Bil'Tross: Book 4 of the Jazz Healy, Reunion Series

By S.C. Mae

Ride the space-lanes beside Jazz Healy in this epic conclusion to the Reunion saga. Accompanied by Rainbow Ninja, Eisner, Xandra, and the Four-One-One, Jazz will battle pirates, crooked information brokers, planetary blockades, familiar faces, and more as she draws ever closer to being reunited with her father.

Will the trials and tribulations, the heartache and the joy, all be worth it in the end? Find out today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Space Badger Publishing
• Release date: Oct 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9780473597832

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jazz Healy yanked aside the tattered gray curtain to find her path blocked by an overturned crate. She suppressed a sigh. She was deep within He-san Station, picking her way through a seemingly endless maze of shops and homes. Eisner crowded into the makeshift room beside her and tugged the curtain closed, shutting off a tiny yet exorbitantly-priced tech store.

A mound of grubby blankets beside the crate obscured a snoring, gaunt-faced man. Jazz coughed. With a start, the man opened his eyes and heaved himself upright. One of his pupils was cloudy and a ragged scar stretched across his bare torso, running from his left shoulder to the right of his belly button.

Giggs? Jazz asked him.

He inclined his head towards the yellow curtain on his other side.

Jazz nodded. Thanks.

Got any spare cash? the man croaked.

Jazz did, though not in local currency. Only a couple Commonwealth coins.

They’ll do. A hand holding a chipped plate appeared from within the blankets.

Jazz dug two coins out of a pocket in her cargos and flicked them across. Both bounced off the plate but the man made no move to retrieve them.

Thank you, kind lady, he said.

The scent of charred meat and spices tickled Jazz’s nostrils. She edged around the man, left hand resting on the butt of her holstered gun, and dragged the next curtain out of the way. A woman squatted in front of a giant, steaming pot, scraping food into it from a chopping board. Beside the woman, a man in a sweat-stained singlet worked a grill, watched by a pair of spacers in greasy coveralls. They both wore guns on each hip, their caps pulled low over their eyes.

This was a more open area of the station, the ceilings high, the hot air not so close and heavy. Apart from being a neutral zone for all the criminal enterprises in this part of the Independent Fringes, He-san Station also orbited very close to its star. The powers that be didn’t have to keep the temperature quite so warm, of course, but perhaps they liked to remind everybody of the station’s precarious position.

A busy food court operated on Jazz’s left, the center space taken up by benches and tables assembled from leftover pallets and other scraps. Smoky haze made it difficult to take in all the details. Straight ahead and to her right, curtains of varying colors and density covered more passageways, giving no clue as to what lay beyond them.

I think that guy gave us bum directions, Eisner said.

Jazz shrugged. They were about as specific as my request.

A flash - flashes - of yellow from the crush of people at the far end of the food court caught her attention. The jackets of a group moving through the masses, most everybody giving them space. Jazz squinted, dialed her enhanced optics up a few notches. Each jacket had the same emblem on the upper arm. The outline of a bent-winged fighter, swooping.

The universe stilled, the thudding of Jazz’s heart thunder in her ears. In an instant her mind rewound to when she was sixteen and aboard a commercial freighter above a frontier planet, alongside her father in a similarly smoke-filled corridor. They were exchanging gunfire with a trio who’d hired on as crew but now revealed themselves to be something else entirely. Each of the traitors wore a yellow bandana over the lower half of their face, the outline of a bent-winged fighter, swooping, covering their noses and mouths.

What is it, Jazz? Eisner said.

She pointed, unable to turn away. Proof we’re on the right track.

Eisner shaded his eyes with a hand, the underarm of his suit jacket wet with sweat. The yellow guys?

Jazz nodded.

He took a step forward. We should introduce ourselves.

The fear of an abandoned child manifested in Jazz’s gut. She swallowed. No. That’s going too far back in the history books. Probably not even the same people. The lifespan of a pirate isn’t particularly long.

Your call, Eisner said. He turned to the woman by the pot. Giggs?

She stopped stirring for a brief moment to point at a faded orange curtain directly ahead.

Jazz took a deep breath. She needed to focus. She had ventured onto He-san to speak to the famed information broker Durl Giggs. If anybody out here in the Fringes could tell her where her father was now it would be Giggs. And that was what she wanted to know. Dad’s current whereabouts. She couldn’t allow herself to be distracted from that objective, even if the faint - it had been thirteen years since the attack, after all - possibility existed that one or two of those yellow-jacketed thugs shopping for chow down the way had been present at Yeoman’s Harvest.

