"Don't worry about it, Shorty. She'll have a good time. You can even have her back on the way out—if she still wants to go with you."

"I said choose another!"

The mercenary captain chuckled and turned away. Miles's hand

closed around his arm. The other mercenaries, watching the show,

didn't even bother to draw weapons. Auson's face lit with happiness, and he swung around. He's been itching for this, Miles realized. Well, so have I. . . .

The contest was brief and unequal. A clutch, a twist, a ringing

blow, and Miles was slammed facedown on the deck. The metallic

tang of blood filled his mouth. As an afterthought, a deliberately

aimed boot to his belly doubled him over where he lay, and assured

that he wouldn't be rebounding to his feet in the immediate future.

Miles curled in agony, cheek pressed to the friction matting. Thank God it wasn't the rib cage, he thought incoherently through a haze of rage, pain, and nausea. He squinted at the boots, spread aggressively beyond his nose. Toes must be steel-lined . . .

The mercenary captain wheeled around, hands on hips. "Well?" he demanded of Miles's crew. Silence and stillness; all looked to Bothari, who might have been stone.

Auson, disappointed, spat disgustedly—either he wasn't aiming at

Miles, or he missed—and muttered, "Aw, the hell with it. This tub's not worth confiscating anyway. Lousy fuel efficiency . . ." He raised his voice to his crew. "All right, load up, let's go. Come on, honey," he added to Elena, taking her firmly by the upper arm. The five

mercenaries unhinged themselves from their various postures of

languid observation, and prepared to follow their captain out the

door.

Elena glanced back over her shoulder, to meet Miles's flaming

eyes; her lips parted in a little "Ah," of understanding, and she stared at Auson with cold calculation.

"Now, Sergeant!" cried Miles, and launched himself at his chosen mercenary. Still shaken from his encounter with the captain, in an

inspiration of rare prudence he picked the one he had seen propping up the wall earlier. The room seemed to explode.

A chair, which no one had seen the Sergeant unfasten from its

moorings, flew across the room to smash into the mercenary carrying the nerve disruptor before he even began to draw. Miles, occupied

with his own tackle, heard but did not see the Sergeant's second

victim go down with a meaty, resonating "Unh!" Daum, too, reacted instantly, disarming his man neatly and tossing the stunner to an

astonished Mayhew. Mayhew stared at it a second, woke up and

fumbled it right way round, and fired. Unfortunately, it was out of charge.

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A needler went off, wildly; its projectile exploded against a far wall.