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“Please, Mr. Vantaar-Moray, sit down. You’ve only just woken.”

“I have duties that cannot wait,” Kào told the physician without the impatience he felt. The man was only doing his job. True, his ribs ached, his head throbbed, and his back was stiff, but that was as much from having to deal with exasperating, irrational, and unpredictable people all blasted day with no respite as it was from the aftereffects of the gas. Once he got in a full sleep cycle—true sleep, not drugged unconsciousness—and some blessed hours of solitude, he’d recover. But for now, sleep would have to be put off.

“You are dismissed,” he told the doctor in as kindly a tone as he could manage. “I no longer need your assistance.”

The man’s hesitation was evident. “But—”

“If I need you I will call,” Kào assured him and strode into the meeting room.

Only his father, Trist, and two aides—one of them also of Talagar ancestry, Kào noted cheerlessly—remained inside. His father and the aides were in deep discussion at the far end of the room and didn’t notice his entry. Trist sat at a large rectangular table made from rare, naturally phosphorescent wood that was the showpiece of a conference room that was infinitely serene in its understated luxury. Moray’s quarters, as well as Kào’s and those of the senior members of the crew, were similarly equipped. No one could ever accuse his father of not traveling in style.

As Kào neared the ensign, he saw that she studied a
primitive computer taken from the Earth vessel. To her left sat a pile of discarded devices, stacked one on top of another. Something told Kào that the machines were no longer functional. And he wondered what the former owners would think of that fact once they learned of it. “It’s time for us to have a little talk, Ensign Pren.”

She straightened so quickly he feared she’d fall off the chair. “You startled me.”

“Apparently,” he said dryly. He walked to the table and leaned back against it, arms folded over his stomach. Trist’s slitted red eyes watched him warily. He couldn’t look at her without thinking of the Talagars who had tortured him and killed his friends. “Your use of sedative gas was disruptive. You’re a scientist, not a soldier.”

“We had reason to believe you were in danger.”

“I responded on the comm. I asked you not to use the gas.”

“Your father thought otherwise.”

Kào’s lecture faltered. “My father . . .”

“Yes.” Her chin lifted a notch.

So that’s who had given the order. An odd feeling of betrayal replaced Kào’s anger. But it was unfair to blame the man for wanting to preserve what was precious to him.

His only heir.

Long before Moray had adopted Kào, he’d lost his wife and two children in a Talagarian slaver raid. For Moray, rearing Kào had been an unexpected second chance at being a father. As such, the commodore was fiercely protective. It made sense that he’d do all he could to assure his adopted son’s safety.

On the other hand, Trist knew that. In true Talagarian fashion, she had likely taken advantage of that to resolve the standoff as she wanted.

He swerved his attention back to her. “What is the status of the refugees?”

Trist appeared to consider her words before answering. “I just now gave the order to have them removed from their vessel.”

“
You
gave the order?”

“You were unconscious—”

“Thanks to you.”

“If I’d known you’d be up so soon . . .” She cleared her throat. “Not being clear on your status, I took action, as I felt that continued sedation was not in the best interests of the refugees’ health.”

“Ah. At least there is one decision you have made—all on your own—that I agree with.” He walked away from the table. “And the leader is with them?”

“Yes. I didn’t ask for her to be separated out. The refugees haven’t been revived yet.”

“You’re moving them as they
sleep?
”

“It’s perfectly safe,” she protested.

“If you don’t mind being treated like a box of freight.”

Her silence only exacerbated his burgeoning irritation. “I’m going down there to oversee the operation. And to find the leader. We need to involve her in the process. Blast it, Trist. They’re her people.”

He took a step and then stopped. “I came here intending to take you off the assignment.”

Alarm tightened her features.

“But I need you,” he explained bluntly. “Or, more precisely, I need the language instruction program you’re developing. So I’ll keep you on the project. For now. The refugees must begin learning Key immediately. But the situation, unstable as it is, gives me no choice but to bar you from unsupervised contact with them. Is that understood?”

Her lavender-tinted lips thinned. “Yes.” Her hands flattened on the table. She sat there, staring at her fingers.

