Confusion To The Enemy

PAIRING: Quinn-centric - from the Barrayar books by Lois McMaster Bujold

RATING: R

FEEDBACK: Very welcome, to [email protected]

BETA: Miss Murchison - with thanks for her patience and help

SETTING: Immediately post-Ethan of Athos

DISCLAIMER: I’m borrowing, but I hope I've done Quinn justice.

Elli Quinn ran, rather heavily, up the stairs to the crew section, passing by the lift tube. That last slice of pie had been a mistake. A definite mistake.

But her soon-to-be step-mom was a wizard with lemon. And meringue. And with the little crystallised sugar lemon slices, and the whipped pseudo-cream that came with it. After twelve years alone, her father had found a woman - and a woman who could cook, which was pretty much of a miracle on Kline station, where you could dial up a nutritious moulded-protein meal at the touch of a button.

Quinn patted her stomach. Hell, even the newt casserole had been a miracle of skilfully blended flavours and textures, and really not newty at all. And her father looked like a man who had died and gone to heaven. She was pretty sure if she came back a year from now he would have expanded by at least one clothing size, if not two. Good for him - he'd worked hard all his life, and he deserved some comfort now.

Quinn's mind veered away from what else he might be enjoying, apart from gingerbread waffles and macaroni with cheese. You didn't want to dwell too much on your father's sex life - unless you were a Betan of course, in which case you probably threw him a party when he got a new girlfriend, and bought him a new cock ring and a book of the forty latest sexual positions for the over-40s. But she wasn't a Betan - so she was firmly not thinking about that.
 
In fact she wasn't thinking about anything, except digesting her pie, maybe reading up on a little light stellar navigation theory, and, now that her package had been duly delivered, taking a slow boat home to the Fleet. She was just a harmless passenger, heading back to work after her shore leave, yes, siree.

She spared a glance for the cast on her left arm, souvenir of a meeting with some really not very nice folk the day before. But still, she’d met some interesting people the last few days. Notably Doctor Ethan Urquhart  - a surprisingly nice man considering that he came from a planet of women-hating isolationists. He should be on his way home soon, and her right ovary was going with him. I must have been crazy.

Her elbow was aching, but nothing another pain pill couldn't handle. And as long as she didn't lie on it on her sleep again - she winced, remembering last night - she should be fine.

There was someone coming down the stairs, and she shifted aside, automatically. Most people took the tube, of course, but there were some fitness freaks - and people with pie to burn off - who came this way.

The man reached her tread, shifted aside a little in his turn and stepped past her. And then he hit her, hard, on the back of the head. She was thrown forwards, onto the steps, her knee jarring painfully, her dislocated arm lighting up with agony as she instinctively reached forward with both hands to save her face. She managed to turn, the stairs digging painfully into her back, and hook a leg out from under her assailant, and felt him stagger, and fall backwards into space.

Then somebody landed on her stomach, knees first, and as the breath whooshed out of her she felt the hiss of a hypodermic against the side of her neck, the helpless limpness as a strong muscle relaxant coursed through her body, and she fell into darkness.

.............

She came round strapped into a bunk in a med bay of a spaceship. Still, at least it was docked - it had the unmistakeably inert feeling of a ship at rest. Anyhow, a med bay was certainly the right place for her, because her body was aching, her head was pounding, and her stomach was worse. She twisted her head painfully to one side, to look around. In stark contrast to the Kline Station Detention Centre infirmary, the last medical facility she had graced, the facilities here could best be described as basic. Primitive, even. Not far off barbaric, in fact. And the jug-eared adolescent with his back to her looked like a pitifully inadequate doctor.

“Hi there,” she pleasantly, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

He turned, “Shut up, bitch.”

Nice bedside manner, thought Quinn muzzily, and … I know that accent.

The doctor – if he was a doctor – rustled in a drawer for a moment, and came over to her with what Quinn hoped was an anti-nausea ampoule in his hand. No, it was the wrong colour. It was fast-penta. Oh great, only six months since she’d learned the fleet’s security codes, and taken the required anti-penta conditioning, and this guy was going to kill her.