To give herself an extra moment to clear her head, she opened a comms channel via her neural rig to her ship. You copy, Xandra?

Yeah, the kid’s voice came back. What’s wrong?

Just checking in.

Well, don’t worry about us. We’re fine.

Okay. Jazz cut the connection.

Eisner, hooked into the conversation via his own neurals, grinned. Cocky one, ain’t she?

Jazz smiled. She’s all right.

She had officially left fourteen-year-old Xandra in charge of both the ship and the other kids: Breem, Khasti, Loom and Maria. Really, though, it was Rainbow Ninja - Jazz’s waist-high, muscular, red-and-black striped cat - who would ensure the youngsters didn’t do anything stupid.

Hopefully. The cat had been a lot less responsible since the arrival of the children.

The man laboring over the grill pointed at them with his spatula and said in thickly accented Trade, You want special? Best deal on station. Two bowl driski noodle and vegetable, ten klait.

Maybe later, Jazz said. That did sound like a good deal. Ten klait was about what the Commonwealth coins she’d given to the man in the room behind were worth. They wouldn’t have bought a pair of noodles back in Commonwealth space, let alone a full meal for two.

Sure, sure, the man said. Don’t forget, okay? Ten klait, big bowl.

Setting thoughts of food to one side, Jazz strode towards the faded orange curtain and pushed through it. Her neural rig tingled. Scan shield. Very well-disguised but definitely present.

This might be the place, then.

She crossed the threshold into a dark hallway too narrow for her and Eisner to walk side-by-side. After a few paces it widened into yet another space that qualified as a room only by the standards of the station. A single ceiling light illuminated a desk covered in all manner of paraphernalia - half-dissected remote messengers, tools, conduits, a portable air-scrubber. Yet another curtain hung from the wall behind the desk.

The maze continues, Eisner said.

Jazz crossed her arms. Let’s wait here a bit.

The heat stifled and perspiration tickled the back of her neck. Just when she’d had about enough and was readying to vault over the desk, a wheeled chair poked through the curtain, followed by a very large man. He was thick rather than fat, his neck wider than his bald head, his shoulders nearly the width of the desk. Carefully, he arranged his waist-length crimson cloak and sat. Both his hands, which he now steepled in front of his chin, were cybernetic. So was his right eye, the iris outlined in red. While he had a neural rig, Jazz couldn’t pick up an ID or signature. An impressive trick.

Jazz Healy, he said, the rumble of his voice matching his frame, and Vince Eisner.

After a discomfiting moment Jazz remembered that both she and Eisner were broadcasting their own ID taglines from their neural rigs. Durl Giggs, she said.

He smiled and inclined his head. What brings you to my humble office?

No small talk. That was good. Jazz withdrew a physical picture of her father from her jacket and set it down on the air-scrubber. I’m looking for this man.

Daintily, Giggs picked the still up and held it to his cybernetic eye between a pair of metal fingers. After a few seconds he lowered it and fixed Eisner with a stare. I know who you are, Jazz Healy, or who your mother is, at least, so it surprises me to see you traveling with an enforcer of the Federation totalitarian regime.

"Ex-enforcer of the Federation totalitarian regime," Eisner replied, hands stuffed in his pockets, expression bored.

Recent, I’m guessing, and not for corruption or anything else worthwhile.

Eisner merely shrugged in response. As a former Fed cop he knew the game, though he’d be more used to throwing the verbal punches than absorbing them.

Anyway, Jazz said. Regardless of who I might be and who I’m traveling with, I’m looking for this man.

Giggs returned the picture to her. First things first, we need to consider the question of price.

Not so fast. I need proof you know who he is before we even discuss money changing hands.

Of course, of course. The man in that picture is known as Daniel M’Kree.

I already know about Chak’r’Das, Jazz said. "I want to know his current alias and location."

Giggs furrowed his brow. Chak’r’Das?

Jazz couldn’t tell if he was purposefully playing dumb or whether she happened to know something he didn’t. Not that it mattered. The events that had taken place in Chak’r’Das were a matter of public record and easily verified, the only debate being what exact role her father - M’Kree - had played. If Giggs already knew what had happened, relaying the story shouldn’t hurt her credibility any. And if he didn’t, well, that could only increase her stock value.

