The Trilogy of Tompa Lee

By Edward Hoornaert

Together for the first time -- all three books about Tompa Lee’s outer space exploits.

Follow Tompa’s travails through an unfair trial-by-combat, a dangerous national park on another planet, and a flooded alien city as she struggles to survive -- and find the love and acceptance she craves.

The Trial of Tompa Lee
Tompa Lee, a street girl who's clawed her way up to the lowest rung of the Space Navy, becomes a pawn of interplanetary politics when she's framed for murder on another planet. By herself, Tompa cannot survive the overwhelming odds in her trial-by-combat -- but can she learn to trust the policeman who arrested her, and a member of the alien race that wants to slaughter her?

The Tribulations of Tompa Lee
After surviving her trial, Tompa becomes ambassador to the Shons’ planet and is hailed as their goddess ... but she has a dead man living in her head, distrusts fellow humans, and fears an imminent attack by Klicks, mankind's greatest enemy. Ming Mengliev is posing as a mere musician when Klicks destroy the Terran embassy ... but although he strives to win Tompa's trust—and her heart—whose side is this secret agent really on?

The Triumph of Tompa Lee
On planet Zee Shode, Tompa has found the galaxy’s greatest treasures: friendship and love. Happily ever after? Not if the Galactic Trading Council has its way. The Council rules by divide and conquer, and Tompa commits the unforgivable crime of ‘forgery’ by forging an alliance between humans, Shons, and Klicks. The Council hires Earth’s most feared bounty hunter, to deal with her. The bounty hunter lures Tompa to a deserted alien city. Can Tompa kill the huntress–or will she be forced to sacrifice her own life to save her loved ones?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Hoornaert
• Release date: Dec 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310231438

Edward Hoornaert

Edward Hoornaert is not only a science fiction and romance writer, he's also a certifiable Harlequin Hero, having inspired NYT best-selling author Vicki Lewis Thompson to write Mr. Valentine, which was dedicated to him. From this comes his online alter ego, "Mr. Valentine."These days, Hoornaert mostly writes science fiction—either sf romances, or sf with elements of romance. After living at 26 different addresses in his first 27 years, the rolling stone slowed in the Canadian Rockies and finally came to rest in Tucson, Arizona. Amongst other things, he has been a teacher, technical writer, and symphonic oboist. He married his high school sweetheart a week after graduation and is still in love ... which is probably why he can write romance.

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Praise for The Trial of Tompa Lee

Ed Hoornaert is a marvelous writer: a terrific, engrossing storyteller and a consummate stylist. - Robert J. Sawyer, Hugo-Award winning author

Hold a tissue ready, as Mr. Hoornaert knows how to squeeze the heart of the reader. - Love Romances

The humor that comes from mistranslations and cultural differences contributes to Hoornaert's delightful voice … a rollicking romp on a distant planet, full of adventure and heart. – Amber Belldene, author of the Blood Vine series

Tompa Lee is an attractive, ambitious vagabond. - Arizona Daily Star

Classic science fiction, but with enough character development to interest non-science fiction readers. - Romance Reviews Today

… A style that’s three parts Anne McCaffrey mixed with one part Robert Heinlein and two parts Gene Roddenberry. One of my all-time favorite books is The Trial of Tompa Lee. - Pamela Keyes, author of The Jumbee

Reminiscent of the best of classic Star Trek. - TheBestReviews.com

This story gripped me within the first chapter and did not let go until I read the last page. Correction, it still has a hold on me. – Kara Ashley Dey, author of Stealing Sky

The Trilogy of Tompa Lee

Complete in One Volume

© 2005, 2012, 2014 by Edward Hoornaert

All rights reserved

ISBN: 9781310231438

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

The Trial of Tompa Lee

The Tribulations of Tompa Lee

The Triumph of Tompa Lee

Some Thank Yous from the Author

About the Author

More Science Fiction by Edward Hoornaert

The Trial of Tompa Lee

by

Edward Hoornaert

© 2005, 2012 by Edward Hoornaert

A slightly different version of The Trial of Tompa Lee was published in hardcover by Five Star Speculative Fiction, October, 2005

All rights reserved

Prelude

Decrepit stranger of ancient years! Halt immediately!

The old one did as he was ordered, despite his hunger and the tantalizing smell of food from the back door of the pub. He trembled with the knowledge that he was newly arrived in this city, that he didn’t belong, that he was adrift in a herd of Others.

Turn headly, the voice commanded.

Obedience to the host herd was demanded not only by common courtesy, but by his very genes. And so, keeping his body still, he turned his head one-hundred-eighty degrees. His darting eyes glimpsed only the shadowed alley, a pile of moldering garbage, and the stained grey ashlars of buildings whose style predated the turmoil of the space aliens’ arrival. He saw no one.

Then a local, a Shon-Tuke-Zee, emerged into a shaft of dust and sunlight that speared through the heart of the alley via a break in the old, ill-maintained sun roof. The Tuke stopped in the dazzling spotlight, her face an unreadable mask of glare and darkness. Five others joined her, each wearing a vest that shimmered with yellow and orange flames against a black background.

The female Tuke stepped forward. She was young, with wide eyes and a spectacular pear-shaped figure. Slowly, she circled the old one. He swivelled his head to follow her progress, which was either an invitation to camaraderie or a dire threat. The ground shook as a bus clattered by on the elevated roadway over the nearby main street.

Suddenly the female leaned her slender hip against his wide one. An invitation, then. Do those ones from your homeland love meekly aliens from the stars? she asked.

Her accent was so thick he needed a moment to decipher it. Reply negatively, he whispered. Encouraged that her hip remained against his, he spoke louder. This one feels that aliens from the stars form the source of all evil.

Aaaar, she purred. It was the most comforting sound he’d heard in days.

This one’s name is Awmit, he said.

Dine with these ones, Awmit, before carrying defiantly a placard of hatred against aliens.

He’d have done almost anything not to dine alone again; carrying the three-sided electric sign that a male handed him was a tiny price to pay. With the joy of loneliness abated, Awmit said formally.

The sign was similar to the parasols common in this sun-broiled region, except that it was open on top. When he touched buttons on the handle, letters glowed on the faces of the sign. Strange, he thought, using alien gadgets to proclaim herd-solidarity against aliens. What, exactly, do these ones—he pointed all six fingers of one hand at the Tukes and, lastly, at himself—bond together against?