“If you inject me with that, I’ll go into convulsions and die,” she said, looking to see if she was making an impression. “And I’m guessing you don’t want me to do that.”

“Not yet,” he said, frowning. He put the hypodermic down, with a pettish gesture. “I will be testing you, you know. And if you lied it’ll be very unpleasant for you.”

“It will be unpleasant for her if she is telling the truth as well.” Another creep, also on the skinny side, but older, and darker. And she’d placed the accent. Barrayar. Oh boy. Creep two leant over her bedside, hollow cheeked, a faint pulse twitching under his eye. He seemed to be wearing some kind of pseudo-military uniform, with knee-high boots polished to a high shine, and a hat that was too big for him pressed firmly on his head.

“I'm warning you now,” said Elli again, “I'm going to be sick.” She turned her head, and vomited, spectacularly. I can only hope that went on his boots. "You know," she muttered, looking over the edge of the bunk at the glistening pile of swirled lemon, pastry crust, vegetables, and newt on the floor, "that was a crime against good food." 

“I used up the anti-nausea meds on the flight, Sieur Etienne.” There was a whine in Creep one’s voice. “With the stabilising gyros not working …”

“Not now.” Creep two glared at Elli. “This – disgusting - food is a token of the corruption within you. And your sickness is the result of your impurity. Think on that. For now,” his lip curled with a strange mixture of disgust and titillation, “you can go to our detention facility - and talk to your little friend.” And he turned on his heel, and walked out.

“Oh my,” breathed Quinn to herself, “if you’ve got a cuckoo Miles curled up in your little ship, you are in deep trouble, my friends.”

………..

Quinn slumped uncomfortably between two tall thin guards, a third guard behind her with a disruptor trained on her back. When they’d set out from the medical bay, she’d tried to keep pace with her escort, but she was too knocked about, and the muscle relaxant hadn’t really worn off. So she’d ended up being hauled painfully by her arms along the corridor, feet dragging, until they reached a cargo bay.  They reached a door set oddly crosswise to the rest of the bay, and the guard to the left opened it, and pushed her in. She staggered, but kept to her feet. Don’t let the bastards get you down.

A small figure wearing station overalls was curled up on the moulded shelf set against the wall, seemingly asleep.

“Hey boss,” she said lightly.

“Elli, darling!” said the figure on the bench, and leapt to his feet, bounded across the room, and hugged her tight, ignoring the hiss of distaste that came from the guards at the door. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

As Quinn stiffened in the embrace, her companion’s head lifted from her shoulder, a clear grey eye regarded her, and winked. Then the head was buried in her shoulder again. Okay, not what I expected.

She took hold of her companion, and moved him firmly away.

Ah, no. Strike that.

“I’m so glad you came for me. I’ve been terrified in here alone with these horrible men.”

She looked at her companion's face. Small delicate bones, beaky nose, dark brows, cool grey eyes. Hair short, dark and tousled. Any age between 25 and 35. And quite definitely female. A stranger. She was quite sure she’d never seen this woman before in her life.

Quinn’s new friend turned and looked at the guards behind them. “Can we go now?” she said, biting her lip, her tone hopeful.

The guard gave a brief laugh. “Neither of you bitches are going anywhere, unless it’s to hell.” He thrust his head forward, licking his lip slightly. “You’re going to burn, both of you - it’s only a matter of how soon.” He backed out, and slammed the cell door closed.

“I’m going to burn in hell, and he didn’t even offer me a drink first,” murmured Quinn. “How rude.”

Her cellmate placed her ear against the door. “Both gone – and no in-cell surveillance – I’ve checked, very thoroughly. Which means they are free to imagine us getting up to all sorts of disgusting, perverted things together. And you can bet they will. They’re very hormonal.” She returned to Quinn’s side and held out a hand. “Petra Varangian at your service, Commander.”