Some time back, she said, there was a failed assassination attempt on the King of Chak’r’Das. Took place on Menedo. M’Kree was the one hired to do the deed. But apparently he cut and ran early, for reasons unknown. Escaped the system and they haven’t been able to lay hands on him since.

Giggs nodded slowly. That sounds like M’Kree, all right. He’s one bad fellow but not always reliable.

So M’Kree was a name commonly associated with her Dad, not only a cover he had used in Chak’r’Das. An unusual departure from how he and Jazz had operated. She returned the picture to her pocket, considering the implications of this fresh bit of knowledge.

Why? Giggs said, bringing her back to the present.

What? Jazz replied.

Why are you looking for M’Kree?

Eisner shuffled noisily. Jazz ignored him. Does it matter?

Giggs’ cybernetic eye whirred. Jazz’s hand dropped to her pistol.

I abide by a very specific personal code, Giggs said. I don’t just give out information for money. I take money in exchange for information, yes, but only if I deem the person worthy of receiving said information.

Jazz scowled. Seems arbitrary.

Very, but I am certain it’s why I’ve lasted so long doing what I do. Again, then: why are you looking for Daniel M’Kree?

That wasn’t how this worked. Information brokers brokered information. There weren’t moral protocols attached. No, Giggs just wanted to see how much free knowledge he could wrangle out of her.

I’m a bounty hunter, she said.

Giggs chortled. Aren’t we all? Who hired you?

I can’t divulge the identity of my employer.

Someone in Chak’r’Das, I’m guessing.

Perhaps.

As I understand it, Giggs said, Chak’r’Das authority structures have changed markedly in recent times. Grand Admiral Alin D’san’Edo is dead, for one. I can’t think of anybody else from the system who would put a bounty on M’Kree’s head, especially now that it’s common knowledge the Grand Admiral planned for M’Kree to be a fall guy and was very upset when he scarpered without even attempting to fulfill his end of the deal.

Jazz shrugged. She was seriously on the back foot. Whether my employer is alive or dead, I signed a contract to deliver M’Kree. My professional pride is at stake.

Admirable, but doubtful. Employer dies, contract is null. Giggs stood. Thank you for visiting my humble premises, Jazz Healy and Vince Eisner. Perhaps our paths will cross again.

That’s it? Pretty soft for someone supposed to be the best dealer in knowledge this side of Grey’s Crossing.

Giggs chuckled. Here’s what I’ll do for you, Healy. I’ll give you a piece of free information. He paused. I haven’t seen M’Kree in over three years. Goodbye.

He turned and disappeared through the curtain, taking his chair with him.

No, Jazz yelled.

She had traveled through so many systems, followed so many dead leads. And here she was, closer than she’d ever been, and the opportunity had been snatched away from her for no good reason. One way or another this Giggs would tell her what he knew. She leaped over the desk, sending the air-scrubber and a few other pieces of scrap to the floor, and charged through the curtain.

Next thing she knew she was airborne, hurtling backwards into the desk with force enough to send it and its contents clattering to the floor. She landed amidst the carnage, dazed. An enviro-shield coded to Giggs’ bio signals. Of course he would protect himself. Stupid of her to think otherwise. Not that she’d been thinking.

She needed a few moments to get her wind back. Eisner extended a hand but she didn’t take it, hauling herself to her feet, checking that her gun hadn’t been jolted from its holster, that the electric shock hadn’t shorted any of the circuits in her cybernetic right arm.

We lost him right at the beginning, Eisner said.

Did we just? Jazz growled.

Not your fault. I wouldn’t have expected M’Kree to use the same identity all over the Fringes, either.

Jazz swiped her left hand across her mouth and stormed back along the short corridor. Well, if Giggs won’t tell us what we need to know, maybe there are some other people here who can.

The two spacers outside were busy consuming their meal. The cook behind the grill shouted, You want special now?

Jazz stalked past him. He didn’t ask a second time. She could still see the group of yellow jackets, now seated on benches around a rectangular table. The childish fear was gone, replaced by something explosive.

She half-drew her gun, then replaced it. Didn’t want them to see her coming. Her peripherals - the silver, teardrop-shaped implants at the outside corner of each eye - showed Eisner gliding along in her wake. His half-frown could mean a whole lot of things but Jazz didn’t care about any of them right now.