Poor, misguided female, he thought. Didn’t she know that he wasn’t able to conjure the emotion required to feel
sorry for her? His time in Talagar custody had assured that. “Contact me on the comm the moment the language instructional is ready.” He forced himself to add, “I do appreciate your expertise in the matter.”

He felt her eyes on him as he walked to where his father stood with his aides. The room was so expansive that the man didn’t hear Kào’s approach until he was nearly at his side.

Moray’s face lit up. “Ah—he returns to life!” The commodore’s booming voice sounded jolly but his eyes reflected his concern. “I didn’t expect you to be up and about so soon. You had two cracked ribs.”

Kào took a deep breath. “They fused successfully. I don’t feel a thing.”

Moray gave him a skeptical look.

“Incoming call for you, Commodore,” called someone from the hatchway.

“I’ll take it on the bridge, Rono.” His father rolled his eyes at Kào. “It’s been like this all day. Come. Walk with me.”

Kào fell into step beside his father. Hunched over her confiscated computer equipment, Trist did not glance up as they walked past.

“I need a moment of your time, sir,” Kào said as they entered the hallway outside.

“Of course.”

It was not his place to criticize his father’s decision to use the sedative gas, but neither did he care for the consequences of that choice. Tactfully he began, “It may not have been the best course, using the sedative to subdue the refugees. I fear that aggressive measures will destroy the understanding begun between us.”

“I worried for your safety, Kào. When Trist recommended that the sedative be used, I gave her full authority to do so.”

“Understood, sir. However, I was in contact with her at the time. I informed her that I was safe. Yet she defied me. And now she has removed the refugees from their vessel without my consent—or theirs. It will worsen the situation, I’m afraid. Therefore I have removed her from any further unsupervised interaction with the Earth people.”

Moray glanced at him sharply. “You have?”

Kào nodded. “But I realize I need her expertise in language development and instruction. I’ve decided to keep her on the job, but in a supervised capacity only.”

Moray’s personal communicator began beeping. “Almost there,” he growled into his wrist gauntlet computer. Then he confided to Kào out the corner of his mouth, “Crazy today, just crazy. I thought we’d caught up with that Talagar vessel we’re after. But all we caught in our nets was a motley flotilla of independent traders who haven’t seen anything, either. But Headquarters won’t let it go. Apparently, we’re the only Perimeter Patrol vessel presumed to be near where they were last spotted. Every blasted time we call off the search, they reinstate it.”

Kào cursed himself for adding yet another concern to his father’s full share. Patrolling the Perimeter for stray Talagars who resented the Alliance victory was a thorny and complicated undertaking; yet it was one Moray handled with aplomb. Kào, in contrast, seemed unable to even cope with a couple of hundred displaced primitives.

On the bridge, the aide Rono handed the commodore a blinking handheld communicator. Moray opened the message, but his remarks were directed to his son. “As you well know, this is not the first time I have come upon a people in need of rescue. But these are the first to turn against me. The Earth leader managed quite the enviable coup. He caught us all off guard—”

“She.”

“—making for a bit of a rough start, yes, but . . . He’s a
she
?”

Indeed
. Just wait until Moray saw whom he was battling in his efforts to settle the refugees. “That’s correct, sir.”

“Interesting.” Moray thought for a moment. “Well. No matter. A face-to-face explanation of her situation ought to quell any further thoughts of rebellion.”

“I plan to give one, sir. I’ll speak with her as soon as she wakes.”

Moray shook his head. “No need. I’ll talk to her. Call me when she’s on the way.” He gave Kào’s shoulder a squeeze. “And don’t tell me how busy I am. I’m glad to be of help.”

Moray strode to a waiting knot of aides, who enveloped him, all vying for his attention, while Kào stood at the edge of the circle, feeling once more like an outsider. Exacerbating the familiar sensation was Moray’s flip-flop on the refugee debacle. He’d given Kào full authority over the refugees, only to take over the most sensitive task of all: informing the Earth leader of her home world’s destruction.