Quinn sat down, very carefully, on the bench her companion had vacated. Her legs were trembling, and she could feel deep muscle twitches developing as the muscle relaxant wore off.  “You seem to know my name already.” She gestured, “What was with the little trembling wide-eyed girl act?”

Her companion made an eye rolling gesture, “Revolting, isn’t it? But they suck it up. They’re Pythagoreans - probably the last woman they spoke to was their mother. And the longer they think I’m a bubble-headed ninny who screams when a big scary man touches my arm, and who couldn’t find her own way home in the dark, the better. It’ll make it so much easier to kill them.” Her lips set in a straight line. “I’m going to enjoy that.”
 
Quinn raised an eyebrow, “Never heard of Pythagoreans.”

“I’m not surprised.” Petra Varangian sighed, and drummed her fingers on the wall beside her. “They’re some piddling obscure little cult, based on the nuttier parts of the philosophy of some defunct and ridiculously ancient earthish belief system, operating on one of the most obscure, repressive, backwards planets in the whole system.”

“Barrayar,” said Quinn. “Yeah, I got the accent. I’ve met a few folks from there.” She looked at the triangular cell walls. “Is this a storeroom?”

Petra nodded. “Converted cargo bay. They’ve just cut out one of the airlock doors and the wall around it from the next bay, and welded it across this corner. And put in an air vent, which was thoughtful of them, even if it doesn't work very well. Crude as hell. But that actually makes it difficult to break. No pretty doorlocks, no fancy alarms …”

“No scope for a bit of imaginative sabotage,” finished Quinn, nodding. “Pity.” She looked at her hands twitching in her lap, “So, any special reason why you made those guys think you’re my girlfriend? Other than to upset their hormones?”

Her new companion smiled the lazy smile again. “Because they want something your boss has. Admiral Naismith, isn’t it? Something belonging to a man called Terrence Cee.”

She let that one hang, looking at Quinn, who hoped her face was properly blank.

Damn, how did that news spread to some tiny little cult way out in the middle of nowhere? Not to speak of whoever Varangian is working for. The genie really is out of the bottle - and faster than expected.

At least that precious sample was winging its way in the right direction, treble wrapped in its huge freezer box. And hopefully the next lot of Cetagandans on site would be following her blond Terrence Cee-alike as he went galaxy hopping on an expense account. In fact, as far as she knew, the only item which hadn’t travelled off-station as planned was one Dendarii Mercenary, detained due to unforeseen circumstances.

“And they think that he’ll swap that thing for you,” continued  Petra, “They’re probably sending him a nasty little threatening message right now. Anyway, given how much they wanted you, I thought it was wise to let them think they could get to you through me. And explain why I was there in the first place.”

Quinn leant her head back against the wall. “Why were you there in the first place?"

Petra smiled, "I'm a policeman of a sort. A Revenue Officer."

Oh boy, a taxman. No-one on Kline Station, which lived and died by trade, messed with the tax authorties.

There's a Tax inspector posing as my girlfriend. A facetious Tax inspector. Gulp. Quinn tried to shake it off. Don't look guilty! Come on, you pay your taxes - you've met plenty of other, scarier security types. "Uh," she said tentatively, "Now they’ve got me, it seems your plan may have outlived its usefulness.”

Petra shrugged, “It’s kept me alive for more than 48 hours – that’s a brilliantly successful military strategy in my book. Though I spent a good twenty minutes sitting around in my underwear, while they argued about whether they could sully their sacred ship with my non-believing feminine impurity.” Her face went dark for a minute, then she looked at Quinn, and an amused grin touched her lips. “Still, it looks like I’m dating out of my league. I didn’t realise the tough mercenary Commander Quinn was a fashion model in her spare time.”

Quinn ran her hand over her face self-consciously. “It’s a long story.”

“Very nice work,” said Petra, “Betan?”

Quinn nodded.

