And then, abruptly, all was silence.

Foxleigh waited another handful of seconds, then eased a cautious eye around the corner of his box.

They were all down. All of them. Two of the three techs were still twitching, clearly still alive. None of the others was moving at all. Gathering himself back to his feet, Foxleigh limped over for a closer look.

He and Jensen reached them at the same time, the blackcollar pressing a hand to his thincast above his injured ribs. "Thanks for your help," he said, his voice strained a little.

"You're welcome." Foxleigh looked around at the bodies, feeling more than a little sick. "I wish to God we hadn't had to do that."

Jensen sighed. "So do I," he said. "This war was never supposed to be against our own people. Damn the Ryqril to hell for doing this to them."

"And to us." Foxleigh took a deep breath. "Speaking of hell, it's time for us to deliver some." He looked up from the bodies and locked eyes with Jensen. "I presume we're not going to have any more nonsense about who's going to fly my plane?"

"No," Jensen said quietly. "Under the circumstances, I think you deserve a final crack."

"Thank you." Foxleigh hesitated, then turned his gun around and offered it to Jensen. "Here—I won't be needing this anymore. Tie up the survivors and meet me back at the Talus."

He started to turn away, but Jensen caught his arm. "I was willing to fly the fighter into that hell, you know," the blackcollar said quietly.

"I know," Foxleigh assured him. "And I'm sure the ghosts of your past appreciate the thought. But this is my world, and my duty."

"And you have your own ghosts to deal with?"

"Actually, I've been able to mostly put them to rest over the years," Foxleigh said, eyeing him. The man still wasn't completely convinced, he sensed. "You mentioned someone named Novak just before I pulled my gun on you. A friend of yours?"

"The best," Jensen said, a flicker of old pain crossing his face. "Two years ago, on Argent, he died in my place."

"I'm sorry," Foxleigh said. "But look at it this way. If I'd been in Gotterdammerung that day like I should have been, I'd probably have died very quickly, certainly without making any real difference. Was Novak a pilot?"

Jensen shook his head. "He couldn't have found the throttle with a map."

"So if he'd been here instead of you, he probably wouldn't have had any reason to want to get into Aegis," Foxleigh said. "And without someone to help me, I wouldn't have been able to get in. I trust you see where I'm with this."

Jensen rolled his eyes. "By surviving the way we did, we're now going to get a better shot at hurting the Ryqril than we would have had otherwise?"

"Basically," Foxleigh said. "Don't you love it when the universe gives you object lessons?"

"Not really," Jensen said candidly. "But I guess it's better than no lessons at all."

"Agreed," Foxleigh said. "So tie them up and let's get to it. We've got a final checklist to run. And odds are I'm going to need your help getting into the cockpit."

The last cross corridor had been cleared, with another half-dozen Ryqril bodies to add to the afternoon's toll, and Spadafora had spotted and driven back two attempted sorties from behind.

It had been a good assault, Lathe knew, as such things went. All four of them had collected a number of laser burns across their flexarmor, but so far none of the enemy had been lucky enough to get that crucial second shot that would burn all the way through to the fragile skin and bone and blood underneath.

Eventually, they would, he knew. Certainly for many of the blackcollars embroiled in the battle outside their skill and luck had already run out. The tingler messages flashing back and forth between Shaw's men was a bitter reminder of what it was costing to keep the bulk of Taakh's troops pinned down and out of the inside team's way.

It was up to Lathe to make sure those men hadn't given their lives for nothing.

"Is that it?" Spadafora asked, coming up behind him and pointing to the door directly ahead.

"Should be," Lathe agreed, reaching behind him and sliding one of the appropriated Ryqril short swords from his belt. "Let's see what's happening with those lasers." Holding the sword like a spear, he threw it toward the door.

And flinched back as the acrid green flash of a laser slashed out, slicing across the flying blade and sending a spray of liquid metal droplets in all directions. By the time the sword completed its arc, barely half of the hilt was left to bounce off the door.

"That answers that question," Spadafora said conversationally.

Lathe nodded grimly. "I guess it does."

From the other side of the monitor room door came a soft thunk. "What was that?" Haberdae demanded, half turning in his seat to look at the door.

"Something hit the door," Galway told him. "Something thrown, probably, that your defense lasers weren't able to completely disintegrate."

"Maybe it was a spare arm bone," Haberdae said with a sniff.

"I doubt it," Galway said. He drew a deep breath. "They didn't follow you to the strongpoint, you know."

Haberdae frowned. "What?"

"They didn't follow you to the strongpoint the night of the casino attack," Galway repeated. "They already knew that was where Caine was being held."

Haberdae's face was a surging sea of bewilderment. "What the bloody hell are you talking about?" he demanded.

Lifting Taakh's laser, Galway shot him in the leg.

The bewilderment vanished into utter disbelief as Haberdae bellowed in pain. Ignoring him, Galway shifted his aim to the row of Ryqril techs, shooting his way systematically down the line of suddenly panicked aliens until all of them were dead. Then, stepping to the control board, he lifted the orange cover and turned off the defense lasers.

He'd just closed the cover again when a much louder thud came from the door. "Galway!" Haberdae hissed between clenched teeth, his hands gripping his injured thigh. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Don't you really mean how the hell am I doing it?" Galway countered.

Haberdae's eyes widened as the deeper question finally sank in—

And then the door slid open, and Lathe and the others strode into the room. "You made it," Galway greeted them soberly, gesturing toward Haberdae. "I've got mine."

"And we've got ours," Lathe said. Turning to a clearly stunned Judas, he took the spy's wrist and twisted it suddenly behind him.

"Lathe!" Judas yelped. "What are you—?"

"Clear me a chair," Lathe told Galway as he deftly snapped off Judas's belt, letting it and its attached weapons clatter to the floor.

Galway stepped over to the closest chair and pulled the dead Ryq out of it, swiveling it around to face the blackcollars as Lathe walked a still protesting Judas over and sat him down. Spadafora produced a pair of quick-ties, and a moment later the boy's wrists were fastened securely to the armrests. "There we go," Lathe said as he began removing Judas's other weapons from the various pouches on his flexarmor.

"Sorry about this—what's his name, Galway?"

"Karl Judas," Galway said, watching the blood drain from Judas's face.

"Judas?" Lathe echoed, looking at Judas with fresh interest. "You're joking."

"Not at all," Galway assured him. "Caine's Resistance friends have a very warped sense of humor."

"I think it's more irony than humor, actually," Spadafora put in as he similarly secured Haberdae's wrists.

"Whatever," Galway said. "For what it's worth, he didn't really want to do this. His whole town's essentially being held hostage for his good behavior."

"We'll have to bring that up with the command half-circle when we talk to them," Lathe said, stowing Judas's weapons in his own pouches. "They in the central core?"