He reached into another pocket and drew out another package. Identical, to all appearances.

“You can tell him I’ll give him this, in exchange for his help. I’ve spent the past two days hacking into the embassy’s intelligence files to get it.”

Anton’s grin was now purely feral. There was no more humor in it than a shark’s gape. “When I broke into the personal records of Young and Hendricks I hit the gold mine. I didn’t expect either one of them to be stupid enough to have direct financial dealings with Manpower, and they don’t. Technically, under Manticoran anti-slavery laws, that would lay them open to the death penalty.”

Cathy’s left hand was still clutching her throat. With her other hand, she made a waving gesture. “That’s not the form it takes, in the Star Kingdom. Slavery’s an inefficient form of labor, even with Manpower’s genetic razzle-dazzle. No rich Manticoran really has much incentive to dabble in slave labor unless they’re grotesquely avaricious. And willing to take the risks of investing in the Silesian Confederacy or the Sollie protectorates. Our own society’s got too high a tech base for slavery to be very attractive.”

“You might be surprised, Cathy—you will be surprised—at how many Manticorans are that stupid. Don’t forget that the profit margin in Silesian mines and plantations can be as high as the risk.” Anton shrugged. “But you’re basically right. Most of the Star Kingdom’s citizens who deal with Manpower do so from personal vice, not from greed.”

Cathy’s face was stiff, angry. “ ‘Personal vice!’ That’s a delicate way of putting what happens on those so-called pleasure resorts.” She stared at the package in Anton’s hands. Her next words were almost whispered. “Are you telling me—”

Anton’s shark grin seemed fixed in place. “Oh, yeah. I was pretty sure I’d find it. That whole Young clan is notorious for their personal habits, and I’d seen enough of the admiral to know he was no exception.” He held up the package. “Both he and the ambassador have availed themselves of Manpower’s so-called ‘personal services.’ Both of them have invested in those ‘pleasure resorts,’ too, using Solarian conduits. Along with lots of others, for whom they acted as brokers.”

“They kept records?” she gasped. “Are they that stupid?”

Anton nodded. “That arrogant, anyway.” He looked down at the package in his hand. “So there it is, Cathy. I thought of using this information to blackmail them into rescinding my orders, but that would take too long. I’ve got to find my daughter quickly, before this whole crazy scheme—whatever it is—starts coming unglued. Which it will, as sure as the sunrise. And when it does, the first thing that’ll happen is that Helen will be murdered.”

Her hand was still clutching her throat. “My God, Anton! Don’t you understand what he’ll do if—”

“What do I care, Cathy?” No shark’s grin ever held such sheer fury. “You’ll find no Gryphon highlanders on this list, I can tell you that. Nobles aplenty, o’ course”—the word nobles practically dripped vitriol—“but not a one of my folk.”

Finally, the fury began to ebb. “I’m sorry, Cathy. But this is the way it must be. My daughter”—he waved the package—“weighed against these?”

Cathy

Cathy lowered her hand and sighed. Then, shrugged. It was not as if she disagreed with his moral assessment, after all. Though she still found it difficult to match the man’s ruthlessness with what she sensed of the man himself. But then, Cathy had no children of her own. So, for a moment, she tried to imagine the rage that must be filling Anton. Raising a daughter from the age of four as a widower, and coming from that unyielding highland clansmen background—

She glimpsed, for an instant, that seething void—like the event horizon of a black hole—and her mind skittered away.

“I’m sorry,” Anton repeated, very softly. “I must do what I must.” He managed a harsh chuckle. “In this area, you know, tradition rules. There’s a term for what I need. Goes back centuries—millennia. It’s called wet work.”

Cathy grimaced. “How crude!” Again, a sigh. “But appropriate, I suppose. I’m sure Jeremy would agree.”

She sighed again. “All right, I’ll serve as your conduit to him. But I warn you in advance, Anton, he’s got a peculiar sense of humor.”

Anton held up the package anew. “Then I imagine this will tickle his fancy.”

Cathy stared at the object in Anton’s hand. Innocuous-looking thing, really. But she knew full well what would happen once Jeremy got his hands on it. Jeremy had come into the universe in one of Manpower Inc.’s breeding chambers on Mesa. K-86b/273-1/5, they had called him. The “K” referred to the basic genetic type—in Jeremy’s case, someone bred to be a personal servant, just as Isaac’s “V” denoted one of the technical combat breeds. The “-86b” referred to one of the multitude of slight variants within the general archetype. In Jeremy’s case, the variant designed to provide clients with acrobatic entertainment—jugglers and the like. Court clowns, in essence. The number 273 referred to the “batch,” and the 1/5 meant that Jeremy was the first of the quintuplets in that batch to be extracted from the breeding chamber.

Cathy ran her hand down her face, as if wiping away filth. In truth, she knew, Manpower’s “scientific” terminology covered a genetic method which was almost as fraudulent as it was evil. It was the modern equivalent of the grotesque medical experiments which the ancient Nazis of fable were said to have practiced. Cathy was not a professional biologist, but in the course of her long struggle against genetic slavery she had come to be a lay expert on the subject. Genes were vastly more fluid things than most people understood. The specific way in which a genotype developed was as much a result of the environmental input at any given stage of development as it was on the inherent genetic “instructions.” Genes reacted differently depending on the external cue.

Manpower’s genetic engineers, of course, knew that perfectly well—despite the claims of their advertising that their “indentured servants” could be counted on to behave exactly as they were programmed. So they tried to provide the “proper environment” for the developing genotypes. On the rare occasions when a biologically-sophisticated prospective client pressed them on the subject, Manpower provided them with a learned and jargon-ridden explanation of what they called the “phenotype developmental process.”

Strip away the pseudoscientific claptrap and what it amounted to was: We breed the embryos in artificial wombs, making the best guess we can based on their DNA; and then we spend years torturing the children into proper alignment. Making the best guess we can.

And, within limits, it worked—usually. But not always, by any means. Certainly not in Jeremy’s case. Within less than a week after his sale, he had made his escape. Eventually, he arrived on Terra, through one of the routes maintained by the Anti-Slavery League. Within a day of his arrival, he had joined the Audubon Ballroom, probably the most radical and certainly the most violence-prone group within the general umbrella of the anti-slavery movement. Then, following the custom of that underground movement—whose membership was exclusively restricted to ex-slaves—had renamed himself Jeremy X. Within a short time, he had risen to leadership in the Ballroom. Today, he was considered one of the most dangerous terrorists in the galaxy. Or, to many—herself included, when all was said and done, despite her disapproval of his tactics—one of its greatest freedom fighters.

But if anyone could get Captain Anton Zilwicki’s daughter back alive, it would be Jeremy X. Certainly if she were held captive in the Loop. And if, in the months and years which followed, a number of Manticore’s most prominent families found themselves attending an unusually large number of funerals, Cathy could not honestly say the prospect caused her any anguish. Rich people who trafficked in slavery for the sole purpose of indulging their personal vices would get little in the way of mercy from her.