Anton Zilwicki arrived at the Felicia with no fanfare or advance notice of any kind. That was the way he would have wanted it, anyway. But the real reason for the secrecy was the man sitting next to him on the sled which carried them over from The Wages of Sin.

It might be better to say: strapped in, and very securely, rather than simply "sitting." Anton, from his years as a yard dog in the Manticoran Navy, was qualified High Expert with virtually every kind of vacuum gear, from skinsuits to self-contained, modular hardsuit yard craft. All of which meant that he was quite comfortable and at ease.

Jeremy X wasn't. The galaxy's most notorious terrorist—or "freedom fighter," take your pick—might very well also be the galaxy's best pistolero. But what he knew about extravehicular activity in a spacesuit could be inscribed on the head of a pin.

That would have been true under any circumstances. Under these, riding in a stripped down, pure reaction-drive yard sled chosen primarily because it was so tiny—and unsophisticated—as to be undetectable by any except very good military grade sensors at very close range, he was visibly nervous. Given that Jeremy generally had the proverbial "nerves of steel," Anton found the whole thing rather amusing.

"Where did they find this piece of crap?" Anton heard him mutter. "A toy store?"

Anton grinned, secure in the knowledge that Jeremy wouldn't be able to see the expression since he was sitting behind him. Jeremy would be peeved, if he did. As it was, he was going to be peeved enough when he discovered that Anton had overheard the remark. Jeremy's lack of expertise when it came to EVA also extended to his lack of expertise with space communication gear. Apparently, the head of the Ballroom had failed to grasp the fact that although their coms had been stepped down to levels which precluded long-range communication—for security reasons—that didn't mean they'd been taken totally off-line. Since safety concerns made it far better for the passengers of the sled to be able to communicate with each other in an emergency, they'd retained their short-range capability.

"As a matter of fact," he said, slandering the standard yard sled with cheery mendacity for his passenger's benefit, "I believe a lot of these jury-rigged sleds of the casino's were put together from stuff found in the space station's toy stores. The framework itself looks like plumbing supplies to me—non-metallic, of course—but the seats and handlebars are taken from children's tricycles. I'm quite sure of it."

He glanced down at the dinky little handlebar upon which the gloved fingers of his right hand rested lightly. It really did look like something from a kid's bike which had been glued, solely as an afterthought, to the flimsy-looking (but incredibly light and strong) composite tubing which made up the main shell of the sled. "In fact," he added, "this looks a lot like the kid's model—the VacuGlide, I think they called it—I bought for Helen, oh, maybe fourteen years ago."

He heard what sounded like a choking noise coming from Jeremy. Anton's grin widened and he proceeded on with great cheer. "Oh, yes. No reason to use anything heftier, of course. If we were in a gravity field or under any kind of real acceleration, it'd be different. But in the here and now, the principal concern is to have sleds which can transport people back and forthwithout being detected. In order to keep this masquerade going, of course. It'd be hard to convince the galaxy my daughter—sorry, 'the Princess'—was still in dire captivity if it became known that the Felicia had as much traffic coming and going as a small spaceport."

With very great cheer: "Oh, yes, it all makes perfect sense. Nice to see somebody's thinking clearly for a change. Of course, I admit it makes for flimsy transportation." He glanced back at the rear of the sled. "Propulsion, ha! That gadget back there is just an aerosol can with delusions of grandeur. Don't want anything big or powerful enough to push our radar signature too high, now do we?"

Anton could see the Manticoran rating from the Gauntlet who was serving as the sled's pilot sitting ahead of both of them, at the very front of the sled. The woman's shoulders were shaking a little, from suppressed laughter at the breezy mendaciousness of Anton's remarks.

Jeremy's helmet swiveled, to bring his face toward Anton's. The motion was a very gingerly one, as if he were afraid even a head movement might fling him off the sled.

"I am not amused, Captain Zilwicki."

"My, what a majestic pronouncement—although I think that's supposed to be 'we are not amused.' The royal plural, you know." Anton clucked. "Surprising, really, coming from such a rabid egalitarian."

Jeremy started to make a testy response. But Anton could now see his face through the turned helmet, and saw the man bite it off. Then, his usual puckish humor returned.

"I won't argue the point, given the role your daughter is playing in this mad affair. But I'll be interested to see if you retain your good humor when the holovids go berserk. Which they will, you know, once the news gets out. Ah, yes. Captain Zilwicki, Rogue of the Spaceways. I can see it now, splattered all over every display screen within five hundred light-years. A month from now—two, at the outside—your face will be the best known in the inhabited galaxy." Jeremy was almost cooing, now: "Do try to smile into the recorders, Captain."

