drown her in the mud. Kill her, right there in the
alley in the middle of town. It seemed a shame, somehow, and anyway, he had more urgent
things to do. Two Bugs had come after him, sloshing their way toward him, plasma pistols
drawn. He rolled away from Gloria and kicked out at the first Bug as he came in range.
Grunfeld’s kick missed, but in trying to avoid him, the first Bug lost his balance, slid back into
the second one, and both of them went down in the mire. One of them lost his pistol; it went
flying up into the air and Grunfeld lunged for it. He flopped through the ooze like an alligator
on a riverbank and managed to seize the pistol securely in his grip.

   Gloria emerged from the mud, gasped for air, then tried to wipe the gunk out of her eyes.
Grunfeld, pistol in one hand, grabbed for her with his other. She tried to squirm away from
him, and he could get no grip on her muddy, slick bodysuit. She twisted around to crawl
away, but Grunfeld managed to get a handful of her hair and brought her up short with a firm
yank.

    Grunfeld scrambled onto the firmer ground, keeping the pistol pointed in the direction of
the two Bugs in the mud, dragging Gloria with him. He got himself to his feet and pulled
Gloria to hers. Then he stuck the barrel of the pistol against her head and moved backward,
toward two skimmers parked on the other side of the alley.

   Volkonski and three other Bugs had arrived at the scene, pausing at the far end of the mud
puddle, ten meters away. Their plasma pistols were drawn, and they were taking dead aim on
Grunfeld.

   “No,” Gloria shouted, sputtering out mud. “We want him alive!”

   “You want her alive,” Grunfeld added, “you put them pistols down. Throw ‘em in that
puddle. Now!”

    The Bugs hesitated, but Volkonski finally tossed his pistol into the mire, and the others
followed suit. Grunfeld, still holding a firm grip on Gloria’s hair, pulled her along with him to
the skimmers.

   “I oughta burn your fuckin’ head off, Miz Gloria, I really oughta,” Grunfeld told her.

   Gloria twisted around and looked at him over her shoulder. “You don’t want to do that
Kevin,” she said.

   Grunfeld looked into the intense blue eyes staring at him from her mud-smeared face. Even
now, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and his heart ached to think that he
would never really have her. Not for a week, not for a night, not for a second. He could keep
anyone else from having her, he could pay her back for all the misery she had caused him. He
could …

   No, he realized suddenly. He couldn’t.

   “Shit,” he said. “We coulda had ourselves a time.” With that, Grunfeld gave her a hard
shove that sent her reeling back into the mud.

    He ran for the nearest skimmer, got in, and started moving. Volkonski and the Bugs made
for the puddle to retrieve their pistols, but Grunfeld aimed the skimmer straight at them, and
they dived headfirst into the muck. Grunfeld zoomed past them and headed for the river.

   First the river, then … then what? Where? He wondered if it even mattered now. There was
no way he could get off of the planet, and yet there was nowhere on the planet that he could
hide. The mountains, maybe. Sure, why not? Upriver, then. He would run, and they would
chase. He didn’t have to run to something—running was its own excuse. Just keep running.
What else was left?
GLORIA GOT TO HER FEET AND DASHED TO THE second skimmer. She jumped into the
driver’s seat and nearly slid right out of it. Righting herself, she started it up and took off in
pursuit of Grunfeld. He had gunned his skimmer across Main Street and headed toward the
river, scattering boomers right and left as he went. They had no sooner pushed themselves
back up out of the mud than they had to dive back into it to avoid Gloria.

     Grunfeld headed upriver at top speed, keeping barely a meter above the water to gain
maximum force from the mass-repulsion unit. Gloria did the same, but found she could not
gain on him. He was already a good three hundred meters ahead of her, throwing up a rooster
tail of spray.

   Where Grunfeld thought he could go, Gloria could not imagine. Had he made himself a
hidey-hole somewhere up in the mountains, she wondered? He could have cached supplies
enough to last for quite a while, she supposed, but to what end? So he could live like a hunted
animal for a few months? Maybe. Grunfeld operated more on instincts than intellect, and he
was fleeing instinctively now.

   But he hadn’t shot her.

   And somehow, she had known that he wouldn’t.

    He was a swine for sure, a cold-blooded, sadistic killer with no redeeming characteristics
except, perhaps, a poorly developed sense of humor. And yet, Gloria knew—instinctively,
maybe, like Grunfeld—that there was some strange link between them. She had read
somewhere that the hunter feels some sense of identification with the prey, so perhaps that was
it.

    At one point, Grunfeld veered to the left, toward the west bank of the Rankus River and a
side stream that came gushing down from the slopes. Gloria angled to cut him off, and
Grunfeld turned back to the right and upriver again. She realized that he was searching for
alternatives as he fled, and had no plan, no destination.

    Gloria glanced back over her shoulder and saw, a kilometer to the rear, a makeshift fleet of
three more skimmers in pursuit. Volkonski and the Bugs, obviously. Wherever Grunfeld went
to ground, he would soon have company. Gloria just hoped that Volkonski could control his
Bugs and keep them from killing Grunfeld. He was the only link between the massacre and the
Lodge—except for Preston Thawley, who was on faraway Palmyra, or perhaps even farther
away by now. Or perhaps, simply dead. Gloria suspected the latter. Mr. and Mrs. Thawley
were of no further use to the barons of the Lodge, and they knew far too much.

   So it was Grunfeld. They had to take him alive.




THEY SPED PAST PIZEN FLATS WITH NEVER A pause and continued upriver toward the
cul-de-sac of the falls. With Gloria close behind and the Bugs spread out across the river to the
rear, Grunfeld had no hope of escaping by doubling back, and ahead lay nothing but the
massive wall of the mountains. They emerged from the final, narrow canyon into the bowl at
the head of the river, and Grunfeld slowed for a moment before making for the east bank, near
the campsite Gloria had used. He grounded the skimmer on dry land and got out quickly.
Looking back at his pursuers, he paused to fire a harmless bolt from his plasma pistol, then ran
toward the craggy rocks that flanked the falls.

     Gloria was only seconds behind him. She parked the skimmer next to his and ran after him
through a gentle, misty rain. Heavy gray clouds cloaked the peaks to the north, and the falls
itself seemed to plunge from out of nowhere, like a detail of an immense, unfinished landscape
painting. She saw Grunfeld climbing the rocks like some large, mud-colored lizard ascending a
stucco wall.

    She quickly reached the base of the escarpment and clambered up onto the first tier of
smashed boulders. Grunfeld was perhaps twenty meters above her now, making his way
steadily upward. The higher he went, the steeper the climb became.

   “Kevin!” Gloria called to him, straining her voice to make it heard over the roar of the falls,
“where the hell do you think you’re going?”

   He paused and looked down at her with an inscrutable grin. “Gonna hide in them clouds
up there!” he yelled. “Then I’m gonna float away on ‘em.”

   It might have been a joke, but Gloria realized there was a kernel of truth to it. If Grunfeld
could climb high enough to disappear into the overhanging clouds, they would lose track of
him, and it might take days or weeks to find him again.

   “Kevin,” she shouted, “come down here before you hurt yourself!”

   “You come up!” he laughed, then turned back to the rocks and resumed his ascent.

    Gloria shook her head, but knew she would have to follow him. Her bodysuit had built-in
treads on the soles of the feet, but they were not designed for mountain climbing. The rocks
were slippery in the rain and spray from the falls, just ten meters to her left, and she had little
experience at this sort of work. Still, Grunfeld was no mountain goat himself, yet he was
making steady progress. The incline was still fairly gradual here, and the jumble of cracked and
shattered boulders offered a profusion of foot- and handholds. Farther up, above the pile of
debris that had fallen from the unseen cliff top, the granite face of the native rock looked sheer
and unscalable. Grunfeld couldn’t get away, but he might very well kill himself trying. Gloria
went after him.

    She followed his path, finding the going difficult but not impossible. Twice, her feet nearly
slipped out from under her, but she managed to grab on to outcrops with her hands and pull
herself back up. She craned her neck and saw Grunfeld another thirty meters above her,
perhaps fifty meters from the base of the debris pile.

   “C’mon, Kevin,” she cried. “You’re not gonna make me come all the way up there, are
you?”

   “Why not?” he shouted back at her. He almost sounded as if he were enjoying himself.

   Gloria looked down and saw Volkonski and the Bugs assembled below her. Two of them
had started to follow her up the rocks, but she called, “No! Stay there, all of you. I can handle
this myself!”

   “Don’t be crazy, Gloria,” Volkonski yelled. “He can’t get away!”

    Grunfeld heard him and replied by firing off a bolt from his pistol that sent the Bugs
scattering for cover.

   “Stop that, Kevin,” Gloria demanded. “You’re being stupid again.”

    Grunfeld laughed heartily. “Why change now?” he asked. He stuck the pistol back into his
belt, boosted himself onto a ledge, and strained for a grip on the next outcrop. Gloria sighed,
then resumed her own climb. Handholds were getting harder to find now, and the surface was
wet and slick. She pressed herself as close as possible to the rock face and kept climbing. A
downward glance was a mistake, she discovered. Of course, she didn’t have acrophobia, just as
she didn’t have claustrophobia. Heights didn’t frighten her a bit—but falling from them did.
She took a deep breath, found a likely foothold, and moved upward.

    Tilting her head back, she saw Grunfeld struggling on the slippery surface. He braved a
vertical jump and managed to get a secure handhold on a narrow ledge above his head.
Huffing and puffing from the unaccustomed exertion, he was able to boost himself upward
until he could stand on the ledge. Above, the going got even more difficult.

    “Kevin!” Gloria shouted. “Come back down while you still can! Tell you what, I’ll give you
an hour with me. We’ll go off into the woods alone and fuck our brains out for an hour! How’s
that sound?”

   Grunfeld looked back down at her. “Sounds like a trick.”

   “No trick, I swear. C’mon, Kevin, you know you want me. This is your last chance.”

   “An hour, huh?”

   “Absolutely!”

     Grunfeld laughed. “You really want me that bad? Shit, could be you’re gettin’ so ya like me
a little?”

   “Could be, Kevin,” Gloria agreed, but added, “Everyone knows I have terrible taste in men.
I mean, look at the man I married!”

   “Hah! Ya had a fuckin’ emperor, and now ya want the miserable Mayor of Greenlodge?”

   “I’m just a sucker for a man with a title, Kevin.”

   Grunfeld thought about it for a few seconds, then shook his head. “Ain’t got no title now,”
he said. “Just an ex-mayor. Ex-everything. Naw, I don’t think so, Miz Gloria. Been swell
knowin’ ya, but I think I’d best move on.”

   “Dammit, Kevin!”

    But Grunfeld had already begun his next ascent. He wedged his left foot into a narrow
crevice in the rock and pushed upward. He clawed at the slick rock surface and found a
projecting rock that seemed to offer a secure grip, but when he put his weight on it, the rock
broke away from the cliff face. Grunfeld windmilled his arms frantically, searching for a grip
somewhere in thin air. He found none.

    Gloria watched in dismay as Grunfeld toppled over backwards and plunged downward. He
struck the cliff face halfway down and ricocheted toward the base of the falls. His splash was
lost in the thunder and spray of the cascading water.

    Forty meters up, Gloria gritted her teeth, took a deep breath, then pushed off. She tried for
a graceful swan dive, but rotated a little too far over; instead of hitting the water cleanly, she
smacked it hard with her back and rump.

    The impact stunned her momentarily, and the next thing she knew, she was deep under
the water below the falls, gliding downward through a ghostly, bluish-green radiance. She had
spent so much time swimming there that the scene was familiar to her, although she had never
dived so deep. Maneuvering to halt her downward motion, she desperately looked around in
search of Grunfeld.

    She spotted him languidly drifting toward the bottom, perhaps twenty meters away from
her. She stroked and kicked, feeling the painful pressure in her ears and the beginnings of
urgent need in her lungs. Gloria strained every muscle and pushed herself to her physical
limits, closing the distance to Grunfeld in seconds.

   She snagged him under his collar with her left hand and immediately began kicking
toward the surface. The big man’s inert weight tried to pull her back down, and her upward
progress was agonizingly slow. She would never reach the surface in time with him in tow,
never. The light was just too far away. But she had to try, so she closed her eyes and stopped
tormenting herself with the sight of the impossible distance she had to go. She retreated into a
Qatsima mind-set, tranquil and patient. Time was merely an illusion, distance a mirage. All
moments, all places were one …

     Gloria broke the surface, opened her eyes, and filled her lungs. The turbulence from the
falls pulled her back down again, but she maintained her grip on Grunfeld and began kicking
toward shore. Gaining distance from the riotous waterfall, she managed to get her head above
water again and gasped hungrily for more air. The shore was just ahead.

    Two Bugs plunged into the frigid water and helped her pull Grunfeld to the rocky
riverbank. He lay on his back, eyes wide-open but unseeing. Gloria wasted no time, and
pressed her lips against his, forcing precious air into his lungs. Again, and then again, and still
again.

   “Breathe, Kevin!” she yelled at him. “Dammit, breathe!”

    She felt hands on her shoulders, trying to pull her away. She fought them and again put
her mouth to Grunfeld’s, trying to breathe for him. In, out … dammit, Kevin …

   “Gloria!” Volkonski shouted at her above the thunderous falls. He put his fingers under the
back of the neck of her bodysuit and pulled her upward.

   “Let me go!” Gloria screeched.

   “Gloria, it’s no use!” Volkonski insisted. “Look at him, Gloria. His neck is broken.”

   She did look, and for the first time noticed that Grunfeld’s head was tilted away from his
body at an impossible angle. Volkonski was right—it was no use. Grunfeld was gone. And gone
with him was everything he knew and would never say.




                                           Chapter 25

SIR HARTWELL BOSWORTH, NEWLY APPOINTED Imperial Governor of Sylvania, surveyed
his realm from the heights of the Lodge and wondered if it consisted of anything more than
rain, mud, and Fergusite. His arrival and ceremonial investiture had been a fiasco, with a
drenching downpour reducing the welcoming committee to a handful of Dexta functionaries
and a couple of gofers from the Lodge. None of the local population—not one!—had bothered
to show up, and the absence of comsats and communications facilities made it impossible to
spread the news of his coming except by word of mouth. In the end, the formal proceedings
had been held aboard the Imperial yacht that delivered him. The Territory of Sylvania was
officially incorporated into the Empire and entrusted to Sir Hartwell’s care before an audience
of five and a few media reps; most of the media had gratefully departed from Sylvania after the
massacre story wrapped.

    One of the five was Gloria VanDeen, about whom the Emperor had given him abundant
warning. She had quickly lived up to her advance billing by inviting him and his retinue to a
reception at a place called the Emporium, about which he had also been warned. He had icily
declined the invitation, with the observation that a whorehouse was hardly an appropriate
venue to begin his term in office. “Why in the world not?” VanDeen had replied.

   Fortunately, the trustees of the Lodge had forwarded an invitation to make his
headquarters in the now-vacant upper floors of their establishment. Since the only alternatives
were the Emporium or the cramped quarters of his yacht, Bosworth had hastily accepted.
Now, as he endured a boring and rather makeshift reception in the main room at the Lodge, he
reminded himself that his appointment to this soggy, backwoods world would last no more
than a few months, if all went well.

    This was his fourth Imperial Governorship, his second for Charles, and he knew precisely
what was expected of him and what he stood to gain from a smooth performance. Bosworth
was one of a more or less hereditary class of Imperial retainers, worthy individuals from the
right families who stood ready to serve the Emperor in any appropriate manner. His father and
grandfather before him had been Imperial Governors, and one of his great grandfathers had
been Chamberlain to Alfonso II.

    In an interview before leaving Earth, Charles had explained matters to Bosworth in
considerable detail. His task was clear: oversee the Eminent Domain hearing, grant the mining
concession to the corporates, and see to it that the operation got off to a swift and efficient start.
Since the outcome of the Eminent Domain hearing was assured, and since the deal for the
mining concession had already been struck, he would really have very little to do other than
show the Imperial flag and keep all of the players in line. For that, he would receive the thanks
of a grateful Empire and ten million crowns, payable to his account on New Helvetia.

    It all seemed easy enough, even if it meant enduring months on this truly awful planet. The
trustees of the Lodge were an obsequious, oily bunch, eager to please and thoroughly
transparent—small-time hustlers from the third-tier world of Palmyra. He supposed that he
could endure their company for a few months, since there seemed to be no alternative.

   The only bright spot was the presence of at least three extraordinarily beautiful women.
One of them, alas, was Gloria VanDeen, and the Emperor’s warning about her had been
explicit. “Don’t even think about fucking her, Bosworth,” Charles had snarled. “Well, you
won’t be able to avoid thinking about it, but don’t do it, you hear me? She’ll wrap you around
her little finger and cause Spirit knows what mischief. Look, but don’t touch, understand?
That’s an order from your Emperor!”

    Bosworth was content, for the moment, just to look. VanDeen had come to the reception
wearing an entirely transparent dress, deeply slashed in front and rear to freely reveal every bit
of her magnificent body. Imperial orders notwithstanding, he had every intention of fucking
her before he left this otherwise dismal world, and from everything he had heard about her, he
rather fancied that he would get the chance to do just that. Already, she had given him rather
obvious encouragement with her flirtatious behavior and an invitation to visit her at the
Emporium.

