from their seats, a dangerous precedent. Fortunately, they hesitated, as if uncertain whether to start for Miles's throat first, or Captain Auson's. Before the ripple of motion could become an unstoppable

tidal wave, Bothari brought his disrupter to aim with a good loud slap against his other hand. Bothari's lips were drawn back in a canine

grimace, and his pale eyes blazed.

The mercenaries lost the moment. The ripple died. Those who had

risen sat back down carefully, their hands resting plainly and

demurely upon their knees.

Damn, thought Miles enviously, I wish I could muster that much

menace. . . . The trick of it, alas, was that it was not a trick at all.

Bothari's ferocity was palpably sincere.

Elena aimed her nerve disruptor in a white nervous grip, her eyes

wide; but then, an obviously nervous person with a lethal weapon has a brand of menace all their own, and more than one mercenary

spared a glance from the Sergeant to the other possible source of

crossfire. A male mercenary attempted a prudent placating smile,

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palms out. Elena snarled under her breath, and the smile winked out hastily. Miles raised his voice and overrode the lingering whispers of confusion.

"By Dendarii regulation, you will all start at the same rank—the lowest, recruit-trainee. This is not an insult; every Dendarii, including myself, has started there. Your promotions will be by demonstrated

ability—demonstrated to me. Due to your previous experience and the needs of the moment, your promotions will probably be much more

rapid than usual. What this means, in effect, is that any one of you could find yourself the brevet captain of this ship within weeks."

The murmur became suddenly thoughtful. What this meant, in

effect, thought Miles, was that he had just succeeded in dividing all the lower-ranking echelons from their former seniors. He nearly

grinned as ambition visibly lit a scattering of faces. And had he ever lit a fire under those seniors—Thorne and Auson stared at each other in edgy speculation.

"Your new training will begin immediately. Those not assigned to training groups this shift will temporarily re-commence their old

duties. Any questions?" He held his breath; his scheme pivoted on the point of a pin. He would know in a minute. . . .

"What's your rank?" asked a mercenary.

Miles decided to stay flexible. "You may address me as Mr.

Naismith." There, let them build theories on that.

"Then how do we know who to obey?" asked the original hard-eyed heckler.

Miles bared his teeth in a scimitar smile. "Well, if you disobey one of my orders, I'll shoot you on the spot. You figure it out." He drummed his fingers lightly on his holstered nerve disruptor. Some of Bothari's aura seemed to have rubbed off on him, for the heckler