Anton scowled. And reminded himself, not for the first time, that needling Jeremy X was a risky proposition. The man's tongue was as quick and accurate as his gunhand.

They were almost at the Felicia by then, however, and Anton set aside his gloomy prognostications concerning the future prospects for his much-cherished anonymity. His only thoughts now were for his daughter.

He'd been furious with her, at first, when Jeremy X and his comrade Donald brought him the news on Smoking Frog. All of Anton's smug self-satisfaction at the successful conclusion of his little expedition had vanished instantly. (Oh, yes, it had been quite successful. For about the hundredth time since, Anton contemplated with great pleasure the prospect of ruining Georgia Young with the information about her he'd uncovered on Smoking Frog. More precisely—destroying her completely, as a political factor in the Star Kingdom.)

But the anger hadn't lasted long. Before Donald X, who'd brought the news on the courier ship, had gotten halfway through his explanation, Anton had realized the truth. Yes, granted, he could still chide his daughter for the minor recklessness of going to The Wages of Sin in the first place. But Anton knew perfectly well that a maniac like Templeton would simply have struck elsewhere. If there was anyone to blame, it was Anton himself, not Berry. He was supposed to be the superspy, not her. Which meant he should have been the one to discover that the Masadans were lurking on Erewhon—in which case, he never would have made the trip to Maya Sector in the first place.

But all of that was hindsight, and Anton Zilwicki had never been a man given to pointless recriminations. Not even pointless self-blame, much less shifting the blame elsewhere. What mattered—all that mattered—was the courage and determination his daughter had displayed thereafter. Which had been great enough that even such hard-bitten revolutionists as Jeremy and Donald had clearly been in something approaching a state of awe.

So was Anton himself, for that matter. It was obvious to him that the waif he had rescued years earlier on Terra was...

Hard to say, what she was now. But certainly no longer a waif.

"Welcome," the ex-slave in charge of the docking bay said as Anton and Jeremy swung out of the boarding tube and into Felicia 's internal gravity field. She motioned toward another ex-slave, standing nearby and smiling. "Eduard will take you to the Princess. I assume that's who you'd like to see first, Captain Zilwicki."

One of the things Anton had been told was that the ex-slaves on the Felicia had been made aware of the true identity of the two girls. He finished removing his helmet and shook his head.

"No, actually. I'd like to see my daughter first."

Both ex-slaves seemed confused. "Yes, of course," said the one named Eduard. "That's why I'm taking you to her. The Princess."

Then, understanding, Eduard chuckled. "Oh, I see. A mismatch of perceptions, here. By 'Princess,' you refer to the real one. As the galaxy sees such things. But you're among us now, Captain, and we have our own attitudes. Please follow me. Berry doesn't know you've arrived, so she'll still be in the audience chamber."

Anton followed, shaking his head. Princess. Audience chamber. He was trying to sort it all out.

Following right behind him, he heard Jeremy chortle. "Remember, Captain! Remain of good cheer! Ah, yes. I can see it now. All over the holovids. Captain Zilwicki, Scourge of the Spaceways—and now! Introducing his daughter! Princess Berry, She Who Makes Slavers Howl! Do try to make sure she wears modest apparel, though. I've always found those scantily-clad sword-wielding princesses of the fantasies rather gauche. Don't you?"

The so-called "audience chamber" appeared to have been, at one time, a large mess compartment. But after entering it, and observing for a few seconds, Anton understood the peculiar terminology.

Berry was seated on a chair not far from one of the walls. She was surrounded by people, some of them sitting on chairs, others standing, and was engaged in some sort of convivial conversation with all of them. Anton couldn't hear the words, but he didn't need to. He'd known Berry for years, and had met few if any people in his life who could converse so easily and comfortably. Part banter, part friendliness, part advice, part comfort—and, most of all, the girl's superb capacity for listening. Talking with Berry was a genuine pleasure.

As for the rest...

Yes, he could see it now. As an "audience," it bore no resemblance to any royal audience you'd have found anywhere else in the galaxy. Leaving aside the fact that Berry's chair was neither elevated nor any larger or fancier than any other, she was comporting herself far too casually and unpretentiously. But he had no difficulty—none at all—understanding how completely the ex-slaveswould have taken her into their hearts, in the two weeks since she'd arrived on the Felicia and rescued them.