"Lemme see." Pause. "CO2's up a bit, O2 consumption's up, also ambient temp . . . visual . . . the transgrav's stopped at the station. Wasn't Babytrain on for today?"

"Yeah. They've popped a red and I can't raise 'em."

"Looks normal. Cargo containers coming in from Freedawn 24. Cargo handlers-wait-what color's Heavy

Cargo this year?"

"Orange. Changed from tan-"

"Would anyone be in the old-oh, hell!"

"What?"

"None of the Heavy Cargo crews would be carrying firearms. We have an intrusion."

"In there? What about the kids?"

In the appalled silence that followed, Kyle could almost hear his heart thudding. He gulped, hit

the supervisor's code, and said it. "We have a Level Five emergency. Hostile intruders in Heavy Cargo Two, and a trainload of kids-that preschool field trip."

The R.S.S. officer opened his mouth and shut it again, but looked sideways at the supervisor.

"Cut out the alarms to that sector, put us on Level Five Alert. Patch to the stationmaster and the emergency response teams. Call in the second shift as backup . . ."

Then to the R.S.S. advisor. "What else?"

"How many certified emergency personnel do you have?"

"Counting security, medical, damage control-maybe five hundred."

"Find out-you need to know exactly. And I recommend you inform the picket as well; we can presume this intrusion is of foreign origin."

"Stationmaster'll have to approve-"

"I do." Kyle was relieved to hear the stationmaster's voice over the com.

"Can they help?"

"Maybe. Then recall all R.S.S. personnel on station and collect them-check MSOs . . . specialties . . . for security, demolitions, and emergency medical."

Sergeant Cavallo had chosen to finish out his present tour in mess, in part because the supply and mess personnel had more chance of a few hours on stations during otherwise boring picket duty. The weekly green run always meant 24 hours on station, and sometimes more. He liked the bustle of the markets, he had-thanks to his grandmother's gardening passion-an unusually good eye for quality produce. He knew that Purcell's Family Grocers sometimes imported fresh fruits from planetside groves, and hoped to find either cherries or cherrunes. The exec's tenth anniversary was coming up, and he liked cherries. The other part was his sense of the ridiculous: few if any neuroenhanced troops ever had the chance to indulge a harmless interest.

He was only five minutes from the station when a red light came up on the board. The shuttle pilot grimaced, and switched channels. Cavallo saw the telltale hardening of the jaw, then the pilot's hands moving to change settings on the board.

"What?" Cavallo asked.

"They've got an intrusion," the pilot said. "They don't know what, but armed hostiles in Heavy Cargo-and they've taken hostages, a whole tramload of preschool kids."

Cavallo started to ask what a tramload of preschoolers had been doing in Heavy Cargo's 0.25 G, but that wasn't the most urgent question. "Who've they got with antiterrorist experience?"

"I don't know, but they've got a Major Reichart on station, and he's ordered all Fleet personnel to assemble-that's why we're shifting docking assignment. Sorry, Sarge, but it looks like we're all part of this for the duration."

Cavallo said nothing; he was aware of the irony of his present position. He had chosen mess duty as a welcome break from the tedium of being a Special Response Team leader on a picket ship where nothing happened . . . and here he was, back in his own territory, but without any of his equipment or a trained team.

"Better let the major know I'm coming in," he told the pilot, who shot him a quick glance.

"You, Sarge? But you're a cook-" The pilot had known Cavallo only in his present duty; perhaps he thought the extra bulk was a supply sergeant's overindulgence.

"Not entirely," Cavallo said. "My primary specialty is NEM Special Response."

The pilot looked nervous, the usual reaction to someone discovering that he was sitting next to one of the few Fleet personnel trained to kill in hand-to-hand combat. "You're a NEM?"

"Yup. So call me in."

"Yessir."

Although the supply shuttle had not been fitted out with a combat mission in mind, all Fleet shuttles carried some basic emergency equipment. There was no combat armor to fit Cavallo, but he grabbed the largest p-suit and the ready pack of demolitions supplies, intended to create a small hull breach if that should be necessary in an emergency. Three bricks of LUB explosive, five standard fusing options and the components for others, detonation signallers . . . he checked it all, and by the time the shuttle docked, he had repacked it and was ready to dive out the tube.

Sarknon Philios had been celebrating the successful auction of the Mindy Cricket II-the old tub had sold for more than he paid for her, though not more than he'd sunk into her-and the sale of his interest in the minerals they'd towed in. His crew, equally delighted with the outcome, and the promise of a new-or at least better-quality used-ship on the next run, had joined the celebration as well. While they hadn't quite drained the Spacer's Delight dry, they'd made its proprietor richer, and as the morning commuters rushed past, Sarknon was finally ready for bed.

Bed was two stops away on the station tram; he gathered his crew and led them across to the tram stop.

There a man in Security green demanded their IDs-even though they wore their shipsuits with patches prominent on the left shoulder, and even though it should have been clear who and what they were.

"What is, man?" asked Sarknon. "We been at the Delight, you musta seen us crossin' oer. We's shipcrew, we bother nobody."

"Your IDs, Ser." Station Security normally went unarmed, but this one carried an acoustic weapon slung over his shoulder. Down the platform, Sarknon could see two more Security men, now looking this way. Annoyed though he was, Sarknon didn't intend to cause trouble.

"Foodlin' shame, I say, leapin' on folks as is just shipcrew come to spend money at station." He fumbled in his shipsuit's pocket and brought out his ID folder. "'Tisn't enough to let yon pubkeeper charge twice too much for his wares, now you have to act as if you don't know who we are."

Even when Security did ask to see ID, which happened rarely, they always just glanced at it. Not this time. Sarknon stood, swaying slightly as the man glanced from his papers to his face, again and again, and finally had had enough.

"What, you think I am not Sarknon Philios? You never heard of Mindy Cricket, of our strike? Or am I too ugly for you?"

"Take it easy," the man said, closing the folder and handing it back. "We've trouble-we're looking for rockhoppers with demolitions experience. Looks like you're it."

"A contract?" Sarknon blinked; he knew he was not a good negotiator when he was drunk; that's how he'd ended up paying too much for the Mindy Cricket II. "Can't talk contract now, m'head's fuzzled. Next shift, maybe, when the drink's left me."

"Now," the man said. The other two had come nearer, without Sarknon noticing, and now he found himself facing drawn weapons.

"Trouble, Harv?" asked one of the others.

"No-found us a demo crew, but they're soused. Help me get'm to medical."

Sarknon had paid good money for his drunk, and was not inclined to see it dispersed for nothing.

"I'm not goin' to med; they'll just waste my money . . . I earned that drunk; it's mine-"

He saw the hand coming towards his face, but was too uncoordinated to evade it. When he woke again, he was on a cot in the station medical clinic, and he woke entirely, in an instant, with the unnatural clarity of the detox patient. "Dammit," he said. "An' I bought a whole jug of that Surnean ale!"

"Never you mind," said the young woman who slid the needle out of his vein. "You save those kids and I will personally buy you two jugs."

"Well, then." Sarknon sat up, not regretting the headache he didn't have, thanks to detox, and looked around for his crew. "If it's that kind of job . . ."

"It's that kind of job." He didn't recognize the man's uniform, but the tone of voice was unmistakable. Sarknon followed him along the corridor to a compartment full of people in EMS vests, and five minutes later he was explaining all he knew about demolition.

Instead of the organized, disciplined planning groups Cavallo was used to, a roomful of civilians were muttering, arguing, and even (in the case of one fat man in the corner) shouting. Cavallo spotted the major at once, and made his way over. "Sgt. Cavallo, sir; NEM Special Response Team."