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“We copy,
Montero
. You're clear for departure. Good sailing. Alpha Seven over.”

“Thank you, Alpha Seven. See you soon.
Montero
CO over and out.” Andromeda silenced the mike, slowly let out her breath. Yet another moment she relished: the ship leaving port, bound for the stars. Glancing around the bridge, she saw the same expectant expressions on the faces of her crew. No one who worked on a starship could be unmoved by that particular instant, no matter how many times they might have experienced it.

Sean remained stoical, though. His arms were folded across his chest as he continued to gaze at the screen. “Enjoying yourself?” Andromeda asked.

“Yes, ma'am,” he replied.

Andromeda was still staring at him when the countdown reached zero, and
Montero
's four engines fired. A dull rumble as the hull shuddered, then Andromeda felt a gentle but insistent hand push her against her seat. Looking away from Sean, she watched as the dry dock slowly moved away from the ship until there was nothing to be seen ahead except the broad blue-andgreen curve of Coyote's horizon, shining bright against the pitchblack darkness.

For the next several minutes, the only words spoken in the command deck were the occasional comments of the flight crew as the
Montero
eased itself out of high orbit and commenced the .05-g thrust that would take it to the starbridge. Coyote disappeared from sight, to be replaced by Bear, its rings no longer resembling a blade but instead becoming a silver ellipse around a blue-banded world. As the starship left Coyote behind, the stars began to come out, until space wasn't a black abyss anymore but instead a tapestry of distant suns.

Melpomene finally reported that the
Montero
had reached cruise velocity, and Andromeda ordered her to reduce thrust to one-quarter. Zeus rang two bells, signaling that general quarters was over. Andromeda unfastened her lap strap and rose from her seat; now that the ship was at low gravity, everyone would be able to stand and walk around, at least until the
Montero
reached the Lagrange point near Bear, where Starbridge Coyote was located.

Raising her arms above her head, the captain arched her back and stretched, then she turned toward the remote survey station. “I hope you...” she started to say, then stopped.

Sean was no longer there. The moment that two bells had sounded, he'd left his seat and exited the command center, without so much as a word to his mother.

“You're welcome,” she whispered to the empty chair. “Come again anytime.”

T
HE LAST TIME SEAN CARSON HAD SEEN THE GATEHOUSE AT Starbridge Coyote was when he was a small child aboard that very same ship, just after the
Castro
had made the hyperspace jump from Earth that would change his life. Although he'd been in space on several occasions since then, this was the first time in his adulthood that he'd visited the starport in trojan orbit near Bear.

Back then, the gatehouse had been little more than a spindleshaped collection of modules that had once been the EASS
Columbus
, the first European starship to reach 47 Ursae Majoris. The original station was long gone, deorbited shortly after the second starbridge was built and sent spiraling into Bear's turbulent upper atmosphere. In its place was the new and much larger gatehouse: a ring of twelve cylindrical modules around a central docking hub, serving as both the starbridge's control station and also a port of call for the various alien vessels that came through hyperspace to humankind's sole colony world.

The gatehouse was primitive in comparison to
Talus qua'spah
, the vast space colony in orbit above the
hjadd
homeworld; nonetheless, it was an impressive piece of engineering, particularly when one considered the fact that it had been built from scratch with materials extracted from Bear's other moons. From his cabin window, Sean saw another starship hovering on the station's opposite side. He recognized the seed-shaped form as being a
nord
merchant ship, its solar sails furled upon the spars projecting from its elegantly streamlined hull. Other than a couple of merchant marine freighters, it was the only vessel in sight.

Four bells rang, signaling the final burn of
Montero
's maneuvering thrusters; the ship was about to enter parking orbit near the station. Adjusting his grip on the ceiling rail, Sean let his feet swing free as, a few seconds later, a vibration passed through the ship. The burn lasted less than a minute; when it was over, gone were the last vestiges of the low gravity he and the others had enjoyed during the long ride out from Coyote. Since the
Montero
didn't have diametric drive, it wasn't equipped with Millis-Clement field generators either. No more gravity until the ship was under way again.

