This thought was more than she could bear, and she determined to find an airlock and throw herself out into the vacuum without a suit or hunt for something sharp enough to cut through the tender flesh of her wrists. But, even as she entertained these thoughts, another part of her felt a deep determination to go on living so as to resist whatever Tarrant had planned for her, with all her might.

Tarrant came and searched her out, after a while.

You have a choice, he declared, staring down at her. Either you ride back down in the cockpit with us, or youll go back inside the medbox if you dont behave yourself.

If you dont behave yourself. As if she were still a child.

She blinked away angry tears, her hand reaching instinctively to protect her belly. But if I spend too much time inside a medbox, mightnt it hurt my?

I already told you I dont care about that, he snapped, gripping the frame of the doorway one-handed.

Gabrielle wondered what kind of man he had been before becoming the one she had known as Karl Petrova. Had he a family, perhaps, or children? She found that difficult to imagine.

Ill behave, she said quietly, unable to keep a slight edge out of her voice. Where are we going?

Back down to Redstone, before very long. He seemed stiff, reserved, as if holding something back. Somewhere a long way from Dios, in fact, around the other side of the world.

To meet more of your Freehold friends?

Clean up and get yourself to the cockpit, he demanded, stepping back out of the storage cupboard. And dont be long. I dont want to have to come looking for you again.

Gaby found her way to the dropships head and studied herself in the tiny mirror. She looked like a wreck: her skin was puffy and bruised, her hair a tangled mess from its immersion in the icy river water. She dug around inside several of the drawers until she found a disposable comb, along with a pair of scissors.

She picked up the scissors, studying them beneath the heads unforgiving light. They were small, cheaply fabricated, but sharp. How easy it would be, she thought, to draw their razor-sharp edges through the soft tissue of her wrist . . .

No. She felt a flare of anger, both at herself and at Tarrant. In a way, that would feel like letting him win.

She put the scissors back down, then tried to pull the comb through the knots in her hair. It proved to be a hopeless task and she stared at her reflection in despair. She looked like some discarded rag doll come to life, wrapped in the folds of oversized coveralls. How could she have fallen so very far?