“Calculating… Ready. Switching command control from Con-One to Con-Two. Ready to transfer.”

Virgil scanned the instrument cage of Con-Two, nearly identical to that of Con-One, and edged his finger over the transfer button.

“Is it clear of debris?”

“How to know? Make an educated guess.”

Virgil hesitated. Don’t wait. Press it. Bless it. He punched the button.

The tools of Master Snoop press in, then pull back at the speed of dark. Nightsheet tries to wrap me up, but I won’t go. Too much to do. Don’t even look at the corridor. Look at you. You’re here. Jen-do I go through this to reach you? Or to make peace and say there is another. One who lives. She must live. If Death Angel were dead, would I not see her here?

An explosion rang through the ship. A series of repercussions vibrated around him. The air itself shook against his body.

“Wha-Damage report, Ben!”

The computer made no reply. Virgil twisted about. Sirens wailed, bells clanged. Lights on the panels around him flashed like random explosions.

“Ben! Damage!” Receiving no answer, Virgil cursed and reached toward the input keyboard. Triple airlocks sealed shut behind him with an angry hiss. Damn! Pressure loss. Before him, a purple sun filled half the viewing port. Right, Masterson, drop me somewhere to roast, then leave me alone.

DAMAGE REPORT, he typed.

DAMAGE REPORT: 20 MG MICROMETEOROID EXPLOSION IN MAIN COMPUTER LOGIC UNIT. REPAIRS IN PROGRESS. ALL OTHER SYSTEMS FUNCTIONING. 5 MG MICROMETEOROID EXPLOSION IN TRITIUM SLURRY-CONTAINED.

The readout scrim continued to issue reports on other minor damage. Virgil cancelled it and took a deep breath. Ben can still think but he can’t talk or hear.

He typed: CALCULATE MATCHING VELOCITY FOR TARGET AND INITIATE.

WORKING, the computer replied. Virgil held on tight.

READY. He punched the button marked ENTER, and the ship rotated on its vernier rockets, then thrusted forward. Virgil breathed shallowly. Wait for the weight to end. Can’t crush me. I ride my white horse, the universe stretching before me.

The engines cut off. He floated against the straps. His hands shot out for the keyboard.

TRANSFER TO TARGET AREA, he typed.

WORKING. TARGET AREA 1 KKM FROM SIGNAL.

INITIATE, he typed, and pressed the transfer button when it glowed ready. I die again to see what death lies waiting.

Nothing happened when he appeared in space a thousand kilometers from the signal.

SHUT DOWN POWER AT ALL POINTS BUT THOSE VITAL TO REPAIR AND LIFE SUPPORT. Dozens of lights winked out on the instrument panels at the entering of his command. A message appeared.

SUFFICIENT REPAIR TO TAKE VOICE COMMANDS.

“Can you read me?”

YES, the answer appeared.

“Good. Monitor all frequencies for other signals. Scan for neutrino flux from points other than the signal. Power up the lasers and stand by to use them on my command or upon attack.”

YES.

Virgil adjusted his position in the chair, tightened a strap, loosened another. Looking up and out the viewing port, he saw the periodic flashes of the signal. They flared like rocket engines, forming a tiny X.

Probably firing in six directions to avoid drifting from its orbit. Now what, what, what? Who’s guiding me? I’m making decisions before I can even think about them. Who’s in control? The dead man inside? Wizard? Ben?

A spaceship appeared just long enough to unleash a searing laserblast, then disappeared again.

The conning tower above Ring Three split in half, torn first by the laser blast, then by its own erupting atmosphere. The computer immediately fired a return bolt-a useless gesture, as the other ship had already vanished.

“Get us out of here!” Virgil cried, punching up one gravity thrust on the nuclear engines and grabbing the pitch, yaw, and roll switches. Using them, he twisted and turned the ship enough to weave a contorted, random path away from the signal.

“What was it?” He fought with the controls and his stomach. A picture appeared on the HUD of a huge sphere. He tried to watch it even though his eyes reacted to the ever-changing directions of acceleration. A distance readout placed it at twenty kilometers away, its diameter over twelve hundred meters.

“It’s a Bernal Sphere! Someone transferred an entire habitat! Do you know where it’s gone?”

NO.

He fought with his breath while randomly tapping at the attitude controls. He tried not to be too regular in his finger rhythms, though he could not afford to give his whole concentration to the evasion tactic.

“Any messages received?”

NO.

He stopped pressing the attitude jet controls and cut off the main engine array. Weightlessness returned.

“Then let’s get away from here. Calculate a transfer to the next star on our tour, if you can’t find any planets here.”

WORKING… AREN’T YOU INTERESTED IN THE OTHER SHIP?

“I’m not interested in being murdered.”

NEXT STAR IS EPSILON INDI. REPAIRS ESSENTIAL BEFORE TRANSFERRING TO UNKNOWN TERRITORY.

“I don’t want to hang around here.”

SUGGEST TRANSFER TO A POINT SOMEWHERE THREE LIGHT DAYS FROM BETA HYDRI TO CARRY OUT REPAIRS WHICH REQUIRE HUMAN ASSISTANCE.

Virgil interlaced his fingers and kneaded them. He frowned. Who was it? Who appeared in space just to shoot me and then vanish, stellar hit man? Can Master Snoop follow me even into the depths of space? Can he throw me to Nightsheet with such ease, but just play and play, taunting death?

He gripped the armrests so hard his knuckles cracked. They won’t take me. None of them! I’ll come back when they don’t expect and blow them apart. But how?

“Transfer out three light days to a random point.” He unwound his fingers and placed one over the transfer button. “Only make sure we don’t appear inside anything larger than what we have already.”

READY .

“What, no snappy comeback?” I’ll find a way to get back for this. I can try to kill myself-it’s not right for them to try. Get them once and for all.

He pressed the button.

Too black!

Wait!

Too late!

The corridor’s a pit. Something moves. It’s the dead man. He reaches up, up, fingers of hope with bones of broken dreams. You won’t grab me. Let go!

Jord Baker tried to orient himself. Starry darkness hung outside the port. He was no longer in Con-One anymore. Part of Circus Galacticus extended beneath him. A viewscrim before him displayed the words: STAND BY FOR REPAIR INFORMATION.

“What’s going on?” he asked. Hearing no reply, he looked at the scrim.

WHAT IS YOUR NAME?

“Jord Baker.”

DAMAGE TO LOGIC CIRCUITS OF MAIN COMPUTER NECESSITATE HUMAN ASSISTANCE. YOU ARE IN CON TWO. PROCEED TO RING ONE- LEVEL TWO-THREE O’CLOCK.

“Wait. Give me a second. I remember doing something back in Con-One…”

PROCEED TO RING ONE-LEVEL TWO-THREE O’CLOCK. WE ARE UNDER ATTACK.

“What?”

WE ARE SAFE FOR THE MOMENT, BUT REPAIRS ARE ESSENTIAL BEFORE TRANSFERRING TO EPSILON INDI. MOVE.

He moved.

Baker floated in the tiny chamber and tried to make sense of the twisted hole before him. Little more than a meter in diameter, it looked as though someone had taken a scoop and hollowed out a section of the computer. Vaporized metal coated the inside of the hole.