Sean had just swung his legs down to plant his stickshoes against the carpeted floor when the cabin door slid open, and Mark Dupree floated in.

“You're right,” Mark said, pushing himself to the other side of the narrow cabin the men shared. “You get a better view from the wardroom.”

“Thought so.” Sean looked back out the window. “I remembered the windows as being bigger on Deck Two.”

“Well, you'll get another chance in fifteen minutes. We're meeting the Janus rep there as soon as he arrives. His skiff is already on the way over.” Mark paused. “Cayce told me to tell you that you're expected to be there. No excuses this time.”

Sean nodded. Lunch had been served in the wardroom a few hours earlier, but he'd skipped it. He'd claimed to be spacesick, but Kyra had smuggled him a sandwich anyway; she knew the real reason why he'd ducked the little get-together with
Montero
's crew, as did Mark. His mother had tricked him into coming up to the bridge; he'd escaped as soon as it was safe enough for him to go back down the access shaft, but as much as he didn't want to give her another chance to corner him, he knew that another encounter was inevitable.

“Yeah, well... guess there's no getting around it.” Sean zipped up his unitard, then unclipped his Corps waistcoat from a wall hook. “I could find a gun and shoot myself in the foot, but someone would just haul me to the autodoc.”

“That someone would probably be me.” A wry grin as Mark planted his own shoes against the floor. “And you don't want me to get pissed off at you.”

“An empty threat, and you know it.” Sean slipped on the vestlike waistcoat. “
Sa'Tong
ians are pacifists. You wouldn't do anything to me even if your own life was at stake.”

“Wrong. I'm a pacifist only so long as my own life is concerned. But the Fourth Codicil gives me permission to kick your ass if it'll stop you from hurting yourself or others. And until you get over your problems with your mother...”

“Never mind.” Sean sighed as he found his uniform beret in the waistcoat's side pocket. He thought about putting it on, then decided against it. Too formal. “Let's just drop it, okay? I'm sick of talking about it.”

“Really? That's funny. As long as I've known you, you've never told me what this is all about.” Mark folded his arms together. “What
do
you have against your mother, anyway?”

“It's a long story.” Sean turned toward the door. “C'mon. Let's get upstairs before the lieutenant has a fit.”

The wardroom didn't look like any other compartment on the
Montero
. Indeed, Sean reflected, it looked very little like the way he'd remembered it from when the
Montero
was called the
Castro
. Over the years, the crew had made it as homey as possible; the utilitarian furniture had been replaced with a long blackwood mess table and leather-backed chairs, and the floor was covered by a handmade carpet with an intricate Navajo design. The walls had faux-birch panels upon which artwork had been hung; there was a framed painting of the Gillis Range on Coyote, but also a crayon drawing of the ship that apparently had been done by the kindergarten-age child of one of the crew members. Someone had even tacked up a restaurant menu beside the galley serving window; it wasn't until Sean looked more closely that he realized it was a joke since everything on it was a gourmet version of the ship's standard fare: potage au chicken noodle, grilled ration bar, and so forth.

The chairs and table, of course, were useless until the
Montero
was under thrust; when he and Mark arrived, they found the rest of their team using hand and foot rails to keep themselves in place. Cayce glared at Sean as he came in. “I take it you're no longer feeling ill,” he said, his tone suggesting that he suspected Sean's earlier excuse to be false.

“Not at all, Lieutenant. Thanks for asking.” Using the wall rail, Sean pulled himself across the room until he reached Kyra's side. “Did I miss anything?”

“Only a chance to get acquainted with the crew.” There was an amused glint in Cayce's eyes. “Of course, you probably know one or two of them already.”

Ignoring the jab, Sean turned his head to gaze out the window, a broad oval that took up most of one wall; through it, he could see the gatehouse a little more clearly. As he watched, a skiff glided away from the
Montero
, heading toward the station. The small craft had apparently just dropped off the expedition's final member; he guessed that one of the crew was probably escorting the company rep to his quarters.

