The rise and fall of Toby’s chest was itself a small, persistent miracle.

He thought of the mechs and the Citadel and his own mutinous arm as he watched the simple majesty of breathing. He knew he was thinking, but as a man who did not as a matter of habit make his conclusions achieve the solidity of words, he thought without the pressure of any result. There simply came a moment in the tranquil, hovering air when Killeen knew that he would sense what to do when the moment came. Then he watched his son awhile longer for the plain pleasure of it. The thought had struck him that this might well be the last time when he ever could.

At last Killeen got to his feet, feeling muscles stretch and complain in his legs. From his left arm he felt nothing and expected that he never would feel again. His head swam as Aspect voices rose with their gusty advice.

He squeezed shut his eyes and forced down the fibrous words. He could understand their worry about their own safety. Still, none of them had anything to say that he had not thought of before, and their incessant talk was a churning irritation worse than the fly.

He strode toward Hatchet’s picket fence. His unsteady walk stirred dirt into the soft wind. He thought the fence looked even more ridiculous than before, a puny gesture against the silently implacable world. As he approached, the meeting inside broke up and the three Cap’ns came out. Each wore newly cleaned vest and pants and leggings of tightweave. Killeen dimly remembered that he should have cleaned his own, just as he should have tended to his hair. He ran fingers across his scalp and could tell that he sported not an artful cut or wave but a storm-racked sea of knots and spiky tufts.

Fornax saw him first and chuckled. “Better?”

“Yeasay.”

Hatchet studied Killeen with slitted eyes. “Ledroff here says you’re a fast man when you’re not sick or drunk.”

“So’s he.” This made everybody laugh but Ledroff.

“Said you got a Face we can use.”

“What for?”

Ledroff grinned the small grin of someone divulging a secret and wanting to play it out for a while. “A li’ 1 job. Translation.”

“I don’t—” Killeen stopped.

Ledroff grinned wider at Killeen’s evident confusion. “Ever seen a Rennymech?”

Hatchet had told something important to the other Cap’ns. They’d all been planning together.

“Heard ’bout ’em.” Killeen was cautious and kept his voice flat and neutral.

He had never seen a Renegade. They were mechs which had gotten into some kind of trouble with their own kind. Outcasts. Loners. They lived on the outskirts of mech civilization. There were few of them.

There had been sporadic cooperation between men and Renegades in the past. Contacts occurred by accident, when a Renegade was desperate. Negotiating was difficult because there was no shared language. Relations had seldom gone beyond simple trade. Most Renegades treated humanity as scum. They would deal with men and women only if in extreme need. But Renegades lived longer than men and so their contact with the Families spanned generations and became legend.

Bud, his Face, had translated when Family Bishop had dealings with two Renegade mechs. That had been long before Killeen was born. There had been a prearranged meeting signal. Both Renegades had vanished inexplicably.

In the space of a heartbeat Killeen summoned Bud and threw quick questions.

Both the Bishop Rennies got caught by Marauders.

Died the suredeath I guess.

I knew some their mechspeak then.

Mostly tech stuff though.

I didn’t understand whole lot mechtalk.

Hatchet said, “We been using a Renny for two, three year now.”

“That’s how Family King built this city,” Ledroff said.

Killeen nodded, even though he was still stunned. This was why the Kings were so sure they could burn uncovered fires at night, too. They had help from a mech itself. Some kind of deal that deflected Marauders from the center of the Splash. He asked, “What kind Renny?”

“A Crafter,” Hatchet said.

“Trust it?”

“Have to.”

“Why?”

“So can get any damn help at all, is why!”

“What kind help?”

“Information. Supplies, even.”

“In return for what?”

Hatchet looked uneasy. “This one know who he is? Rest your people like this?” he asked Ledroff and Fornax.

“Killeen’s a hardass,” Ledroff said.

“Better humor him or he’ll never go along with anything you say,” Fornax added.

Hatchet nodded, looking sour. “We got do some jobs for the Renny Crafter.”

“What kind?”

“Steal things, mostly.”

“From where?”

“Mech storage tunnels.”

Killeen didn’t say anything. The look on his face was enough to make Hatchet explain, “Hey, look, we got ways. Tricks.”

“You better,” Ledroff said flatly. “You heard what we agreed. You better have good ways. Else I don’t send any my people.”

The three Cap’ns argued a little then, giving Killeen the chance to watch Hatchet’s face. Their words volleyed across the space between them.

It seemed to him he could see all Hatchet’s inner tightness wound down into the knot at the end of the sharp chin. The little knob of flesh there jittered, as though it weren’t attached to the rest of the face at all and could express whatever it wanted. It was anxious, small, nervous, while the rest of Hatchet’s face was shrewd and sure. The straggles of black hair on the wobbly knob seemed alive.

Hatchet was plainly the best leader of the three. Killeen was going to have to use him, without being too obvious about it. He had to take the role of a Bishop Fam ily member with a legitimate problem. That would let him deflect Hatchet onto the other Cap’ns.

Killeen recalled Shibo’s gesture, finger to temple. Hatchet not right.

Well, maybe Hatchet was a quirky but brilliant leader. The man was certainly clever. He controlled his face well, making it convey what he wanted without giving away what he really thought. He could produce a broad, friendly grin and then slowly cloud it as it dawned on him that his friend wanted something that Hatchet, for the best of reasons, could not give.

But the face wasn’t perfect. Hatchet’s inner tensions tapered into the waxy ball chin. A drop of sweat formed among the black fuzz and trickled to the underside. It hung there, jiggling as Hatchet’s mouth worked, making hard, savvy points to the other Cap’ns. The fragile drop clung to the oily skin like a desperate man on a ledge. No one else seemed to notice this small drama. Killeen suppressed a smile. Cap’ns had a dignity and position that everyone wanted upheld. Maybe they didn’t even see the drop.

Killeen waited until the Cap’ns had finished arguing and three or four other people had come and gone with minor bits of business. There were plenty of delicate issues having to do with matters between Families. As hosts of the only human settlement the Kings had the upper hand. But ancient human custom gave the other Families nominal equal status and that was what Killeen had to use.

At a lull he asked, “Can this Renny Crafter do medical repair work?”

Hatchet frowned. “I got it to fix something for the woman Roselyn last year. It knows some subsystems. But you’re not—”

“Sure I am.”

Hatchet looked at Killeen’s arm and then at Ledroff. Best to let the Bishop Cap’n deal with this.

“No, Killeen, look,” Ledroff said. “You got an arm out, yeasay. But we can’t be trying patch ever’body up. Go along. Translate some. You can’t carry goods, after all. Don’t ’spect too much.”

Killeen nodded. This showed that he acknowledged his Cap’n but stopped short of active agreement. There was something more here and he wanted to uncover it, use it.

In a level voice he asked Hatchet, “How come you don’t use your own translator?”