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    Narrow-eyed and intense, Jensen regarded the offending speck on the screens, hedged now by flashes of plasma fire as she sliced through warring factions of Khalian and Fleet dreadnoughts. Overhead, the monitor on citizen's frequency blared a curse and a startled challenge; the tone of the officer who hailed the offending merchanter matched that of Harris, exactly.

    As the civilian vessel continued to hurtle across the lines, a prickle of intuition touched Jensen. His gut went cold and his fingers clenched. 'That's nobody's merchanter.'

    He keyed his board for more data. At once the craft's configuration flashed in design graph on his screen, ugly and ungainly as a toy assembled by a kid from unassuming bits of junk. Recognition struck Jensen like a blow to the vitals. He knew that craft, would remember her anywhere, from any angle, even to his dying moment. What could the Marity be doing carving a line across a Fleet offensive? It meant nothing but the worst sort of trouble; her captain happened to be the craftiest skip-runner in the Alliance.

    Harris stared, captivated at the analog screens. 'Bugger, that pilot's got the gift. Will you look at that evasion?'

    Jensen needed no proof of the Marity's maneuverability. He had personally experienced MacKenzie James's corkscrew style at the helm. Recall left the young officer sweating, not out of nerves but in memory of the aftermath, and a degrading depth of humility a proud man would kill to erase. Jensen reacted this time without thought. 'Follow him.'

    Harris looked up from the screens. Blank with incomprehension, he said, 'What? Are you brain-shocked? That guy's Weasel steaks in the making, mate. He's ducked into the Khalian lines.'

    'I saw.' Jensen turned his chair away. 'I ordered a chase on that hauler. Section seven, bylaw four sixty two point zero, punishment for insubordination -'

    'Court-martial, followed by death without appeal at conviction. I know.' Harris flipped off his pilot's beret and scratched his red-thatched scalp. The hair sprung in snarls beneath his fingers. Challenge lit his eyes, which were blue, and about as innocent as a thief's. 'Your faith in my ability is a compliment, mate. What I'd kiss fish to guess, is what excuse you've got ready for old by-the-book and his-grandpa's-an-admiral Meier. Because if your joyride doesn't get us slagged by Weasels, the commodore's surely