The smoke stung her eyes but she didn’t blink, unwilling to lose sight of her prey for even half a second. She brushed past a muscular man wearing a bulky torso plate but no shirt, twin guns hitched low on his hips. He opened his mouth to say something but then thought better of it and turned away.

There were eight pirates. All eating, giving the plates and bowls in front of them business-like attention. Jazz stopped at the corner of the table, her fear attempting to reassert itself but her anger forcing it back down her throat.

The pirate at the far end looked up, noodles hanging from his mouth and slapping against his thick beard.

Yellow irises, fading to pale at the edges. Jazz knew those eyes. The hair on the pirate’s head and beard was now gray instead of ginger but the eyes hadn’t changed. He’d been on the freighter above Yeoman’s Harvest. Had hired on as an engineer. Friendly, until they got within orbital range of the planet. Then he put the pirate hat back on. Killed the other two engineers. Shot them in the back of the head. Jazz found their bodies, blood pooled around them. Frantically commed her father, ran into the killer in the corridor leading to the bridge at the same moment Dad converged on her location from the other direction.

Back in the present, the pirate sneered, his voice grating, What do you want, girlie?

Jazz couldn’t find words.

Oh, he said, "do you want me to name your price? I don’t know about the arm. I like my women all flesh."

The other pirates laughed coarsely.

Yeoman’s Harvest, Jazz said.

What?

He didn’t remember. His eyes gave him away. He didn’t remember because it’d just been another job. Probably couldn’t even count all the jobs just like Yeoman’s Harvest in the time since. All the lives he’d taken or ruined without even a shred of remorse.

The rage flared. Well, she’d make him remember and she’d make him care.

Yeoman’s Harvest, she repeated, thumping both fists on the table. Several meals sloshed and spilled. Thirteen years ago. Commercial-grade freighter running supplies to a new colony. You and some others hired on as crew before we left port. Cowards. But it wasn’t as easy as you thought it would be, was it?

The pirate on Jazz’s right yanked a knife - serrated, curved - from his belt. Without turning, she grabbed his wrist with her metal hand, twisted and squeezed. He groaned and dropped the weapon.

Jazz pushed him to the floor, eyes locked on Graybeard, who regarded her silently. You remembering anything yet, buddy? she continued. A man and a young girl. Held you off so effectively that one of your mates panicked and blew the gravity unit. Set off a chain reaction that killed the ship. But obviously didn’t kill you.

Yeah, sure, I remember, he said. Jazz still didn’t believe him.

The pirate she had toppled rose to his feet, gingerly holding his wrist and trying not to look like he was in excruciating pain. She struck his shoulder with the palm of her metal hand, flooring him again. Surprisingly, nobody else at the table moved.

Jazz didn’t have a plan. She didn’t need one. In front of her sat one of the people who had incapacitated and kidnapped her father. Had removed him from her life. Had caused her immeasurable grief and insecurity. All she wanted to do was pound his face to a pulp.

I’m not surprised you don’t remember, you dry-gulching, boot-licking dog, she said. I bet you try to block out—

His right hand appeared above the table, holding a skinny-barreled pistol. He fired. The shot crashed into Jazz’s cheek, rocking her head back. Her internal nanomachines, recently upgraded to emulate a personal shield, smothered the impact before it could do any serious damage. In a few hours she’d have a nasty bruise, though.

The whole crew of pirates stared at her dumbfounded. Jazz leaped onto the table, kicked a plate in Graybeard’s direction. Starchy carbohydrates held together with red sauce spattered all over his chest and neck. He swore, fired again, the shot this time spraying wide.

Eisner, wearing knuckledusters he must’ve had stashed in a jacket pocket, was already grabbing the shoulder of the man closest to him, his other fist cocked and ready.

Jazz got to Graybeard’s end of the table before the rest of the pirates finished drawing weapons and leaping to their feet. One was more concerned with salvaging his food. Jazz could relate. He’d probably been living off ration cubes for months.

Graybeard lurched upright at the moment Jazz got in range to kick. She lashed out with her right boot, caught him on the chin. Not as solid a blow as she would’ve liked but enough to send him staggering backwards. She hopped off the table and swung a fist at his head. He blocked it with the forearm of the hand holding the gun and swiped a dagger at her with his other hand.

Your memory sufficiently jogged? Jazz growled. The knife clanked harmlessly against her raised metal arm. She aimed a heel strike at his instep but he stepped away from the blow, Jazz’s follow up punch fouled by an attack from her side.