“Well, you got your money’s worth. Not really a special ops sort of face is it, though? Though actually, it’ll probably work for you this time – they’ll have despised you on sight for being superficial - I have to work at it a bit more, with the baby talk, and the crying at least once a day.” She shifted. “They’ll be showing up with a vial of fast-penta in a minute. Have you been conditioned?”

Quinn nodded glumly. “Yup.”

“Well, by all means explain that to them.”

“I did. To that skinny 12 year old who’s posing as a doctor.” 

Petra nodded, “If he’s more than a Grade 2 medic I’ll be very surprised. Can’t even put a dressing on straight. Well, he won’t have believed you, but he will at least give you the scrape test first to see if you curl up in agony and go into convulsions. She turned up her arm, and indicated a neat little scrape in her elbow. “If you’re really lucky he’ll have learnt this time, and might even get the dosage down to the right level.”

…….

It was several hours later, and still no one had arrived with the fast-penta. Or any water. Or food. But the throbbing pain in Quinn's head had subsided enough for her to check out her surroundings now, at least. She toured the empty triangular space, and while trying to spare her damaged elbow and tender ribs, probed for weaknesses, or for any signs of covert surveillance. Not that she expected to find any. She had a feeling that Petra Verangian was the thorough type.

Five minutes later, she sat down again, frustrated. “Tell me about the Pythagoreans."

Petra folded her hands. “Let’s see. Obscure cult, men only." 

More male isolationists. I seem to be attracting them like flies lately.

"Vegetarian, ascetic, celibate, but neo-militaristic like every other thing Barrayaran. Believe in reincarnation for the Pure and punishment through eternity for the Impure. Would be harmless enough except that they fund their little sect via a number of wide-ranging and rather ingenious pyramid schemes, on which they are reluctant to pay tax. Hence my interest. When they came wobbling into Kline Station and docked this ancient piece of junk, Hal and I thought our luck was in.”

She drew a long breath. "They argue the pay-off at the top of the pyramid is reincarnation as a Higher Being, which is a bit hard to prove, and not an assertion that finds favour with our legal system - or Barrayar's, such at it is. So they're an outlawed organisation at home, and have their only registered office on Jackson’s Whole."

She paused, her head tilted. "That made you think of something."

Quinn nodded.  Terrence Cee and his siblings had come from House Bharaputra on Jackson's Whole, and he had fled from there, with the Cetagandans marauding behind him and leaving a path of destruction in their wake. She wondered if there had been a worker in the House who'd bought into pyramids and Higher Being, and whether he'd lived through the disaster there.

Petra moved on. "Pythagoreans think telepathy is the sign of a reincarnated soul that's moved to Higher Being. Perhaps they want this Terrence Cee to get us taxmen off their backs.”

She tilted her head back to regard the ceiling above their heads. “Now you can answer a question for me.”

“Perhaps,” said Quinn neutrally.

“Are you carrying a locating device somewhere in your person?”

"Are you?"

"I asked first," said Petra mildly, "But actually, yes. Only unfortunately the receiver is in a coffin in the next cargo bay, together with my colleague. Courtesy of this bunch of dirt-sucking, jack-booted incompetents." The last words came out as a hiss.

"I'm sorry." Quinn leant back against the wall. "And yes, I have a locator." She touched her clavicle absently. "But my fleet is several jumps away. Not that the Admiral will let a little thing like time and space stop him. He's most likely to wangle a deal with some locals, I expect. He's good at wangling, and finagling, and anything else ending with 'gling'."

"Snuggling," said Petra. She raised an eyebrow.

Quinn felt herself blush slightly. If only.

"Smuggling, continued Petra, "bungling, gargling, tingling  ..."

"I was being rhetorical," said Quinn. "And if you keep going I may have to hurt you."

Petra held up a hand in a peace gesture, "Just trying to jolly us along. Sorry."

Yeah, right. "Anyway," Quinn continued, "This bunch could still shoot us before the cavalry gets here, or once they arrive. They're both ruthless and incompetent, which is a nasty combination. So, since Miles isn't here we need to try and think like him - there's a certain twisty, off-the-wall, left of centre, finagling ..." she glared at Petra, who kept her mouth shut this time, "... trick to it." She drummed her fist to her temple.

