“They adjust, idiot." The Man again.

“… bits of Idiran and Culture ships would be floating all over the place and we could… that bow laser… and it’s still fucked."

Woman,

different one.

“Our effector won’t have damaged it, will it." Another male; young sounding, cutting across what the woman had said.

“It was on suck, not blow," the captain said, or whatever he was. Who

were

these people.

“… of a lot less than granddad over there," said one of the men. Him! They were talking about him! He tried not to show any

sign of life. He

only now realized that of course he was

out

of the suit, lying a few meters away from people probably standing around it, some with their backs

to him. He was lying

with one arm underneath his body, on his side, naked, facing them. His head still hurt and he could feel saliva dribbling

from his half-open mouth.

“… weapon of some sort with them. Can’t see it, though," said the Man, and his voice altered, as though he was changing position

as he

spoke. Sounded like they had lost the plasma gun. They were mercenaries. Had to be. Privateers.

“Can I have your old suit, Kraiklyn." Young male.

“Well, that’s that," the Man said, his voice sounding as though he was getting up from a squatting position, or turning round.

It seemed he

had ignored the previous speaker. “A bit of a disappointment maybe, but we did get this suit. Better get out

now before the big boys show."

“What now." One of the females again. Horza liked her voice. He wished he could get his eyes open.

“That temple. Should be easy meat, even without the bow laser. Only about ten days from here. We’ll do a little bit more fundingup

on some

of their altar treasures and then buy some heavy weaponry on Vavatch. We can all spend our ill-gotten gains there."

The Man—Krakeline or

whatever his name was—paused. He laughed. “Doro, don’t look so frightened. This’ll be simple. You’ll

be thankful I heard about this place, once

we’re rich. The goddamn priests don’t even carry weapons. It’ll be easy—"

“Easy out. Yeah, we know." A woman’s voice; the nice one. Horza was aware of light now. Pink in front of his eyes. His head

was still sore

but he was coming to. He checked out his body, consciously calling on the feedback nerves to gauge his own

physical readiness. Below

normal, and it wouldn’t be perfect until the last effects of his geriatric appearance had faded

away, in a few days—if he lived that long. He

suspected they thought he was already dead.

“Zallin," the Man said, “dump that weed."

Horza opened his eyes with a start as footsteps approached. The Man had been talking about

him!

“Aah!" somebody cried nearby. “He’s not dead. His eyes are moving!" The footsteps suddenly halted. Horza sat up shakily, narrowing

his

eyes in the glare. He was breathing hard and his head swam as he raised it. His eyes focused.

He was in a brightly lit but small hangar. An old, weather-beaten shuttle craft filled about half of it. He was sitting almost

against one

bulkhead; near the other stood the people who had been talking. Halfway between him and the group stood a large,

ungainly youth with very

long arms and silver hair. As Horza had guessed, the suit he had been wearing lay prone on the floor

at the feet of the group of humans. He

swallowed and blinked. The youth with the silver hair stared at him and scratched nervously

at one ear. He wore a pair of shorts and a frayed T-

shirt. He jumped when one of the taller men in the group, in the voice

Horza had decided was that of the captain, said, “Wubslin," (he turned to

one of the other men) “isn’t that effector working

properly."

Don’t let them talk about you as though you aren’t here!

He cleared his throat and spoke as loudly and as determinedly as he could.

“There’s nothing wrong with your effector."

“Then," the tall man said, smiling thinly and arching one eyebrow, “you should be dead."

They were all looking at him, most with suspicion. The youth near him was still scratching his ear; he appeared puzzled, even

frightened, but

the rest just looked as though they wanted rid of him as quickly as possible. They were all humans, or close

to; male and female; mostly

dressed in either suits or bits of suits, or T-shirts and shorts. The captain, now moving through

the group, closer to Horza, looked tall and

muscular. He had a mass of dark hair combed back from his brow, a sallow complexion

and something feral about his eyes and mouth. The

voice suited him. As he came closer Horza saw that he was holding a laser

pistol. The suit he wore was black, and its heavy boots rang on the

naked metal deck. He advanced until he was level with

the young man with the silver hair, who was fiddling with the hem of his T-shirt and biting

his lip.

“Why aren’t you dead." the Man asked Horza quietly.

“Because I’m a lot fucking tougher than I look," Horza said. The Man smiled and nodded.

“You must be." He turned round and looked briefly back at the suit. “What were you doing way out here in that."

“I used to work for the Idirans. They didn’t want the Culture ship to catch me, and they thought they might be able to rescue

me later, so they

threw me overboard to wait for the fleet. It’ll be here in about eight or nine hours, by the way, so I wouldn’t

hang around."

“Will it, now." the captain said quietly, raising his eyebrow again. “You seem very well informed, old man."

“I’m not that old. This was a disguise for my last job—an agatic drug. It’s wearing off. A couple of days and I’ll be useful

again."

The Man shook his head sadly. “No you won’t." He turned and started back toward the other people. “Dump him," he told the

youth in the T-

shirt. The youth started forward.

“Now wait a goddamned minute!" Horza shouted, scrambling to his feet. He backed against the wall, hands out, but the youth

was coming

straight at him. The others were looking either at him or at their captain. Horza swung forward and up with one

leg, too fast for the young man

with the silver hair. He caught him in the groin with his foot. The youth gasped and fell

to the deck, clutching at himself. The Man had turned. He

looked down at the youth, then at Horza.

“Yes." he said. Horza got the impression he was enjoying it all. Horza pointed to the now kneeling youth.

“I told you—I can be useful. I’m pretty good in a fight. You can have the suit—"

“I’ve

got

the suit," the captain said drily.

“So at least give me a chance." Horza looked around them. “You’re mercenaries or something, right." Nobody said anything.

He could feel

himself starting to sweat; he stopped it. “Let me join. All I’m asking for’s a chance. If I louse up first time,

dump me then."

“Why not dump you now and save the hassle." The captain laughed, spreading his arms wide. Some of the others laughed too.

“A

chance,

" Horza repeated. “Shit, it isn’t much to ask."

“I’m sorry." The Man shook his head. “We’re overcrowded already."

The silver-haired youth was looking up at Horza, his face twisted with pain and hate. The people in the group were smirking

at Horza or

talking quietly to each other and nodding at him, grinning. He was suddenly aware that he looked like just a skinny

old man in the nude.

“Fuck it!" he spat, glaring right at the Man. “Give me five days and I’ll take

you

on anytime."

The captain’s eyebrows went up. For a second he might have looked angry, then he burst out laughing. He waved the laser at

Horza. “All

right, old man. I’ll tell you what we’ll do." He put his hands on his waist and nodded at the youth still kneeling

on the deck. “You can fight Zallin

here. You feel up to a rumble, Zallin."

“I’ll kill him," Zallin said, looking straight at Horza’s throat. The Man laughed. Some of his black hair spilled out of the

back lip of his suit.

“That’s the idea." He looked at Horza. “I told you we’re already overcrowded. You’ll have to produce a vacancy." He turned

round to the

others. “Clear a space. And somebody get this old guy some shorts; he’s putting me off my food."