Now, he did a sing-song imitation of a typical Manticoran aristocrat’s nasal drawl: “ ‘Every barrel has a few bad apples.’ ”

Cathy thought the imitation was a lot better than his earlier mimicry of Zilwicki’s Gryphon basso. Which was only to be expected, of course—he’d been in Cathy’s company often enough, and she herself spoke in that selfsame accent. She’d tried to shed it, in her earlier days, but found the effort quite impossible.

Jeremy shrugged. “There was no way to prove otherwise.” His eyes gleamed pure fury for a moment. “So better to just kill the bastards. If nothing else, it made us feel better—and there was always the chance that another upcoming piglet would decide the risk wasn’t worth the reward. But now—”

He studied her intently. “Tell me what you think, Lady Catherine Montaigne, Countess of the Tor. Tell me true. How many names of Manticore’s highest and most respectable society d’you think are on that list of Zilwicki’s?”

She shuddered slightly. “I don’t even want to think about it, Jeremy. Too damned many, that’s for sure.” Her wide lips pressed together, holding back an old pain. “I won’t be entirely surprised if I even see some of my childhood and college friends. God knows how far the rot has spread. Especially since the war started.”

She waved feebly at the door. “I was being unfair to the Captain’s precious Navy. Of all Manticore’s major institutions, the Navy’s probably been the best when it comes to fighting the slave trade. Since they’ve had their hands full with the Haven war, the swine have been able to feed at the trough unhindered. In the dark; out of sight, out of mind.”

“The best byfar,” agreed Jeremy forcefully. “And now—” He clapped his hands and resumed his gleeful, grotesquely melodramatic hand-rubbing. If he’d had mustachios, Cathy had no doubt at all that he’d be twirling them.

But Jeremy X had no mustachios, nor any facial hair at all. That was because K-86b/273-1/5 had been genetically designed for a life as a house servant, and Manpower Inc.’s social psychologists and market experts had unanimously decreed that facial hair was unsuitable for such creatures. Jeremy had once told Cathy that he considered that Mesa’s final and unforgivable crime. And the worst of it was—she hadn’t been sure he was joking. Jeremy X joked about everything, after all; which didn’t stop him from being as murderous as an avalanche.

“Everything will come together perfectly,” Jeremy chortled, still rubbing his hands. “With Zilwicki’s list in our hands, we’ll be able to kick over the whole barrel and show just how deep the slave-trade infection really is.” He spread his hands, almost apologetically. “Even in the Star Kingdom, which everybody admits—even me—is better than anywhere else. Except Haven, of course, but those idiots are busily saddling themselves with another kind of servitude. So you can imagine how bad it is in the Solarian League, not to mention that pustule which calls itself the Silesian Confederacy.”

Cathy frowned. “Nobody will believe—”

“Me? The Audubon Ballroom? Of course not! What a ridiculous notion. We’re just a lot of genetically deformed maniacs and murderers. Can’t trust anything we say, official lists be damned. No, no, the list will have to be made public by—”

Cathy understood where he was going. “Absolutely not!” she shrieked. “That idea’s even crazier!” She began stalking back and forth, her long legs moving as gracelessly as a bird on land. “And it’s fucking impossible, anyway! I’m a disreputable outcast myself! The only living member of the nobility cast out from the House of Lords except that fucking pedophile Seaview and—”

Her screech slammed to a halt. So did her legs. She stumbled, and almost fell flat on her face.

A very pale face—paler than usual—stared at Jeremy with eyes so wide the bright blue irises were almost lost.

Jeremy left off his cackling and hand-rubbing. But he made up for it by beginning a grotesque little ditty, sung to the tune of a popular nursery rhyme, and waving his fingers in time with the rhythm.

The ditty ended, replaced by—for Jeremy—an unusually gentle smile. “Oh, yes, Lady Catherine. Tell me again, why don’t you—now—just how likely d’you think it is that some holier-than-thou Duke or Duchess is going to get up in the House of Lords and huff and puff about just who belongs and who doesn’t. Today?After their most notorious outcast just shoved their own crap down their precious blue-veined throats?”

He rose to his feet with the lithe grace and speed—so quickly he could move—that made Jeremy X such a deadly, deadly man beneath the puckery and the theatrics. “Harrington’s back from the grave, Cathy. Don’t you understand—yet—how much that changes the political equation?”

Cathy stood ramrod straight. She was unable to move a muscle, or even speak. She realized now that she hadn’t thought about it. Had shied away from the thought, in fact, because it threatened her with her worst nightmare. Having to return to the Star Kingdom, after the years of exile, and re-enter the political arena that she detested more than anything else in the universe.

Except—slavery.

“Please, Cathy,” pleaded Jeremy. For a rare moment, there was not a trace of banter in his voice. “Now is the time. Now.” He turned his head and stared out the window, as if by sheer force of will his eyes could see the Star Kingdom across all the light years of intervening space. “Everything works in our favor. The best elements in the Navy will be roaring. So will almost the whole of the House of Commons, party affiliation be damned. The Conservative Lords will be huddling in their mansions like so many sheep when the wolves are out running with the moon. And as for your precious Liberals and Progressives—”

Cathy finally found her voice. “They’re not my Progressives, damn you! Sure as hell not my Liberals. I despise Descroix and New Kiev and they return the sentiment—and you know it perfectly well! So—”

“From the highlands, woman!”This time, Jeremy made no attempt to imitate Zilwicki’s voice. Which only made his roaring fury all the more evident. Cathy was shocked into silence.

“From the highlands,” he repeated, hissing the words. He pointed a stiff finger at the richly-carpeted floor. “Not half an hour ago, as fine a man as you could ask for stood in this room and explained to you that he was quite prepared to cast over everything—everything, woman—career and respect and custom and propriety—life itself if need be, should the Queen choose to place his neck in a hangman’s noose—and for what? A daughter? Yes, that—and his ownresponsibility.”

He breathed deeply; once, twice. Then: “Years ago, I explained to a girl that she bore no guilt for what her class or nation might have done. But I’ll tell the woman now—again—that she does bear responsibility for herself.”

He glanced at the door. “You know I’ve never cared much for doctrine, Cathy, one way or the other. I’m a concrete sort of fellow. So even though I think ‘Crown Loyalty’ is about as stupid an ideology as I could imagine, I’ve got no problem with that man.”

His eyes were fixed on her, hard as diamonds. “So don’t tell me that they’re not your Liberals or yourProgressives. That’s ancient history, and damn it all. Make them yours—Lady Catherine Montaigne, Countess of the Tor. Whether you asked for that title or not, it is yours. The responsibility comes with it.”