"Your dwarf Admiral sounds like an interesting fellow," said Petra.

"He's four feet eight," said Elli, "but yes. And he'd say, "Don't confront your opponents from a position of weakness, manipulate them instead." She paced a bit more, "So, what do we want them to do?"

"Open the door," said Petra promptly

"All the doors," corrected Quinn, and was rewarded with a small quirk of Petra's lips, and a little bow. "And how might we make them do that?"

She looked at the air vent, let into the metal plating above their door. She and Petra's eyes met.

Quinn turned out her pockets to see what the Pythagoreans had left her. A napkin from a bar, and a plastic toothpick. Every thing else was gone, including the delicate silver necklace that she'd been wearing, in some attempt to dress up for her dad and stepmother. But no - deep in her pocket, there was a lump. She pulled it out. A small triangular jar of nail polish. She looked down at her nails, short and square, but silvered. Another bit of dressing up for dinner.

"Theoretically," said Quinn slowly, "To make a fire all you need is a flammable material and some friction."

"Or a battery," said Petra. She held out her wrist, on which a chronometer glowed.

"Setting a fire in a spaceship," Quinn murmured. "Utterly against regulations."

"Stupid and dangerous," agreed Petra.

"But just the sort of thing a couple of idiot women who know no better might do."

They grinned at each other.

They were both down to their underwear, though incongruously still booted. If they come in now they're going to have all their wildest imaginings confirmed about what two impure women get up to if you lock them into a room together.

The fruit of their experiments lay around them on the floor, the cannibalised parts of the chronometer, metallic thread teased out of the insignia on Quinn's jacket, torn pieces of uniform and charred socks doused in nail polish, smoky black smuts and blots, and a tiny melted pool of plastic that had once been a toothpick. Her grey fatigues had proved to be a disappointment, clearly treated with some fire retardant or other. But Petra's beige overalls, provided by the Pythagoreans, were burning merrily. If this works it will serve them right - the cheap bastards.

Quinn took the burning garment by the extreme end of the leg and carried it gingerly over to the door. Petra bent and offered her cupped hands, and Quinn stepped into them, and was boosted up to the vent. She wedged the trouser leg through the uppermost slat, as far as she could make it go, grazing the backs of her knuckles in the process, then slid down, narrowly avoiding the flames.

They watched the burning overalls, blackening and giving off an unpleasant chemical odour, and listened to the gentle whirr of the vent. The overalls were twisting lightly in the breeze being created by the air being sucked inwards, and the hotter, smoke laden air being vented, waveringly and lazily, out into the vast dark space of the storage bay.

"That's a very inefficient vent,” said Quinn after a while, watching critically.

"And I wish I could be confident that the smoke detectors out there work," added Petra. "This whole ship is a disgrace."

"Well," said Quinn, gingerly drawing her slightly charred grey trousers back on, and offering Petra her jacket. "We'll find out in a minute."

..................

The klaxon was blaring.

Quinn, boosted up again by Petra, watched as the door at the end of storage bay whooshed open, and two men came running in, fire extinguishers in their hands. Nearly three minutes to trigger the alarms, and another three minutes for them to get here. My Sergeant would have a fit.

"Hi!" she called out. "Thank goodness you came! There's a fire in the wall - some kind of wiring short circuit, I think. We can feel it through the panelling, but we can't get to it. And it's getting awfully warm in here."

"It's burning very hot," said Petra loudly, letting an edge of nervousness enter her voice. "There aren't any important cables, or wiring behind this bulkhead are there?"

"Dammit!" The technician with the fire extinguisher shook his head. "I told Sieur Etienne it wasn't safe to come messing around down here with blowtorches. Those office boys know nothing about spaceships." He gestured to his friend. "We'll have to shift them out of there, and get the panels off."

His friend fingered the stunner on his belt nervously. "We should wait for backup ..."