The pretty female’s mouth puckered in a curve of hatred. In perfect unison, the Tukes cried out, Humans arrive unwelcomely! Humans arrive unwelcomely!

Glorying in the emotional surge of group purpose, Awmit joined the chant, which went on and on. It would be impolite and unwise, he decided, to ask what a human was.

1 The Briefing

They’d started without her, the maggoty cockroaches.

Tompa Lee tried the door handle again. Locked. Clenching her fists, she glared at the sign on the door of the K Deck mess hall: Briefing in Progress Do Not Enter. How dare they flickin’ shut her out!

After a moment, though, she slowly stuffed her anger into hiding. Sailors in the Commerce Space Navy didn’t get angry.

But it wasn’t her roach-damned fault she was late. No one had told her about the briefing.

The shore leave was supposed to include her. Two days ago, when the announcement was made that her shift had been selected for the first shore leave ever on the planet Zee-Shode, after three boring months in orbit, she’d asked her boss if that meant her, too. His expression went vague and his throat bobbed as he subvocalized on his mumbler, checking with his boss—or somebody. It made her flesh crawl that you never knew who they were talking to or what they were saying about you when they mumbled.

Yes, he’d replied. Ship’s Wards, too.

Damned mumblers. They’d undoubtedly sent the message about the briefing over the mumblers, not caring that Ship’s Wards didn’t have the implants. Well, there was no way she’d miss her first chance to meet aliens. Think, girl, think.

Hmm. When the Vance left earth five months ago, she’d worked briefly in Mess Prep for Deck C. That deck’s mess hall had a rear service entrance. Maybe this one did, too. She turned down a cross corridor, feigning nonchalance when a group of six sailors from Logistics passed her. Up ahead, a narrow passageway branched toward what must be the rear entrance of the mess hall.

When she reached the passageway, however, she jerked back out of sight. Ratshit! Jim Zhang, wearing red coveralls like hers, was sitting on the floor by the rear door. Of all the people on the Vance, it had to be him. A week after the cruiser left Earth, she’d gotten in trouble because he made a crude pass at her. Her mouth went dry at the memory of how close she’d come to losing everything she’d dreamed of and schemed for.

This isn’t Manhattan, the supervisor of the Ship’s Ward program had reprimanded her after that incident. There’d been contempt in his voice, either for Manhattan or Tompa—or both. With difficulty, she’d kept her eyes down, fighting back a switchblade of anger. Twelve years ago, inner-city decay had led Manhattan to be ‘temporarily’ evacuated of honest citizens, leaving behind all the losers who didn’t fit into the economic revolution unleashed by trade with the stars. Tompa had been just a girl. She’d done nothing to deserve being abandoned inside history’s biggest jail.

In the Navy, the supervisor had said, we don’t live by survival of the meanest. We have laws, procedures, and punishments. You tell me you want to make full Navy. He’d raised a bushy eyebrow skeptically. Well, if you overreact and take matters into your own hands one more time, you’re out.

The lecture had continued on and on. Gradually, though, she realized that her supervisor really was saying something important. Every place had unwritten rules you didn’t dare break, rules that were taken so much for granted that they were never explained to outsiders like her. Half the battle to survive was figuring out these rules. Walking out of her supervisor’s office, Tompa was smiling because she’d discovered one of the Navy’s unwritten rules, for someone in her lowly position, at least.

Don’t be tough, be invisible.

Ever since then, she’d learned her job as well as possible, kept to herself, and tried not to be noticed. She’d also avoided Jim Zhang. This time, however, he couldn’t be avoided. Well, she could handle him—without breaking any bones, either. Taking a deep breath, she imagined herself in an all-white dress uniform as she marched down the passageway toward him.

Well, hello, beautiful young thing, Zhang said. Then, "Oh. It’s you."

Tompa ignored him and reached for the door.

I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.

She glanced at him.

On second thought, go ahead. He held up his beefy forearm, which was in better condition now than when she last left him. I was in heal-sleep for a whole day, you maggot. On top of that, as soon as we get back to Earth, I’m going to be kicked out of the Ship’s Ward program. For nothing! All you had to do was say you didn’t do it for money.

But she had told him that. Surely she had.

I figured you had to be a hooker, Zhang said. Navy lottery tickets are damned expensive, and I heard a rumor you bought a hundred of them.

Eighty-nine.

See! If you weren’t a hooker, how could you afford even one ticket, let alone eighty-nine? You’re just street meat, for chrissake. And when I grabbed you, it was foreplay. Chicks always say they want foreplay, but when you do it—whammo! Seriously, do I look like the kind of guy who has to force women into bed with me?

Zhang sucked in his belly and stared at her, probably expecting her to snarl her disbelief like an animal, the way street meat did in shows—and she was tempted. But she smiled, instead. Sorry about that, Jim.

He grunted and rubbed his arm. She knew his type: all balls, no brain. She kept smiling as she leaned against the wall. As though scratching, she ran a hand slowly down her thigh, just to remind him she was female. Sure enough, he was such a poco brain that within seconds he was staring and grinning.

Guess it’s okay. Zhang sounded as though he was forgiving her. The idiot. The Navy wants too much work, you know? When I won the lottery I thought it’d be like taking a cruise around the galaxy.

Tompa held her tongue with an effort. All that the lottery provided was a chance to prove you belonged in the Navy, which was Tompa’s—and most everyone else’s—dream. It sounded like this dolt expected to join as an admiral.

He sighed, then scowled at the closed door. I’m part of shift four, so I’m going whether they like it or not. I can’t wait to see some real live aliens.

Yeah, Tompa said in a breathy sigh. To be one of the first humans ever to walk on a planet . . . wow. They’d probably create a show-surround about this. Back in Manhattan, people never got tired of shows about the bigger-than-life heroes of the Space Navy. The theaters near the food lines and police forts were always full. They ran other shows too, of course, but ones about the Space Navy were Tompa’s—and everyone else’s—favorites.

A burst of cheering drew her gaze back to the mess-hall door. She’d never imagined that earnest Navy types would cheer like that. She had to get into the briefing. Why can’t we go in?

When I tried to open the door, some guys ordered me to go away.

Tompa palmed the handle and pushed, but someone inside was leaning against the door. She turned back to Zhang. So you’re just going to sit there and miss your chance to visit an alien planet? A big guy like you?

What can I do? They’re Navy.

But you’re so big and strong. She let her gaze wander over his thick biceps and then, because guys went brainless for that sort of stupid ratshit, over his crotch. Surely a man as huge and powerful as you can open a little door.

