Three minutes later, we were flying along another creek gully, making no sound but the occasional whip of brush against the skimmer’s undercarriage. Taking a deep breath, I mustered my best enunciation to ask, "What now?"

"If I were you," Ramos replied, "I’d scream like a banshee to your civilian police. Report you were kidnapped, and the perpetrators are now lying unconscious, ready to be arrested. I’ll gladly testify to what I saw."

"Or," Oh-God said, "you could get a bunch of boyos with blunt instruments, to go back and conduct your own interrogation. All private-like."

Ramos chuckled. "Oh-God disdains subtlety."

"Subtlety’s fine, it’s police I hate," the Freep corrected her. "Not cuz I’ve done anything wrong," he added quickly. "Just on general principles. Always coming up with rules and regulations to hamper an honest businessman." He jinked the skimmer up over a rock outcrop, then bellied it down again close to the dirt.

Something scraped loudly against the lower fuselage. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Hands are cold tonight."

"Then warm them up!" Ramos growled. "What’s the point of stealth equipment if you make noise hitting things?" She gave me a "See what I have to put up with?" look. "Officially," she told me, "Oh-God is a hunting guide. That’s why he needs all these gadgets for skulking. In case your local deer ever develop radar."

"You never know," Oh-God said. "Demoth’s already got beasties with sonar."

Ramos smiled. "If you get dragged in front of a judge, you stick with that story." She turned back to me. "Unofficially, Oh-God does a lot of things I don’t want to know about. But he survived fifty years as an Explorer, and he’s still loyal to the Corps. Whenever something noteworthy happens on Demoth, he passes on a report which eventually lands on my desk. That’s why I came here in the first place — I’m interested in political assassinations. All those proctors getting killed."

"What does that have to do with Explorers?" I asked. It was getting easier to speak, even though the words still sounded too thick.

"Nothing directly," Ramos answered. "But if the killings were just the start of a bigger mess, someone in the Admiralty ought to be interested."

"Like the dipshits?" I asked.

"Those pukes," Oh-God said. He jerked the skimmer sharply to the right, not to avoid an obstacle but just for emphasis. He was the worst kind of driver: someone who talks with his hands. "You gotta recognize the difference between the High Council of Admirals — the inner circle who run the dipshits — and our Festina here. She may wear a gray uniform, but she’s not a real admiral."

"Thanks so much," Ramos told him.

"It’s true," Oh-God insisted. "Who ever heard of a lieutenant admiral? They jury-rigged that title just for you." He turned to me, both hands off the controls. "See, she got the council in hot water with the League of Peoples…"

"Do you mind?" Ramos said, shoving his hands back toward the steering yoke. "We’re in the middle of a heroic rescue here. It’ll look bad if we wrap Faye around a tree."

"Won’t look bad," Oh-God muttered. "The antidetection nanites’ll automatically camouflage the crash site. Won’t see nothing at all."

"That’s not comforting!" Ramos snapped. She glanced at me. "We should be clear of the dipshits’ jamming field by now. Do you want to call the police?"

"If we call the cops," I said, "it’ll raise merry hell. Don’t you care about embarrassing the Admiralty?"

"I’m not the one who brought on the embarrassment," Ramos answered grimly. "If the High Council authorized gratuitous criminal acts, they should get barbecued."

"Barbecued?" Oh-God snorted. "It’ll never happen, missy. The damned admirals’ll bribe everyone to keep this quiet." He patted my knee with a clumsy hand. "If you don’t know how much to ask for, I can recommend someone to be your negotiating agent." He winked. "I know people."

I hate it when Divian subspecies wink. With their eyelids moving from the bottom up, it doesn’t look sly, it looks creepy.

"Oh-God’s right," Ramos said. "Gouging money out of the Admiralty may be the only revenge you can get, Faye. Taking this mess public may sound attractive, but you’ll never touch the admiral who actually ordered this fiasco. The High Council are masters of deniability." She shrugged. "Still, your government could use this as leverage to wangle favors out of the fleet. Negotiate some lucrative naval supply contracts for local industry… if you don’t mind taking dirty money and addicting your economy to antiproductive Admiralty handouts. Anyway: you’re the victim here. It’s your choice how to play this."

I didn’t want to play anything — not till I understood what was going on. "You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here," I said. "Do you represent the Explorer Corps? Or the Admiralty? Or who?"

"She’s the Vigil is who she is," Oh-God replied. "Your basic steely-eyed watchdog. She’s what-you-call scrutinizing the fleet."

"Actually," Ramos corrected him, "I scrutinize the Technocracy. Admiral Seele scrutinizes the fleet." She gave me an apologetic smile. "Yes, it’s confusing. Half the time, I don’t know what I should be doing. But Oh-God is right; I do fill a role something like your Vigil."

I didn’t bother speaking; I could see she was already sorting things around in her mind, getting set to lay out a full explanation.

"Long before I was born," Ramos said, "two shrewd old admirals set up spy networks to monitor the Admiralty and all the planets of the Technocracy — to watch for trouble that the fleet or planetary leaders might try to cover up. This is a dangerous universe, Faye, and our settlements are more tenuous than we like to admit. Some of our most prosperous worlds are actually so hostile to human life, thousands could die from a single missed supply shipment. Someone has to take responsibility to make sure that doesn’t happen. Someone has to root out any corruption or incompetence that jeopardizes our people."

"Doesn’t the Technocracy do that?" I asked. "And each planetary government?"

Oh-God made the Freep sound for disgust, half hiss, half whistle — the noise a Divian’s stomach makes just before throwing up. "Planetary governments? You’re spoiled here on Demoth, missy. Most other worlds have governments with their heads jammed nose high up their butts… or they’ve sold out to some blind-assed bunch of robber barons who think they can buy their way free of any problem. Here, you’ve got the Vigil for a sanity check. Out in the rest of the galaxy, there’s whole planets facing economic collapse, or ecological catastrophe, or coups and peasant rebellions, but the powers-that-be are dangling their dobbies in complete denial. Someone has to blow the whistle to tell the rest of the Technocracy when there’s a crisis coming; and that means us merry band of watchers. Old Chee’s spy network. Now working for our beloved Festina."

Ramos grimaced. "You’re such a suck-up. Did you treat Chee this way too?"

"Nah. I plied him with illegal booze and tobacco. In exchange for which, he funneled me some great military equipment. How do you think I outfitted this skimmer?"

"Good thing we’re constantly on the watch for corruption." Ramos turned back to me. "Chee was one of the admirals who founded this spy network. Two years ago, he died, and I inherited command. Part of a complicated deal with the High Council, aimed at appeasing the League of Peoples. I caught the council indulging in dirty tricks, and the admirals had to make an act of contrition to the League. Next thing I knew, I was elevated to Lieutenant Admiral and spymaster."

"Shows how much she had them over a barrel," Oh-God cackled. "Those pukes would far rather dismantle the network, or put some gutless flunky in charge, dancing to their own tune. But us intelligence operatives were mostly former Explorers, and fucked if we’d take orders from some Admiralty asshole. We’d turn independent first. So the council had to go with Festina and hope maybe they could control her more than old Chee. Fat chance."