"It's a FIRE. And what are they going to do? Just open the door and stun them, if you're scared of a couple of girls."

Petra made an eye rolling gesture, and Quinn grinned down at her.

The technician gestured impatiently. "Come on, I'll cover you from here."

Quinn slid softly down to the ground again, and took up position at one side of the door, Petra mirroring her on the other side.

The door slid open. Well, the Pythagoreans might act military but this one's never had the training. He'd set himself up beautifully as a target against the light. Which was stupid, even with an armed man behind him. And it had taken him at least half a second to notice that the bench was empty. If he just moved a little forward, instead of hastily back like anyone properly trained ...

He did. And she jumped, low and hard, Petra just a fraction behind her. A stunner beam crackled over her shoulder, as her head connected with the man's stomach, and he toppled backwards, Elli on top. She took a grip of his short hair and cracked his head, hard, into the floor below him. There was an ugly thump. She looked up to find Petra standing over the second man, her left arm hanging loosely from the shoulder, a stunner in her hand. "Just a little splash," she said, indicating the arm. "Should be okay soon. Let's run, shall we?" She turned, and headed for the storage bay exit.

Quinn grabbed the stunner from her downed victim, shot him with it, then gathered up his communicator, and ran after her.

They made it out of the cargo bays. And the service corridor. And all the way to the docking bay. Which is where their luck ran out. Someone on the bridge had finally worked out that they had prisoners on the loose, and the bay doors were firmly shut on emergency override.

They clattered to a halt and looked around. Petra rubbed her scalp with her good hand.  "Sooner or later they'll think about pumping out the air, or pumping in some gas. Though it'll take a while in all this space."

Quinn felt her lips draw back from her teeth. "We've given them a bunch of things to deal with at once. The station authorities are going to be asking them, very forcefully, what set their fire klaxons off. They're going to be checking for fire in the bulkhead, getting their men to medical - where the doctor may strike lucky, and not kill them. Miles will be messing with their heads, assuming he's now got their message. What say we give them a few more things to worry about as well?"

She turned the stunner in her hand. "I've always wanted to do that 'turn a stunner into a grenade' thing for real."

Petra nodded. "Well, now's your chance - I've only got one hand right now. Careful, though. Not only does that model not have any range, they took them off the market when they found they had a tendency to blow up big time if the power-pack overheats. I'm guessing these guys got them black market surplus somewhere.”

"Okay," muttered Quinn - I'll try not to let it explode until we actually want it to." She pulled the casing off, hoping her elbow was going to stand up to this.

Petra smiled. "Ooh, I've got an idea too." She picked up the communicator, and switched it on. "Hello? Any shit-for-brains Pythago-mutants out there? Hello? Or are you too stupid to use a communicator? I can easily believe that, because a more incompetent, clueless, pathetic bunch of would-be terrorists I've never met."

She switched the channel for a moment, and a string of repetitive threats, and exotic Barrayaran swearwords came over the air towards them, ending "... and then I'm going to tear your intestines out of your belly with my bare hands." Petra raised an eyebrow. "Tut, tut. That doesn't sound very ascetic, does it?"

Quinn put down the first stunner, elbow throbbing, and picked up the second.

Petra switched the channel back to send. "I just thought it would be only fair of me to tell you that we've set three explosive charges in your ship. Nice little plastic explosive charges, which my friend Quinn here was carrying the soles of her boots - the ones you were too stupid to take from her."

"If only," muttered Quinn, struggling with the innards of the stunner.

"Yeah, they've got to send someone to check though, haven't they?" Petra looked thoughtful. "I wonder if they're running out of people yet? I've don't think there are more than twenty of them all together." She flexed the fingers of her left hand. "Pins and needles - ah. I'll tell them we're pumping poison gas through the service vents in a minute. Pins and needles are one of the first symptoms, and there's at least two guys down there coming round from being stunned."

Quinn grinned at her. "You'd get on with the little Admiral."

