“Truck ought to be in the equipment shed. Watch yourselves, walking around out here. We think we’ve accounted for everyone. I haven’t had time to check comp thoroughly.”

“I need three men.”

She nodded; Merry singled out his men and left for the side of the house. She stationed Warrior by the side of the porch by the other azi and left them so, limped up the steps and into the house, giving only a glance to the captive betas. Her legs shook under her, adrenaline drained away. She sank down and wiped her face with her hand.

“Get a water-container,” she told one of the azi. And to the beta, “ser, is there a key for that vehicle?”

“By the door.”

She looked and saw it hanging. “Take that to Merry,” she told the azi. “Take a bit of that dried fruit too. There’ll be at least some can appreciate it.”

The azi gathered up the items and left, came back again; distantly there was a moaning of an engine, that turned off where the road would be: Merry was on his way.

“True that the shuttle crashed?” the beta woman asked.

Raen nodded. “Broken limbs in plenty, sera. And dead. We had a hundred men aboard that ship.”

The betas’ faces reflected compassion for that.

“I’m sorry,” Raen said, “for breaking in. It’s necessary. your names, seri? I’d rate you compensation if it were safe. It’s not, at the moment.”

“Ny,” the man said, nodded at his wife. “Berden. My son and his wife. Grandchild. Kontrin, you can have anything, only so you leave us all right.”

“There’s majat,” the young man said. “We’ve got to have our defenses whole. Have to, Kontrin.”

“I’ve heard how that is. I’ve heard how the farms won’t give up their azi.”

“All the protection we have,” Ny said.

Raen looked at them, at the house, recalling the situation of buildings and the fields. “But you could rather well survive in such a place, could you not—producing your own food and power? And ITAK and ISPAK both know it. You don’t have to yield up your grain; and they know that too.”

“Need it,” Ny said. “We need the azi; azi’ve no desire at all to go back to the pens either. They’ve lived loose here, lived well, here. We don’t turn them back, no, Kontrin. We don’t.”

It was a bold speech for a beta. It did not offend her. “Indeed,” she said, “you’ve a secure and enviable land here. I’d a notion to destroy your comp at least; but you’re not ITAK folk nor ISPAK, are you? You have a map of the area?”

“Comp room,” Berden said. “Drawer under the machine.”

“I thank you,” she said quietly, rose on aching limbs and limped off to the cluttered little room.

The map was there. She sat down before the unit and studied it, found their location conveniently marked, a rough two hundred kilometres south of a major tributary of the River, nearly a thousand from Newhope.

She hesitated a moment, then coded in one of her several male personas, keyed in a purchase of passage; the program under that name was already get. One sped to the persona of Merek Sed and family, a matter of honour. One sped to the real person of one ser Tol Errin 1028D Upcoast, a worker in glass, with his family, with offer of an immediate commission on Meron, freighter-passage.

A mad gesture. A whim. Some things were worth saving.

It took an instant of time. She nerved herself again and keyed Newhope, again on emergency. “Jim!” she snapped, and gave instructions in case any other azi was in hearing, to answer her.

There was nothing. She broke connection quickly.

She sat then with her hand pressed against her mouth, staring at the board distressedly and trying to reckon now what to do.

She looked about her. There had gathered a quiet ring of surplus azi, exhausted, sitting on the floor and all about, young faces looking toward her with anxious eyes.

They all had Merry’s look.

iv

There were dreams, horrid dreams, and one of them was a shadow, tall and gaunt, leaning across the light.

It seized and shook, and Jim tore his arm free and cried out, clawing at the leads which were no longer there, trying to free himself of the nightmare. He had no strength. The grip closed on him and held him still, and for a time there was only his pulse for reality, a throbbing in his ears and a dull wash of rose across his eyes.

“Wait outside,” a voice said above him.

“Dying.” The tones were song, deep and sorrowful.

“Wait outside.” Harsher now. “Go.”

“Stranger,” the song mourned. “Stranger, stranger, green-hive.”

But it retreated, as far as the door. He could hear it clicking.

Hands caught his face between. “Azi,” the male voice said. “Azi, come back, come back, wake up. Quietly now. Was it suicide? Did she order you to this?”

The words made sense and then did not. Senses greyed out again, his whole body numb and heavy. Then there was sharp pain, and he came back, feeling it, but unable to reckon where the pain was centred.

“He’s coming out of it,” the voice said. “Stay back. Let him be.”

“Green-hive,” the other fretted, retreated again, muttering deep notes of distress. He turned his head, opened his mouth to cry to it for help.

“No.” A hand covered his mouth, hard. He struggled at that, vision clearing. He knew the face that leaned above him: not simply recognised, but knew—

Knew the Halds, and the man Pol, who was dangerous, whose House and sept had clear reason to hate the Meth-marens. He fought the muffling hand, and had no strength in his limbs or his hands, scarcely even the power to lift them.

“Be very still.” Pol leaned close, his breath fanning his cheek. “I’ve talked my way in here, you see. The majat is watching…such moves as they have eyes to see. Do you hear me, azi?”

He tried to nod against the hand. He could scarcely breathe; words passed out of sense again.

“I told you to stay downstairs.”

“Let him go.” Max’s voice. Jim struggled back toward the sound, toward understanding. “I shouldn’t have let you in.”

“But you have. Get the Warrior out of here. Guard the door if you like. Leave me with him.”

Max, Jim wanted to say. He murmured something. Max did not answer.

“Get downstairs,.” Pol Hald said. “Hear me?”

The crack of authority was in his voice. Jim winced at it. Max went. The door closed. Pol Hald rose and locked it, and Jim rolled onto his side, holding the chair arm, fighting to move at all. Pol returned, caught his arms, jerked at him. His head snapped back with a crack: muscle control was gone. He could not even lift it.

“Shuttle’s down,” Pol said, “but not in either port. Where is she? Come out of it and answer me.”

He could not. He tried to shake his head to protest the fact. Pol flung him down, let him alone; steps retreated, came back—he was roughly lifted and a cup held to his lips.

“Drink it, hear? If there’s a mind left in you. Was it her order you did this?”

He drank. The water eased his throat. Pol let him back then, and touched wet fingers to his temples. He shut his eyes and drifted, came back again to a faint rattling of plastic.

“Kontrin tapes,” Pol muttered. “History. Law. Comp theory—blast! where did she get that one?” He thought that it was safe to rest while the voice railed elsewhere, but suddenly the hands fastened into his toneless limbs again and pressed to the bone. “Why, azi?”

He lay still, looking at Pol, and Pol at him.

“You know me,” Pol said. “ Don’t you?You know me.”

He blinked, no more than that. It was truth. Pol understood it.

And slowly Pol sank down beside the chair, gripped his arm quite gently. “You’re sane. Don’t think you can pretend it undid you. I’ve seen suicides by deepstudy. You’re not gone. You’re lying there with your teeth shut on everything, but I understand, you hear? You’ve studied what you ought not. I’m not dealing with an azi, am I? You’re something else. How long have you been delving into those particular tapes?”