Silver's hand sought Leo's. He was overwhelmed by a desire to apologize, to Silver, to the quaddies, to God, he didn't know who. I got you into this . . . I'm sorry . . .

"If you open a channel, Silver," said Leo desperately, his head swimming in panic—all those children—"We could still surrender."

"Never," said Silver. Her grip tightened on his hand, and her blue eyes met his. "And I choose for all, not just for myself. We go."

Leo ground his teeth, and nodded shortly. The seconds thudded in his brain, syncopated with the hammering of his heart. The security shuttle grew in the monitor.

"Why don't they fire now?" asked Silver.

*      *      *

"Fire," ordered Van Atta.

Bannerji's bright computer schematics drew toward alignment, numbers flickering, lights converging. Dr. Yei, Van Atta noticed, was no longer in her seat. Probably hiding out in the toilet chamber. This dose of real life and real consequences was doubtless too much for her. Just like one of those wimp politicians, Van Atta thought scathingly, who talks people into disaster and disappears when the shooting starts. . . .

"Fire now," he repeated to Bannerji, as the computer blinked readiness, locked onto its target.

Bannerji's hand moved toward the firing switch, hesitated. "Do you have a work order for this?" he asked suddenly.

"Do I have a what?" said Van Atta.

"A work order. It occurs to me that, technically, this could be considered an act of hazardous waste disposal. It takes a work order signed by the originator of the request—that's you—my supervisor—that's Administrator Chalopin—and the company Hazardous Waste Management Officer."

"Chalopin has turned you over to me. That makes it official, mister!"

"But not complete. The Hazardous Waste Management Officer is Laurie Gompf, and she's back on Rodeo. You don't have her authorization. The work order is incomplete. Sorry, sir." Bannerji vacated the weapons console and plunked himself down in the empty engineer's seat, crossing his arms. "It's as much as my job is worth to complete an act of hazardous waste disposal without a proper order. The Environmental Impact Assessment has to be attached, too."

"This is mutiny!" yelled Van Atta.

"No, it isn't," Bannerji disagreed cordially. "This isn't the military."

Van Atta glared red-faced at Bannerji, who studied his fingernails. With an oath, Van Atta flung himself into the weapons console seat and reset the aim. He might have known—anything you wanted done right you had to do yourself—he hesitated, the engineering parameters of the D-class superjumpers racing through his mind. Where on that complex structure might a hit not merely disable the rods, but cause the main thrusters to blow entirely?

Cremation, indeed. And the deaths of the four or five downsiders aboard could, at need, be blamed on Bannerji—I did my best, ma'am—if he'd done his job as I'd first requested . . .