Petra winked, then her head swung round. "Uh oh, I think they're doing the 'so stupid you can't predict it' thing again. They don't take mockery very well, do they?" Quinn listened - sure enough she heard the sound of boots thumping along the corridor towards them, raggedly in step.

"Just in time." She held up the second stunner, and gave it to Petra. "Just pull out the little red wire, throw it, and duck. Terrible range, and you'll probably bust an eardrum, but can't be helped."

They took up positions on either side of the door, and waited. Too much to hope this time that no-one on the other side knew what they were doing. The door clattered open, two disrupter beams fired into the bay, and they both threw in one movement, and flattened themselves against the wall, hands over ears. The double explosion was tremendous, the boom of noise was like a blow. The walls buckled and bent, and shards of metal, powder and debris blasted into the bay, scattering in all directions.

Petra dropped to the floor and rolled into the inferno of the corridor, and Quinn followed her, diving forward onto her stomach. The crackle of a disruptor beam sounded above her head, cutting through the fog of particles, then she grasped a bloody leg, pulled herself up a groaning body, her eyes smarting in the black smoke, and grabbed the weapon lying by the man’s side. Her groping fingers felt the outline in her hand. A plasma arc.

A hand grabbed hers, trying to wrest the arc away, and she jerked her elbow viciously backwards, remembering just too late it was the bad one. She hit something solid in a burst of pain that brought stars to her eyes, but the man was still struggling. She rolled, and found herself nose to nose with Sieur Etienne, who was writhing beneath her, furiously trying to throw her off. Until a disruptor was pressed against his skull and the trigger was pulled.

Quinn looked up at Petra Verangian, who straightened up, the silver bell muzzle of the disruptor pointing downwards, and clasped with familiar ease in her right hand, her left arm still dangling loose at the shoulder, her face stained with smoke. "Your bosses would probably have liked to be able to question him." 

"Perhaps he'll reincarnate for them." But there was no humour in Petra's face. And the corridor was full of bloodied bodies, limbs splayed, some of them still moaning, several not. Quinn remembered a man lying in a coffin in the second loading bay, and drew a breath. As she was about to speak, the bay doors opened - and light came flooding in. She turned. "Looks like the cavalry has finally arrived."

.............

Quinn stood on the Kline Station viewing platform, looking out over the docking bay. Her ears were only ringing a little now, and she had a new cast on her elbow, courtesy of a very displeased medic, who didn’t see why she’d had to ruin his careful work of the day before. The Pythagorean ship was in a far corner, shrouded in plastic, while the station's forensic crew subjected it to a thorough examination. All the Pythagoreans who had survived were in the custody of security, and no doubt spilling their unattractive guts under fast-penta. Which means yet another organisation knows about the telepathy gene.

And she had been patched up, questioned, and processed out of the system with indecent speed - almost as if they didn't want her around, really, testifying to things.  She’d missed her flight, of course, but they’d found her a seat on the next ship out, departing in the morning. Meanwhile, she was spending her last evening on Kline Station having dinner with Petra Varangian. Which was just weird.

She leant on the railing, watching the line of people passing through the departure gate, and heading towards the regular transport ship to Beta. And stiffened. She could see a tall, dark, well-groomed man, standing uncomfortably, his body angled unconsciously away from a large middle-aged woman in front of him - and beside him, a tall slender blond. 

Dr Ethan Urquhart was a little more duplicitous than she'd given him credit for, it seemed. She looked at Terrence Cee, standing in the line, small suitcase in hand. Smuggling a telepathy gene in plain sight. I really ought to bag him this time. Then she thought about those other children dead of their fatal genes, of Colonel Millisor and his emotionless hitmen, of House Bharaputra in flames, of Sieur Etienne spasming as the disruptor beam hit him and his crewmen lying on the floor like broken, scorched dolls. She shook her head. Ethan was welcome to him.

Instead she straightened up and strode on for her dinner appointment, head averted, eyes carefully trained on the middle distance, not giving the boarding line another look.

The End

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