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head. "No."

"Then go back to our quarters."

"You will be careful?"

His head came up and he locked his eyes with hers. "I am always careful."

Kahn folded his arms, wondering if Bridget would say anything else. When she didn't,

but turned and ran as fast as she could away from them, he turned the full force of his

displeasure on Cree. "We will discuss your unseemly behavior when you return,

Lieutenant. Dismissed!"

Cree nodded, spun on his heel, and entered the ship. If he stayed one nanosecond more,

he knew he'd either wind up in the brig or swinging from a stanchion in the air lock. Once

inside Captain Feis Coure's ship, he slammed into the Shepherd's chair and turned so that

no one on board could see the hopelessness on his face. He listened without interest or

comment as the other five members of this strange crew went down the list of pre-flight

checks. When it was his turn, he gave his readings in a monotone, and then slumped

down in the chair, tuning out everything around him.

Something wasn't right, he told himself later as the Med Off injected him with

hypersleep. He could sense it.

And he knew Bridget could, too.

That
was what worried him most of all.

THINGS DID not go well on Cree's last mission to Earth. Everything that could

possibly go wrong, did. From the moment they entered Terran orbit, one thing after

another caused delays that put them weeks behind in the Retrievals. Solar flares drove

them out of orbit and behind the protection of Terra's satellite moon before they could be

detected by Terran radar. Malfunctions in the ship's sensory probes caused further

headaches. The communication console went haywire and started blaring some hideous

Terran music called bluegrass. The warp drives shut down. The ship's cybot developed a

virus and kept banging into the ship's hull.

"Can't you turn off that gods-be-damning screeching?" bellowed Captain Coure.

Lieutenant Saur shrugged. "I wish to the gods I could, Sir," he said, sick of the

twanging string instruments. "Does anyone have a notion what an orange blossom special

is?"

Cree could have told them it was a train, but he doubted anyone really cared. He

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resumed his watch on the sonar and kept his mouth shut.

"Cree?" Commander Hesar asked, scooting his chair over to the Reaper. "Do you think the Resistance is behind this because you're on board?" He wagged his brows at Cree.

Kamerone Cree stared at the Keeper for a long time, then slowly smiled. He lowered

his voice. "I'm sure you'd know more about that than I would, Commander."

Tealson Hesar grinned in return. "Good man," he stated, and then rolled his chair back to his console.

"`Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me,'" Cree quoted. He heard

Hesar chuckling.

"I do not need this now!"

Every eye turned to Captain Coure who sweated profusely. Faces paled and eyes grew

round in their sockets.

All except Cree's. He ducked his head, grinning maniacally.

"Cree!"

The Reaper pushed back from his console. "Aye, Captain?"

"I am in Transition!" the Captain of the Sirocco screamed.

"Aye, Sir, I believe you are," Cree agreed. He knew there was no one else on board the ship capable of handling an enraged Reaper except him. He reached out, took Coure's

arm. "Let's go."

"This can not be happening!" Feis Coure exclaimed.

"Keep telling yourself that." Cree tightened his grip for his Reaper brother was altering rapidly.

Tealson Hesar watched until Cree had their captain tucked safely away in one of the

containment cells. The loud thumps and shrieks set everyone's hair on end and he was

grateful Cree was on board. But, he thought, as he returned to his communication

console, if Cree hadn't been on board, Coure would not have gone into Transition in the

first place. In the nine years he'd been on Coure's crew, he'd never once seen the Reaper

alter. And he never wanted to see it again.

Cree returned to his console and sat down. "How far are we from home, Commander?"

he asked Hesar.

"Roughly sixteen hours. Why?"

"We've got a slight problem."

"Oh, god!" Hesar gasped. "Don't tell me you're going into—"

Cree shook his head. "No."

Hesar sighed heavily. "Thank Alel for that! Then what's wrong?"

Cree ran a hand through his thick curls. "We had approximately eight pints of blood

left on board when we left Terran orbit. That should have been enough for both of us.

Feis and I were both transfused before we left the station."

Hesar frowned. "And?"

"Someone miscalculated, Teal. Two Reapers, five months? There should have been

around a dozen or more pints left upon return. No one counted on one of us going into

Transition."

"Damn," Hesar breathed. He looked toward the sleep units where four very important

Terran females were lying. "Are you going to have to..."

"I hope not. It will be necessary for me to give the Captain at least five of those

remaining pints to keep him from going insane with hunger. Just keep your fingers

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crossed that I won't need any more than two pints to see me home to FSK-14."

Hesar shuddered. What the hell would he do if Cree went into Transition, too?

The Reaper turned away from the worried look on the Keeper's face. He stared blankly

at his navigational screen. It wasn't necessary for Hesar to know that he would remand

himself into one of the containment cells where recalcitrant Retrievals were kept should

he feel the telltale signs of Transition coming on. That he was willing to subject himself

to certain misery and possible lingering death to prevent even one drop of blood from

being taken from the Terran women amused him.

Ah, Bridget. Look what you've done to me, woman.

BRIDGET SAT before the magnificent sweep of Tylan Kahn's port windows and

stared out at the array of passing asteroids beyond the thick Siliplex. Behind her, the

soothing sounds of David Arkenstone's
Spirit Wind
played.

"Extraordinary," she heard Kahn say. "Our Rysalian music pales in comparison."

She swiveled away from the lonely view, glancing only cursorily at a ship coming in

for docking. "It's more than twenty years old."

"Music, though, is timeless," he replied and closed his eyes, waving his hand in the air as though he were conducting an invisible orchestra.