   Still, VanDeen was dangerous, so Bosworth shifted his gaze to the other likely candidates.
One was a Prizm representative named Maddie Mitchell, tall, thin, dark-haired, and blatantly
sensual. She was wearing a navy blue jacket which she had left wide open, and matching,
low-riding pants that rode unnervingly low on her hips. Her nipples were as impressive as
VanDeen’s, and she had the same ‘please-fuck-me-immediately’ look in her eyes. However, the
word on Mitchell was that she preferred women.

   That left his new, interim Imperial Secretary, an icy blonde from Dexta named Dina
Westerbrook. She was a bit older and more knowing, and would certainly be aware of what he
expected from her. She wore a black skirt slit to the hipbone and a sheer white blouse,
unbuttoned to reveal her small, eager tits. Her manner was formal but enticing, and he fully
expected to have her in the sack by the end of this very long and tiresome day.

     Bosworth nibbled some rather ordinary canapés, sipped the mediocre champagne, and
allowed himself a sigh of resignation. One does what one must, he reminded himself, and ten
million crowns was more than adequate compensation for a few months of enforced boredom.
Still, he felt that after this assignment, Charles would owe him something a little better the next
time.

    He saw Norfleet and Lund, two of the annoying corporate reps, approaching him and
mechanically switched on his condescending smile. Weasels, both of them, but major players
in the unfolding scheme of things around here. A quadrillion crowns at stake, Charles had said,
so it was necessary to put on a good face for Excelsior and Servitor and their smug little
minions. He stole another look at VanDeen’s spectacularly bare ass across the room, then
greeted Lund and Norfleet as if there were nothing more important in the Empire than
keeping them happy.




AT THE FAR END OF THE RECEPTION AREA, Gloria glanced over her shoulder at Imperial
Governor Bosworth, then resumed her conversation with Dina Westerbrook. “Loyal retainer,”
she said, “prominent family, skilled politician, total jerk. I never met him in Rio, but I heard
about him. He’ll expect his new Imperial Secretary to do his work for him by day and warm
his bed at night.”

   Dina shrugged. “He’s not bad-looking, though, in an overbred sort of way.”

   “Said to be a skilled if somewhat eccentric lover. You don’t have to screw him, you know.”

   “I know. But it might be useful, don’t you think?”

    “Hmmm.” Gloria considered that for a moment, then said, “Useful, maybe. But not
essential. He won’t be making any decisions on his own, I can assure you of that. He’s just here
to implement the deals that have already been made. I’d fuck him myself if I thought it would
help, but I doubt that it would.”

    “No problem,” Dina said. “I’ll handle him. I may even take a run at Lund and Norfleet, too,
for whatever that may be worth.”

   Gloria laughed. “You’re really plunging into this assignment, aren’t you?”

   “Gloria,” Dina said, “I’ve waited twenty years for another chance, and now that I have it,
I’m not going to be shy about using everything I’ve got. I may even teach you a few tricks.”
Dina winked at her, then glided across the room to join the corporate reps and the new
Imperial Governor.

   Maddie Mitchell joined her and nodded toward Dina. “One of the sisterhood, isn’t she?”

   “She’s got what we’ve got,” Gloria agreed.

    “Lucky her. Lucky us. I’ve been hoping that you and I could find some time to renew our
relations, Gloria. I’ve thought about you a lot.”

   Gloria gave her a warm smile. “We’ve both been pretty busy lately,” she said.

    “How’s Petra?” Maddie asked. “I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to see her since her
return.”

    “She’s doing fine,” Gloria said. “Physically, she’s completely recovered. She still doesn’t
remember much that happened that day, which is probably just as well. She says she does
have some disconnected recollections of being out by the pool with you, however. Finally got
her, huh?”

   Maddie shook her head. “Not really. Not the way I wanted her.”

    “Too bad. You’ve missed your chance, then, I think. She and Pug Ellison seem to have
started something pretty torrid.”

    “Really? Good, that’s just what she needs. And what about you, Gloria? How are you
getting along with our geologist friend?”

   Gloria smiled. “Just fine, thank you. Although he’s been pretty busy with the sampling and
… other things.”

   “And how are those ‘other things’ going?”
    “Not very well, it seems. We may have some serious problems. Right now, I think our best
bet is for you and Shoop to come up with something.”

    “That’s not a very good bet, then. You haven’t heard? An Imperium VP just arrived the
other day. The proposals about a Prizm-Imperium deal that Shoop sent back have not met
with overwhelming favor at the home office. I think the VP is here to ride herd on Thomas,
although he says he’s just observing. Unless you can come up with a hell of a lot more proxies
for the Eminent Domain vote, I doubt that there will be any deal.”

     “I see. Well, I may be able to get a few. Now that Petra is safe and the Bugs are here in force,
I intend to do a little drumbeating among the riverrats. If I can get them to refile the way they
did at Pizen Flats, we may come up with several hundred more proxies for our side. May, I
emphasize.”

    “That would certainly help,” Maddie said. “And I’ll do what I can with the Imperium Veep.
Not my type, you know—but he seems to think that I’m his type. I’ll just close my eyes and
think of Prizm.”

   “Do you suppose,” Gloria wondered, “there was ever a time when people made major
decisions simply on the merits of the case, and not because of money, politics, and sex?”

   “You, my dear,” Maddie said, giving Gloria a chaste peck on the cheek, “are an idealist!”




GLORIA HAD MANAGED TO AVOID DIRECT ENCOUNTERS with any of the Lodge
nabobs, but Myron Vigo finally cornered her alone, offering his usual charm, wit, and innocent
smile. She was weary of fencing with him and decided to stop pretending that he was anything
other than what he was.

   Vigo took a moment to stare at Gloria’s fully exposed breasts and blond pubic delta.
“Enchanting dress, Ms. VanDeen,” he said. “I must say that I find your penchant for public
nudity most diverting.”

   “Thank you, Mr. Vigo,” Gloria replied. “But it’s not simply sexual display, you know. Back
on Mynjhino, the natives said it signified that I was an honest woman with nothing to hide.”

   “Indeed,” said Vigo, “I’m certain that’s true. I hope you’re enjoying the festivities, such as
they are.”

  “Not as much as you are. But then, I suppose it must be very satisfying to commit mass
murder and think that you’ve gotten away with it.”

    For a second, Vigo seemed on the verge of reacting with anger, but he quickly collected
himself and countered with more charm and wounded innocence. “Ms. VanDeen,” he said,
“you disappoint me. You’ve gotten your killers, and it would be presumptuous in the extreme
to accuse others of being involved. Grunfeld is dead. The case is closed, is it not?”

    “Not,” Gloria said firmly. “What’s presumptuous is to assume that Grunfeld was acting on
his own. Now that he’s dead, Judge Kershaw issued a writ to get us access to his account on
New Helvetia. Who knows what might turn up there?”
    “Indeed,” said Vigo. “Yet you act as if you already knew. Whatever transactions may have
been recorded, personally, I would doubt that they would point you in any particular
direction.”

   “Meaning that you’ve covered your tracks.”

    “Meaning, Ms. VanDeen, that even an idiot like Grunfeld would be unlikely to leave any
incriminating evidence behind.”

  “There’s still the question of all the claims and proxies he accumulated. We still don’t know
who wound up with them. Do you, Mr. Vigo?”

    Vigo gave her a thin, cautious smile. “If I did, I certainly wouldn’t be at liberty to discuss
the matter, now would I?”

   “So Grunfeld sold them to you and your pals? With something extra to pay for the
massacre, no doubt.”

    “Really, Ms. VanDeen, I would be a little more circumspect, if I were you. Loose talk like
that could put you on the receiving end of a truly prodigious lawsuit. As an attorney, allow me
to advise you to refrain from publicly slandering people simply on the basis of your unfounded
suspicions. The consequences could become quite ugly.”

   “Well, mass murder is an ugly business, isn’t it? Permit me to ask you, as an attorney, if
you think that the Special Circumstances statutes would apply in this case.”

    “The death penalty?” Vigo asked. “I should think that it might, indeed, be applicable in
such a case, and it wouldn’t surprise me at all if the Imperial Justice Department asked for it in
the prosecution of Grunfeld’s gang. But that’s mere speculation on my part. After all, I’m not a
criminal lawyer.”

   “Too bad. You might need one before this is finished.”

   “I rather doubt that, Ms. VanDeen,” Vigo replied. “But before I take my leave of you, allow
me to give you one piece of advice that you would be foolish not to heed.”

   “Oh? And what would that be, Mr. Vigo?”

   Vigo winked at her. “Try the lobster bisque. It’s superb.”




GLORIA SPENT THE NEXT DAY ON THE RIVER, visiting the camps of the riverrats and
spreading her gospel of refiling their claims. With Grunfeld and his pukes gone and the Bugs
patrolling the valley, she assured them of their safety. She hoped she wasn’t being
overconfident on that score, but figured that it was unlikely that the Lodge would attempt any
new attacks at this stage.

   The riverrats’ response was not everything she had hoped for, but they still had a week to
make up their minds before the filing deadline. The corporates had already filed their Eminent
Domain petition with the Imperial Governor, and Bosworth was setting everything in motion.
Judge Kershaw would preside at the hearing in ten days’ time.
     Gloria roamed through the camps along the river wearing nothing but thin white shorts
and a flimsy shirt, both of which were quickly rendered transparent by the daylong drizzle.
She was free with her hugs and kisses and let the boomers take liberties with her that even she
might have considered too familiar under normal circumstances. But the circumstances were
anything but normal now; they were in the home stretch, and in order to accomplish the
mission Mingus had given her, she would need to employ every advantage she could muster. If
letting the riverrats grope, paw, and ogle her would result in even a few more votes in the
Eminent Domain hearing, she was more than willing to subject herself to their attentions.




EVENING FOUND HER HUDDLED WITH ECKSTEIN and Roosa in the gallery beneath the
plasma recharger, pondering the gloomy geological news. The results from the first sampling
runs had been more than a little discouraging. The Emperor and the corporates were willing to
accept an impurity rate in the Fergusite of between ten and twenty parts per billion, despite all
the risks that entailed. Eckstein’s initial results showed an average impurity rate of about
sixteen parts per billion.

    “I thought we’d do better than that,” Eckstein admitted. “And some samples are as high as
thirty PPB, so it’s not as if we haven’t accomplished anything. But the average for the areas
we’ve covered so far is still well within the acceptable limits the Emperor established.”

    “So all of this”—Gloria swept her hand around to encompass the gallery and the shaft—“is
a bust. We’ve failed.”

   Eckstein shrugged. “We sure as hell haven’t succeeded. But it’s not over yet.”

    “We only have a week to go,” Roosa pointed out. “I don’t see how we can accomplish much
in that amount of time.”

   “Not the way we’re going about it now,” Eckstein agreed. “But there’s one other thing we
can try. There are problems with it, but my simulations show there’s a chance that it could
work.”

    “Forgive me for saying this, Stu,” Gloria said in disgust, “but your simulations seem to
stink.”

   “I never guaranteed anything,” Eckstein reminded her. “And I’m not promising results
now. But there is something else we can try, if we’re willing to take some risks.”

   “Such as?”

   “We’d need to use the second recharger—Grunfeld’s. But that’s in City Hall.”

   “Dexta runs City Hall now, Stu,” Gloria pointed out. “We’ve moved all of our operations
over there. If you’re worried about security, I can get Arkady to put a couple of Bugs on it. No
one will know anything is going on.”

    Eckstein nodded. “Okay, that takes care of one problem. Sam, how long to adapt the
second recharger?”

   “Maybe a day,” said Roosa. “And another day to drill a shaft down to the Fergusite. But
even with two plasma streams, I don’t see how we’re going to accomplish much in the five
days we’ll have left.”

   Eckstein grinned. “For what I have in mind,” he said, “five minutes will be enough.”

   Roosa looked at him, and comprehension slowly dawned in his eyes. He shook his head.
“You can’t be serious!” he objected.

   “I think it would work,” Eckstein insisted.

   “Spirit! You must be out of your mind!”

   “Maybe. But I still say it would work.”

   “What would work?” Gloria demanded.

   Roosa pointed his finger at Eckstein. “This maniac,” he said, “wants to blow us all to
kingdom come!”

    “Not quite, Sam. You’re forgetting something. With two rechargers, we can set up an
interference pattern. See?”

    Roosa frowned, his brow furrowed in deep thought for several moments. “Hmmm,” he
said.

   “It’s just a question of synchronizing the wave patterns so we get a nulled-out region
between the two discharges. Then the overload will be forced into the surrounding Fergusite.”

   “Can we get that kind of precision?” Roosa asked dubiously. “You’re expecting a helluva lot
from a jury-rigged system.”

    “We can do it,” Eckstein insisted. “We’ll start out at low energy levels and fiddle with the
pattern until we’ve got it synchronized. Then we gradually increase the energy until we’re
ready for the final overload.”

   “Yeah … yeah … maybe …”

    “Maybe what?” Gloria shouted in frustration. “All this may be perfectly obvious to you
technical types, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

    Eckstein turned to her, an eager smile on his rugged features. “Look,” he said, “it’s really
very simple, Gloria. You know how two waves can cancel each other out, right? If the waves
are synchronized properly, you get an interference pattern.”

   “Uh … okay. So what?”

   “So we can do that with the two plasma rechargers. That would create an area between
here and City Hall, maybe a few hundred meters in diameter, where the energy input into the
Fergusite layer would do no damage at all.”

   “And that’s good?”

    “It’s essential. Look, the reason our results so far have been poor is because we are limited
in the amount of energy we can pump into the layer below us. If we put in too much, it will
simply break down the local Fergusite crystal structure to the point where no further energy
transfer to the rest of the stratum is possible. So we’ve had to do it gradually, to preserve the
energy transference properties of the Fergusite. But with an interference pattern established to
protect the stuff directly below us, we can inject far more energy, which would be transferred
throughout the entire Fergusite layer.”

   “And that would be enough to ruin the rest of the Fergusite?”

   “Absolutely,” Eckstein assured her.

   Roosa cleared his throat. Gloria and Eckstein looked at him. “Tell her the rest of it,” he said.

   Gloria looked back at Eckstein and raised her eyebrows.

   “Well,” Eckstein told her, “there is one minor drawback to this plan.”

   “Which is?”

    “Which is,” Roosa put in, “that the three of us spend the rest of our lives on a prison world
for high treason.”

   “I didn’t say it was perfect,” Eckstein said. Roosa gave a snort of derision.

  “Wait a minute,” said Gloria. “If we do it this new way, you’re saying we’ll be caught?
Why?”

   “Because,” Roosa explained, “doing it this way will blow the roof off City Hall and the
anteroom of the Emporium. Literally. That might tend to draw a certain amount of attention to
what we’ve been doing.”

    “You see, Gloria,” Eckstein said, “we don’t have time to be subtle. We’ll have to zap the
entire layer all at once with one, final, gigajoule overload. That energy will spread throughout
the Fergusite layer and destroy it. But it will also seek out every line of escape, so to speak.”

    Roosa pointed his thumb toward the shaft. “It will blast straight up through this shaft and
the one under City Hall. I expect people would notice that.”

   “Ah,” said Gloria, understanding at last.

    They sat in silence for a full minute, each of them contemplating the risks, the stakes, and
the future. At length, Gloria said, “I’m in.”

    “I’ll send my man Dwayne away the day before we do it,” Roosa said. “At least that will
give him a head start.”

    “And you’ll go with him, Sam,” Eckstein said. “I won’t need you for the finale. We can’t do
it manually, in any case. I’ll rig a remote to blow both rechargers at the same instant.”

   Roosa shook his head. “You’ll still need someone on the second recharger to make final
adjustments to the flow. Anyway, I don’t want to miss this. It ought to be one hell of a show.”

   “A show?” asked Gloria.

   “Plasma beams shooting into the sky like Empire Day fireworks,” said Roosa.

   “Hmmm,” said Gloria, a smile beginning to form on her face.
   Eckstein stared at her. “What?”

   The smile was complete. “I have an idea,” she said.




GLORIA WALKED QUIETLY THROUGH THE MISTY forest near the base of the falls. She was
nude, as she had been most of the day as she went from camp to camp, drumming up support
for refiling.

    Now, she padded over the soft, wet mosses of the forest floor; when she was far enough
into the forest that the roar of the falls was no more than a dim, muted thunder, she stopped
and looked around.

   “Abel!” she called. “We have to talk. I need you!”

   And suddenly, Abel stepped out from behind a tree, grinning.

   “Been expectin’ you,” he said.




                                          Chapter 26

GLORIA’S WAS NOT THE ONLY VOICE HEARD IN the valley that week. There was another
voice, ethereal and haunting, that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere …

   “You must not hurt me!”

    It echoed from the high ridges and murmured along the streams and rills. It spoke to
solitary, frightened men and raucous campfire assemblages, to highboys and riverrats, to
humble townspeople and self-important dignitaries. It was heard in the Emporium, and it was
heard in the Lodge.

   It was even heard, one damp afternoon, on the golf course in Overhill, where Thomas
Shoop was allowing himself to be outplayed by the visiting Imperium Vice President, Oswald
Hanratty. The corporate veep was just about to stroke a fifteen-foot putt to save par when the
Voice interrupted his concentration and caused him to miss the putt.

   “You must not hurt me!”

    At first annoyed, then puzzled, Hanratty looked up, turned to Shoop, and asked, “What the
hell was that?”

   “It’s the Voice!” cried Shoop. “I told you it was real. I told you!”

   Hanratty looked around, as if expecting to find the source of the Voice in the fairways or
sand traps. “That was it?” he asked Shoop. “That’s all?”