His mouth hung open. He didn’t close it as he stared at her and nodded. After a few seconds, he remembered how to speak. What a ball-brained idiot. Yeah, he said, I probably can. He rose to his feet and grinned down at her. Sure thing, little lady. Just watch me. He took a deep breath and hunched as though to use his shoulder as a battering ram.

Not that way. Tompa shook her head, smiling. Only one of ten ship’s wards completed the three-year probation and made full Navy. If this poco brain was one of her ten, her odds had just improved. You’d disrupt the briefing and get us in trouble. Push slow and steady. Yeah, that’s right. Put all your weight into it.

The door opened little by little, then suddenly gave way. Zhang stumbled into the half-dark mess hall, only to be met by several sailors who turned to glare. One of them blocked his way and said in a fierce whisper, Zhang, I told you, you aren’t going on shore leave unless you finish your backlog of tasks. Now back to work—and that’s an order.

Aw, Zhang replied in a loud voice, I wanna see the aliens.

While this exchange was going on, Tompa waited for the slightest opening. When she saw one, she squeezed between Zhang and the doorframe and tried to get lost in the crowd. That turned out to be easy, because when people saw who she was, they backed away. This was the first time the crew’s prejudice against street meat had ever worked to her advantage. Most luck was bad, of course, but both good and bad luck came in bunches—like grapes, Sister Lakeisha used to say—so this was a good omen. A tingle of anticipation scurried up Tompa’s spine.

At the front of the mess hall, a woman was spouting some confusing garbage about the Shon-Wod-Zee governing themselves via ochlocracy. Whatever that was. The woman’s voice had the easy authority Tompa instinctively distrusted. When she was well away from the noise of Zhang’s futile efforts to get into the room, Tompa leaned against the wall and started paying more attention to the speaker.

As you can imagine, the woman said, government by the herd, along with language complications, has made negotiating with the Shon-Wod-Zee unexpectedly difficult. Otherwise, I assure you I’d already have a trade agreement signed and you’d be headed home.

The woman must be the ambassador that Consortium Earth, the owners of the Space Navy, had appointed to arrange a treaty with Zee-Shode. Tompa went to her tiptoes—she’d never seen an ambassador before—but saw only a flash of dark hair through the throng of sailors, every one of whom was taller than her.

This was an important mission. An exclusive trade agreement with a planet-bound race would finally earn humanity the respect of the galactic trading community, but to Tompa that wasn’t as important as stealing the planet away from the Klicks. The domineering lizards had monopolized trade with the Shons for over two hundred solar years—since before the Detchvilli landed on Earth and turned history upside down. Everybody who’d ever seen a Space Navy show hated Klicks. Humans were really lucky to have been discovered by the affable and generous Detchvilli, rather than the Klicks.

This mission was projected to last six weeks, the ambassador continued, but instead it’s lasted three months. We’ve been lucky so far that the Kalikinikis, who are, of course, protective of their trade agreement with the Shon-Wod-Zee, haven’t yet shown up in their battle cruisers.

There was a chance of a space battle with the Klicks? Wow. Tompa had no doubts the Space Navy could knock the tails off the greasy lizards. She was so engrossed in imagining her own role in the show, saving the Vance by crawling over fallen bodies to fire a torpedo despite terrible wounds, that she missed some of the ambassador’s words.

. . . the extraordinary step of sending you ladies and gentlemen down to the planet. If enough Shons see enough humans on their best behavior, maybe public opinion will turn in our favor. This is not, repeat not, an ordinary shore leave.

It’s still shore leave, shouted a voice at the side of the room.

The shout was met by laughter, whistles, and howls—startling behavior from space sailors. A woman to Tompa’s right added to the din by repeating, Shore leave! The woman’s face shone, instead of having the usual subdued, Navy-issue seriousness. Shore leave!

Un-flickin’-believable. Tompa felt a smile creep across her face.

The ambassador shouted for silence, and when she got it she said, I will not tolerate another outburst. I repeat, this is not ordinary shore leave. You are to consider yourselves on duty, and you will behave with decorum, grace, and impeccable good sense. The Shons aren’t eager for contact with a second space-faring people. Remember, Zee-Shode is an unsophisticated backwater that has an early industrial civilization spiced with a few high-tech gadgets bought from the Klicks. Because of the trade exclusivity, other races don’t dare land on the planet, meaning that most Shon-Wod-Zee have neither seen a Klick nor heard of human beings. So, while to you the Shons may be interesting curiosities, to them you’re unknown monsters from outer space, trying to stir up trouble.

They’re right, called the same voice from the far side of the room.

The ambassador’s voice went hard. Mister Roussel, have your men escort that person out of the room. Do the same for anyone else who is disruptive.

Tompa felt the crowd’s exuberant cheerfulness dissipate like a bucket of pee emptied out a broken window atop the Empire State Building. The woman on her right was craning to see who the ship’s cops were taking away. She was no longer smiling.

You are goodwill ambassadors to the planet Zee-Shode, the ambassador said. I trust that is understood.

The sailors now stood straighter, more formally. Too bad. It had been fun seeing them act like human beings.

Good. I’ll now turn the briefing over to Director Gahindru of Logistics.

After a moment, a man’s voice said, Thank you, Ambassador Schneider. When the briefing is over, you will break into groups of between six and twelve, thirty-five groups in all. You can choose your own groups, though we’ll make adjustments as necessary.

Tompa grimaced. Which group would want her?

The shuttles will begin ferrying groups down to Zee-Shode at exactly ten-hundred hours. Each light-craft will land near a different Shon city so as to maximize your exposure to the populace. A native guide will show you suitable sights for your twenty-hour stay. The guide and one member of your group will have translators using the latest algorithms devised for Ambassador Schneider and her negotiating team. The Shons are cranking out more translators as we speak and so later shore leaves will have enough for each sailor, but for now if you lose or break your translator, you’re out of luck. Treat it as carefully as a raw egg.

Tompa shifted, and her boot grazed something that made a tinny, metallic sound. A ventilation grate. The top of the grate made a narrow ledge that she could stand on if she had something to hold onto—like that light fixture behind the woman on the right. It would raise her more than a foot so she could see. She’d have to be careful not to bump into the woman, but with everyone facing away from her and the speaker so far away, no one would likely notice her.

While the speaker went on about which shuttle was headed where, Tompa stepped up and grabbed the casing that directed light downward.