Objectively, she couldn’t win. Eisner had drawn some of the pirates off and had the advantage of space at his rear into which he could retreat but Jazz was well and truly flanked. The only guy not a threat was the one whose wrist she’d broken. Wisely, he remained on the floor.

But none of that mattered. Jazz just wanted to hurt Graybeard. Inflict on him an ounce of the pain she’d lived with for the last thirteen years. She sent a pair of jabs at his throat then ducked into a sweep.

He leaped over her leg, bringing his gun to bear once again. You’ve got some fancy stuff beneath the hood but can you handle another blast at point-blank range?

Shouldn’t have wasted his time taunting her. Jazz lunged up and forward, her metal shoulder knocking his arm towards the ceiling as he fired. She kept moving, crunching him backwards. The knife fell from his hand but somehow he kept his balance, wresting her aside.

Right into the path of another blade. It plunged into her hip. She let out a howl of pain, clamped her mouth shut. The nanos would compensate. They’d hold her together for long enough. She caught her attacker’s face with an elbow, swung again at Graybeard.

He might be a cowardly dog but he had skill enough to keep her at bay. And that was all he needed to do. A fist caught her in the kidney, the heel of a boot struck her in the side of the knee. A knife nicked her ribs - if not for her thick jacket taking the brunt it would’ve been a lot worse.

The anger had subsided enough for some semblance of logic to reassert itself. She had to make a decisive move or she was dead. And the only way she could get out of here alive was with a hostage. Graybeard. Unless ambitious or nursing a grudge, the others would hesitate to harm their leader. She whacked aside a knife strike from her right and sprang forward. Graybeard’s pistol came up but that was okay. Her nanos could handle another shot, even at this range.

Enough, a voice bellowed from beyond the scrum, followed by the report of a large weapon.

Jazz’s survival instincts kicked into gear and she pulled out of her charge as much as she could. Still collected Graybeard but it became a cuddle rather than a tackle. She stepped and turned to stand beside him, smacking him in the gut with her metal forearm. He grunted and it took all she had not to deliver another blow.

Giggs plus a quartet of other heavies stood a dozen paces away, all hefting double-barreled guns.

One of the pirates jabbed at Eisner - who had a cut on his cheek and a couple tears in his suit jacket but otherwise appeared okay - with his dagger. Eisner parried the blow but didn’t return it. With a sigh, Giggs oriented his gun on the pirate and fired. An explosion of blue light momentarily enveloped the man and he slumped to the ground. Still breathing. That was one hell of a stunner.

This isn’t your fight, Giggs, Graybeard snarled.

It isn’t anybody’s fight anymore, Giggs replied.

You’re breaching station law.

It didn’t look like a fair contest anyway.

Hey, Jazz said, I had him right where I wanted him.

Undoubtedly. Giggs gestured with his gun towards the docks. Captain Cemas, please vacate the station immediately. You’re welcome back, of course, but make it a week or so.

Cemas clenched and unclenched his fists. "You’re making a mistake Giggs, taking this, this, woman’s side."

That’s certainly a possibility, yes. Now leave.

Cemas snapped his fingers and one of the pirates standing by Eisner hefted his unconscious comrade over his shoulder.

Tugging his beard, Cemas said to Jazz, We’ll finish this soon enough.

Damn straight we will, Jazz retorted, and you won’t have Giggs to step in and save you when we do.

Cemas turned and marched away. His crew followed suit, a couple making threatening gestures at Jazz as they did. Giggs’ four heavies trailed in their wake, guns up and ready.

Giggs stared at Jazz, straight-faced. That was very —he let out a long breath— brazen of you.

Jazz shrugged. I was angry.

At me?

At him. I had an old score to settle.

Giggs gestured at the people milling about feigning disinterest in the spectacle before them. So does basically everybody here, I’d wager. But He-san is not the place to settle scores. At least not in the open like this.

Sometimes you have to take your chances, Eisner said, slipping his knuckledusters off. What looked like a piece of flesh was stuck to one. He shook it onto the ground.

Spoken like a true Federation enforcer. Giggs turned. Both of you, follow me.

Chapter 2

Giggs led them back to his office. After stepping over the fallen desk, he opened the curtain. That shield packs a punch, doesn’t it? But don’t worry, it won’t do the same this time.