   “Well what did you expect? A heavenly chorus? For Spirit’s sake, Ozzie, that’s the Voice
I’ve been telling you about. It’s real, dammit—real !”

   “Uh … well, I did hear something, but …”

    “You heard the Voice, Ozzie! I know you and everyone back at headquarters thought I was
crazy, but now you know I’m not. Dammit, Oz, you can’t just ignore this!”

    Hanratty thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “The Board would just think
that I’ve gone crazy, too.”

    “But we both know that’s not true,” Shoop protested. “Listen to me, Oz. I don’t know what
the Voice is, and neither does anyone else. Some people say it’s Sylvania’s version of the Spirit,
and that makes about as much sense as anything else. All I know for sure is that it’s real, and
we can’t ignore it. We cannot let this planet be raped! And you and I can do something to
prevent it.”

   “You mean the deal you want to make with Prizm?” Hanratty walked over to the hole and
backhanded his ball into it for a bogey. He leaned over to pick up the ball, when the Voice
spoke again.

   “You must not hurt me!”

   Hanratty stood up quickly, looked around again, then thoughtfully ran his palm across the
back of his neck. The little hairs there were standing on end.

   “Spirit!” Hanratty breathed.

   Shoop looked at him. “Oz?”

     “Spirit,” Hanratty repeated. He shook his head. “I don’t know how in hell we’re going to
sell this to the Board, but I guess I’m willing to try it. Let’s go talk to Mitchell.”

   Hanratty strode off the green toward their waiting golf cart. “You don’t want to finish the
round?” Shoop asked him.

   “Shit, no,” Hanratty declared. “After that, I’d be afraid to take a divot!”




THE EXCELSIOR EXTRACTOR FINALLY ARRIVED in the harbor one afternoon, and people
flocked to the shoreline to stare at the behemoth. It was as if a large, angular island had
suddenly appeared in the bay.

    The Extractor was an immense cube, half a kilometer on a side. With its Ferguson
Distortion Generators, it was capable of interstellar transit, although its gargantuan mass meant
that it had to poke along through the ether at a mere five light-years per day. It could float in
an ocean, or sink beneath one and ponderously rove across the seafloor. But its true home was
on the surface of a planet, and no planetary surface touched by an Extractor was ever again
recognizable.

   The business end of the Extractor was the gaping maw on its leading edge, four hundred
meters wide and a hundred high. Its perimeter was studded with precisely aligned arrays of
mass-repulsion units and plasma drills that, working in tandem, were capable of turning
mountains into gravel. As the juggernaut moved forward, the landscape ahead of it was
shattered and smashed, then scraped into the maw for processing. Anything of value was
sorted and stored within the machine; everything else was ejected from the rear, like the
droppings of dinosaurs. An Extractor was the ultimate expression of humankind’s instinct for
transforming its environment. The Excelsior Extractor now floating in the harbor would not
merely destroy the Rankus River Valley. It would erase it.

   And four more Extractors were already on their way to Sylvania.




BILL TRENGGANU NEVER HAD MUCH LUCK. HE tried not to whine about it too much,
but it was the Spirit’s own truth that he rolled snake eyes more than his fair share of the time.
You could ask people, and they’d tell you.

    He’d been born on Dalmatia IV, way the hell on the other side of the Empire from
Sylvania, a good twelve hundred light-years distant. It was a drab, gray splotch of a world, with
nothing to recommend it and nothing to keep a man there except maybe gravity. He never got
much of an education—hadn’t really wanted one, he’d admit—and spent a dozen or so years
working at odd jobs before settling in as a skimmer mechanic. He married and started putting
a few crowns away toward the day when he’d have his own shop. But then his wife ran off
with his best friend and took most of his money when she left. Never saw it coming. Unlucky.

   Bill tried again with another wife. Same damn thing happened.

    By that point, Bill figured it was time to change his luck. He’d heard about the big boom on
Sylvania and decided he couldn’t do much worse there than he’d been doing on Dalmatia. So
he sold everything he owned and borrowed what he could from friends and relatives, then
made his way across the Empire to Sylvania.

    He didn’t know the first thing about mining, or geology, or Fergusite, or much of anything
else, really. He thought he knew a little about poker, but soon learned otherwise at the
Emporium. After a few weeks on the East Ridge, he had run out of supplies, had run afoul of
other highboys, and had yet to see so much as a speck of Fergusite. Changing planets didn’t
seem to have changed his luck.

    Half-starving, he stumbled into the riverrat camp at Crooked Elbow Creek one day, and
they took him in. They put him to work on the sluice boxes, scooping and hauling sand from
the bottoms, and they gave him food to eat and a dry place to sleep. And after six months, they
gave him a share in the Crooked Elbow Company.

   It looked as if his luck was finally changing; but it wasn’t, not really. No sooner did he get a
share of the company than the whole shooting match looked like it was going to go south.
Grunfeld, Dexta, the corporates, the Empire … they weren’t about to let Bill Trengganu or
anyone like him get a piece of the pie, and maybe not even any crumbs. The only way his luck
could have been worse, he figured, would have been if, instead of Crooked Elbow, he’d
stumbled into Pizen Flats.

   There had been a lot of talk about re-filing the Crooked Elbow claims, but after the
massacre at Pizen Flats, enthusiasm for that idea all but vanished. Not until the final week
before the deadline, when Gloria VanDeen showed up—in the flesh, and lots of it—did talk of
refiling revive. Bill didn’t see what difference it would make, one way or another; he was
certain that he and everyone else along the river would get screwed, no matter what they did.

     The only reason he agreed to go along with the majority at Crooked Elbow and refile their
claims was because Gloria VanDeen was offering herself as a prize. The names of everyone who
refiled would go into a hat, she said, and the lucky boomrat whose name was drawn would
win a night alone with her. Bill, who knew he was not a lucky man, never figured on being the
winner, but maybe he’d know the guy who did win and get the inside story.

   But then, Bill’s luck finally changed. He won.

    He was so astonished by this turn of events that he didn’t even know how to react. When
Gloria took him to dinner at the Emporium—champagne, prime rib, oysters, the works—he
found himself all but tongue-tied and could only stare at her across the table, wondering how
this could be happening to him. She smiled and tried to put him at ease, but the sight of that
incredible face and that magnificent, all-but-naked body was almost more than he could
handle. He knew all about how to deal with bad luck, but good luck was a new one on him.
And luck just didn’t get any better than this!

    Then she took him by the hand and led him up to her room. He made a mess of things,
naturally—just couldn’t contain himself. But she didn’t seem to mind, and couldn’t have been
nicer about it. And when they tried again, everything was just about perfect.

    Bill left the Emporium the next morning smiling as he had never smiled before. And never
again would he complain about his luck. He knew he’d had a lifetime’s worth of good luck in a
single night. Couldn’t ask for more than that.




THE DEXTA TEAM GATHERED AROUND A LARGE table in the Emporium to celebrate the
end of their labors on Sylvania. The Governor’s deadline had passed, the last claims had been
filed or refiled, and there was nothing left for them to do but eat, drink, and dream of Earth.

    By midevening, the drinks had taken full effect, and even the most reluctant of the
big-bucks bureaucrats were feeling mellow and forgiving about their sojourn on Sylvania. The
work had been tedious and the living conditions primitive, but they felt a certain pride in what
they had accomplished, and some of them had even found unexpected rewards on this
backwater world.

   Petra and Pug Ellison sat next to each other, gazing into each others’ eyes and pawing one
another in undisguised heat. No longer a bar girl, Petra was still nearly naked in a plunging
minidress she had borrowed from Gloria, her small breasts and pert nipples fully in view and
available for Pug’s pleasure. The two had been inseparable since Petra’s rescue, and their
natural appetite for sex had been enhanced by Gloria’s gift of a packet of potent jigli. Gloria
wanted Petra to enjoy sex as much as she did herself, if that was possible; even though she had
no memory of the rape and assault, Petra was aware that it had occurred, and might have
become skittish about sex, if not for the welcome presence of the ardent Pug Ellison. Gloria
watched Pug stroking Petra’s bare breast while she nibbled his earlobes, and smiled
beneficently.




MORE SURPRISING THAN PETRA’S RECOVERY was Wilmer DeGrasse’s apparent
conversion. Lulu Villegas, naked Emporium whore, sat in the lap of the erstwhile Christian
moralist, licking his beet-red face.

    “Lulu is coming back to Earth with me,” DeGrasse explained, in evident embarrassment.
“I’m … that is … she … we … uh, we’re going to be, uh, married!”

    The Dexta staffers roared their approval and laughed in delight. Lulu had hit the Mother
Lode and was the envy of her colleagues in the rooms. For his part, DeGrasse had discovered
that perhaps money could buy happiness, after all. He would have to come up with some
appropriate cover story for his family—could he pass Lulu off as a missionary, he
wondered?—but he had no doubt that true love would conquer all. True lust, in any case, had
conquered Wilmer DeGrasse.




GLORIA SAT ALONE AT THE HEAD OF THE TABLE, pleased that her charges had
performed so well and apparently held no grudges against her. She had pushed them hard,
bullied them when necessary, and achieved everything the Emperor had insisted upon.
Officially, at least, there could be no cause for Imperial displeasure over the Sylvania mission.

     Unofficially, there would no doubt be repercussions over the way Gloria had spent the final
week. She had abandoned Dexta’s professed neutrality in her campaign to get the riverrats to
refile their claims before the Eminent Domain hearing. Her justification, publicly, was that the
Pizen Flats massacre had represented a failure by Dexta to control the course of events, and her
refiling efforts were simply an attempt to right the wrong that had been done and to restore the
natural balance of forces. It was a flimsy argument, but that was her story, and she intended to
stick with it.

    The manner in which she had pursued the refiling campaign was likely to cause further
outrage in some quarters of the Empire. She had offered herself as a prize in a lottery for those
who refiled, and had faithfully paid off to a bedraggled boomer named Bill Trengganu. It was
only right, she thought, that one of the boomrats should get to spend a night with her, and
under the circumstances, her only regret was that she hadn’t been able to do the same with
more of them. If things turned out badly here, she was going to live the rest of her life on a
prison world; she didn’t want to spend the coming decades wondering if she could have done
more. And Bill had been a nice man. Most of the boomers were. She wondered again if maybe
she should have worked the rooms. By now, practically everyone seemed to assume that she
did, anyway, and that she had indiscriminately screwed every riverrat she could find. Maybe,
she thought, I should have.

    She was alone this evening, since Eckstein was off on another sampling expedition. In any
case, it seemed wise for them not to be seen together more than necessary. Their plans had
already been set in motion, and the second recharger was in synchrony with the first. Now, all
that remained was to wait for the Eminent Domain results and find out if their fireworks
display would be necessary.

    Gloria wore only an oversized blue shirt, mostly unbuttoned. Feeling a buzz from the
drinks and a tingle from the jigli she had smoked during the day as she made her final rounds
of the camps along the river, Gloria looked around the table at her team. Spirit, she was proud
of them! Effete, rich jerks, many of them, and yet they had rounded into shape and turned into
effective team players. Jill Clymer, looking dazzling tonight in a see-through dress that showed
off her ample bosom to maximum advantage, had been a rock—loyal, dependable, and
relentlessly competent. Randolph Alexander and Pearl Shuzuki had performed close to the
limit of their modest abilities and had caused no problems. Gloomy Sintra Garbedian had
surprised her with his willingness to work. Wilmer DeGrasse had done his job, as well, perhaps
inspired by his new outlook on life. Young Pug Ellison had been impressive, and would be a
welcome addition to the permanent OSI team—especially so for Petra. Even Raul Tellemacher,
who had put in a brief appearance at the party, then left, had worked diligently. And, of
course, Althea had performed above and beyond the call of duty—and loved it.

    They were telling war stories. Pearl Shuzuki had a good one about the old boomrat who
insisted that he never signed his name to anything unless he was stone-cold sober—which he
hadn’t been, by his reckoning, in about twenty years. Garbedian followed with the tale of his
travails the day the skimmer broke down high on a ridge, and he and Jill Clymer had been
forced to hike miles back down to the river in a pouring rain.

    “At least you weren’t alone,” Wilmer DeGrasse told him. “One day, Tellemacher left me all
by myself on the ridge for three or four hours. Just took off in the skimmer and said he’d be
right back. I would have tried walking back, but I had no idea which way to go. Thought I’d
have to spend all night there, but Tellemacher finally came back. Said it was all a mistake, and
he was terribly sorry. Imagine!”

   Gloria suddenly snapped to full alertness. “Wilmer, when did that happen?”

    “What? When? Oh, I don’t know, a month or so ago. Come to think of it, I believe it was
the day when … when everything happened.”

   “The day of the massacre? The day Petra and I were assaulted?”

   DeGrasse looked abashed. “Well, as a matter of fact, it was. And here I am, complaining
about what happened to me that day. I’m sorry, Gloria, I didn’t—”

   Gloria abruptly sprang to her feet and dashed out of the Emporium.




A MAN SHE HAD NEVER SEEN BEFORE OPENED the door to the Lodge. Gloria shoved him
out of her way and marched inside. There, she found Tellemacher and Pollas seated
comfortably before the fireplace, feet propped up, sipping brandy. She halted in front of
Tellemacher’s easy chair and glared at him.

   “You incredible bastard!”

   Tellemacher looked up. Gloria had not bothered to fasten more of the buttons of her shirt
and stood before him all but fully exposed. He carefully inspected her body before meeting her
angry eyes.

    “You’re wasting your time here, Gloria,” Tellemacher said affably. “We don’t have any
claims we want to refile. But if you’d like to fuck us, like you did all those boomrats, I don’t
think we’d have any objections.”

   “Anytime,” Pollas agreed.

    “Shut your mouth, Pollas,” Gloria told him. “I don’t have anything on you—yet. I’m here
for this piece of filth.”

   “That would be me, I take it,” said Tellemacher.

   Gloria slowly shook her head. “I knew you were a lowlife,” she said. “I’ve known that for
years. But it never occurred to me that you would be capable of something like this.”

   “Like what?”

    “You were here that day. You were the third voice Maddie Mitchell heard. It was you,
Tellemacher. You were the one who told them about Petra!”

   “Me? Gloria, you wound me, you truly do! What makes you think a thing like that?”

   “You left DeGrasse up on the ridge that day. You lied when you told me that night that you
never heard the recall after the Pizen Flats people came in to refile. You heard it, all right. And
you knew the refilings would force the Lodge to respond. But there was something they
needed to know first. So you came here and told them—that Petra was from Dexta and was
here as a spy. It was you, Tellemacher. It couldn’t have been anyone else!”

   Tellemacher shifted his weight in the easy chair and brought his feet down. “You’re
jumping to conclusions, Gloria.”

    “It’s the only conclusion possible. So much was happening then that I never thought to
check your story with DeGrasse. But as soon as I found out that you left DeGrasse alone that
afternoon, it all fit into place. I never thought it was you before, because I assumed that you
were accounted for. But you weren’t. You left DeGrasse on the ridge, and you came here to
warn your friends about Petra.”

   “Hogwash,” said Tellemacher.

    “You know,” Gloria said, “I always wondered why you agreed to come on this mission. You
could have found a way to weasel out of it. Did someone send you? Was it Charles? Or one of
the corporates? Or maybe just your family? It wouldn’t surprise me if they had their greasy
tentacles in the middle of this.”

   “Oh, now you’re just being insulting. My family’s greasy tentacles happen to be in the
middle of most important things in the Empire. What does it matter why I came? I did come,
and I did my job. Even you can’t deny that.”

   “Your job didn’t include selling out a Dexta colleague.”

    Tellemacher shrugged. “Petra was taking a chance just by being here. You knew that, and
yet you sent her. They were bound to find out about her sooner or later. You can’t prove I had
anything to do with it.”

    “I’ll prove it,” Gloria promised. “But right now, I don’t have to. I already have everything I
need to bring you up on internal Dexta administrative charges. DeGrasse will state that you left
him alone for three to four hours that afternoon. And you lied to me about the recall signal.
I’ve got you cold, Tellemacher—dereliction of duty and making false statements to a superior.”

   Tellemacher got to his feet and stood in front of her. Still seated, Pollas said, “Really,
Ms. VanDeen, surely, these are trivial matters. Aren’t you making a mountain out of a
molehill?”

   Gloria gave Pollas a quick, frosty glance, then turned back to Tellemacher. “I can see that
your friend doesn’t know how we handle molehills in Dexta. Maybe you should explain it to
him.”

   “No,” said Tellemacher, “you do it. You’ll enjoy it more.”

   “Damn right, I will. You see, Pollas, Dexta washes its own dirty laundry, according to the
Dexta Code, not the Imperial Code. Tellemacher will be hauled before a Dexta Board of Inquiry.
He’ll be entitled to an advocate, of course, but as soon as the Board hears that he is under
suspicion of betraying a Dexta undercover agent, they’ll ship him off to a prison world without
so much as blinking an eye. No trial. No appeal.”

   “I see,” said Pollas. “Frightening.”

    Gloria looked Tellemacher in the eyes. “I’m taking you into administrative custody,
Tellemacher. If you want to try to escape, this will be your only chance. Be my guest, Raul.
Please.”

    Tellemacher laughed and shook his head. “No thank you, Gloria,” he said. He reached into
his back pocket, pulled out his pad, and tapped a couple of keys on it. Then he held it out to
Gloria. “Here,” he said, “this is my letter of resignation. You can’t take me into custody because
I am no longer in Dexta.”