You should be comfortable down there, Gahindru continued. Gravity, atmosphere, and climate are all within two percent of standard habitability norms, while day length and life-form variability are both within four percent. We’ve tentatively rated the biochemistry aleph One B, with strong indications that further study will give it One A. The sailors greeted this remark with an approving murmur. When Gahindru added, If you stick to the food and beverages that your guide eats, you probably won’t die, they laughed.

Tompa got her other heel onto the ledge and clung there, enjoying being able to see so far. She’d been on the Vance long enough that any space bigger than a closet felt huge. Gazing over a sea of heads, she almost felt as though she belonged. The glow-bar light gave off its characteristic fresh-air smell, adding to Tompa’s sense of well being. Life in the Navy was going to be good.

Do not allow yourself to be separated from your guide, the lecturer said. Shons without translators won’t be able to help you if you get lost, and this planet is too primitive to have a global positioning system. At all times, keep within mumbler range of each other.

Tompa frowned. Damned mumblers.

In mid-frown, she realized that a big, rugged-looking man with streaks of grey in his hair and the cream-colored tunic of a VP-grade officer was staring at her from the side of the room. On his shoulder was a jail-bar insignia. She froze—except for her heart, which lurched. After helplessly meeting his gaze for a couple of terrifying seconds, she stumbled down from her perch. Oh, God. A cop was watching her. And not just any cop. The head roach himself.

Unless there are any questions, Gahindru said, you can form your groups and proceed to the nearest exit, where you will be directed to a staging area.

A few people asked questions, but Tompa was too upset to pay attention. By the time the lights in the room went up, though, her heart rate was approaching normal. She watched as people started milling around, calling to each other and chatting. Their mood was light again, almost festive. Tompa took a few tentative steps toward some women she knew slightly from working in Mess Prep, but they walked past as though she didn’t exist.

There he was again, that vice president from Military Discipline, talking with half-a-dozen men near the door. He pointed toward her. Was he instructing them to scoop her up because she couldn’t be trusted off the ship?

The mess hall emptied quickly. Tompa was trying to keep some stragglers between her and the policeman when one of the men broke from the group and headed toward her. When she saw that his face was covered with tattoos, she let out a long breath. Facial tattoos were popular amongst new-sect Christians, but no one had as many as the boss of her light-craft maintenance team, Paolo McShallin. Nestled against tattoos of jungle greenery from his native Brazil, the Virgin Mary adorned one cheek and baby Jesus the other. An elaborate cross ran from his pointed chin up his nose to his forehead; when he frowned, the cross came alive as though writhing with the pain of crucifixion.

McShallin was pretty much okay. They weren’t friends, of course, but he was patient and a good teacher. He kept his feelings so sternly under control that she wondered if he feared distorting his tattoos. The only time she’d seen him show emotion was when talking about his wife and three young children. Then, a grin wrinkled the tattoos almost beyond recognition.

Ship’s Ward Lee. He bowed slightly as he spoke.

Senior Technician McShallin. His conversations always started formally.

Are you in a group yet, Ship’s Ward? He asked the question slowly, almost reluctantly.

What was going on here? She glanced toward the policeman, but he was gone. No, she replied.

I see. He, too, glanced toward where the policeman had been. After a moment’s hesitation, he added, Join us, then.

His words took a moment to sink in. She stared at him, unsure she’d heard correctly.

When she didn’t respond, McShallin said, You’ll be safe with us. We’re all fervent Episcotism Christians of the Second Delineation.

Uh, sure. Definitely, I’ll join you. She laughed. I’m just surprised you want me along.

Her laughter died. Although his expression didn’t change much, he nonetheless had the look of a man asking the town whore to church, knowing his wife and mother already knelt in a pew. As her boss, she realized suddenly, it had been his responsibility to tell her about the briefing. Had he been so worried he’d get stuck with her like this that he’d ‘forgotten?’

In truth, I do have misgivings, he said. This mission requires teamwork. Despite your admirable willingness to learn, Ship’s Ward, I fear you are too much of a loner to have any idea what being part of a team entails.

She felt her face grow warm. Then why the . . . why are you asking me along?

Because Associate Vice President Roussel insisted.

The head roach? She glanced around, but the big VP was nowhere to be seen. I get it. He picked the strictest bunch of holy howlers he could find to chaperone me.

McShallin gave a brief smile, making baby Jesus twitch as though tickled. As I’ve stated in my reports, your native intelligence is keen.

But you’re a lousy team player. The whole flickin’ Navy was one big team, standing up for each other, protecting each other. How the ratshit was she supposed to make full Navy with crap like that on her record? Pretending to think, Tompa hugged her arms over her chest and turned away until she was sure no tears shone in her eyes. Then she faced him again. No matter what, I want to see the aliens. I’ll go with you.

He nodded solemnly. Forgive me, Ship’s Ward, but I must ask for a promise that you will contain your animal desires—

But I don’t have any animal desires!

—and conduct yourself like a lady.

She clamped down on her anger. Before answering, she made sure that her ‘Navy face’ was securely in place. No problem, sir. Except, perhaps, with the ‘lady’ part, though she’d read enough gordo novels to have some idea what he meant.

Furthermore, McShallin said, you must promise not to precipitate any kind of incident or cause trouble while we are on Zee-Shode.

Tompa took a deep breath. I’m not a troublemaker. When his expression didn’t change, her voice took on a pleading note that she hated but was helpless to change. Look, most of us stuck in Manhattan are victims, not criminals. All I want is to blend into the walls and make full Navy. I’ve been working with you for three months—don’t you know me by now?

Slowly, staring into her eyes, he shook his head. I don’t know you at all, Ship’s Ward. You make very sure no one does. And that’s part of the problem.

2 The Incident

Tompa’s group rode light-craft LC-407V down from the Vance’s orbit. That terrified and thrilled her at the same time.

For one thing, she’d never actually ridden in one of the fast-but-tiny shuttles she was learning to maintain. To reach the Vance’s orbit around earth, she’d taken a huge craft that held a hundred people. On that shuttle, you didn’t feel in your bones every jolt or shift of direction, you didn’t smell machinery straining, you didn’t grow heavy and sweaty as the shuttle burned through the atmosphere. Light-craft were built for speed and efficiency, not comfort.

For another thing, last month she’d helped replace one of this craft’s Pulsed Detonation Engines, needed for atmospheric flight. Trusting her life to her own inexperienced work was scary. Isolated in her mummy case, she wondered if Paolo McShallin was afraid. Probably not.