“So who is this guy, anyway?” Standing at the other side of the room, Sandy LaPointe gazed out the window past Sean and Kyra. “Not just a company suit, I hope.”

“He's a senior vice president with Janus,” Cayce said stiffly. “Which means that this better be the last time I hear you call him a suit, Corporal.”

“Oh, okay... so he's a very important suit.” Sandy winked at the others. “Glad to have that cleared up.”

Sean and Mark chuckled, and Kyra bit her lower lip to keep from laughing out loud. Janus Ltd. was the Federation's largest private import company, and also the merchant marine's leading partner. Originally established on Earth, it had relocated to Coyote shortly after the new world's independence was recognized by the United Nations. After contact was made with the
hjadd
, Janus had become responsible for opening trade with both them and the other Talus races. As a result, the company continued to grow in prosperity and power even after the death of its founder, Morgan Goldstein.

Janus and the merchant marine—and by extension the Coyote government—had very close ties, and sometimes it was difficult to see where the dividing line lay. No wonder, then, that a senior VP would be accompanying the first expedition to the
danui
system. Sean just hoped that they weren't getting someone who'd try to micromanage the team as well.

So it came as a surprise that, when the wardroom door opened again, the person escorted in by Chief Petty Officer Brandt was a tall and rather thin gentleman in his middle years who looked more like a university professor than a business magnate. His closecropped black hair thinned to a small bald spot at the crown of his head, and his gaunt face was framed by a pair of antique gold-wire spectacles; for some reason, he'd apparently decided not to undergo optical surgery. He wore a frock coat over a black turtleneck sweater and khaki trousers, and the quick, easygoing smile he gave everyone as he entered the room was relaxed and unpretentious.

Kyra uttered a small gasp. Glancing at her, Sean saw recognition in her eyes. “I know him,” she whispered to him. “He's...”

“Shh!” Cayce gave her a stern look, and Kyra went silent again.

“Good afternoon, or whatever it is,” the newcomer said, then glanced at the old-fashioned watch on his left wrist. “Whoops... By ship's time, it's already evening.” A mildly embarrassed grin. “I must be off by a few hours. I could've sworn it was just after lunch.”

“Doesn't matter,” Mark said. “In space, it's always the middle of the night.”

An old joke, but the exec laughed as if this were the first time he'd ever heard it. “So it is, so it is.” He glanced at Zeus. “Thanks, Chief, I appreciate it. I think I can take over from here.”

“Very good.” Zeus started to back toward the door, then paused to raise a hand to his earpiece. He listened for a moment, murmured something Sean couldn't hear, and looked at the newcomer again. “Captain Carson sends her regards and says she'll be along shortly.”

Sean suppressed a sigh. It couldn't be helped; this was his mother's ship, after all, and he couldn't avoid her indefinitely. Kyra briefly touched his hand and gave him a sympathetic look; everyone else pretended not to notice his discomfort. “Very good,” the exec said, and once Zeus had shut the door behind him, he returned his attention to the Corps team. “Well, then... until the captain arrives, perhaps I should introduce myself. My name's Thomas D'Anguilo, and I'm the executive vice president of trade and development for Janus, Ltd.”

“Suit,” Sandy muttered. She feigned a cough into her fist to disguise the comment, but everyone in the room heard what she said, including D'Anguilo. He didn't look directly at her; nonetheless, he responded to her unkind remark.

“I'm sure some of you think I'm some kind of bureaucrat or corporate stooge,” he said, his tone remaining mild and unflustered, “but don't let the job title fool you.” With practiced ease, he planted his feet firmly against the carpet; Sean noted that his stickshoes, while apparently custom-made, were well-worn. “I prefer to think of myself as an astroethnicist, which is what I was doing at the University of New Florida before Janus hired me away.”

A low chuckle from Kyra drew everyone's attention. “Sorry,” she murmured, embarrassed by her own interruption. “It's just that... well, I thought I recognized you. I took one of your classes when I was at the university.”