    Gloria ignored the pad. “Nice try,” she said, “but you should know better than that. Your
resignation doesn’t become effective until it’s endorsed by your immediate superior, which is
me, in case you’ve forgotten.”

   “It may be you at the moment,” Tellemacher conceded, “but three months ago, back on
Earth, when I wrote this letter, it wasn’t you. It was your old pal Hector Konrad,
Administrative Supervisor for Sector 8. If you’ll bother to read it, you’ll see that there’s a
paragraph stating that my resignation becomes effective immediately upon transmission to the
appropriate authority in whatever jurisdiction I may find myself. I’ve just transmitted it to your
pad, Gloria. As of this instant, I am no longer in Dexta.”

    Gloria angrily snatched the pad from Tellemacher and read the letter. The provision was
there, as he had stated it. It was certainly unusual, perhaps even unique, but the endorsement
by Konrad made it legal. She couldn’t touch him.

   She flung the pad back at him. He caught it, smiled, and tucked it back into his pocket.

   “You son of a bitch!”
   “Undoubtedly. You never met any of my family, did you? Detestable people. They steered
me into Dexta because they thought it would be useful for the family, and my older brothers
and sisters already had the prime slots in the bank and business. So Raul, that flighty ski bum,
wound up in Dexta, very much against his will. But no more, thank the Spirit! Don’t worry
about me, Gloria. You see, I’ve already lined up another position.”

   “Indeed,” said Pollas. “I think congratulations are in order. Ms. VanDeen, say hello to the
new Executive Vice President of Pollas Enterprises.”

    Tellemacher and Pollas grinned at her. Gloria stood there before them, steaming, furiously
trying to think of something to say.

   “Care to have a drink with us to celebrate my entry into the private sector?” Tellemacher
looked immensely pleased with himself.

   “This isn’t over,” Gloria said.

   “I think it is,” said Tellemacher.

   “You’re wrong.” Gloria pivoted on her heel and stormed out of the Lodge to the sound of
laughter.




GLORIA RETURNED TO THE EMPORIUM, WOKE up Arkady Volkonski, and dragged him
out of his bed. Volkonski was disappointed to find that she wanted information rather than
sex, but he answered her questions in considerable detail. He didn’t ask her why she wanted
information on this particular subject matter. As an Internal Security officer, he was well aware
that it could be dangerous to know more than was necessary.

    Following her session with Volkonski, Gloria packed a small bag, roused the Dexta Cruiser
pilot, and headed for the pier. She told Petra that she would be back in a day, in plenty of time
for the Eminent Domain hearing.

   Upon her arrival on Palmyra, she went first to the Dexta offices and met with Jennifer
Astuni. From Jennifer, she learned that the local police had found two bodies that had been
identified as those of Mr. and Mrs. Preston Thawley. They had been dead for several weeks.
Gloria was not surprised.

    Then she went to the hospital where Petra had first been treated, then abducted. She had a
brief and contentious meeting with Dr. Hamdoon and Ms. Suharto, the hospital administrator.
Gloria questioned them closely about a suspected discrepancy in the hospital’s inventory. They
were relieved when she said that in return for their cooperation and continued silence, she
would forgo filing charges. All she needed was to collect a little evidence. They were happy to
comply and vastly relieved when she departed as swiftly as she had arrived.

   Late the next night, Gloria was back on Sylvania.
                                        Chapter 27

GLORIA SAT ALONE IN THE FORMER OFFICE OF the late Mayor of Greenlodge, staring at
the walls. She had been there most of the night, following her return from Palmyra. It was her
office now. Grunfeld and his pukes were gone, Rankus was dead, and the new Imperial
Governor was an empty suit. Gloria VanDeen was the new power on Sylvania, and yet she had
sat there half the night feeling utterly powerless.

   And scared.

    She had not felt this frightened since she faced down a marching army on a dusty road on
Mynjhino. Her knees had actually been trembling that day. But then, at least, it had all been
right there in front of her. She could see what was happening and knew what needed to be
done. But now, today on Sylvania, she had already done every last thing it was possible for her
to do, and still it was not enough. Whatever happened—with the Eminent Domain vote or the
plasma rechargers—was beyond her power to influence. She could only wait helplessly—like
everyone else—for the future to unfold … a future she might very well spend on a prison
world.

    If the future was unknowable, it didn’t make her feel any better to contemplate the past.
Spirit, had she done anything right on this miserable planet? Dina Westerbrook may have
pulled her out of a slough of despond, but mere words could not erase the deeds that had been
done. So many lives lost that needn’t have been; perhaps, an entire world lost. And with it,
maybe, the Empire.

   If only she had been smarter, less arrogant and full of herself. If only she had … what? If
only what? Hindsight might have provided additional perspective, but it offered no answers.

    Petra suddenly appeared at the office door. She paused there for a moment, then walked
on in and closed the door behind her. “It’s time,” she said.

    Gloria looked up at her assistant. Petra was positively glowing, in full and radiant bloom.
For once, she even outshone her famous boss. Gloria, determined not to be the center of
attention today, was wearing a relatively conservative charcoal-gray jacket which, buttoned at
the waist, covered her breasts most of the time, and a matching miniskirt that concealed her
crotch with an inch or two to spare. But Petra was wearing a very sheer, pale green shirt,
unbuttoned to the waist, that left her small, round breasts almost completely uncovered. And
her dark green miniskirt was as revealing as any that Gloria owned.

   Was it Pug’s influence, Gloria wondered. Or Elba’s? Whatever the reason, Petra seemed to
have hit her stride and was displaying a confidence Gloria had never seen before. She hadn’t
mentioned Weehawken in weeks!

   “You look nice today, Petra,” Gloria told her.

   “And you look tired,” Petra responded. “Have you been sitting here all night?”

   “Most of it,” Gloria shrugged. “Big day today.”

    “And, of course, sitting here all night worrying about it will make everything turn out
right.”
   “Probably not,” Gloria conceded. “Petra, I have screwed up everything I’ve touched on this
damned planet. Everything!”

    “I see,” said Petra. “So if the vote comes out wrong today, it’s all your fault, huh? And the
people who died—or got hurt—were all your responsibility too, I guess. And if the Extractors
rip up this valley, that’ll be on your head, as well, right?”

   “Petra—”

    “Oh, shut up, Gloria,” Petra said in evident disgust. “Spirit, you rich people! One way or
another, for good or ill, everything is about you, isn’t it? Us poor people know better, but you
richies just don’t get it, do you? Well, listen up, Gloria, I’ve got some news for you. The galaxy
does not revolve around you!”

   Petra stood there and stared down at Gloria. Stunned by her words—and the fact that she
had said them—Gloria stared back at Petra, seeing her gray-green eyes and determined face in
a new light. Petra, the cute, funny, flighty little assistant—who was, in fact, two years older
than Gloria and had overcome obstacles in life that Gloria could hardly imagine. They locked
eyes for a long, silent moment, and Gloria could think of nothing to say.

   Then Petra broke the tension. Her face relaxed into a broad smile and she said in her
familiar giggle, “It revolves around me!”

    “Maybe it should,” Gloria laughed as she got to her feet. She threw her arm around Petra’s
shoulders, and together they marched outside over the planks and mud and down the street to
the Emporium.




THE MAIN ROOM OF THE EMPORIUM WAS crowded to the rafters as Judge Kershaw
gaveled the Eminent Domain hearing to order. Kershaw sat behind a table covered in green
baize (from one of the gambling tables), positioned in front of the west wall of the building.
The table—or improvised judge’s bench—was mounted on a riser to give him a commanding
view and authoritative presence. Facing the judge were three tables: one on his right, for the
representatives of Excelsior and Servitor, who had initiated the Eminent Domain petition; one
on the left for Dexta personnel and the judge’s two legal clerks; and one in the center for the
new Imperial Governor and his Imperial Secretary. Behind them, hundreds of chairs were
occupied by boomers of all descriptions, each of whom held at least one certified claim or
proxy. Additional chairs had been set up on the second-floor balcony, around three sides of the
main room.

    At the judge’s far left, near the door to the anteroom, a table had been provided for the
media. The event had drawn a flock of media reps back to Sylvania, but they had also been
attracted by the frequent appearances of the Voice. Word of the Voice had begun to circulate
throughout the Empire, and it was causing a considerable stir. The Universal Church of the
Spirit had been especially interested, since the Voice seemed to many to be a local
manifestation of the Spirit Herself. The UCS Bishop of Palmyra, an old fishing buddy of Judge
Kershaw, had come to see—or hear—for himself, and was seated with the media, where he was
readily available for interviews and theological speculation.
    “This hearing will come to order,” Judge Kershaw said in his gravelly voice. The babble in
the Emporium gradually died away.

    “Now, then,” said Kershaw, “let me explain a few things before we get started. We are
using makeshift facilities here, and I’m well aware of the normal function of this establishment.
However, that does not mean that we will act as if we were in a bawdy house, even though it
happens that we are. The bar is closed and will remain closed until we’re done here. Anyone
creating a disturbance of any sort will be ejected by the Dexta security people—those
muscular-looking gentlemen in gray. I trust that will not become necessary.” The judge slowly
shifted his gaze to every part of the room, high and low, making it clear to one and all that he
meant exactly what he said.

    “Very well,” Kershaw continued. “As to the business before us, as you know, we meet
today to consider an Eminent Domain petition filed by the Excelsior Corporation, which seeks
to condemn certain properties and mining claims on this planet for the purpose of conducting
large-scale extraction operations.”

    Some of the boomrats bravely offered hisses and boos. Kershaw whacked the gavel against
the table. “I warned you about that,” he said. “I won’t warn you again.”

    Kershaw checked something on his pad for a moment, then looked up. “There are precisely
2640 individually filed and certified claims involved in these proceedings. In order for the
Eminent Domain petition to be granted, 60 percent of them, or 1584 claims, must vote in favor
of the petition. We will go through the list of certified claimants in alphabetical order.
Fortunately, quite a number of claims are held by proxy, and I gather that the proxy holders
will be doing most of the voting. Even so, it’s likely to take all day for us to get from A to Z. So
settle in and get comfortable—we’re going to be here a while. Is there any business before we
get started?”

    At the table on the judge’s right, Myron Vigo got to his feet. “Good morning, Your Honor,”
he said, smiling.

   “Morning, Mr. Vigo. I gather that you are representing the petitioners? Okay, what have
you got?”

   “A point of inquiry, Judge. What will be the procedure regarding challenges?”

   The judge lifted his bushy eyebrows. “Why? You intend to file some?”

   “Possibly,” said Vigo.

    “I see. In that case, the procedure will be that each challenged claim will have to be
examined. I see the Imperial Geologist sitting at the Imperial Governor’s table. Good morning,
Dr. Eckstein.”

   Stu Eckstein got to his feet. “Good morning, Judge Kershaw.”

    “Dr. Eckstein,” said the judge, “you have the only reliable maps of this region. In the event
of a challenge to a claim, we will have to rely on your good offices. How long would it take you
to examine a challenged claim?”

  “Well, Your Honor,” said Eckstein, “we’d need to check the map, then go to the site itself to
make the necessary measurements, assuming that it’s the size or location of the claim that is in
dispute. Then, depending on the outcome, we might very well be forced to measure all the
surrounding claims and make appropriate adjustments. If the challenge is in regard to whether
or not a claim has been ‘improved’—that is, whether it’s a ‘proved’ claim—that would also
require on-site examination to determine whether the claim meets the legal standards.”

   “And how long would all of that take?”

    Eckstein spread his arms. “Days? Weeks? Hard to say, Your Honor. It would depend on the
circumstances.”

   “I see. Thank you, Dr. Eckstein.” Kershaw looked at Vigo. “Well, Mr. Vigo?”

    Vigo gave the Judge an abashed smile. “Under the circumstances,” he said, “I rather doubt
that we’ll be making any challenges.”

   “Glad to hear it,” said the judge.

    “However, we do reserve the right to make challenges regarding legal ownership and the
assignment of proxies.” Vigo sat down again.

   “So noted,” said Kershaw. “Now, if no one else has anything to say, let’s get on with this.
The clerk will call the first name.”

    One of Kershaw’s clerks got to his feet and came around to the front of his table. He was a
slight, harried-looking man with a high-pitched voice. He checked his pad and said, “Aaron,
Levander B.”

    A disheveled, dusty boomer got to his feet near the rear of the room. He looked
momentarily lost, then slowly made his way forward. The clerk scanned his retina with the pad
and nodded. “Identity confirmed,” he said. “Claim Number 0974 confirmed. How do you vote
on the petition?”

   “I’m for it,” said Levander B. Aaron.

   “Claim 0974, aye,” said the clerk.

   Levander B. Aaron looked toward the corporates’ table. “When do I get my money?” he
asked.

   “All in good time, Mr. Aaron,” the judge assured him. “Now take your seat, or leave, if you
wish.”

   “Yessir.” Levander B. Aaron returned to his seat.

   “Abelard, Gerald C.,” the clerk called.

   Gerald C. Abelard held twelve proxies. He voted aye and quickly sat down again. Only
2627 claims remained.




GLORIA SAT AT THE DEXTA TABLE AND TRIED not to fidget. Petra sat next to her, keeping
track of the running count on her own pad.
    Before the hearing began, Sam Roosa had informed Gloria that he had sealed off the tunnel
to Room 9 the previous night and that both rechargers were humming along in synchrony,
awaiting only a final signal from Eckstein. The interference pattern that had looked so good in
Eckstein’s simulations was just as good in reality, and there was every reason to believe that the
plan would work. There was also every reason to believe that if it did, unless people bought the
diversionary cover story she had devised with Old Abel, the three of them would be charged
with treason.

    The cover story seemed increasingly threadbare as the time for its employment drew near.
She knew that the only realistic hope they had to avoid a prison world was for the Eminent
Domain vote to fall short of 60 percent. Then, there would be no need to light up the skies of
Sylvania with the pyrotechnics Eckstein had planned, no need to destroy the Fergusite layer.
The boomrats could go on producing their trickle of Fergusite without danger to the Empire, as
long as the corporates were prevented from unleashing a flood of the stuff. But there was
simply no way to predict the outcome of the vote, and she found herself checking Petra’s
running tally every few minutes. After the first hour, with 310 claims counted, the ayes had a
comfortable margin of 207 to 103.

    As the morning wore on, the nays staged a rally as a number of riverrat proxies were
counted. She was pleased to see that the riverrats were presenting a nearly united front. With
few exceptions, the miners from the river camps were voting no, while the highboys were
voting yes. By the end of the second hour, the vote stood at 342 ayes, 262 nays.

    During the third hour, a boomer with a long black beard and a wild look in his eyes
somehow managed to evade both Ernie the Bouncer and the Bugs. He ran into the room,
stopped before the judge, and shouted, “I want to change my vote!”

    Two Bugs immediately grabbed him by each shoulder and started to drag him away, but
the boomer put up an energetic resistance and loudly appealed to the judge. “You gotta let me
change my vote, Your Honor! You gotta!”

   “I don’t gotta do anything,” Kershaw told him. “However, as long as you’re here, perhaps
you could tell me why you think I should do that.”

    The Bugs relaxed their grip on him, and the boomer looked up at the judge. “My name’s
Floyd Givens, Your Honor, and I work up on the West Ridge. I give my proxy to my friend
Eddie Dawkins. That’s him, sittin’ over there. And we was both gonna vote yes on this
Eminent Domain deal, on account o’ we wanna get paid something for all the work we put in
on them worthless holes. You see how it is, Your Honor?”

   “I think I do,” said Kershaw.

    “But then last night,” Givens continued, “I heard the Voice! Heard it plain as day, I did. It
said not to hurt it, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna! No sir. So you gotta let me change that
vote—and you oughta change yours, too, Eddie! I want to vote no, Your Honor, and screw the
money. I don’t want to mess with that damn Voice!”

    “I appreciate your position, Mr. Givens,” Kershaw said. “However, your proxy vote has
already been cast, and once a vote has been counted, it cannot be changed.”

   “But that ain’t fair!” Givens protested.
   “It may not be fair,” Kershaw conceded, “but it is the law. Sorry, Mr. Givens. Gentlemen, if
you would escort Mr. Givens to the exit, we’ll continue.”

    The Bugs took their cue and started dragging Givens away. He bellowed to the heavens, if
not to the judge, “It ain’t my fault! I ain’t the one that wants to hurt you. Ya gotta understand
that! It ain’t my fault.”

   As the Bugs removed Givens, the Spiritist Bishop got up from the media table and followed
them out. Curious, Gloria slipped out of her chair and joined them in the anteroom.

   There, Gloria listened as the Bishop closely questioned Givens about his experience with the
Voice. It was a frequently heard story in the valley by then, the usual tale of a voice coming
from everywhere and nowhere, asking not to be hurt. Abel was playing it just right, Gloria
thought, repeating the same simple, urgent message to one and all.

    When he was finished with Givens, the Bishop came over to Gloria and introduced himself.
“Glenn Arkwright, Ms. VanDeen,” he said, taking her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you.
Tell me, have you heard the Voice?”

   “Indeed, I have,” Gloria told him.

   “And what did you think of it?”

    “When I first heard it,” Gloria said, “I thought that it must have been something a lot like
the Spirit on Earth. I wondered if every planet had one.”