The light-craft landed on a graveled roof in the city of Oah-Shode. The moment the door of the shuttle whined open, letting in alien light and air, excitement drove fear from her mind. Anticipation made her clumsy with the switches and straps of her mummy case; Umberto Lopez, a round-faced young man from her group, had to help her get out.

Lopez and two of the other men descended the light-craft’s stairs to the rooftop. Then it was her turn. Tompa watched her foot as she stepped onto an alien planet for the first time, almost expecting it to glow like the special effects in a show. Looking up, she was vaguely aware of green hills surrounding a sea of rooftops all the same height; but mostly, she concentrated on the dozen Shon-Wod-Zees clustered around the light-craft. They were bald, which made them seem old, but at the same time their eyes, twice the size of a human’s, made them look like children. They were small, too, barely reaching her shoulder—and she was so short that they’d almost disqualified her from the Ship’s Ward program even though it wasn’t her flickin’ fault she’d suffered from poor nutrition.

The Shons all looked exactly the same to her.

A Shon stepped forward. When it spoke in a voice that combined the squawks of a parrot with the trilling bleats of a lamb, she jumped, then giggled. McShallin, who had the group’s only translator, responded—something about not having weapons—and Tompa realized that her mind was so swamped by strangeness that details didn’t stick. Everything was a delightful blur.

She grinned as she walked across the gravel to a hole in the roof where a narrow ladder with closely spaced steps led down into the building. They went through a maze of tunnel-like halls with low ceilings that forced the men to walk hunched over. They were polite and watched that she kept with them, but spoke little to her—which was just how she wanted it.

Eventually, they emerged onto a dark, crowded pedestrian walkway that was roofed by a road traveled by infrequent but noisy vehicles. As the group plunged into the crowds on the walkway, Tompa studied the Shons, struggling to grasp more about them. They had pear-shaped bodies with wide hips and heads that tapered from the shoulders without pausing for a neck; folds of skin marked the neck joint. Their lack of hair, along with the freckled, greenish tinge to their skin, reinforced the resemblance to pears. Talking pears, that is, whose supple faces displayed a confusing array of expressions that were almost, but not quite, comprehensible.

Once Tompa made the comparison to pears, the aliens seemed to click into place for her. She began noticing that they didn’t all look the same. For one thing, the Shons on the streets were clothed in a wide variety of colors and styles. Some were fatter than others and some were taller—though none were as tall as she was. How marvelous to be able to see over a crowd!

After a while, she realized that only one of the Shons accompanying the humans had a translator in its ear. The other Shons, stern and silent, acted more like guards than guides. McShallin repeated to the group what the guide told him, but the translator machine didn’t seem to render the Shon language very well. He often reverted in frustration to Portuguese laced with English, and when he did that, Tompa understood almost nothing. Even when he stuck to English, his explanations were halting and, all too often, not very enlightening.

For example, as they walked through a small, dark clump of trees, McShallin announced that this was the Shon equivalent of a city park. When he started to repeat the names and origins of the trees and dense shrubbery, however, he quickly gave up.

All the while, from behind lacy, musty fronds, Shons stood motionless and silent, peering at them with their huge, grey eyes.

On the far side of the park, they visited a building with loud machinery that stank of sulfur; according to McShallin, it was a factory that produced something he couldn’t describe. After that, they went to a building filled with massive statues of strange animals interspersed with Shons crowded around low tables. It was neither a museum nor a school, McShallin said, but the word for the place didn’t translate at all. And everywhere they walked, crowds of Shons watched them.

The newness and variety was overwhelming. As the tour continued at a dizzying pace, it reminded Tompa more and more of the light-craft—designed for speed and efficiency rather than comfort. It didn’t matter, though. She was actually walking on an alien planet!

After several hours, they ended one of their building tours with a washroom break. McShallin and the men balked when the guide tried to usher all of them together into a dark, strongly aromatic restroom that was narrow but at least fifty feet deep. On one side were what seemed to be shower stalls. On the other side was a metal trough that ran the length of the room. A communal toilet, Tompa guessed. She wished she’d thought to bring toilet paper.

We can’t go in together because she—McShallin said to the guide as he pointed to Tompa—is female and we’re male. It’s unseemly to use your facilities together.

The guide conferred with the guards in low trills, then said something to McShallin.

Yes, he responded. Like you we have two sexes, male and female. But privacy is morally imperative between the sexes.

The guide spoke for several seconds.

McShallin glanced at Tompa. His ears, she noticed, had become red. No, absolutely not. Such behaviors are sins amongst humans. According to the rigid tenets of my religion, the two sexes should use separate washrooms to avoid such temptations.

Tompa stifled a laugh. Separate washrooms were part of his religion? Perhaps even the guide was surprised at that one, because the Shon asked a question.

Sin and temptation, McShallin responded, are related concepts at the core of our religion. They mean—

Excuse me. Tompa tapped him on the shoulder. I’m going inside. By the time you’ve finished explaining sex and religion, I’ll be done and you guys can take your turn.

He opened his mouth to protest, but nodded instead. Yes, that’s probably the quickest way. He glanced into the doorless washroom. We’ll move out of sight, and I’ll expect you to do the same for us.

When she returned a few minutes later, McShallin held his palm out to her. In it was a small blue device that looked like an old-fashioned hearing aid. The guide wants you to have the translator while you wait. You will be careful with it, Ship’s Ward?

She couldn’t help herself; she grinned at the prospect of talking to an alien. Of course.

McShallin put the device in her left ear and tapped it. Its soft sides expanded to fit snugly in her ear. As he and the other men went into the washroom, Tompa turned eagerly toward the guide. Hello. My name is Tompa Lee.

The Shon spoke in a fluttery bleat. A split second later, the translator whispered in Tompa’s ear in a neutral voice, That one exists procreatively as adult female?

Huh?

The guide pointed at her with all six fingers of one hand. Female?

Tompa nodded. When the other didn’t react, she said, Yeah. What about it?

Now it was the guide’s turn to make a gesture that Tompa didn’t understand, a short, sideways chop with one hand. This one exists also as female, the guide explained. That one—she pointed at Tompa—desires orgy with the male humans?

No goddamned way in a cockroach’s hell! Startled both by the question and her own response, Tompa stared at the Shon. I mean . . . Her voice trailed off as she realized she’d sworn at the alien. Maggoty ratshit! This wouldn’t cause an interplanetary incident, would it?

