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watching his every move; if not Turner, then that half-bald redhead associate of his, Bright Law.
    "You might as well turn off the spy equipment, Werch. I'm not going to do anything that'll help you strengthen your hold on me."
    He listened for a moment and thought he heard a faint snap from over by the vid unit, like a tiny switch turning off… or on. He got up and smiled into the dark screen. All he could see was his own ghostly reflection. He reached into a back pocket and ran a staticomb through his golden-white hair.
    "What we've got here is an uneasy partnership," he said to the blank vid display. "You need a good pilot and a good ship, and I need the money deposited to my account in order to finance the release of my men from that damn Cavonian prison. But I have to tell you, this search assignment is about the most boring mission you could have come up with. And those two backnet amateurs—Devor and Clamber—why you think I need them along on this job is beyond me. For a cagey businessman, you're not too smart sometimes, if you don't mind me saying so."
    He slapped the side of the vid unit with the palm of his hand. "Are listening, Werch?"
    There no sound in the room except for that of his own breathing.
    Kleg laughed quietly. "How 'bout we watch a little vid before supper:" He touched the key that turned the unit to the commercial channels. "You like sports? Let's see how the Dolphins are doing."
    He changed the channel. "No, let's watch a little educhannel. What's this'? 'The Wonderful World of Fractals.' Nah..." He changed the channel again. "I know what. A game show! You like games, right?"
    Kleg Karr continued rotating through an assortment of the more than three thousand micro-stations until 2100 hours, when Zaxt appeared at his door to escort him to dinner.
    * * *
    Aura Devor carefully packed her meager belongings into two small suitcases. She had come to PANIC, Inc. only two days before, but almost everything she owned, including all three of her purple and grey uniforms, was setting or hanging somewhere in her small room. She'd put them there, out in the open, certain that someone would search her luggage anyway. Thus her clothing wouldn't get soiled or torn by heavy-handed security clowns.
    As she packed, she found herself staring at the black, clinched fist emblem on the center of her blouse. How many years had she worn this symbol of anti-Imperial protest? She recalled the first time her band of dissidents had used the black fist logo while raiding an Imperial drug-processing facility; they had called themselves "The Saints."
    It used to be exciting, she thought. Our motto to "Battle, murder and sudden death." We were so sure that all Qestans and even other races would rally to support our cause and we could make a difference in the way the Imperium ran the Core. But lately, our results have weakened to near insignificance. The Imperium shrugged off our last two propagandistic appeals and began a pursuit threatening to end "The Saints" for all time.
    Originally, she had wanted equality for the masses. Now, she welcomed this low-profile, high-paying exploration mission as an opportunity to re-evaluate her feelings and test the determination of the few fellow Qestans who would continue to work as her crew.
    It would be an opportunity to try and commandeer Karr's Silver Dagger , too, if she got half a chance. She was unsure how she'd deal with the co-pilot, Clamber. Should she try to persuade him to join her cause, or do something more direct, more drastic?
    Aura shook her long violet hair and continued packing. And just what was her cause, these days? she wondered. Had the political circumstances shifted, without notice, leaving her behind? The concept brought her back to staring at the black fist emblem all over again….
    * * *
    Turner Werch rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He took a deep breath and stretched the kinks out of his back. The work just never stopped piling up. His body felt