    Arkwright seemed delighted by her answer. “Just so!” he exclaimed. “It’s a fascinating
question, isn’t it? Certainly, there are scores of stories of similar phenomena on worlds
throughout the Empire. But this may be the first case that has been so extensively witnessed
and documented. I believe that it has profound implications for the future of Spiritism.”

   “Oh?”

    “We live in a very skeptical age, Ms. VanDeen. There are many, I’m sure you are aware,
who doubt the reality of the Spirit. They think Her Visitations were just smoke and mirrors,
arranged by a band of cynical manipulators. But events here on Sylvania are, I believe,
powerful evidence to the contrary. The Spirit is universal, and will follow humanity throughout
the galaxy. Let the cynics scoff about what happened eleven hundred years ago—but they
cannot deny the reality of what is happening here today on Sylvania! It is nothing less than
another manifestation of the Universal Spirit.”

   “I see,” said Gloria.

    The Bishop seemed to realize that he was getting carried away, so he brought himself back
to basics by taking a good, close look at Gloria. “May I say, Ms. VanDeen,” he went on, “that I
believe that you, yourself, are a powerful force for the advancement of Spiritism? Oh, I know
you have your critics, but I suspect they are motivated more by envy than reason. You are a
living example of the Spirit’s words—‘Do not deny yourself Joy, for it is a gift unto humankind
and the wellspring of happiness!’ Your own appearance and actions are but a reflection of the
Spirit’s. You are proud and unashamed, and that is as it should be. I congratulate you and
thank you for your affirmation of the creed of the Spirit!”

   “Uh, yes … well …”
    “I tell you,” Arkwright said with enthusiasm, “I don’t believe that it is mere coincidence
that you are here to be a witness to this newest manifestation of the Spirit. I believe the Spirit
intended that you should be here to welcome Her to this world, for She has no finer testament
to the power and righteousness of Her message. Bless you, Ms. VanDeen, bless you!”

    Gloria returned to her seat in the main room, feeling distinctly uneasy about what she had
just heard. She had no desire to be a secular saint in a religion that had no saints, an icon for a
religion that had no icons. And for the first time, she began to think about the wider
implications of the Voice—the fake Voice.

   She was just in time to hear the clerk finish reading the very long list of claims whose
proxies were held by Excelsior. There were 236 of them. Sherwin Lund voted yes.

    The next big block of proxies belonged to Imperium. Seated a row back from the Dexta
table, Shoop, Hanratty, and Maddie Mitchell sat together, in apparent accord. But Hanratty
kept shaking his head and mumbling to himself about how he was going to explain this to the
Board. Voice or no Voice, making a deal with Prizm would shut Imperium out of any possible
deal with Excelsior and Servitor. Nevertheless, when Imperium was called, Thomas Shoop
stood and delivered 187 votes against the petition.

    With the tally standing at 655 ayes and 521 nays, Kershaw called a lunch break. The bar
was closed, but the Emporium offered free sandwiches and coffee for everyone. People got to
their feet, stretched, lined up for sandwiches or the restrooms, and gathered in roving clumps,
discussing the prospects for the petition. Gloria noticed the Emporium’s retinue of professional
gamblers clustered at the back of the room, apparently making book on the outcome. She
walked over to them and caught Slim Jim Zuni’s eye.

   “What are the odds, Jim?” she asked him.

   Zuni smiled enigmatically. “Even money,” he said.

   “Right now, I’ll settle for that.”

    “I hope you get what you want, Gloria,” Zuni said. “But remember, there’s no such thing as
a sure thing.”

    Gloria went outside to take in a little of the rare rainy-season sunshine. She unbuttoned her
jacket and let the strong breeze flap it open to expose her breasts, while her miniskirt rippled
revealingly. Everyone noticed and enjoyed the view, and Gloria enjoyed watching them
enjoying it. Don’t deny yourself joy, she thought. It’s the fucking wellspring of happiness …

    She had always wanted to believe in the Spirit, but she suddenly wondered if she ever
could, now. People like Arkwright believed in the Voice the same way they believed in the
Spirit, because it offered them something that they wanted and needed in life. But the Voice
was nothing more than a convenient bit of fakery, and if that was true of the Voice, she
realized, it was probably also true of the Spirit. She felt strangely guilty about her role in
propagating both illusions.

    If she was a living testament to the creed of the Spirit, as Arkwright had said, did that make
her a coconspirator in the millennium-old fraud of Spiritism? And did her plotting to spread
the word of the Voice compound her crime?
    And yet … was it such a crime? Spiritism had clearly been a force for good throughout its
history—not even the most ardent cynics could deny that. And she truly believed that what she
was doing on Sylvania was for the ultimate good of the Empire and humanity. If people like
Arkwright were determined to incorporate the Voice into the gospel of Spiritism, was that such
a bad thing? And if her own explosive sexuality seemed to be an affirmation of the words of
the Spirit, did that harm anyone?

    Gloria stared at the distant peaks beyond the valley, now dazzling white with their seasonal
snowcaps. It was such a beautiful world. It would be worth preserving for its own sake, she
thought, even without the imperative of the Fergusite problem. So … did the end justify the
means? She laughed to herself at the thought. If things didn’t go right today, it was the sort of
philosophical conundrum that she could debate at her leisure during the coming decades on a
prison world.




THE AFTERNOON SESSION WENT A LITTLE FASTER, as large blocs of proxies were cast.
Rahim Ogunbayo proudly cast his 43 ayes, then Joe Pollas stood with a satisfied smirk on his
face for several minutes as the clerk read off 253 claim numbers. Maddie Mitchell followed
with 217 proxies cast against the petition on behalf of Prizm.

   The grandson of Claude Rankus looked uncomfortable with the entire process.
Nevertheless, he voted aye with the family’s 57 proxies.

   Gaspar Norfleet cast the last of the corporate proxies for Servitor. He gave Gloria a
meaningful stare, as if he wanted her to appreciate the fact that this was partial payback for
what she had cost the company on Mynjhino. Servitor voted aye, 249 times.

    After Sidney Taplin and Myron Vigo voted their own proxies, the magic number of 1584
was within view. Nevertheless, the riverrat coalitions held steady, with thirty votes here and
forty votes there. It was increasingly clear that the final tally was going to be very close.

    Gloria tried to keep her composure as the clerk wound down through Watanabe, Watkins,
Williams, Winters, Wolowiscz, Yarrow, Young, Yung … When Zachary Zane cast his three
votes nay, it was all she could do not to stand up and cheer. There was a discernible babble
slowly rising throughout the room, and Judge Kershaw had to whack his gavel a few times to
keep order.

      The ayes were stalled at 1578—six votes short—and when Bob Zimmermann cast 14 nays,
there was an audible intake of breath in the Emporium. Then an old highboy named Elbert
Zinn got up and listened as the clerk read off his seven claim numbers. Zinn looked around the
room for several moments, then shook his head. “Shit,” he said, “I ain’t gonna be the one to do
it. I vote no.”

   The room erupted in whoops and hollers, but Kershaw banged his gavel again. He looked
toward the clerk who said, “There is still one name remaining.” Instantly, the big room was
dead silent.

   “The final name,” said the clerk, pausing to enjoy the moment, “is Zuni, James M.”
    Gloria felt her heart leap, but it froze in midflight as she watched Slim Jim make his way to
the front of the room. She had never been able to read him, and she couldn’t now. Yet there
was something in the deliberate movement of his cadaverous frame that sent a chill coursing
through her.

  “Identity confirmed,” intoned the clerk after Slim Jim’s retina was scanned. “Nine claims,
numbers 0341, 0569, 0579, 1094, 1542, 1543, 1544, 2009, and 2241. How do you vote?”

    Slim Jim turned to look at Gloria and the Imperium and Prizm reps behind her, then
turned the other way to look at Pollas, Lund, and Norfleet. Vigo was suddenly on his feet.
“Your Honor,” he cried, “I request a short recess!”

   Kershaw chuckled. “I can’t imagine why,” he said. He looked over at Shoop and Mitchell.
“Any objection?”

   “We second the motion, Your Honor.” Shoop said.

   “Thought you might,” said Kershaw. “Very well, then, we are in recess for the next ten
minutes. Mr. Zuni, why don’t you make use of the office over there? Have fun.”

    Gloria practically hurdled the table and beat everyone to Slim Jim. She looked up at him,
into his unreadable dark eyes, and said, “Jim, you can’t!”

    Slim Jim remained unflappable. “Gloria,” he said calmly, “I told you that there was no such
thing as a sure thing—but I’ve got one now. I could have sold my proxies, but I knew there
was a chance that it would be close, so I played a long shot, and for once, it came in. This is it
for me, Gloria. The pot of a lifetime, and I’m holding aces. I’m going to take the best offer.”

   “But …”

    “Right this way, Mr. Zuni,” said a smiling Myron Vigo as he clutched Slim Jim’s elbow and
led him toward the office. Pollas, Ogunbayo, Rankus, Taplin, Lund, and Norfleet followed
along. Mitchell, Shoop, and Hanratty brought up the rear. As they disappeared into the office
and the door shut behind them, Gloria sat down again and propped her head up on her
elbows.

   Petra touched her arm. “Gloria? Slim Jim won’t sell you out. I know it!”

    Gloria shook her head sadly. “Slim Jim,” she said, “will do what’s best for Slim Jim. Spirit
knows how many millions those proxies of his are worth right now. But he’ll go with the high
offer, whoever makes it. That is a sure thing.”

    Twenty very long minutes later, Slim Jim Zuni emerged from the office, still maintaining
his poker face. But behind him, Mitchell, Shoop, and Hanratty look stunned, while Myron
Vigo wore an expression of supreme satisfaction.

   Slim Jim stood before the clerk. He glanced toward Gloria, gave her an apologetic smile,
then turned back to face the clerk.

   “How do you vote?”

   “I vote yes,” said Slim Jim.

   It was several minutes before Judge Kershaw could gavel the room back to order. Then the
clerk confirmed the final tally, and Kershaw nodded. “The Eminent Domain petition is
granted. These proceedings are closed.”

    Gloria exchanged a quick look with Stu Eckstein. Both of them nodded, and Gloria pressed
a button on her wristcom.

   N-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!!!!

    The Voice sounded primal and savage, like the cry of a thousand tortured beasts. It shook
the Emporium and reverberated in the breasts of frightened men and women.

   YOU … MUST … NOT … HURT … ME!!!!!

    Fear and awe permeated the room. Judge Kershaw’s mouth dropped open and his bushy
eyebrows arched skyward. Thomas Shoop instinctively grasped Maddie Mitchell’s upper arm,
and Ozzie Hanratty’s eyes looked like saucers. At the corporates’ table, Myron Vigo kept
looking around in search of the source of this unexpected petition. Young Rankus looked
utterly spooked, as if he were hearing the reproach of his grandfather from beyond the grave.
At the media table, Bishop Arkwright wore an expression of beatific sanctity, like a Crusader
who had finally found the Holy Grail.

   YOU … MUST … NOT … HURT … ME!!!!!

    And suddenly, the Emporium began to shake. A low rumble coming from the anteroom
gradually grew in volume and intensity. People gasped and cried out, a few women screamed,
and they all leaped to their feet and began searching for the nearest exit. They tumbled over
each other in a mad dash to the doors. Petra started to rise, but Gloria clamped her arm and
pulled her back to her seat. “Wait,” she said calmly.

    The human tide flowed past them and out the main door. Media reps stood fast, imaging
the scene, until they were infected themselves and joined the rush. Judge Kershaw stepped
down from his riser and, attempting to maintain his dignity, walked briskly toward the door,
his two clerks running interference. Whores, bar girls, bartenders, gamblers, boomrats, grifters,
speculators, big shots, and small fry all swelled the exodus, until, barely a minute after it had
begun, Gloria was all but alone in the Emporium’s main room. Petra, with Pug Ellison hugging
her, Stu Eckstein, a few Bugs, and the imperturbable and newly wealthy Slim Jim Zuni
remained with her. Then, with unspoken accord, they walked to the door.

    In the anteroom, the source of the rumble was immediately obvious. The plasma recharger
was vibrating furiously, shaking the entire building. Eckstein looked at it and nodded his head
in satisfaction. “Yep,” he said. “I think we should all get well away from this building.”

    The Bugs charged out into the street and began herding people away from the Emporium.
Petra and Pug followed. Slim Jim Zuni smiled at Gloria on his way out. She should have been
annoyed with him, but for some reason she returned the smile. Gloria exited with Eckstein,
and together, they strolled after the retreating crowd. Off to her right, she noticed a similar
retreat from the environs of City Hall. As she walked over the wooden planking, she saw that
the water in the ubiquitous mud puddles was sloshing around, and the mud itself was
trembling.

    The mob instinctively halted a couple hundred meters away from the Emporium. People
stopped, turned, and stared, waiting to see what would happen next. They didn’t have to wait
very long.

    With a loud sizzle and a static discharge that made hairs stand on end, the Emporium and
City Hall suddenly gave birth to two dazzling beams of plasma that shot upward into the gray
skies, drilling holes through the low clouds and disappearing in the distance. The brilliant,
blue-green columns of concentrated energy were so intense that it hurt to look at them, yet it
was impossible to look away from the spectacle. The awestruck onlookers felt the ground
shaking beneath their feet and clutched one another as if Judgment Day had come.

   “What is it? What is it?” a woman cried.

   “It is the Spirit,” Bishop Arkwright declared. “The Spirit, in righteous wrath and glory!”

    “It’s the fuckin’ rechargers, is what it is,” a boomrat countered. “Just look at them
bastards.” But he was ignored.

    “Look!” someone shouted. He pointed toward the ridgeline to the east of town. There,
pencil-thin beams of plasma were shooting upward at odd angles, like random, drunken
searchlights. Someone else turned to the west and saw the same thing happening on the ridge
across the river. Above, the clouds began to spin in darkening whirlpools and eddies as the
superheated air responded to the assault.

   “Save us! Save us!” A woman’s desperate cries captured the inner feelings of all except a
few. Gloria looked at Eckstein, who merely frowned and gave a little shake of his head.

    “Blessed Spirit!” Bishop Arkwright intoned. “Blessed Spirit! We see Your power and Your
glory! We hear and understand Your message! We beseech Thee, Blessed Spirit, spare us that
we might spread Your sacred word! We shall not forsake Thee!”

    And suddenly, it was over. The plasma beams abruptly vanished, and air rushed in to fill
their ionized trails. A thousand thunderclaps boomed across the valley, shattering every
window in Greenlodge and knocking people off their feet with their force. And then, silence.

    City Hall collapsed into a heap of smoldering rubble. The anteroom of the Emporium had
vanished, along with one of its walls; clouds of bluish vapor billowed outward from the
building, as the new fire-prevention system proved its worth. The ground stopped trembling,
and the apocalyptic skies smoothed into tranquility.

   “We thank Thee, Blessed Spirit!” cried Bishop Arkwright. “Thy will be done.”




                                        Chapter 28

GLORIA SAT ALONE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE battered Emporium, nude and half-drunk, a
dirty glass and a bottle of Scotch her only company. She looked around at the deserted
balcony, the empty rooms, the vacant gambling tables, and sighed. “Bare, ruined choirs,” she
said aloud.

   Three days had passed since the plasma eruption, and in that time, everything had
changed. The boomworld was no more.

   Following the spectacular blast (“Even better than I expected,” Eckstein had told her),
dominoes had fallen in rapid, ordered succession, and now her mission to Sylvania was all but
completed. She had won.

   “Whoopee,” she said, holding up her glass in a solemn salute to herself. She downed the
Scotch in a single gulp and poured some more.

    Eckstein and his geologists had gone out in the LASS to take samples the day after the
Eminent Domain hearing, and returned that same afternoon with the results. He reported to
Imperial Governor Bosworth, Judge Kershaw, and the Eminent Domain victors before a small
throng of media reps and interested onlookers in the main room of the Lodge.

    “Samples from along the ridgelines east and west of the river were remarkably consistent,”
he told them. “The average impurity level was 185 Parts Per Billion, in a range from 160 PPB to
220 PPB.”

   Joe Pollas and the reps from Excelsior and Servitor groaned.

   “As distance from the epicenter increased,” Eckstein continued, “impurity levels declined.
But even a hundred kilometers inland, which was as far as we went, the average was still 65
PPB. We found no sample anywhere with an impurity level less than forty PPB.”

   “And your conclusion?” asked Governor Bosworth.

   “The inescapable conclusion,” Eckstein said with an air of finality, “is that the entire
Fergusite layer has been destroyed.”

   Pollas jumped to his feet and pointed an accusing finger at Gloria. “You did this, you
fucking bitch,” he roared. “I don’t know how, but I know it was you!”

   “Mr. Pollas, please control yourself,” said Governor Bosworth.

   “You did something to those rechargers!” Pollas insisted, still glaring at Gloria.

   “Me?” Gloria asked, the essence of purity and innocence. “I don’t even know how they
work!”

   “Then you hired somebody to do it! I’ll get to the bottom of this, VanDeen. That’s a
promise!”

   “Oh, really,” interjected Bishop Arkwright. “You are being preposterous, Mr. Pollas! Next, I
suppose you’ll claim that Ms. VanDeen was responsible for the Voice, as well. Perhaps she’s a
ventriloquist!”

   “I wouldn’t put it past her,” muttered Myron Vigo.