The resistance to orgy blossoms as an opportuneness. The guide blinked her huge eyes, and Tompa had the feeling the gesture carried some significance. For resistance, drink negatively wine, exit insistently this one’s aid.

Tompa replayed the words in her mind, then shook her head. I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re getting at.

The Shon chopped her hand sideways. This one comprehends negatively the short human’s words.

The two of them were staring at each other, frustrated, when Paolo McShallin emerged from the washroom.

Drink negatively wine, the guide repeated.

Have a nice conversation? McShallin asked Tompa.

She shook her head. I don’t understand what she’s saying.

Indeed, Ship’s Ward, indeed. It’s not easy. And now I take up my cross once more. Hold still. When he tapped the translator in her ear, it deflated so he could remove it. He wiped it with his handkerchief—Tompa frowned, because he hadn’t done that before sticking it in her ear—and put it in his own ear.

When all of the men had come out of the washroom, McShallin gathered them and Tompa around him. Our next stop, it seems, is a pub where we will get food and liquid refreshments. He looked straight into Tompa’s eyes as he spoke his next words. Remember to conduct yourselves with faultless behavior. We are goodwill ambassadors for the human race.

Tompa gave McShallin her most innocent look, though a smile of comprehension fluttered around the edges of the bland expression. Drink negatively wine. The smile bloomed as she repeated, Drink negatively wine.

McShallin frowned, making the tattooed cross on his face wiggle. She tried not to laugh, but couldn’t help herself.

The pub had the feel of a bordello, with Shons wandering together into private rooms and floor-to-ceiling television screens showing naked Shons in groups of two through twelve. Tompa couldn’t tell if the Shons on TV were actually having sex, but there sure was a lot of rubbing of various body parts. The six men studiously avoided looking at the televisions, even though the screens showed nothing that was even vaguely erotic for a human.

When the human party had entered, a couple dozen Shons immediately left, but most of the customers stayed and stared. The guide ordered wine and food, then sat with the guards at a table near the door. The drinking part of the pub was much like a slightly miniaturized version of a human bar. The round tables and rough benches were uncomfortably small by human standards, but the dim light and alcohol smells were the same. This was the most familiar place they’d visited.

Tompa drank no wine, and not just because of the guide’s warning; alcohol rendered you vulnerable, so she avoided it. The men, however, each had some wine while they waited for their food, drinking from small, handmade ceramic cups that flared out at the bottom like Shons’ hips. They had another cup when the food arrived—yellow sauce over beige wafers that looked like soy dollars someone had peed on. She decided to wait until the others had tried them.

McShallin was the first to take a bite. He chewed without expression, then took a swallow of wine. Not good, he said, but not terrible, either.

Tompa picked up a wafer and turned it skeptically in her hand. It felt sticky.

The man sitting next to her, Scott Remland, asked, Ship’s Ward Lee, has your soul been saved?

Instead of answering, she avoided his gaze and quickly stuffed the wafer in her mouth. It was tough, with a bitter taste that was vaguely fruity. It made her thirsty.

Jesus loves you. Remland took her hand and stared into her face. Even though you are street meat, he loves you.

No, Tompa said with a shake of her head. I’m not street meat any longer.

Then he loves you even more.

Was it her imagination, or was Remland holding her hand with too much fervor?

Vivas, McShallin said as he raised his cup to his comrades. He was sitting on the other side of her. Have some wine, Tompa. It is excellent.

She pulled her hand away from Remland. No, thank you.

Excellent wine, Umberto Lopez said. He held up his cup and sniffed its contents. It seems a trifle strong, however. Is anyone else feeling lightheaded?

More wine, bartender, said the man seated next to Lopez, even though the bartender couldn’t possibly understand him. I think there’ll be a market on earth for this delightful vintage.

Tompa glanced toward the guide. She and the guards were eating the same yellow wafers, but no wine bottles perched on their table. Tompa frowned. At the briefing, they’d been warned to eat or drink only what their guides did. Should she point this out to the men?

McShallin nodded gravely. The wine goes down well and warms the soul better than most earthly wines.

The soul, Remland said in a dreamy voice. It warms and saves the soul. Your beautiful soul, Tompa Lee.

He put his hand on her breast.

Shocked, Tompa went rigid. When he pinched her nipple, she came to life and smacked his hand away. Stop that! She scooted a few inches down the bench toward McShallin. That’s not my soul, you poco-brained gordo!

Beautiful, warm soul, Remland said. So firm.

Tompa crossed her arms over her chest and glanced around the table. The men were all staring at her with an intensity that was sickeningly familiar.

McShallin chuckled. He picked up the maroon wine bottle from the table and studied it, as though trying to read its label. You call us gordos, he said without looking at her. I would think this means ‘fat guy,’ but none of us are overweight. Is it a bad thing in your street slang for you to call us gordos?

It isn’t a swear word, if that’s what you mean. It means, well, someone with money, someone from outside of Manhattan.

Good. He let go of the wine bottle and put his arm around her shoulder. I’m glad my little Ship’s Ward isn’t swearing at her superior officer. His hand moved down her shoulder to wander over her back. As if he’d been given permission, Remland reached over and put his palm on her thigh.

Tompa stared fiercely at the dark wood of the table, feeling anger swell in her chest. Ratshit like this wasn’t supposed to happen in the Navy. Sailors guarded each others’ backs, helped each other.

McShallin helped himself to a handful of her buttocks.

If she could reach the wine bottle, she’d break it against the table and use the jagged end to destroy the hypocritical tattoos on their faces—except that the roach-damned bottle was made of what looked like ceramics, not glass. And besides, they’d kick her out of the Navy if she caused another incident like with Jim Zhang. But what in the flickin’ ratshit was she supposed to do?

She took a deep breath and tried to talk normally despite wrestling with Remland’s hand. Tell me more about your religion, Paolo. You all share the same faith, don’t you?

McShallin squinted as though trying to remember something. He dropped his hand from her backside.

Across the table, Lopez rose to his feet and started to walk around the table. For a moment she thought he was coming to help. Then she saw his eyes.

No! She rocked forward, then threw herself straight back, off the bench. Curling into a ball, she reached back to land on her hands rather than her head and did a backward somersault. She then sprang to her feet, knocking over an empty bench in the process. Crouching, she faced the six surprised men. Over the years she’d practiced a number of these sudden, unexpected escape moves, but hadn’t thought she’d ever need them again. Tears of anger and disappointment blurred her vision. No, damn it!