He subdued the urge to argue Moray’s decision; the very ship his father commanded was named after the man and his heroic past. The
Savior
. Moray had earned the label through his good deeds and judgment in dealing with victims of tragedies. It was his renowned area of expertise. Who was Kào to disagree if the man wanted to wrest from him the reins of the initial briefing? And yet, he did.

But it was futile, wasting another thought on the matter. He had a refugee leader to wake up.

Cold air whooshed across Jordan’s mouth. She’d left her bedroom window open again.

No. She wasn’t home. She was at work, napping in the drafty cockpit bunkroom.

Another blast of frigid air hit her face. She batted at the sensation with her hand, but her arm felt as if it weighed a
thousand pounds. She hadn’t slept this deeply on the airplane in ages.

Wait
. On flights with only two pilots there were no scheduled breaks.

Her heart lurched. The events of the past day rushed back in full force: the black object that had captured the plane, Brian’s death, the people who might be aliens. . . .

Cold air hit her again. She forced her eyes open. Shadowy forms loomed over her, speaking in a language that sounded like that of the man she’d taken hostage.

Squinting through drug-blurred eyes, she saw that the two forms had brown hair and were dressed in smart uniforms. Colorful patches, black leather piping, and crafted metallic-silver fittings spruced up the outfits. The men tugged her to her feet. Her legs weren’t working right, but that didn’t seem to bother them. Her body was so lethargic that they had to drag her along.

“What are you doing? Hands off,” she mumbled. Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. Not merely stuck, but plastered. When she worked enough saliva into her mouth to free her tongue, it made an awful sound, like Velcro being undone. It meant she was dehydrated. How long had she been out? If her dulled senses, aching head, and stiff limbs were any indication, it had been hours.

They hauled her from First Class to Business, through Economy, and toward the rear of the airplane. All the exit doors were wide open. Which meant that security was hopelessly breached.

Seesawing between lucid consciousness and a nausealaced dream state, she was too disoriented to put up a decent fight. As if it would do any good. How would she be able to help the others if she acted like a hothead and got herself killed?

Her father once described how the POWs in Vietnam tried not to chastise themselves over every little concession
made to their captors. Better to save your strongest resistance for the biggest battles. She’d cooperate. For now.

Jordan stumbled. Only the two sets of hands clamped around her upper arms kept her from falling. A solid but giving lump had tripped her. As her vision cleared, she saw that the objects they were steering her around weren’t bumps at all but the bodies of the passengers and crew.

Everyone appeared to be sleeping, but the sharp, tangy smell of urine and fresh vomit clogged her nostrils.
Good God
. They’d been drugged. All of them.

She moaned softly as nausea gripped her stomach. Ah, but she couldn’t give in to it; she needed to stay alert, to be strong. For the passengers, for her crew mates.

For Boo.

In the dim light at the rear of the airplane, Jordan stumbled over yet another inert body. The man holding her left arm yanked her upright. Then someone, another man, rebuked her handlers in an authoritative tone. She guessed he’d warned them against hurting her. Although Jordan didn’t understand the language, she recognized the source: the scarred man, whose dark eyes were black and empty of warmth—eyes that could fill unexpectedly with penetrating compassion, she’d discovered to her shock. Her former hostage. Now she was his captive.
What goes around comes around
.

Hands clasped behind his back, he waited for her on the platform outside exit 5-L, the rearmost left exit. His features were as ruthless and hard as his body, a tall, broad-shouldered frame that was menacing in the way it blocked the light pouring into the airplane.

She refused to be afraid. Her father would have told her,
Courage is mustering the strength to stand up when it’s easier to fall down
.

That’s right. Her hands weren’t trembling, she told herself. Her stomach wasn’t doing somersaults, either. And she
didn’t feel like she wanted to pee in her pants. Nope. No way. Who cared if the guy looked like Attila the Hun on a bad, bad day? He’d said he wanted to help. She had to conjure some semblance of trust in that promise, or she’d lose it, right here, right now.

Attila stepped to the right, allowing the guards to lower her to the platform. Her pupils couldn’t contract enough to compensate for the bright artificial light. Pain stabbed her eyes and made them water. That damned drug, she thought, squinting. It had mucked up her nervous system and God knew what else. Attila said something, and the guards released her.