"Thank God," said Carl Hansen, as Victor and Anton came out of the tenement. Then, seeing the two women with them, he frowned. "Who're they?"

"Never mind right now. They're coming with us. Something's gone wrong."

Yana emerged from the back of the van. "No kidding something's gone wrong." She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. "Our passenger in there got a call a little while ago from He Who Is Not To Be Named. He's been found out, he's trapped in the center, and . . ."

Victor nodded. "He'll suicide. Good man."

Yana's grin was purely feral. "Oh, he's not going out alone, Victor. Not by a long shot."

That was one of the few times in his life Anton ever saw Victor Cachat's eyebrows raise in surprise. It would have been worth a chuckle except they had too much to figure out and decide.

"If he's going to blow the Gamma Center, we should alert Cary to wait and blow the Buenaventura at the same time. If we're lucky, the Mesans will think the acts were co-ordinated ahead of time."

He was a bit relieved at the prospect of setting off the device hidden in the basement of the Buenaventura this early on a Saturday morning. The tower itself was abandoned, and situated in an old industrial area that was mostly vacant. There were bound to be some casualties, but at least they'd be kept to a minimum.

Unfortunately, from Anton's viewpoint, they couldn't simply abort the explosion. Destroying the Buenaventura was the key to their faked escape records—which they now probably needed more than ever.

There was no longer any point, however, in setting off the explosion at the sports stadium. First, because David Pritchard might very well get killed when McBryde detonated the nearby Gamma Center. Secondly, what was the point anyway? David's bomb couldn't possibly do as much damage as McBryde's measures would.

Carl was keying the new instructions to Cary. "Okay, that's done," he said a short while later. "What's next?"

"Send instructions to Karen and David. Tell them to get the hell out and go to ground. If they go into hiding now, I think they've still got a decent chance of eluding the manhunt that's about to come down. Which is going to be one hell of a manhunt."

Hansen's face seemed to get a bit drawn, but he typed out the instructions quickly and surely.

"What about me, Anton?" he asked quietly.

"You'll have to come with us, Carl. There's no way around it now."

Hansen shook his head. "No. I'm not leaving my people on Mesa in the lurch."

Anton set his jaws. "Carl, if you wait to run until we've launched for the Hali Sowle, there is almost no chance you won't be spotted."

"I understand that. But I'm not changing my mind."

"Leave it, Anton," said Victor. "He's full-grown and it's his choice—and it's the same choice I'd make, in his position." He started climbing into the passenger seat in the front of the van. "Now, let's get going."

After driving for perhaps three minutes, in the direction of the spaceport, Carl pulled out his com to see if there'd been any reply to his messages. He didn't expect there would be, since there was really nothing to say and each transmission carried a slight risk of being intercepted.

Sure enough, there was nothing from Cary or Karen. But from David Pritchard . . .

"Oh, hell and damnation," he sighed.

"What's the matter?" asked Victor.

Carl handed him the com. "Read it for yourself."

Victor looked at the screen.

"He's lost it."

"Big time," said Carl.

It was obvious Bardasano didn't have a clue how deep Jack's own internal rot had truly spread. If she had, she'd have come in with sirens screaming, three battalions of security troops, and enough heavy weapons to suppress a fullbore slave rebellion. And she would have used her own security overrides to completely shut down the Center, too. From her expression, she really was more than a little pissed off over his shenanigans—what she thought were his shenanigans, at any rate—but she wasn't moving with anything like the urgency she would have shown if she'd even suspected what was really going on. Which was why Jack McBryde still had control of the Center's computers and internal security systems.

On the other hand, she's got the ultimate override access authority for every security system on the damned planet, he reminded himself. She can always take that control away from me if something convinces her that's a good idea.

Which was true enough, but entering her own authorization codes would take at least a little time, and in the meanwhile . . .

He watched Bardasano and her aides pile into the lift car while he kept his other eye focused on his computer display.

Only three more entries to go, he thought, and punched up a separate subsystem.

You know, Jack, he told himself almost whimsically, you were just thinking about inflicting "significant damage," weren't you? And Bardasano's the most effective security type the Alignment's had in decades. So I guess this comes under the heading of serendipity.

His forefinger came down on a single macro, and he watched over the lift car's internal pickup as Bardasano's head snapped up in astonishment. The lift car stopped, alarms began to wail all over the Center, and Jack McBryde bared his teeth in a smile. Security doors slammed shut throughout the Center, and "fire alarms" started screaming in the commercial tower above it. There probably still wouldn't be time for Suvorov to be completely evacuated—and for all of the evacuees to get far enough clear—but the casualty count had just been materially decreased, and that was good.

The main computers cycled through another level of commands and asked for the next one. He entered it, then sat back, waiting, watching over the lift car pickup as Bardasano snatched out her personal minicomp and started entering commands of her own.

I guess this is where I find out whether it's going to take her as long as I thought it was or not, he reflected, and opened his desk drawer.

He took out the pulser, checked the charge indicator, and made sure there was a dart in the chamber. If it turned out she could invade the system more quickly than he'd thought she could, he was going to have to settle for a much less spectacular goodbye.

David Pritchard was shrieking with rage as his aircar approached the sports stadium.

"I am sick of you spineless bastards! You hear me? Sick to fucking death of your whining and pewling and whimpering—fuck you! Fuck you! I'm blowing this bomb!"

Bardasano was still punching keys when McBryde's computer accepted the last authorization code he'd entered and asked for one more. This one had to be given orally, with voiceprint authentication.

"Scorched earth," he said very carefully.

"Scorched Earth acknowledged," an emotionless computer voice said. "All sequences successfully entered and acknowledged. Execution enabled. Do you wish to proceed, Chief McBryde?"

Jack McBryde looked at the people in the lift car one final time.

Good luck, Herlander, he thought softly at the tormented man who had become his friend. Give them hell for me . . . and Francesca.

Then he cleared his throat.

"Execute Scorched Earth," Jack McBryde said calmly.