"That's good news-how many of you?"

"Just me, sir. I was inbound on a supply run-I've been acting as supply sergeant for the picket boat."

"A NEM supply sergeant? No, don't tell me-later, when we have time. We have a real bad situation here." Quickly, the major laid it out-the intruders, the preschool field trip, the information he had so far on station resources. "They don't have anything equivalent to your training," he said.

"Good basic emergency services, but nothing to handle large-scale terrorist actions. They'd been warned, but they didn't really know where to get the information they needed. That's why I was here. And those kids are really our problem now. The med staff has told me that they're more susceptible to sudden pressure changes than adults-they get shock lung more easily, and it's harder to treat. Same is true of chemical riot-control agents, or the acoustics. We're going to end up hurting the kids no matter what we do, so we have to be very, very fast."

"Negotiation, sir?"

The major shrugged, with an expression Cavallo couldn't quite read. "They've got the usual complement of mental health professionals, and two of them have some experience in small-scale stuff. Man holding his ex-wife hostage and threatening the kids, that sort of thing. But nobody with this kind of experience, and I'm not sure they realize how different it is. I suspect that our bad guys wouldn't talk to a Fleet officer . . . and as you can tell I have an accent that won't quit."

"These those New Texas guys?" Cavallo asked.

"Don't know yet. So far we have no contact. The stationmaster cut all com right away; I've been unable to convince him to reopen at least one line. He's afraid they'll override the security precautions to the main computers, I think."

"We can fix that, sir," Cavallo said. "I brought the demolitions and communications kits from the shuttle."

"Good man. Let me get you to the stationmaster."

"If they want to kill the children, to make a statement or something, the kids are as good as dead-if they aren't already. We can't prevent it. What we can do is talk to them. Our sources tell us they have very strong family connections, especially to their children. We can hope they are

less likely to kill children, more likely to negotiate where children are concerned."

"But they think our children are heathens-"

"Yes, but they didn't hurt the children from the Elias Madero. They wanted to save them. They

aren't likely to have planned this for the one day a year the preschool has its field trip."

Cavallo's Irenian accent had amused his Fleet associates at first. After twentysome years he could turn it on and off like a tap-his implants helped-but at the moment it might be useful.

"Anybody there?" he asked, drawling it out.

Silence followed. Then, in a thick accent made familiar by the newsvids of Brun's captors, "Who

you?"

"I'm lookin' for that teacher-Sera Sorin. We're worried about those children."

Silence again, but not so long. "What children?"

"Those children in the tram. It's time they was home, don't you think?"

"What you mean havin' chillen in a transgrav tram? Don't you care about 'em?"

"Of course we care; that's why I'm callin'. Can I talk to the teacher, please?"

"Puttin' chillen in the care of a woman like that. Boys too. Downright disgustin'. No, you cain't

talk to her; she's doin' what she's tol', keeping them chillen quiet."

"But they're all right? I mean, you know kids, they need the bathroom, and they get hungry and thirsty-you got enough snacks for 'em?"

Another voice, this one older and angrier. "No, we don't got food for kids. Your kid down here,

mister?"

Cavallo had considered trying to impersonate a parent, but kids that age couldn't be fooled

easily. If he claimed to be some boy's father and the boy said "That's not my dad!" they'd be worse off than they were now.

"No," he said. "Not mine-but it might's well be. Children are everyone's responsibility, where I

come from."

"And where's that?"

"Irene." They might or might not know anything about Irene, but if they did, that would

fit-Irenians had a Familias-wide reputation for idealistic child care.

"Oh." A pause; Cavallo wished he'd been able to get a vid tap in; facial expressions would tell

him a lot. But the vid pickup was still snaking its way through the utility lines, a good seventy meters from Heavy Cargo Two. "Well . . . it's too bad about the kids, but-"

"I can get you supplies for them," Cavallo interrupted. "Food and water. For you, too," he added

as if this were a new thought rather than an orchestrated tactic.

"Listen, you, whoever you are-"

"Fred," Cavallo said, choosing an uncle's name at random. "Fred Vallo."

"Well, Fred, thing is, these chillen are dead if we want 'em to be."

"I understand that," Cavallo said.

"So you better give us what we want-"

"If the children die," Cavallo said, letting the steel into his voice, "none of you will get off

this station alive."

"If you want 'em alive, you do what we tell you," the voice said. Behind it, another younger voice

protested, "But we can't kill children."

Cavallo smiled to himself. Trouble in the enemy camp, and talking to a negotiator . . . they had already lost. If only small children hadn't been involved.

"I need to speak to someone who can assure me that the children are unharmed," he said. "If not the teacher, one of the other adults on the tram."

"Wait," said the older voice.

Cavallo muted his mike and turned to the major. "You heard, sir? There's at least one who's going to cause their leader trouble if he hurts the children, and so far they're willing to talk."

"Yeah . . . but how long will it last? Wonder if he'll really let you talk to one of the adults?"

"I-" The light blinked on his set, and he turned the mike back on.

"Go on-" said the voice he was used to. "Tell them the chillen aren't hurt."

"But they want to use the toilet-" came another voice, a man's.

"Tell 'em."

"Uh . . . this is Parkop Kindisson . . . with the Little Lambs field trip? . . . you know about

that?"

"Yes, Ser Kindisson," Cavallo said. "Are the children unharmed?"

"Well, they aren't hurt, but they're scared, especially Bri because he saw his father get hit, and

they need to use the toilets, and they won't let us, and they're getting hungry, and they won't

let us get them anything at the tram station snack bar, and-"

"Enough!" The angry voice was back; Cavallo could just hear the distant protest of the other man.

"You know this Kindisson fellow?"

"Not personally, no," Cavallo said. He had skimmed a file on all the adults with the field trip, and knew that Kindisson was a single parent, taking a day off his job as a coater for the housing authority to help chaperone the children.