sparked brightly and faded again.
'You—'
Without thinking, Mischa fled from the voice of the slave steward, who came without warning, sound, sight, or aura. She ran until she reached her room, stopped outside it, and turned to face Madame. 'Stay away from me. I'll kill you this time.'
'You are persistent,' Madame said. 'There is no need to speak of killing. Put away your knife and I will take you out of here.'
'I'm working for Subtwo. You can't touch me.'
Madame arched one eyebrow. 'We must go to him, and he will confirm or deny you.'
'That isn't necessary.'
The door-curtain of Jan Hikaru's room draped across his shoulders like a cape as he leaned against the wall with his legs crossed at the ankles and his arms folded on his chest. 'She's telling the truth.'
'Do you take responsibility?'
'I already have it.'
'Very well.' Absently, she flicked her short whip against her skirt and started away.
'I told you I wasn't here to steal.'
Madame looked back skeptically. 'That,' she said, 'remains to be seen.'
Mischa reddened; her pride was hardly salved by Jan's enigmatic half-smile. It was as though he knew everything that had ever happened or ever would happen, as though he were just observing the motions for his own amusement.
'What's so damn funny?'
'Nothing,' he said. 'It doesn't matter. I'm sorry. Since we're both up, do you want some tea?'
'I don't know what that is.'
'Subtwo was right,' Jan said. 'Your education has been neglected.'
Mischa sat on the carpet in Jan's room, sipping hot tea and staring down into the cup at the small remnants of the leaves from which it was brewed.
'Couldn't you sleep?'
Mischa shrugged. 'I like to know what's around me.'
He swirled his cup slowly. 'Ah.'
As they drank together, Mischa could see him watching her through the steam of his tea. The wall-curtains of his room were brown and unadorned; against them, sitting cross-legged on the bronze-colored rug, he was for an instant a mysterious and very alien figure. All Mischa could feel of him was a deep, sad quiet; there was much more, but she could not reach it.
'Do you know what you're doing?' he asked abruptly.
'Yes.'
'Is it what you want?'
She could not answer immediately; he had asked exactly the right thing. 'It's the only way I can leave earth.'
He sipped his tea. 'Is it worth it?'
'What do you care?' she snapped, but the familiarity of the exchange sprang up and hurt her. 'What gives you the right to talk? You're doing the same thing.'
'Well, not quite.'
'You're with Subtwo—what else can you be but a raider?'
'I was with a friend who wanted to return to earth. This is the only way to get here or to leave.'
'What happened?' She felt she already knew, because though she could not feel his pain, she could see it in his eyes and in his face, too new and too deep to hide.
He finally answered. 'She's dead.'
Mischa could only sit silent and uneasy with her inexperience at consolation.
'She wouldn't have been happy here,' Jan said bitterly. 'Go back to bed.'
He stood up, but Mischa reached and stopped him with a touch. 'That's what I mean,' she said, and left him, alone.
Chapter 8
Subtwo heard the faint scratching on his door and turned from the bright twisting figures on the console screen. 'Come.'
Madame entered and stood before him. He smiled to see her; it had been only a few days since he had talked to her, but seemed much longer. 'Good evening.'
'Sir.'
'What's the matter?' He had learned the subtleties of her voice, the tones that meant she wished to ask a question or make a suggestion, but was restrained from doing so by protocol and training. He was accustomed to directness, but directness was denied her. He wished again that she would tell him her name.
'There is a young girl—'
'It's all right. I said she could stay.'
'She is a thief, sir.'
'I know. She told me.'
'You trust her?'
'She wants things I can give her more than she wants anything she could take. Has she been here before?'
'Yes, sir.'
He waited for her to continue, but she did not. She had trained herself to answer only questions asked, not questions implied. It was a small defiance that could neither be identified nor objected to on any level of rationality. This similarity of a human being to a computer might have pleased him some time before, but now, with this human being, it did not.
'What happened?'
'The Lady Clarissa sent her to be flogged.'
'Flogged!'
'Yes, sir.'
More and more often these days Subtwo felt the need for profanity, but he had not yet found words that comforted him. 'Fools,' he said. 'I'll tell them she's to be left alone.'
'If—'
'Yes?'
'It might be safer. for the child. if she stayed out of the Lady's sight.'
'Is she that vindictive?'
Madame did not answer.
'All right,' Subtwo said. 'I'll warn Mischa to avoid Clarissa.'
Madame bowed her head to him.
He wished she would drop her deferential pose: he was sure now that it was a pose, a self-protecting wall that hid her intelligence and her pride. He had known many people, but he had never been more than superficially and physically close to anyone but his pseudosib, and that closeness had been forced on them. He had begun to hope for, to need, a relationship with commitment and responsibility.
'I regret disturbing you for such a trivial matter.'
'I don't mind.'
She took that as a dismissal and bowed again. As she turned to leave, the glow of his display screen brushed the smooth skin of her cheek and her bare hip. He leaned forward, reaching toward her, and she heard him and