    “Gentlemen,” the bishop continued, “I can understand that you are upset. Your losses in
this affair must have been enormous.” Sherwin Lund answered that with a combination snort
and moan, but the bishop went on, undeterred. “Nevertheless, you must accept the truth of
what we all witnessed. The Spirit, in Her incarnation as the Voice, acted to protect this world,
just as She once acted to protect the Earth itself! Even now, word of this miracle is being
propagated throughout the Empire, and billions of the faithful will take it as a sign that the
Spirit is with us always, as She promised. The events we witnessed will become a new chapter
in the Book of the Spirit, and those who were not here will envy us.”

   “Bullshit!” Pollas snarled.

    “Oh, ye of little faith.” Bishop Arkwright sighed. “You are in pain now, but in time, that
pain will fade, and you will be comforted by the blessings of the Spirit. Have faith, Mr. Pollas,
have faith!”

    “If I may interject a more worldly note,” said Judge Kershaw, “may I now assume that the
petitioners no longer intend to execute their claim?”

    “Judge,” said Gaspar Norfleet, rising to his feet, “you may now assume that we are getting
the hell out of here. This place is worthless.”

   “Not entirely,” said Stu Eckstein.

   Norfleet looked at him. “How so?”

    “Only the contiguous Fergusite layer was destroyed. That makes large-scale extraction
operations pointless, of course, and it also puts the highboys out of business. But the riverrats
will be unaffected by what happened. They are recovering Fergusite that had already broken
off from the main layer, so none of it would have been touched by the plasma discharge.”

   “And how much of it is there?” asked Sherwin Lund.

    “Not much,” Eckstein conceded. “Certainly not enough to go after it with an Extractor.
That would be like hunting mosquitoes with a battleship. In fact, I would think that the most
cost-effective way of recovering that Fergusite is the way the riverrats are already doing it.
Small-scale placer mining. Panning for it in the rivers. And even though it’s not entirely pure, I
think it would be good enough to use for unmanned vessels, like couriers and messengers. The
riverrats ought to turn a nice little profit.”

   “Then maybe we should execute our claim after all,” Lund suggested to Norfleet.

   “Servitor didn’t get into this to turn a ‘nice little profit,’ ” Norfleet replied with disdain.
“Anyway, if we took those claims, we’d just have to turn around and hire the riverrats to work
them for us. Screw it. I’ve got a yacht waiting in the harbor. You want a ride back to Palmyra?”

    “With pleasure,” said Lund. “Just let me get my bags.” Lund looked around at the barons
of the Lodge. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Thank you for your hospitality. And if you ever get back
to Earth—stay the hell away from me.” With that, the representatives of Excelsior and Servitor
departed from Sylvania, millions of crowns poorer for their efforts.




BY COMMON CONSENT, THE MEETING BROKE UP. Young Claude Rankus III shyly
approached Gloria. “Ms. VanDeen,” he said, “I apologize for Joe Pollas and the others. They’re
pretty upset by all of this. They took a huge loss.”

   “And you aren’t upset?” Gloria asked him.
    “To tell you the truth,” said Rankus, “I think I’m relieved. If it had been up to me, I’d have
voted no on the petition. But, well, the family …”

   “I understand.”

    “Grandfather was right. This is a very special place. It meant a lot to him, and it means a lot
to me. I’m going to stay on for a while, and see if I can get the Lodge back in shape. Find a new
overseer to replace Thawley, hire some new staff. And I’m going to have a talk with Governor
Bosworth about forming a new local government. I imagine that you Dexta folks will be
leaving now.”

   “Most of us will be gone tomorrow,” Gloria affirmed. “What about Pollas and Vigo and the
other trustees?”

    “I think they’ll be leaving in a couple of days,” said Rankus. “And to be honest about it, I’ll
be glad to have them out of the way. They don’t … appreciate this place the way they should.
But I think you do, Ms. VanDeen. I know you had an unpleasant experience here, but I hope
you won’t consider it inappropriate for me to extend you an invitation to return, anytime you
like.”

   Gloria smiled at the young man. “You never know,” she said.




BUT SHE DID KNOW. SHE WOULD NEVER COME back to this place, and would try very
hard to forget that she had ever been here. The Scotch wasn’t helping much in that effort, but
perhaps a little more …

   “Drinking alone?”

   Gloria turned her head and saw Slim Jim Zuni standing next to her table.

   “Ah,” she said. “Why aren’t you on Palmyra by now, counting up your winnings?”

   “Thought I’d stick around for a while,” he said. “Mind if I join you?”

   “Be my guest. Only one glass, though. But you colorful boomworld types drink straight
from the bottle, don’t you?”

    “Sometimes,” said Zuni, sitting down and helping himself to a slug of Scotch. He took a
long, appreciative look at Gloria’s naked body, then met her eyes and smiled. “You’re pretty
colorful yourself, you know. Elba was a grand old broad, but I liked the Emporium even better
with you in charge. What happens to it now?”

    “Funny you should mention that,” Gloria said, pausing to sip some more of her drink. “Just
got a note from headquarters, via messenger. The Dexta Comptroller has ordered me, pending
resolution of our mission on Sylvania, to dispose of the Emporium as expeditiously and
economically as possible. It seems that there are certain Members of Parliament who are not
entirely pleased to discover that Dexta is operating a bawdy house.”

   “So?” Slim Jim asked. “What are you going to do?”
    “I have to find a buyer who doesn’t mind a huge repair bill and the fact that most of the
clientele is deserting the planet in droves. You see the harbor this afternoon? There’s a whole
fleet of transports out there, and highboys are fighting each other for berths on ‘em.”

   “Riverrats are staying, though,” Slim Jim pointed out.

     “Good for them,” Gloria said. “But none of them is rich enough to afford this place. Maybe
if they formed a consortium. Maybe if some smart young man got them organized …” She
trailed off. Sad thoughts of Ted Oberlin filled her head, and she sought to chase them away
with more booze.

   “Maybe I’ll buy it myself,” she said. “I can afford it. I was born rich, y’know.”

   “I know,” said Slim Jim.

     “And I was born a whore, too. Did you know that? It’s true. These special genes I’ve got?
Do you know how they were created in the first place? Seems that three or four centuries back,
some rich sultan on Suliman IV decided that it might be nice to have a bunch of
custom-designed harem girls. So he hired some genetic sculptors, and they came up with the
ol’ S-Complex, just what the sultan ordered. O’ course, you can’t keep a good thing like that a
secret, can you? So pretty soon, other people were getting access to the S-Complex. And one of
them was one of my ancestors, so here I am. Born to be a whore. Maybe I really should buy
this place and stay here and run it. Althea kept telling me I should work the rooms, but I never
got around to it. Too bad.”

   “That’s the booze talking,” Slim Jim said. “You’d be wasted here, Gloria. The Empire needs
you more than the riverrats do.”

   “Fuck the Empire,” Gloria said. “If the Empire knew what I just did, they’d lynch me.”

   “You mean, if they found out what you were up to in Room 9?” Slim Jim grinned at her.

   Gloria’s eyes widened. She slammed her glass down on the table, sloshing out Scotch. “Jim!
You can’t—”

  “Relax, Gloria. It’s none of my business. I just happened to notice, is all. Your secret,
whatever it is, is safe with me.”

  Gloria stared at him for several moments. Twice, she started to say something, but stopped.
What could she say?

   “So,” Slim Jim said to break the tension, “everyone else is gone?”

    Gloria poured some more Scotch and took a swig. She nodded. “All the Dexta people took
off on the Cruiser this afternoon. Except Dina Westerbrook. In a couple of days she and I will
take available transportation to Palmyra and go home on the Flyer.”

   “And your friend Stu Eckstein?”

   “Hitched a ride on the Cruiser. Had to get back and report to the Imperial Geological
Survey.”

   “And Althea and the girls?”
   “She left, most of them stayed. She got them lodging around town.”

   “She took good care of them,” Zuni noted. “It’s a shame she left. I could have used her.”

   “You could have used her?”

   “Yup,” said Slim Jim. “I’ve decided I want to buy the Emporium.”

  Gloria shook her head for a second, trying to clear away cobwebs. “I don’t get it,” she said.
“Why would you want the Emporium?”

   Slim Jim slid back in his chair, propped his legs up on the table, and helped himself to
another slug from the bottle. “I like it here,” he said. “Feels like home. Oh, I’ll hire someone to
run it for me, but it would be nice to have someplace to come back to. My own table, a place to
deal a few hands of five-card stud, knock back a few drinks. Home.”

     “Well,” Gloria said after a moment’s thought, “you can’t have it. I told you, I’m buying it. A
little paint, a little plaster—a new wall—and it’ll be as good as new. Gloria’s Knocking Shop.
Come on in and hump the hostess. It’s the perfect place for the perfect whore.”

   “Why are you being so hard on yourself, Gloria?” Slim Jim wondered. “You got what you
wanted here, didn’t you? You won.”

    Gloria cocked an eye toward Slim Jim. “You know how many men I killed on this planet?”
she asked him. “I’ll tell you. I killed even more men than I fucked.”

    “You didn’t kill anyone,” Slim Jim said sharply. He brought his feet down and slid his chair
over next to hers so he could look her in the eye. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened
at Pizen Flats.”

   “Can’t I? Why the hell not? If I had been a little smarter, if I had handled things better, if I
hadn’t been so damned sure of myself, Gus Thornton and Ted Oberlin and all those people
would still be alive.”

    “Maybe,” Slim Jim agreed after a moment. “And maybe if you’d played things different,
even more would have died. Gloria, you can’t spend your life beating yourself up over how you
played your cards in the last hand. It’s the next hand that matters.”

   “Hah!” cried Gloria. “Listen to the gambler-philosopher.”

   “Yes, listen to him. You can’t change what happened, Gloria.”

   “Maybe I can,” she said.

   “How are you going to do that?”

   “Not change it … but make it come out … differently. Better, maybe.”

   Slim Jim raised an eyebrow. “Do I want to know how?”

   “No,” she assured him, “you don’t.” She swallowed some more Scotch.

   “Well, anyway,” Slim Jim said, “I want to buy the Emporium.”

   Gloria shook her head. “Told you, I’m buying it.”
   “Tell you what, we’ll cut cards for it. Winner gets to buy the Emporium. Loser leaves town
and gets on with his or her life. Deal?” Slim Jim removed a deck of cards from his vest pocket
and slapped it down on the table.

    Gloria stared at Zuni, stared at the deck. “No,” she said at last. “Winner gets to buy the
Emporium and fuck the loser’s brains out. I go first.” She reached for the deck and lifted off a
single card. She held it against her breast and didn’t look at it.

    Slim Jim lifted the next card, looked at it, and flipped it onto the tabletop. It was the three
of clubs.

   Gloria smiled boozily, then peeked at her card. “Deuce,” she said, and quickly slid the card
back into the deck. She spread her legs and leaned back in her chair. “Emporium’s yours. So
am I.”

     So Slim Jim knelt before her and began collecting his winnings. Soon, Gloria was gasping
in ecstasy, as Slim Jim brought her to one shattering climax after another. And for the first time
all day, she didn’t think about what she was going to do the next morning.




GLORIA STOOD AT THE LAKE OGUNBAYO DOCK in the early-morning mist, flanked by
two Imperial Marshals. Clad only in thin white shorts and an unzipped windbreaker, she let
the cool, moist air rouse her from the depths of her hangover and sleepless night. She watched
in silence as the departing barons approached the dock, followed by a small army of baggage
bearers. Joe Pollas, Myron Vigo, Sidney Taplin, Rahim Ogunbayo—and Raul Tellemacher.
Perfect.

    The party stopped and Myron Vigo came forward. Gloria held out her pad to him, and he
glanced at it. The warrant was a parting favor from Judge Kershaw, who didn’t quite see the
point of it, but wasn’t inclined to argue about it.

   “You just won’t quit, will you, Ms. VanDeen?” Vigo said as he handed the pad back to her.
She slipped it into the deep pocket of her windbreaker.

   “No,” Gloria said, “I won’t. Please place all your baggage on the dock and open it so the
Marshals can inspect it. And Mr. Pollas, the warrant covers your yacht, as well.”

    Pollas gave her a sour expression, then pressed a remote to open the hatch of his yacht at
dockside. Gloria stepped inside, followed by Pollas. “I don’t know what the hell you expect to
find,” he said.

    “Evidence tying you to the massacre at Pizen Flats, of course. You didn’t think I was just
going to let you walk away from that, did you?” Gloria began looking around at random inside
the yacht, opening drawers and cupboards, lifting cushions, checking the undersides of chairs.

   “This is just harassment,” Pollas told her.

    “That’s right. Get used to it. Maybe people will forget about the massacre in time, but
Dexta will never forget that you were also responsible for assaulting two of its officers.” She
turned to face him. “And I guarantee you, Pollas, I won’t forget it.”
   “Vigo?” Pollas called. “You hear that? Are you going to let her get away with that?”

    Vigo joined them inside the yacht, with Tellemacher following him in. “Yes, I heard it,”
Vigo said patiently, “and yes, I’m going to let her get away with it. Relax, Joe. She’s just playing
out her final scene with us. It’s not enough for her that she destroyed the Fergusite and cost us
a fortune. She needs to make it as personal as possible. Isn’t that right, Ms. VanDeen?”

    “Believe whatever you want, Mr. Vigo,” Gloria said. “It’s just the five of you going? No
pilot?”

  Tellemacher gave a short, sarcastic laugh. “Joe doesn’t need a pilot. He’s the best pilot in the
Empire. Right, Joe?”

    “I’m fully qualified,” Pollas said simply. “Why? Were you planning on suspending my
license as part of your harassment?”

   “It’s a thought,” Gloria replied.

   “Yeah,” said Tellemacher, “you’d better check to make sure he’s really qualified. It’s a real
tough job, isn’t it, Joe? You must have to press, what, five or six buttons between here and
Palmyra?”

   Pollas seemed annoyed by his friend’s needling. “If I press the wrong one, Raul, instead of
decelerating and docking at Palmyra Orbital, we’ll just zoom off into the galaxy.”

   “Yikes!” cried Tellemacher.

   “As I recall, Ms. VanDeen,” said Vigo, “you’ve already conducted a thorough search of this
yacht. What can you possibly hope to find at this late date?”

    “Maybe a telltale heart? Who knows? Get comfortable, gentlemen, this may take a while. I
intend to be very thorough.”

    Gloria spent the next hour prying into every nook, alcove, and compartment of the yacht.
Vigo and Pollas followed her around for a while, but finally grew bored and retired to the main
lounge and left her alone to continue her relentless probing. Meanwhile, on the dock, the
Marshals turned every piece of baggage inside out. Finally, the bags were repacked and loaded
aboard, and Gloria announced to the five travelers in the lounge that she had completed her
search.

   “Was it good for you, too, Gloria?” Tellemacher asked with a leer.

   “It was satisfactory,” she said.

    “You didn’t find the evidence that wasn’t here,” said Pollas. “Big fucking surprise. Now get
the hell off my yacht so we can leave. I don’t want to see you again until I meet you in court,
VanDeen—when we sue you for damages. I still think you were behind that business with the
plasma, and I’m going to prove it someday. You think you’re going to harass us? Just wait till
you see how we harass you!”

    “I’ll look forward to it,” she told him. “In fact, I’ll even give you some help. I’ll tell you the
truth if you tell me the truth.” Gloria pulled off her windbreaker and tossed it out onto the
dock. Then she slipped out of her shorts and shoes and threw them out, as well.
    She held her arms out to her sides. “No concealed weapons, no recording devices,” she
said. “Now close the hatch so we can talk in private.”

   “Don’t trust her!” cried Pollas. “She could have a bug in her teeth!”

   “Yeah,” said Tellemacher. “I think we ought to search her as carefully as she searched us. I
volunteer.”

     “That won’t be necessary,” said Vigo. He was holding out his own pad and waving it back
and forth across Gloria’s naked body. “She’s clean. Close the hatch, Joe, and we’ll have our
little talk.”

   Pollas frowned, but pushed a button that closed the hatch.

   “I still think we should search her,” Tellemacher insisted, “just to be safe.”

   Vigo sighed. “She would like nothing better,” he pointed out. “Remember what she did to
those four allegedly strong and competent men in the ski lodge. Sorry to disappoint you,
Ms. VanDeen, but we will give you no excuse to vent your wrath. And if you are planning on
making up an excuse, just remember that witnesses on the dock saw you strip and ask that the
hatch be closed. That would make assault rather difficult to prove.”

    “No doubt,” Gloria conceded. “But that’s not what I had in mind. I just wanted to get to the
bottom of things before we part. No one will ever know what we say here, so we can all speak
the truth. I’ll start.”

    She looked directly at Pollas. “You’re right,” she said. “I am responsible for what happened
to the Fergusite. We used the two rechargers to drill shafts down to the Fergusite layer, then hit
it with a huge overload of energy that spread throughout the layer. I don’t know the technical
details, but I’m sure you can figure out what happened.”

   “I knew it, I knew it!” cried Pollas.

   Vigo nodded. “And the Voice?” he asked.

    “That was just Old Abel, the hermit who lives up in the hills. He’s been doing his Voice act
for years, but I managed to enlist him. It seems he was an audio engineer before he came to
Sylvania. He’s got bugs and resonators planted all over the valley.”

    “That old bastard!” exclaimed Ogunbayo. “Why, I used to give him a handful of crowns
whenever I saw him in town. It just goes to show you that people like that have no sense of
gratitude.”

    “Very clever,” said Vigo. “And may we know the reason why you felt compelled to do all of
this, Ms. VanDeen?”

