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nothing, but that she needed to go. She'd promised, hadn't
she?
    And so she had--promised. Half her lifetime
ago, and the hardest thing she'd done before or since was closing
the hatch on him, knowing where he was going. She'd replayed their
last conversation until her head ached and her eyes blurred,
wondering what she could have said instead, that would have made
him understand...
    But he had understood. He'd chosen, eyes
open, knowing her, knowing how she felt. He'd said as much, and say
what you would about Korelan Zar, he was no liar, nor ever had
been.
    "You go, then," the memory of her voice,
shaking, filled her ears. "If this job is so important you gotta
take up the Juntavas, too--then go. I ain't gonna stop you. And I
ain't gonna know you, either. Walk down that ramp, Korelan, and
you're as good as dead to me, you hear?"
    She remembered his face: troubled, but not
anything like rethinking the plan. He'd thought it through--he'd
told her so, and she believed him. Kore'd always been the thinker
of the two of them.
    "Midj," he said, and she remembered that his
voice hadn't been precisely steady, either. "I've got to. I told
you--"
    "You told me," she'd interrupted, harsher
maybe in memory than in truth. She remembered she'd been crying by
then, with her hand against the open hatch, and the ramp run down
to blastcrete, a car waiting, its windows opaqued and patient, just
a few yards beyond.
    "You told me," she'd said
again, and she remembered that it had been hard to breathe. "And I
told you. I ain't comin' with you. I ain't putting Skeedaddle into Juntavas
service. You want to sell yourself, I guess you got the right. But
this ship belongs to me."
    His face had closed then, and he nodded,
just once, slung his kit over his shoulder and headed down the
ramp. Chest on fire, she'd watched him go, heard her own voice,
barely above a whisper.
    "Kore..."
    He turned and looked up to where she stood,
fists braced against her ship.

    "You change your mind," she said, "you send.
I'll come for you."
    He smiled then, so slight she might've
missed it, if she hadn't known him so well.
    "Thanks, Midj. I'll remember that."
    In the present, Midj
Rolanni, captain-owner of the independent tradeship Skeedaddle , one of a
dozen free traders elected as liaison to TerraTrade--respectable
and respected--Midj Rolanni drew a hard breath.
    Twenty Standards. And Kore had
remembered.
    * * *
    SHE SET DOWN AS pre-arranged in Vashon's
Yard and walked over to the office, jump-bag on her shoulder.
    Vashon himself was on the counter, fiddling
with the computer, fingers poking at the keys. He looked up and
nodded, then put his attention back on the problem at hand. Midj
leaned her elbows on the counter and frowned up at the ship
board.
    Rebella was in port--no good news,
there--and BonniSu, which was better. In fact, she'd actively enjoy
seeing Su Bonner, maybe buy her a beer and catch up on the news.
Been a couple Standards since they'd been in port together, and Su
had bought last time....
    "Sorry, Cap," Vashon said, breaking into
this pleasant line of thought. "Emergency order, all good now.
What'll it be?"
    All spacers were "Cap" to Vashon, who
despite it was one of the best all-around spaceship mechanics in
the quadrant--and maybe the next.
    "Ship's Skeedaddle , out of Dundalk," she
said, turning from the board. "Got an appointment for a general
systems check. Replace what's worn, lube the coils, and bring her
up to spec--that's a Sanderson rebuild in there, now, so the
spec's're--"
    "Right, right..." He was poking at the keys
again, bringing up the records. "Got it all right here, Cap. How're
them pod-clamps we fitted working out for you?"
    "Better'n the originals,"
she said honestly, which was no stretch, the originals having seen
a decade of hard use before Skeedaddle ever came to her, never
mind what she'd put on 'em.
    "Good," he said absently, frowning down at
his screen. "Now, that Sanderson--we have it on-file to tune at
ninety percent spec,