She glanced around now, curious for the first time. The chopper was designed to carry cargo, and they were in a huge lower bay, with ribbed bulkheads bare around them. Above and on the forward bulkhead, stairs led to a hatch—shut now. Undoubtedly the pilot's compartment.

She went duoconscious, to zlin through that bulkhead and hatchway. Clearly, through the light construction, she zlinned the selyn nager of one Gen—scared, but grim.

"There's only one—the pilot. But there's room up there for three." And now that she was zlinning, she noticed the pursuing copters. "Behind us—way behind—three choppers. Must be the Tecton."

"Must be," he echoed abstractedly as he studied the hatch. "Do you think the pilot knows what happened down there?" "Do you think I can read minds?" she countered.

But he was already at the hatch. "Come here. Force this lock bar for me, and I'll take care of the pilot."

"Can you fly one of these things?"

"Sure." He grinned pure Gen male vigor and a peculiar Gen ferocity. "How high are we?"

There were no ports in the cargo bay. Zlinning, she estimated, "Higher than the Vermilion Tower restaurant over there," she said, pointing, "but there are hills right in front of us."

"Good; we'll make it." As he spoke, he put his own strength to forcing the lock bar up. "Come on—augment!"

He knew what he was asking of her: to use selyn at many times her normal metabolic rate to strengthen her muscles beyond Gen abilities. He was a professional Tecton Donor. He knew she hadn't been satisfied by that one kill, that need still lurked within her.

At her hesitation, he turned to her, his field supportive. "What beautiful irony: use the Diet's own selyn to defeat them. Come on, Laneff. We don't have much time."

"Yes," she agreed, and set herself to the bar. She had to nudge the huge male Gen hands aside to get a good tentacle and finger grip on it, but then she summoned her full augmentation capacity, closed her eyes to concentrate, not caring if she injured her back or gave herself a hernia. She let loose all her strength, and the bar tore loose, the hatch slamming open before them, the muted noise of the rotors bursting into a storm of sound while pure daylight streamed through the wrapped bubble windshield.

Before she recovered her balance, the Donor was through the hatch and onto the pilot. One huge male fist slammed into male jaw, and the pain both of them felt ratchetted through Laneff renewing her killust. She fought it down as the Donor extracted the unconscious Gen pilot from the control seat and threw himself into place, grabbing the controls with fair expertise. Then his nager steadied around her, and all trace of killust faded.

Over his shoulder, he shouted above the noise, "Laneff, get that belt and secure that man's hands before he comes to."

"I don't think he'll come to very soon. He hit his head on something hard when you felled him." Her voice sounded small in her ears, though she yelled the words.

The chopper had leveled and steadied under the Donor's hands. Now he turned to gaze at her, and she was aware that he was as surprised they were alive as she was.

"Please, just tie him up. Then come sit here and tell me what's going on behind us. They'll be shooting at us soon as they get close enough. You get me out of this, Laneff, and I'll take care of you. I promise."

CHAPTER 3

STIGMA

Laneff regarded the unconscious Gen pilot. He was wearing dark-gray coveralls over tough charcoal work clothes. There was a massive ring on his right hand and a wristband on his left bearing a watch. Perhaps twenty-five years old, he showed well-developed muscles. His nager, dimmed with unconsciousness and disorganized around the head injury, was still strong for a nondonor of selyn.

"I don't suppose it would do him any harm," she shouted over the noise, "if I tie him up."

The Donor turned, grinning. "Ambrov Sat'htine!"

"Yes," replied Laneff choking back a bitter tear, "even junct, ambrov Sat'htine." Her House was dedicated to health and healing. But it can't heal me now. She got the belt and secured the Gen pilot, using his shoelaces on his ankles.

"How close are they now?" shouted the Donor.

She zlinned arear. "Gaining, uh—what's your name?"

"Yuan."

"Well, Yuan," she said, perching in the copilot's seat, "why don't you just land here and let them catch up. It's only Tecton security back there now." Last Year House. She had toured a Last Year House once, seen the ghastly death that awaited any Sime who became junct after their first year as an adult. That vision was with her now. Why didn't it stop me then?

Below them, rolling hills and steep water canyons peeled away one after another. "Laneff—is that what you really want?"

"Is there any choice?"

His silence drew her attention. Their eyes met. "Yes, I'm offering you a choice." He yanked down a set of earphones with attached microphone and twisted them onto his head, then reached over to pluck down the copilot's set. "Put this on so we can talk over the noise."

She complied. "Not that there's anything to say. You've got to get me to a Last Year House before I kill again."

He eyed her sideways. "In a Tecton Last Year House, you'd live maybe ten months or a year. You'd be too sick to work after maybe six months. What of your research?"

Stricken, she met his gaze silently. All for nothing.

"Come with me and live—maybe eighteen months, two years– maybe more. And have a laboratory where you can complete your work, refine your synthesis so others can duplicate it, set up protocols for your fifteen-year project, and maybe even publish. In two years, you could do all that!"

"And who would I have to kill to do it?" Her rejection of temptation was visceral, but the temptation beckoned like that Gen's sweet terror. Her body had first known selyn satisfaction coupled to that peculiar kind of Gen fear, and, disjunction aside, that touch of fear would always be the measure of quality in her satisfaction. Why did I have to be renSime!

A heavy rumble shook the chopper. Yuan clutched the controls, glancing futilely behind. "They're shooting at us! They think we're Diet!" He grabbed for the radio microphone, and fighting the controls, reached to dial across the frequencies.

Laneff couldn't help thinking how ludicrous he seemed as he tried to do everything with fingers. Lacking tentacles, Gens had no easy life of it. As she reached to adjust the radio for him, she thought, They were sure I'd establish as a Gen, not change over at all. And if I'd been Gen, I wouldn't now be condemned to death. Savagely, she heard herself add, If it would add a year to my life now, I'd cut off every one of my tentacles!

She found their signal. ". . . unmarked Straight-Riser, you are assisting a junct to flee the scene of a kill. You will be shot down if you do not land immediately. Tecton law requires that any fleeing junct be summarily executed. You have been warned. Repeat . . ."

Yuan cut in over their signal. "This is Yuan Sirat Tiernan, TN-1. I can't land this thing! The pilot is unconscious. Help!"

"You can't?" asked Laneff, surprised at her own panic.

"Of course I can. Playing for time." And he tried again, then twice more. But the Tecton voice kept on repeating. Frustrated, he searched the maze of dials around him until he grunted, "Shidoni-be-flayed Diet! We can't get out on the Tecton frequencies! Just like them not to trust their own pilots!" Disgust and contempt vied for nageric prominence with hatred of the Diet.

Another boom jolted them, and Yuan tilted them into a tight turn, righted, and then swept around a looming butte, skimming low to the rolling hills below.