Behind her, a Shon spoke. Tompa risked a glance in that direction. The guide stood near the door of the pub, bobbing her head. Exit insistently this one’s aid. Now Tompa understood. Sort of.

I’m getting the hell out of here, she said to the men as she backed toward the door. Don’t you flickin’ hypocrites follow me!

Hypocrites? McShallin shot to his feet, then stopped as though realizing that all of the hundred Shons in the pub were staring at him. He ran a hand over his forehead.

Gotta save her soul, Remland said. He stood, wobbling slightly, and stared at Tompa.

It’s the wine. McShallin put out his hand to stop Remland. Scott, it isn’t you speaking, it’s the wine of the devil. Can’t you feel the strangeness coursing through you? They’re all devils, every one of these accursed Shons, trying to trick us into disgracing our God.

Remland tried to push McShallin aside. The two scuffled while Tompa turned and dashed up the wide, shallow stairs that led to the door. The guide opened the door for her, then followed. From behind came the noise of a fist striking flesh and a bench crashing to the floor. Without looking back, Tompa darted into the gloom of the outside corridor and slammed the door behind her. Her heart was pounding.

The guide said something. Tompa stopped, turned. I can’t understand you.

The guide started pushing Tompa down the L-shaped, narrow tunnel that led to the street. Hell of an unfriendly entrance way. When she reached the end of the spooky passageway, she stopped even though the guide still pushed at her. A silent crowd of Shons, eight or nine deep, was pressed close to the pub’s long windows, trying to glimpse the strange creatures from outer space. In such numbers, the Shon’s odor was noticeable—faint but tangy, like tomato juice so watered down the taste was almost lost.

Tompa reached behind her to thrust away the guide’s hand that was pushing her. With the throng blocking her exit, she needed to think.

A vehicle clattered along the overhead roadway. From inside the pub came muted conversations, but the struggle between McShallin and Remland hadn’t degenerated into a full-scale brawl. She was under orders not to get separated from her group. Maybe it would safe to go back inside soon, provided she stayed well away from the men.

And risk being gang-raped. Yeah, right.

The guide tried to pass her, but the tunnel was too narrow and her hips jammed against Tompa’s thigh. She stepped into the open to let the Shon woman pass.

As soon as she did so, the Shons outside the pub began to move, their ranks folding backward like a door swinging open, giving her room to pass. It was damnedest thing. Humans could never manage such a precisely executed maneuver. It was either a gesture of profound politeness or a sucker’s invitation to let herself be surrounded.

Suspicion had kept her alive on the streets of New York, and now suspicion made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. The gloom of the wide yet claustrophobic street, shielded from the sky by a concrete roadway, reminded her of some of the worst streets near the docks back home, where overhead roads turned day into night and doorways into ambushes. But the smells, reminding her of nothing, were more ominous for their emptiness.

Movement caught her eye. A baby, naked in its mother’s arms, gleefully flapped its little hands toward Tompa. Its mother stifled the baby’s movements, then looked up. For a moment, wide grey eyes met human browns. The mother’s face showed curiosity, Tompa thought, and perhaps distrust. No hatred, though. The baby made a gurgling noise that sounded a lot like a human baby, and the mother’s gaze shifted to it.

No mother would risk her baby if she expected violence. Tompa didn’t remember her own mother, yet she knew that it was true—and surely it must be true of Shon mothers, too. Feeling safer, she stepped into the crowd with the guide at her side. As one, the Shons stepped back the same distance. Another step forward; another mass step backward. It was eerie.

Suddenly, she heard loud alto and tenor voices. A handful of Shons in flame-patterned vests had spotted her. They raised umbrella-shaped electric signs and spread out, shouting and screaming. Their words were incomprehensible but angry. She turned to the guide, but the Shon was gone. The spectators had closed ranks behind her, blocking her return to the pub. But no one made any threatening moves.

Across the wide street and down a couple of doorways, an ornate brick shelf at chair height adorned the front of a windowless building. She’d wait there until the maggoty, hypocritical sailors came out. The longer that took the better, as far as she was concerned, giving more time for the wine to wear off.

One of the protesters stepped in front of Tompa, waving a sign with different-colored lettering on each of its three sides. She angled away. The Shon scampered until it was in front of her again. It looked much older than the others she’d seen, with wider hips and skin so deeply wrinkled that it hung in folds around the neck. Kidney-shaped patches of sparse, reddish-brown hair marked where a human’s ears would be. Unlike the other protesters, the geezer wore a plain blue tunic rather than a flame-patterned vest.

Tompa dodged to the left. Twittering as though in consternation, the Shon followed and again waved the sign in her face. If the whole situation weren’t so upsetting, Tompa would have laughed at its antics.

And in fact, the situation no longer felt threatening. None of the men had come out of the pub and only the geezer was following her. The other protesters had vanished, although the crowd remained in front of the pub. The street was quiet except for the rumble of overhead traffic and some burbling from the Shon baby.

But as she reached the other side of the covered boulevard, the Shons near the pub suddenly screamed a chorus of bleats. Fear! Danger! She understood them perfectly.

Tompa spun into a defensive crouch. She saw the object of fear bouncing along the concrete pavement toward the pub windows.

A grenade. Navy model A-140. The most destructive grenade in the arsenal.

Get down! she shouted.

The geezer hopped in front of her and again waved the sign. She reached out and flung the Shon sideways into the tunnel-like entrance of a shop. When it tried to get up, snorting, she ran to throw herself on top of it. She almost got there, too.

The blast was so loud she felt it rather than heard it.

As though her entire remaining life was compressed into the moment, things happened in slow motion. Wide-hipped bodies tumbled like dust motes against bright summer sun—bright, because massive chunks of the overhead roadway were falling onto the crowd of Shons. A long, snake-like vehicle fell and exploded in a cascade of sparks and flame.

A severed, six-fingered hand shot from the inferno toward Tompa’s head. Inexplicably sitting on the Shon in the shop doorway, she tried to duck. Her body hadn’t begun to respond when the gory hand slammed into her with the force of a brick.

3 Presumptions of Guilt

Smells of ozone, disinfectant, and medicine reached Dante Roussel. He slowed, then stopped, as though the smells blocked the corridor like an imaginary ‘force wall’ in one of those silly shows about the Space Navy. For several seconds Dante stood there, his left hand jammed into a pocket, fidgeting with the corrugated oval of a creolidyte adapter he’d carried off from the Comm Room by mistake. Visiting this section of the Vance always rubbed the scabs off old memories.