    “It was necessary,” Gloria said. “If that Fergusite had been put into widespread use,
accident rates would have skyrocketed and confidence in interstellar transit would have been
undermined. Planets would have turned inward and depended on their own resources. Trade
would have declined, and the very fabric of the Empire would have been threatened.”

    “Interesting,” said Vigo. “And yet, I know for a fact that the Emperor does not share your
fears.”
   “The Emperor,” Gloria declared, “is a selfish, shortsighted ass. And I know that for a fact!”

   Vigo chuckled. “Yes, I suppose you would, at that. So, may I assume that your sabotage
was conducted not at the Emperor’s behest, but that of the redoubtable Norman Mingus?”

   “You may,” said Gloria. “And now, it’s your turn to tell the truth. Tellemacher, I already
know that you betrayed Petra, so don’t even try to deny it.”

   Tellemacher simply shrugged.

    “What I don’t know,” Gloria said, “is which of you decided on the massacre at Pizen Flats.
You didn’t trust Grunfeld to manage it himself, so you brought in some outside help, in case it
became necessary. And when the Pizen Flats group got organized and started refiling their
claims, you realized that you could lose the Eminent Domain vote. So you gave the go-ahead
signal for the massacre. Who gave the signal? Was it you, Vigo? Or was it you, Pollas?”

    Sidney Taplin stepped forward. “Actually,” he said, “it was me. I’m not as loud or flashy as
Joe, or as slick as Vigo, but I generally get my way. The whole thing was my idea, and the
others went along with it.”

   Gloria nodded. “And which one of you killed Rankus?”

   “Thawley did the actual shooting,” Vigo said. “We were doing Claude a favor, really. He
was in pain, and losing his grip.”

   “And you paid off the Thawleys on Palmyra, didn’t you?”

   “They knew too much and were no longer needed,” said Taplin.

    “Of course,” Gloria agreed. “All right, gentlemen. Just one final question. Have any of you
lost any sleep over this? Do you feel the slightest twinge of conscience over all the people
you’ve killed?”

   There was an awkward moment of silence. Then Rahim Ogunbayo said, “They were only
boomrats. They didn’t matter.”

   “They were people!” Gloria snapped.

   “That’s a matter of opinion,” said Taplin blithely.

    “There are people, Ms. VanDeen,” said Vigo, “and then, there are people. That’s one thing
I’ve learned in over a century of practicing law. The boomrats may have been colorful and
lovable individuals—although personally, I doubt it—but as a group, they were simply an
impediment to progress.”

   “And profit,” Gloria added.

    “One and the same,” said Vigo. “A word of advice, if I may presume, Ms. VanDeen. If you
are going to play the game at this level, you need to understand that personal morality simply
doesn’t apply. All of us”—he spread his arms to encompass his friends—“are quite decent
people. We give to charities, we endow hospitals, we are kind to our families and pets. But we
don’t confuse personal decency with economic necessity. Men such as ourselves built this
Empire, Ms. VanDeen, and we have run it for centuries. We will continue to do so, and you
and Mr. Mingus and your little Office of Strategic Intervention cannot change that immutable
fact. Accept that, and you will have an easier time of it in the future. Forget about Pizen Flats,
Ms. VanDeen. It simply doesn’t matter.”

    “It matters to me,” Gloria told him, grinning fiercely. “You remember that, Mr. Vigo. And
the rest of you. The moment will come, I promise you, when each of you will pay for what you
did at Pizen Flats. And when that moment comes, I want you to think of me.”

   Gloria looked at each of them in turn, then pivoted sharply, smacked the hatch control
with her palm, and stomped out onto the dock. A moment later, the hatch closed behind her.

    She stood on the dock and watched as the yacht engines activated and the vessel swung out
into the lake. Its main engines fired and in moments it was airborne, streaking upward into the
gray skies of Sylvania. Gloria gathered up her clothes and walked back to her skimmer to
return to the Emporium.




“… AND WHEN THAT MOMENT COMES, I WANT you to think of me.” Pollas laughed out
loud as he shut off the playback on Vigo’s pad.

   “That stupid bitch!” Pollas chuckled. “She strips down to prove she’s not recording the
conversation, and it doesn’t even occur to her that we would.”

   “I wonder,” said Vigo thoughtfully. “Ms. VanDeen is many things, but stupid isn’t one of
them.”

   “She just wanted her big moment, her dramatic final scene,” said Tellemacher. “And
naturally, she wanted to play it in the nude.”

    The five of them were gathered in the lounge as the yacht sped through the featureless,
colorless haze of Yao space. In a few hours, the computer would shut down the Ferguson
Distortion Generators, the yacht would burst back into normal space, and Pollas would assume
manual control and decelerate for rendezvous with the Palmyra Orbital Station. Until then,
they had nothing to do but savor their unexpected gift from Gloria VanDeen.

   “Are you sure that recording will be admissible?” Taplin asked Vigo.

    “It ought to be,” Vigo replied. “Of course, if we play it in court, Ms. VanDeen will simply
claim that she was just making up stories to get us to confess to crimes we never committed.”

    “But those stories can be checked,” Pollas pointed out. “All we have to do is go back to
Sylvania and find some of those bugs and resonators. And grab Old Abel.”

   “And that’s what troubles me,” said Vigo. “She would certainly have been aware of that.
And yet, she told us.” Vigo looked around the interior of the yacht, as if he expected to see
something that shouldn’t have been there.

   “Oh, relax, Myron,” said his old friend Ogunbayo. “Ms. VanDeen simply made a mistake.
And we shall profit from it.”

   “She doesn’t make many mistakes,” said Vigo.
    “I’ll tell you a mistake we made,” said Tellemacher. “We should have searched her when we
had her standing here naked. Damn, I sure would have enjoyed searching her. You know, I
think we were probably the only men on that whole damn planet that she never fucked.”

    Pollas laughed. “Maybe you’re right, Rowdy. We probably could have taken turns screwing
her right here, and she would—what was that?”

   There was a soft popping sound and a muffled hiss. Everyone looked around.

   “Shit! Are we losing pressure?” Tellemacher wondered.

   “No, it came from over there, in the aft galley. I don’t—oh my God!”

   A thin, pink haze was drifting forward from the kitchen. The five men watched it approach
them, watched as fabrics and fibers began to disintegrate before their eyes as the haze
advanced.

   And then Myron Vigo understood.

   The moment had come, and he said, “VanDeen.”




                                         Chapter 29

GLORIA WALKED SLOWLY THROUGH THE FOREST at the base of the falls, nude as she
always was here, feeling the special magic of the place once again, even though she knew there
really was no magic. It was nothing more than a forest and a falls, trees, rocks, and water. There
was no Voice and, she now assumed, probably no Spirit, either.

   And yet, the place itself was its own reason for being. To human senses, it didn’t really
matter whether there was magic here or not. The natural did not require the supernatural to
explain or justify it. It was what it was, and that was enough.

    Gloria felt oddly at peace with herself, considering that by then, she had committed
cold-blooded murder. If the timer had gone off as scheduled, half an hour ago Vigo,
Ogunbayo, Taplin, Pollas, and Tellemacher had died horrible deaths. She wondered why she
didn’t feel something.

   “Special circumstances,” she said to herself. Under the Imperial Code, the death penalty
could not be invoked unless there were special circumstances involved in a crime. Mass
murder qualified. The massacre at Pizen Flats qualified. Justice had been done, she assured
herself.

   It was called Toxgon, Arkady Volkonski had told her when she asked him about it that
night at the Emporium. It had been developed more than a century earlier as a means of
decontaminating sites that had been attacked with certain biological or chemical weapons. The
superoxidant compound broke down every organic molecule it encountered, reducing them to
nothing more than harmless atoms of carbon, oxygen, nitrogen, and hydrogen. Its job
accomplished, the Toxgon broke down, leaving no trace.
    Since Toxgon, in itself, could be a powerful weapon, its use was strictly regulated and
access to it was restricted. But it could be found in the inventory of hospitals on worlds like
Palmyra, where biological weapons had been unleashed in the war with the Ch’gnth
Confederacy, just four decades earlier. Every now and then, a previously overlooked
contaminated site was discovered, and the Toxgon was needed.

   Joe Pollas had gotten Toxgon from the hospital his family endowed, and had used it to
remove every trace of Petra’s presence on his yacht. Clever and foolproof.

    But when Gloria returned to Palmyra and confronted Dr. Hamdoon and administrator
Suharto about the missing Toxgon in their inventory, they admitted that they had given a
packet of it to Pollas. They admitted it because Gloria had assured them that she would see to it
that their unfortunate and highly illegal lapse would never see the light of day. In return for her
lenience, she required only a Toxgon packet for herself—for the investigation of other crimes.

    The Toxgon packet was about the same size as a deck of cards. It was self-detonating and
had its own timer. She carried it aboard the yacht in the pocket of her windbreaker, and had
no problem finding a place to hide it. Vigo and Pollas were worried about what she might find,
not what she might leave behind. It had been easy.

    “When I was in training,” Arkady had told her, “taking a course on decontamination
procedures, they showed us a vid of an accidental Toxgon release. A security cam caught it in a
laboratory where a Toxgon packet detonated prematurely. The shields closed immediately, of
course, trapping five people inside the lab.”

    Arkady had paused at that point. He frowned and shook his head at the memory of the vid.
“The Toxgon,” he continued, “killed those people from the outside in. First it decomposed the
outer layers of their skin. And their eyes. Then the deeper layers of the skin, right down to the
bones, then the bones themselves. When they breathed it in, it went to work on their lungs and
they began coughing up blood. They were still alive, you see. Nothing vital had been affected
yet, so they lived until they bled to death, as their bodies melted away. It was the worst thing I
ever saw. Worst way to die you can imagine.”

   Gloria stopped and leaned against a tree for a moment as she remembered Volkonski’s
words and thought about what must have happened inside the Pollas yacht.

   Gloria VanDeen: judge, jury, executioner. Avenging angel.

  Personal morality didn’t matter at this level, Vigo had told her. People didn’t matter,
Ogunbayo claimed. Very well, then.

   But justice mattered. Murder had been committed, and the murderers had been punished.

   Except, she reminded herself, Tellemacher was not a murderer. He’d had nothing to do
with Pizen Flats. But he had betrayed Petra, and that betrayal would surely have led to her
death if not for the fortunate intervention of their friends from the Emporium. So Tellemacher
was as guilty as the rest of them.

   In any case, he was as dead as the rest of them.

   For a brief moment, Gloria thought she was about to vomit.

   She caught herself, took a few deep breaths, and rubbed her eyes. “I can live with this,” she
said.

    “What can you live with?”

  Gloria looked around and saw Old Abel standing a few meters away. She shrugged and
managed to smile at him. “With whatever I have to,” she said.

    Abel thought about that for a few moments. “That pretty much applies to all of us, doesn’t
it?” he asked.

    “Some of us more than others,” Gloria replied.

    Abel raised an eyebrow. “You worried about what we done here?”

    “No, not about that. We’ve saved Sylvania, Abel.”

    “For now, anyway,” he said.

    “No,” Gloria said, “permanently, I think. When I get back to Earth, I’m going to suggest to
Charles that he turn Sylvania into an Imperial Park, with a waiver that will permit the riverrats
to keep working their claims. He’ll be furious about what happened, but I think he’ll go for it.
That would bring in tourists, which would help defray the cost of the Orbital Station.”

   “Tourists?” Abel sniffed. He didn’t look happy about the prospect. “I suppose they’ll be
coming here to the falls.”

    “Some of them,” Gloria agreed. “Would you rather have Extractors?”

    “I’d rather just keep the place to myself.”

    Gloria grinned at him. “You’re a selfish old bastard, aren’t you?”

    “Damned right, I am. But you’re welcome to come here anytime you want.”

    Gloria shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll be coming back this way, Abel. In fact, I’ll be
leaving tomorrow. I just wanted to see the falls—and you—one last time.”

     “Well, I’m glad you did. But I ain’t gonna like it when them tourists start showin’ up, I can
tell ya that.”

    “You’ll have to get used to it, Abel. In fact, they’re already here. A shipload of religious
pilgrims arrived from Palmyra just this morning. The Spiritists are all agog over what
happened here—which is lucky for us. If people are convinced that the Voice was a
manifestation of the Spirit, the Emperor won’t be likely to investigate everything that
happened here. That would cost him Spiritist support, and he’d never risk that. Of course, the
people who come here expecting to hear the Voice aren’t going to hear it, are they, Abel?”

    Abel stared at the ground for a moment, then said, “Naw, I ’spect not.”

    “You know that you have to gather up all your bugs and resonators, don’t you? We can’t
risk having them discovered.”

    “Yeah,” Abel said, “I know. I’ll do it, I guess. Wouldn’t want either one of us to get in
trouble. But first, I want to let the Voice speak one last time. I just need to think up the right
words.”
    “I know the right words,” Gloria said. She leaned close to him and whispered them in his
ear. Then she gave him a long, heartfelt kiss good-bye.




THE NEXT DAY, UP AND DOWN THE VALLEY, IN the streets of Greenlodge, in the
meadows of Overhill, along the cliffs, and deep in the forests, coming from everywhere and
nowhere, the Voice whispered,

   Thank you!




                                  About the Author


                         C.J. Ryan lives and works in Philadelphia.




                                     ALSO BY C.J. RYAN


                                         DEXTA




                                    Be sure not to miss




                           THE FIFTH
                         QUADRANT
                                              BY

                                    C.J. RYAN

Now that Gloria VanDeen has proven her own merits, she is about to face her toughest
mission ever. For Gloria is suddenly caught in the midst of a vicious turf war, fighting for her
personal and professional survival against terrorist assassins and vengeful bureaucrats, as she
untangles a web of intrigue and corruption from the Empire’s past that threatens to destroy
its future…


                                     Coming in Fall 2006




                                     THE FIFTH
                                    QUADRANT
                                      On Sale Fall 2006




THE LIGHT OF THE SUNS BEAT DOWN ON THE baking streets of Cartago like a curse. One
of them was small, blue, and hot; the other was fat, red, and less hot. They were separated in
the sky by about the width of a fist held at arm’s length, and Cartago whirled endlessly about a
point somewhere between the two blazing orbs. They cast twin shadows in the streets, which
angled away from one another slightly, as if reluctant to admit they knew each other.

    Gloria VanDeen followed her host and his entourage through the swarming streets,
enjoying the color and bustle and the singsong entreaties of the bazaar merchants. Exotic,
fan-tailed phoenixbirds could be hers for only ten crowns, or perhaps seven. Silken scarves and
golden bangles and cotton caftans of the highest quality would only enhance her astonishing
beauty, and at a price so low she would feel guilty for taking such advantage of the poor but
honest merchants of Cartago; but the honor of being permitted to offer garments and jewelry
to grace the famous form of Gloria VanDeen would more than offset the financial loss. The
most beautiful woman in all the Empire surely deserved no less than the finest craftsmanship
and artistry in the entire Sector—nay, the entire Quadrant!

    “I would buy you something as a souvenir,” Praetor Ulmani said to her, “but that would
surely cause a riot. The merchant whose wares you wore would become insufferable, and his
competition, unable to bear their shame, would doubtless kill him.”

    “Then I suppose it’s best that I wear nothing,” Gloria said with a smile. “I wouldn’t want to
be responsible for a tragedy.”

    “Spirit forbid it!” Ulmani grinned at her. Since nothing—or very nearly nothing—was
precisely what Gloria was wearing, he spent a long moment staring at her. Her soft, flowing,
nearly transparent garment rested lightly on her shoulders and descended in narrow vees of
sheer white fabric, front and rear, shielding her from the suns but not from the hungry eyes
that surrounded her. Her flanks and legs were entirely bare, and the garment swirled
mischievously with each movement to reveal her firm, round buttocks and golden pubic nest.

   Gloria took a deep breath and reveled in the moment. There were times when being Gloria
VanDeen was just so damn much fun that it should have been illegal. She smiled and waved
happily to the throng in the streets, then let Ulmani take her elbow and usher her along.

   The people of Cartago, like their Praetor, had many reasons to be grateful that Gloria
VanDeen had come to their world, and Gloria was well aware that her stunning beauty and
breathtaking sexual presence were not the least important. Without those attributes, it was
doubtful that she would have been able to fulfill the mission that had brought her here.

    On this, the thirteenth day of January in the year 3218, Standard Calendar—just three days
after her twenty-fifth birthday—Gloria VanDeen was the most famous, popular, and (quite
possibly) important woman in an empire that spanned a sphere of space two thousand
light-years in diameter and was home to some three trillion sentient beings. The fact that she
was the former wife of the man who was now Emperor Charles V was of some importance, as
was her position as head of the Office of Strategic Intervention—the newest action arm of the
Department of Extraterrestrial Affairs, the sprawling bureaucracy that administered the Terran
Empire. Alone, either one of those facts would have made her a woman of some consequence;
together, they made her a potent force within the Empire. But it was her beauty, brilliance, and
courage that had won the hearts of the masses and made her, as was often said, the Sweetheart
of the Empire.

   At moments like this, Gloria was outrageously happy to be exactly who and what she was.
She had just brought her mission on Cartago to a triumphant and altogether satisfactory
conclusion. And for a change, the intervention had been brief, bloodless, and relatively simple.

    Cartago was a thirsty world, where a small population of some five million lived on the
margins of a globe-girdling desert. Just 194 light-years from Earth, the planet had been settled
some 800 years earlier in pre-Imperial days. In later years, it probably never would have been
colonized at all, but in that first era of interstellar expansion, Earthmen were not yet very
particular in their choice of new worlds. If a planet had oxygen in its atmosphere and a mean
surface temperature somewhere between the freezing and boiling points of water, it was a
candidate for settlement. Cartago qualified—if only just.