Bridget couldn't help but admire the man as he lay sprawled in his chair. He looked

deviously handsome in a white Chrystallusian silk shirt that he had left unbuttoned to the

waist. With his tight black leather pants and boots, the golden Chalean hoop in his left

ear, all the man needed was a red scarf around his thick mop of black curls and an eye

patch to make him look every inch the pirate.

"Pirate?" he questioned, opening one eye.

She blushed to the tips of her toes. Even after five months of living with the man and

his uncanny psychic powers, he still unnerved her.

"I don't mean to," he saw, drawing in his long legs. "Forgive me. It's a political habit I have. My surrogate mother taught me well. She mistrusts everything and everyone."

Bridget understood. "Know your enemies?"

He grinned. "I try not to do it when I'm with you, but the truth is: your thoughts are so distinct they just come at me like laser blasts." He sat up in his chair. "Most people shield what they are thinking when they're around men like me."

"I had no trouble hiding my thoughts from Cree. Why not you?"

"I don't know," Kahn replied. "Maybe my powers are more advanced than his."

"Or you've had less tampering with your mind," she observed.

"Now that is a distinct possibility," Kahn agreed. He took a sip of his Chalean brandy, then swirled the remainder around in his glass. "You know, of course, what they did to

him when he was a boy?"

"The implants?"

"Aye."

"I was told we had to be extremely careful not to dislodge one of them when he was

undergoing reinforcement."

"I doubt you could have."

Bridget played with a loose thread on her skirt. "What happens to all the Reaper cadets

if the Resistance wins?"

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until we can deal with them. The platinum implants will be deactivated since it would be

dangerous to try to remove them. Their parasites will have to be terminated by whatever

means the Ministry of Public Health has devised. But most important of all, their minds

must be wiped clean of Empire teaching."

"Cree included?"

Kahn nodded. "In order for him and the other Reaper caste to exist in harmony with the

rest of us, they have to be
like
the rest of us. All those merciless tendencies and brutal instincts have to be purged. If not, they will be as great a danger to us after the rebellion as they are now."

DR. HAEL Sejm straightened up from the microscan and shivered. "Ugly little

thing, isn't it?"

Dr. LeJong Kym acknowledged the remark with a slight inclination of her elegant

head. The Chrystallusian biochemist removed the culture from beneath the microscan and

placed it carefully inside the containment field.

"Is it safe in there?" Admiral Cree asked.

Beryla Dean put a reassuring hand on her lover's shoulder. "Do you think we would

take a chance of it not being?"

"Please roll up your sleeve, Admiral," Dr. Kym asked.

The vacuum needle pierced Drae's flesh and he winced as the thick liquid spread. "By

the gods, that hurts!"

"But think of the benefits," Dr. Sejm suggested. "The alternative to injection has an even more painful sting, I am told."

"Precisely so," Dr. Kym agreed as she withdrew the needle.

"You should retire to your quarters and rest. The antitoxin will take full effect within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. In the meantime, you will no doubt experience

some nausea, headache perhaps and mild fever. Nothing to worry about." She put her

hands into the pockets of her lab coat and cocked her head to one side. "There might

possibly be a touch of joint discomfort. Nothing that you haven't experienced before

during your yearly viral inoculations." She glanced at Sejm. "Is there anything you would add?"

"Consume plenty of liquids," advised Sejm.

Drae Cree rolled down his sleeve, frowning at the continued string that had raised a

good-sized lump on his upper arm. He nodded absently at Hael Sejm's suggestion. "Who

is next on your list?"

"Tylan Kahn," Dr. Kym replied. "After him, the five Reapers and each of their four man crews."

"The five Reapers and their crews who just happened to dock on FSK-14 within an

hour of one another." Beryla laughed.

"And who have been ordered to report for their annual antiviral injections."

"Ninety percent of station personnel are cowering in their quarters with that many

Reapers on board," said Drae. "Once Kamerone and Coure arrive, there should be little or no one about to see what we're doing." He rubbed his arm and felt a wave of nausea leap

up his throat.

"I think I'd better get you to bed," Beryla told him.

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the Sirocco docks, Beryla."

Once Beryla and her lover left the lab, Hael Sejm went to the refrigeration unit and

removed thirty-two vials of antitoxin, placing them on a tray with just that many syringes.

She began loading the syringes with a dark tyrilian liquid. Dr. Kym watched her intently.

"I will take these with me," Sejm suggested. "You can do the others when they arrive, if you will."

Dr. Kym nodded, mentally calculating the amount of syringes she needed. "Kamerone

Cree's crew as well as Coure's. That's ten."

"Nine," Sejm corrected.

"Nine?" Kym calculated again, then shook her head. "I make it ten, Hael."

"Kamerone Cree is to be given the same inoculation you gave his father," said Hael.

Dr. Kym froze. She lifted her head and one think black brow arched upward. "What do

you mean?"

A murderous glint sparked in Hael Sejm's eyes. "Did you think I would let that monster

live? I wish for the son what I have set into motion for the father!"

LeJong stared at her. "You can't kill Kamerone. We need him!"

"No, we don't," Hael snapped. "Once we start, there will be no obstacles in our path.

We don't need Kamerone Cree to win this war!" She picked up her tray and left the lab.

LeJong sat down behind her desk and stared at the remaining vials of antitoxin in the

refrigeration unit. Ten vials, ten lives, she mused. Not counting Kamerone Cree, only

forty-one chosen men were to be left virus-free after the rebellion was over and the

retrovirus had been spread through the exhaust systems of all fifteen space stations and