Beyond even that, though, he hated the reason for this visit. Unpleasant tasks were the essence of a policeman’s job, of course; he’d known that when he accepted the demotion to Military Discipline nine years ago. But the job kept getting harder, rather than easier.

Dante took a deep breath and assumed the erect posture he expected of himself. He stepped to the open door of the room.

There she was. Naked.

Well, Tompa Lee, he whispered, we meet at last.

She didn’t answer, of course. And if somehow she had tried, not even the loudest of screams would have escaped her casket.

Hello? A young med tech, her head cocked to one side, peered around a tall, tubular machine that made rhythmic burping sounds.

The smells, the sights, and the memories were too much: Dante’s mind went blank. He stared wordlessly at the med tech. The woman ran a hand over her hair, checking that it was tidy as she stepped from behind the machine.

Dante took a deep breath, pretending he was in control of himself, pretending he was the man he used to be. The woman’s name and rank were embroidered on the chest of her blue medical smock in floral, non-regulation curlicues. He stared, trying to make sense of the words.

The woman stood straighter and gave a flirtatious smile that grew wider when she noticed the golden ‘AVP’ insignia on his shoulder. Hello, indeed.

Technician Dominguez. There. He’d be okay now. I’m Dante Roussel from Military Discipline. I’ve been placed in charge of Ship’s Ward Lee’s case.

I see. Dominguez cast an appraising glance toward the medcasket in which Tompa lay. "So she was responsible for the explosion. People have been speculating about that ever since word got out about the effects of Shon-Wod-Zee wine."

And, Dante suspected, this woman could hardly wait to spread the news of his visit. To him, it seemed absurd to assume Tompa Lee would have bombed the pub. Sure, she was street meat, and not a small-city imitation but the real thing from Manhattan. However, if the stereotypes contained any particle of truth—and in his experience, they usually contained several such particles masquerading as the whole truth—then she could take care of herself. She was probably more experienced than any woman on the ship at handling drunken passes. She wouldn’t need a bomb. Tompa Lee is a crucial witness, he said. Nothing more.

Dominguez dismissed his words with a fluttery wave of her hand. I treated Jim Zhang after she went berserk. She’s a stick of dynamite who should never have been allowed on this ship. If you want my opinion—

I don’t, Technician.

But—

That’s enough, Technician. Dante didn’t raise his voice, but he did harden it. The woman stopped with her mouth open. She probably wasn’t used to being given orders rather than ‘assignments.’ Discipline on the Vance was lax, with too much emphasis on ‘Commerce,’ not enough on ‘Navy,’ and the Medical Department downright prided itself on a glib attitude. I’d like all of her past and future medical reports copied to my console.

Unrepentant, Dominguez leaned slightly toward him and chuckled. The reports are meaningless to non-specialists. I could help you interpret them after my shift is over, if you’d like. We could discuss the interesting effects of Shon-Wod-Zee wine, too.

I’m familiar with head injuries and brainwave abstracts. I should be able to understand the gist of the reports. When Dominguez pulled back, her eyes wide, Dante realized his voice had grown harsh.

If you insist, she said.

It’s my job, Technician.

While Dominguez went to a chair on the far side of the room and spoke into her console, Dante steeled himself to turn and look at Tompa Lee again through the medcasket’s thick window. She probably wouldn’t have survived this long without the casket; it contained everything necessary to accelerate her body’s healing powers, from high-oxygen air laced with medicines, to injectradynes that monitored injuries and reinforced white-blood-cell strength. But despite their marvelous power, Dante hated the caskets. They reminded him of huge microwave ovens stacked three-high from floor to ceiling. Stick a thermometer in Tompa Lee’s mouth and wait till she’s done cooking. And don’t forget to make gravy . . .

Her face was turned toward him, not because she was aware of him, or anything else, for that matter, in her coma-like heal-sleep. The shattered left side of her head simply couldn’t bear any pressure. A greyish-pink, gelatinous mass covered her injuries like cheap makeup for an actor playing an alien in an old movie, from the days before real aliens contacted earth. Yellow fog swirled in time with her slow breathing.

So young. Twenty-three, a mere kid, and she looked nearly ten years younger. She met the Navy’s minimum height requirements with a millimeter to spare, and lying on her back, her breasts flattened almost to nothing. Aside from a jagged knife scar that disappeared under the towel across her hips, she looked devastatingly innocent—betrayed by fate and a certain Associate Vice President of Military Discipline who’d maneuvered her into McShallin’s group, with the best of intentions.

The left side of Dante’s head throbbed. Unable to stand any longer the sight of the gelatin quivering on her shattered skull, he turned away from the casket. Will she live?

Dominguez shrugged, then seemed to realize a more professional answer was expected. After speaking a few more words into her console, she came over and pressed the contact coins implanted in the back of her hand to a metal plate on the sill of Tompa’s casket. Her brow furrowed as data flowed into her nervous system. Still tippy. Uh, that means she could go in several directions—total recovery of all mental functions, death, or somewhere in between.

I’m familiar with the jargon. Doctors had used the same term about himself, nine years ago. How much longer will she be in heal-sleep?

We’ll know in another couple of hours. In the best-case scenario, full recovery, I’d think she’ll snooze three more days.

That didn’t sound good. He’d been in heal-sleep for four days, too, and look how he’d turned out. Why so long?

Dominguez furrowed her brow, as though she’d heard anxiety in his voice. Nothing dire, she reassured. It’s just that for brain injuries we can’t use overdrive. We can heal a broken femur in a day on overdrive, but brains require subtleties a mere layman couldn’t begin to comprehend. If we accelerated her healing rate any more, she’d suffer a hangover big enough for a Chroogin’s head. Dominguez chuckled. No, make that two Chroogins.

Dante grunted. The woman had obviously never met a Chroogin, to be making jokes about the fearsome, large-headed founders of the Galactic Trading Council. But then Dominguez was young, around Tompa Lee’s age, and probably on her maiden voyage out of the naval academies. Most sailors these days were baby-faced brats young enough to be his children, glum reminders that the Navy’s active-duty retirement age of forty-five loomed close.

Dante glanced toward the other caskets in the ward. Two male sailors, Remland and Lopez, had been alive on evacuation up to the Vance. Lopez had died within an hour, and now Remland’s casket, directly below Tompa’s, was empty, too. Dante pointed to it. When did he die?

Two hours ago.

So now Tompa Lee was the only human witness.