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longer with these, giving what encouragement he could. He then

withdrew and stood dumbly by the door for several minutes, awash in the familiar, terrifying odors of a sickbay after a battle, disinfectants and blood, burnt meat, urine, and electronics, until he realized

exhaustion was making him thoroughly stupid and useless, shaky and

near tears. He pushed off from the wall and stumped out. Bed. If

anyone really wanted his command presence, they could come find

him.

He hit the code-lock on Oser's cabin. Now that he'd inherited it, he supposed he ought to change the numbers. He sighed and entered. As

he stepped inside he became conscious of two unfortunate facts. First, although he had dismissed his commando guard upon entering

sickbay, he had forgotten to call him back, and second, he was not

alone. The door closed behind him before he could recoil into the

corridor, and he banged into it backing up.

The dusky red hue of General Metzov's face was even more

arresting to the eye than the silver gleam of the nerve disrupter

parabola in his hand, aim centered on Miles's head.

Metzov had somehow acquired a set of Dendarii greys, a little

small for him. Commander Cavilo, standing behind Metzov, had

acquired a similar set, a little large for her. Metzov looked huge and furious. Cavilo looked . . . strange. Bitter, ironic, weirdly amused.

Bruises marred her neck. She bore no weapon.

"Got you," Metzov whispered triumphantly. "At last." With a rictus smile, he advanced stepwise on Miles till he could pin him to the wall by his neck with one big hand. He dropped the nerve disrupter with a clatter and wrapped the other hand around Miles's neck, not to break but to squeeze it.

"You'll never survive—" was all Miles managed to choke out before his air pinched off. He could feel his trachea begin to crunch,

crumpling, his head felt on the verge of dark explosion as his blood supply was cut off. No talking Metzov out of this murder. . . .

Cavilo slipped forward, crouching, soundless and unnoticed as a

cat, to take up the dropped nerve disrupter, then step back, around to Miles's left.

"Stanis, darling," she cooed. Metzov, obsessed with Miles's lingering strangulation, did not turn his head. Cavilo, clearly

imitating Metzov's cadences, recited, " 'Open your legs to me, you bitch, or I'll blow your brains out.' "

Metzov's head twisted round then, his eyes widening. She blew his

brains out. The crackling blue bolt hit him square between the eyes.

He almost snapped Miles's neck, plastic-reinforced though those

bones were, in his last convulsion, before he dropped to the deck. The blistering electrochemical smell of nerve-disruptor death slapped

Miles in the face.

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