    Over the centuries, the slowly growing population had splintered into what amounted to
tribal groups, although the ethnic, cultural, and religious orientations of the three main tribes
differed little. The only differences of real consequence concerned water and access to it. The
Mountain Tribe controlled the flow of the precious liquid that trickled down to the dusty
plains and the lands of the Eastern and Western Tribes. Accordingly, the Mountain Tribe had
always selected the Praetor who headed the planetary government, such as it was. The coming
of the Empire had remarkably little impact on existing arrangements on Cartago, and
generations of Imperial Governors and Dexta bureaucrats were content to let the natives work
things out for themselves.

    In recent years, however, the elders of the Eastern and Western Tribes had—for Spirit knew
what bizarre reasons—taken to sending their brightest sons and daughters back to Earth to be
educated in The Law. Having nothing better to do when they returned to their homeworld, the
young barristers began suing the other tribes over the only thing that mattered on their
world—water. Thus, there had been angry protests, boycotts, insults, threats, and finally, the
sequestration of water that had once flowed freely from the slopes of the central mountains.
The Imperial Governor had been unable to persuade anyone to see the light of reason, and the
tiny Dexta establishment on the planet had thrown up its arms in despair.

   So Norman Mingus had sent Gloria to Cartago.

   Cartago was the fifth intervention for Gloria and OSI, and by far the easiest. Gloria hadn’t
even bothered to take along any staff; Cartago was just two days away from Earth via Flyer,
and so help was relatively close at hand should any prove necessary. None did.

    In less than two weeks on the planet, she had met with a handful of young lawyers, a clutch
of tribal elders, and Praetor Ulmani, adroitly resolving their conflicts through a combination of
judicious bribes and personal persuasion. The Dexta Comptroller would probably grumble
about the bribes, small though they were, but Gloria had thoroughly enjoyed her brief sojourn
on Cartago. She had charmed, beguiled, and bedazzled everyone who mattered, as she usually
did wherever she went. Displaying and exploiting her beauty were a standard modus operandi
for Gloria, and in this age of Spiritism, few saw anything shameful in it.

    Resolving the conflicts on Cartago had been so easy that Gloria seriously wondered if the
whole mess hadn’t been cooked up by the young lawyers simply to lure her to their world.
Probably not, she conceded; on a desert world, no one played frivolous games with water. Still,
her fame and reputation had reached the point that she had to beware the Heisenberg Effect;
her mere presence was often enough to alter the terms of any equation.

    At the moment, her presence in the streets of Cartago was altering the normal routine of
the bazaar at searing mid-day, when energy levels and activity normally reached low ebb.
Praetor Ulmani kept his grip on Gloria’s elbow while his entourage of aides and security men
plowed a path through the increasingly excited crowds. They could have taken an
air-conditioned limo skimmer directly to the restaurant, but Ulmani had calculated that it
could not hurt his popularity to be seen escorting Gloria through the teeming streets of his city.
Gloria didn’t really mind being paraded through the streets as if she were one of Ulmani’s
hunting trophies; she was willing to let him get whatever political mileage he could out of the
affair. He was a nice enough man and probably as good a leader as the planet needed. She was
content to let him have his big moment; all that really mattered was that she had solved
Cartago’s little problems and would soon be returning to Earth.

   The outdoor restaurant was just ahead. Security men were already clearing a path while the
maître d’ stood before a large table in eager, fawning anticipation. Gloria impulsively decided to
give everyone—not least of all Ulmani—one last reason to cheer before they settled in for their
luncheon. She turned to face Ulmani, pulled him close, and gave him an incendiary kiss. The
cheers were deafening. Gloria released her hold on the astonished Praetor and grinned at him.
“Your people adore you,” she said.

   “After this,” Ulmani replied, “they may start worshipping me!”

   Gloria winked at him. “Or me,” she said.

    They made their way through the wrought iron gateway that delineated the restaurant,
greeted the proprietor, and moved to the reserved table. One of Ulmani’s aides pulled out a
chair for her, and Gloria had just begun to bend to be seated when the blue-green bolt of
plasma crackled through the air just above her. The characteristic plasma thunderclap followed
an instant later, as air rushed in to fill the ionized trail of the discharge; and just after that,
Gloria heard the pained, startled moan from the aide standing behind her.

    Before she could fully register what had happened, three security men were firing back,
their plasma beams converging on a head and shoulders just visible on the rooftop across the
street. The head and shoulders vanished in green fire, and the triple thunderclap echoed
through the suddenly silent streets. As quickly as that, it was over. Gloria smelled burnt hair.

   She looked around and saw Ulmani’s aide slumping backward against the white stucco
wall of the building. Flames flickered along the torn sleeve of his garment and he stared in
open-mouthed wonder at the inch-in-diameter trench of blackened meat that now grooved his
upper arm. Behind him, there was a smoldering hole in the wall.

    Comprehension slowly dawned, and Gloria reached upward and ran her fingers through
the singed tunnel that had scorched through her thick blond mane, just above her scalp.

   I’ve been shot in the hair, she thought. How odd.




GLORIA DIDN’T HAVE MUCH TIME TO DWELL ON the events of Cartago, however, for no
sooner was she back on Earth than she was officially declared an Avatar of Joy—a sort of
secular saint of Spiritism, a religion that had no saints. The ceremony was held in Rio. She’d
had no intention of seeing Charles while she was in the city, but an Imperial invitation was
impossible to ignore.

     The limo deposited Gloria at the entrance to the Imperial Horticulture Gardens on the
grounds of the Residence. Here, exobotanists had assembled a unique collection of plant
species from all over the Empire, and had somehow gotten them to grow in harmony without
annihilating each other or the native species of Earth. The result, one critic had noted, looked as
if Salvador Dali had taken up gardening.

    Gloria wandered though the gateway, past a bright blue hedge and under the drooping
boughs of a quaking willow from DeSantos IV; when she brushed against its fronds, they drew
back as if in fright. She spotted Charles strolling along a pathway between a fragrant,
carnivorous gluetree from somewhere in the Pleiades Cluster and a pygmy sequoia from a
high-gravity world that was all of four feet tall. The Emperor smiled and nodded at the sight of
her and casually walked onward in her direction.

   “What’s this?” he asked, pointing at her. “Clothing? On a Visitation Day? I would have
expected better from an Avatar of Joy.”

  “It may be a Visitation Day, and this may be Rio,” Gloria replied, “but back home in
Manhattan, it’s still January.”

   “Indeed. Tell me, have you had any snow there yet? The Imperial Climatologist tells me
we’ll see it in our lifetime.”

   “Not that I’ve noticed. But I hear they had a little up in Poughkeepsie last year.”

    “Something to look forward to, then. What fun, waiting for an Ice Age.” Charles stopped in
front of Gloria and held out both hands to her. She hesitated a moment, then took them in
hers. They held each other and stared in silence for what felt like a long time.

    Charles, now twenty-eight, was looking more like an Emperor with each passing year. His
medium-length dirty-blond hair was artlessly tousled over the tops of his ears, and his closely
trimmed beard emphasized rather than concealed the arrogant thrust of his chin. His nose was
characteristic of the Hazar Dynasty, rather long and bony, and his watery blue eyes seemed to
radiate condescension. He was still slim and fit, and was tall enough to look down on most
people with lofty nonchalance. He was dressed in casual splendor and looked quite
comfortable with himself.

   It had been nearly a year since Gloria had seen him face to face. Upon her return from
Mynjhino, Charles had seen fit to award her a Distinguished Service Medal; having been
embarrassed and frustrated by her during that episode, he had concluded that the only way to
deal with her performance was to reward her for it. On the other hand, her service on Sylvania
had inspired no award, only icy silence.

    Charles finally released his grip on her hands and gave her an appraising once-over with his
eyes. She was clothed, true, but only minimally, in a pale blue wrap dress that was loosely
fastened at the waist, exposing vistas of breast and belly to his appreciative view.

   “You’ve done something to your hair,” he said at last.

   “Well, something was done to it, anyway,” Gloria admitted. Her hairdresser in Manhattan
had performed some creative first-aid on her damaged ‘do following her return from Cartago,
and her long, Dura-Styled mane now flowed halfway down her back in apparent good health.

   “So I heard,” Charles said. “Dammit, Glory, if Mingus keeps sending you to these
two-crown shitholes, sooner or later you are going to get seriously hurt. And for what? So a
bunch of provincials can water their fucking lawns?”

    “People live on those shitholes, Charles,” Gloria responded. “They have rights and needs,
the same as anyone else in the Empire. Dexta does what it can to see that they receive the
respect and attention they are due.”

   “Spoken like the career bureaucrat you’ve become,” Charles snorted.

   “Thank you,” Gloria smiled. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in years.”
    Charles shook his head in evident disgust. “I cannot fathom why you are at Dexta. I never
could. It’s a barbaric environment, as I’m sure even you would admit, considering everything
that was done to you when you started out there. And now you’ve become Mingus’s Girl
Friday, which I find appalling.”

   “I’m sure you would.”

   “He’s a hundred and thirty years old!”

    “A hundred and thirty-one,” Gloria corrected. “Why, Charles, are you jealous?” She
snickered at the thought.

   “Please, don’t be disgusting. If you are fucking the old coot, I’d rather not know about it.”

   “Actually,” said Gloria, “I’m not. By his choice, not mine, I hasten to point out.”

    “Wise of him,” Charles said. “He’s too old to handle an Avatar of Joy.” Charles looked
upward toward the treetops and the sky and shook his head. “An Avatar of Joy, Spirit save us!
You know, don’t you, that if it weren’t for the damned Spiritists, you’d probably be spending
the rest of your life on a prison world for what you did on Sylvania?”

   “Me?” Gloria asked innocently. “What did I do?”

   “You know damned well what you did. You ruined a quadrillion crowns’ worth of
Fergusite! Only I can’t touch you for it, because of the fucking Voice and the idiot Spiritists
who think the whole thing was divine intervention, instead of a plot—a goddamn
conspiracy—by you and Mingus. Don’t deny it, Glory. I don’t know how you managed that
business with the Voice, but—”

   “Oh, ye of little faith!” Gloria laughed.

   Charles seemed about to respond, but stopped himself abruptly and reeled in his rage. He
walked down the path a few paces and pointed at a large, gnarled tree a few meters away.
“Know what that is?” he asked.

   “Beats me.”

   “It’s a glashpadoza tree. The native species on Belonna V believe that the glashpadoza
absorbs all of the sins of the clan that grows it. That’s why it’s so hellishly ugly.” He turned to
look at her. “Would you care for a cutting?”

   “Are you suggesting that I need my own glashpadoza tree?”

   “Don’t you?”

    Gloria considered the question seriously. She had committed many sins on Sylvania, and
the business with the Voice and the Fergusite was far from the most serious of them. A
spaceship with five evil men in it had never reached its destination, and only Gloria knew the
reason.

   She looked again at the tree. “I might have a good spot to grow one of those at my place on
Long Island,” she said finally.

   “I thought you might,” Charles said. “I’ll have the Imperial Gardener see to it.”
   Charles went over to her, stared into her face for a moment, then carefully put his arm
around her shoulders and drew her closer to him. She didn’t resist.

    “I know more about what happened there than you think I do,” he said softly. “I’m not
saying you were wrong. If it had been me, I’d have done the same, or worse, probably. But tell
me, Glory, are you planning to make a habit of that sort of thing?”

   She looked up into his eyes. “What if I am?” she asked.

    “Then do it right,” he said. “Don’t just play at it. Don’t think you can go around dispensing
justice and righteousness, ad hoc, on behalf of Dexta, because you can’t. Sooner or later it will
catch up with you, and not even Norman Mingus—not even I—will be able to save you from
the consequences. If you’re going to do it, do it right.”

   “What do you mean?”

   “Don’t do it as a Dexta drone, Glory. Or even as an Avatar of Joy. Do it as Empress!”




GLORIA WAS TAKEN ABACK BY CHARLES’S proposal, although not completely surprised
by it. A year and a half ago, just before she left for Mynjhino, he had made it clear that he
wanted her back. But she had long since chosen another path, and had no intention of
retreating into Charles’s waiting arms

    They had married young, and divorced young. At the time, Charles was seventh in line to
the throne, then sixth after old Darius finally died, and seemed unlikely ever to be Emperor.
He seemed unlikely, in fact, ever to be much of anything other than a wealthy, privileged
wastrel. He had persuaded her to suspend her education, and together they had spent much of
their marriage gadding about the Empire in his luxurious yacht. But in her travels, Gloria had
become fascinated with exosociology, the study of the lives and cultures of the Empire’s many
denizens, human and otherwise. When she decided to return to school and continue her
studies, Charles had absolutely forbidden it. So she left him and never looked back.

    More than two years later, after Gloria had completed her studies and joined Dexta, a
botched coup known as the Fifth of October Plot had killed Gregory, his two sons, and three of
his nephews, leaving the Imperial throne to Charles. Gloria had sighed in relief at her narrow
escape from having become Empress. The last thing she wanted was to be a useless, ineffectual
ornament to the reign of Charles V. She drew immense satisfaction from her work at Dexta,
and would have been miserable if condemned to spend her life in ceremonial playacting.

    She broke away from Charles and began walking down one of the Garden pathways at a
brisk pace. Charles followed along behind her, apparently content to give her some space.

    Empress! Spirit, why did he think she would want to be Empress? She had more real
power now, as head of the Office of Strategic Intervention, than most Empresses ever dreamed
of possessing. There had been an unbroken line of forty-seven male Emperors, of course,
dating back to Hazar the Great in 2522, 696 years ago. Unlike the kings and potentates of
antiquity, producing male offspring was no hit-or-miss proposition for the Emperors of the
Terran Empire. Empresses were simply the wives of Emperors, and not rulers in their own
right.

   Oh, five or six of them had obtained considerable power, being married to weak or
dimwitted men, but that was the exception rather than the rule. Some Emperors had done
without Empresses altogether, preferring to sire their offspring with a series of Imperial
Consorts.

    “I know what you’re thinking,” Charles said from behind her. “But this would be different.
I’d give you real power, Glory.”

   Gloria stopped so abruptly that she skidded forward a bit on the crushed stone of the
pathway. She whirled around and faced Charles.

    “What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

     “Just what I said. Real power. We’ll work out the provisions in detail, put it in writing, sign
it, and publish it. I wouldn’t be able to back out even if I wanted to.”

  She stared at him, took a couple of steps toward him, then stopped and stared at him some
more, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What are you up to, Chuckles?”

    He grinned at her. “No good, I assure you. No good at all. But since you insist, I shall reveal
to you the details of my nefarious plot.”

    Charles closed the distance between them and put his hands on her shoulders. “What I
intend,” he said, “is to wed and bed the most beautiful and popular woman in the Empire so
that we can fuck each other like crazed minks whenever we want. And what’s more, I want
that woman to give me the benefit of her very great intelligence, creativity, and courage in
ruling an Empire of three trillion sentient beings, every one of whom would be thrilled and
delighted to have her for their Empress. There, you see? An evil plot, if ever there was one.”

    “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

    “Entirely. You’d be, if you like, my co-ruler. I would retain primacy, of course—the laws
would require that in any event. But you would have full authority in virtually any area that
you prefer. Spirit, Glory, I have no interest in doing half the things I’m required to do, anyway.
Believe me, I’d welcome sharing the load with you. And the people would love it. Together,
we’d be the best rulers this old Empire has ever seen!”

    “And …?” Gloria prodded. She wasn’t ready to buy into this fantasy just yet.

    Charles removed his hands from her shoulders and stepped back from her. He nodded and
said, “And … I’m under increasing pressure these days to produce an heir, one way or another.
I could find an acceptable Consort easily enough, but I’d much prefer to do it with you.
Host-mother, of course, so you needn’t trouble yourself with a pregnancy. And it really is
necessary, Gloria. I mean, you know who’s next in line of succession at the moment, don’t
you? Cousin Larry. I know what you think of him.”

    “Larry?” Gloria groaned. “Lord Brockinbrough the Detestable?”

    “The very one. How did you describe him that time? Old enough to be my father,
unscrupulous enough to be my brother, and immature enough to be my son. Wonderful line,
that. Even Larry appreciated it. Anyway, I really need to cook up a more appropriate heir, and
there is no DNA I’d rather entwine with mine than thine.”

   Gloria frowned, looked at the ground, chewed her lower lip for a moment, then looked
back up at Charles. “And …?”

    “And,” Charles said with a laugh, “your approval numbers in the polls are better than
mine. I don’t want to spend the next century competing with you, Glory. I’d rather pool our
resources. And there’s one more and.”

   “Which is?”

   Charles wrapped his arms around her, pulled her to him, and kissed her with Imperial
urgency. She responded with urgency of her own, like a good Avatar of Joy. Moments later
they lay sprawled in the grass beneath the gnarled limbs of the glashpadoza tree.




                                       GLORIOUS TREASON
                               A Bantam Spectra Book / December 2005


                                            Published by
                                            Bantam Dell
                                  A Division of Random House, Inc.
                                       New York, New York


                                        All rights reserved
                                   Copyright © 2005 by C. J. Ryan


Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random
                                              House, Inc.


                                        eISBN: 0-553-90210-5


                                       www.bantamdell.com


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