Unable to stop herself from tensing, Jazz followed him into the adjoining corridor. It ended at a three-way junction in the vague shape of a trident. Giggs headed up the left-hand passage. The cream walls were grime- and graffiti-free, the lighting bright, the air comfortably cool.

Who is this guy? Eisner muttered.

Jazz knew what he meant. More than an information broker, that was for sure.

Giggs stopped in front of a nondescript slide-panel at the end of the hallway. Welcome to my lodgings.

Thanks? Jazz said.

Giggs smiled. It’s entirely up to you how you feel about being my guests. I have no desire to force your opinion one way or the other. The panel opened upwards and he stepped inside. Come. Let me give you some real food. The slop outside is okay once in a while but not anything to live on.

The contrast between Giggs’ living space and the rest of the station startled Jazz even though she’d expected it. Evenly-spaced pedestals along the walls showcased intricately painted, obviously-ancient vases, doorways in between leading off to other rooms. The soft light emanating from the high ceiling spotlighted a dining table carved from a single piece of polished timber and flanked by similarly-styled benches.

Sit, sit. Giggs gestured towards the table. I’ll be with you presently.

He disappeared through a doorway.

Jazz sat. What else could she do? The adrenalin had faded, and the burning anger along with it, but she wasn’t sure how to feel about Giggs. Grateful that he’d pulled her butt away from an unwinnable fight? Maybe. Upset that his earlier brushoff had led to that situation? Probably not. She’d let anger and frustration get the best of her. She couldn’t blame him for that, much as she would like to. Still, she needed to keep her wits about her. Giggs obviously wanted something, though she couldn’t even guess at what that might be.

Her wounds were beginning to ache. She pressed a hand to her hip. Barely enough blood to stain her cargos, her nanos doing their thing. A couple gel packs once back on the ship would speed that process along even more. And one for her face to help with the bruising there wouldn’t go amiss, either. She recalled the expression on Cemas’ ugly mug when his gun didn’t drop her and couldn’t help a little chuckle. The blow she’d taken by her ribs had left a nasty scratch and now that she had a few moments to examine herself she found other tears on her jacket that hadn’t penetrated as far as skin. Might as well just bin these clothes. She’d been doing a lot of that, lately.

Eisner took a seat further along on the same bench. The cut on his cheek looked bad. He saw her staring and patted the damage. Slap a gel pack on it and it’ll be fine.

We’ve been going through them, Jazz said.

Could be much worse.

True. She started the security scanner in her neurals. The room was full of mote cameras, embedded devices, and more, some of which were already in the app’s database and others it only identified due to the telltale signs. Giggs would, of course, be linked in to all of them but she figured talking about the fight they’d just had wasn’t worth worrying about. You held up your end pretty well.

Federation enforcer training. Eisner winked. Aware of Giggs’ security too, then.

Sorry I didn’t give you any warning.

Oh, I knew what the play was as soon as you got up after your run-in with the enviro-shield.

I should’ve picked a better setting before going in swinging, though.

Eisner flexed his hands. Yeah, probably. At least we get to live and learn, though, right?

Jazz screwed up her face. If we had a do-over I’d probably do exactly the same thing.

Fair enough. Eisner made a show of looking around the room. Nice pad.

Jazz nodded. As much as she was trying to calm herself, a frustrating cascade of emotions continued to wash across her. A few seconds ago she’d been all for curling up in a ball and having a quiet sob. Right now she wanted to smash every vase in the room and sprinkle their pieces over Giggs’ head. Next she’d probably want to hug him.

Giggs chose that moment to reappear, carrying two large plates piled high with roast meat slathered in orange gravy and sitting atop mashed purple and yellow vegetables. It smelled delicious. He placed the plates in front of them, along with some sporks.

Eat up, he said, hovering in the manner of an anxious host. A full belly will help the healing process.

Despite the rumbling of her stomach, Jazz refrained from sampling the food. In normal circumstances her nanos could easily handle any dodgy additions. They should still be able to do so now, despite having plenty else to cope with. They could self-replicate as needed, and were programed to multitask and self-repair. But for whatever reason Jazz didn’t like the idea of giving them too much to do.

Eisner had no such compunctions. After poking the food with his spork a couple times, he dug in.

I admire your suspicion, Healy, Giggs said, but I can assure you there’s nothing on your plate that will do you harm. It is, in fact, merely leftovers from my evening meal last night. He still had a spork in hand and, reaching across, plucked a piece