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They are sending up two more fighters."

"We need to get Cree on board the other ship," Dr. Dean insisted.

"Vortex, we are sending you some company," Lares stated. He punched into the

numbers, then stood up. "You, warthog!" he said, grabbing Kahn and pushing him toward the transporter console. "Make yourself useful."

Kahn fell into the chair, snarling, but had sense enough not to protest. It wouldn't have

done him any good anyway for the dark man had scooped Cree into his arms and was

carrying the Reaper to the transporter pad. "Activate," Kahn heard the Necroman order as he, Dorrie, and the Director stepped onto the transporter pad.

"Tempest! Hard to starboard!" came Hesar's urgent warning.

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Raine McGregor rolled the runabout, heard Kahn cursing vehemently. "You okay,

Admiral?"

Tylan Kahn didn't reply. He wanted to make sure Cree had arrived safely on board the

Vortex. "Vortex, did you get them?"

"Affirmative, Tempest." There was a pause, then: "Get your ass up here, Sir! Those gods-be-damned woman have got an arsenal coming after you!"

"Noll! Thorne! McGregor!" Kahn demanded. "On the pad!" He barely looked up as the three men did as they were told. He activated the transporter and sent them to the prison

ship. "Vortex, I'm leading them away from the ship. How about bringing me on board at

your earliest convenience?"

"Will consider your request, Sir." Tealson Hesar chuckled. From his console, he

watched Tylan Kahn execute a perfect rollout and veer sharply to port. "He hasn't lost his punches," the Keeper remarked. He used the sleeve of his royal blue uniform shirt to

wipe away the perspiration on his face. Glancing up as Raine joined him, Hesar grinned.

"Think you can handle this for a moment?"

"I've been known to take a turn at the controls on occasion," replied McGregor.

"I want to make sure Cree's all right," Hesar told him.

By the time Kahn had led his pursers a safe distance from the Vortex and had beamed

on board The Vortex, the pilotless runabout heading into deep space, Dr. Dean and her

technicians were making Cree as comfortable as they could in the ship's sick bay. The

Reaper was still unconscious, but his vital signs were stable.

"His parasite will be working over time to repair all this damage as quickly as

possible," Dr. Dayle remarked. She wiped away some of the dried blood from Cree's face.

"Whoever did this certainly enjoyed themselves."

"I would venture to say it was Lord Onar's men," said Beryla Dean. She was laser

stitching closed the tracheal incision made by the young Serenian nobleman now that

Cree was breathing on his own.

Tealson Hesar walked up to the surgical table. He was relieved to see the Reaper's

normal ruddy color had returned. "He'll be all right, won't he?"

"He's healing at a remarkable rate due to the parasitic intervention," Dr. Dean

acknowledged, "but I don't like the fact that he's still unconscious. He was without

oxygen for a long time."

Hesar frowned. "Why does that concern you, Lady?"

"There could be brain damage," Dorrie answered for the Director.

The Keeper shook his head vehemently. "The parasite would not allow it."

"How is he?" Tylan Kahn drew their attention as he came hurrying into the sick bay.

"As well as can be expected under the circumstances," Dr. Dean reported. "It's a wait-and-see at this point."

"Keep me informed," Kahn said. He took one last look at Cree, and then cocked his

head for Hesar to leave with him.

There were nine men on the flight deck of the prison ship Vortex: Admiral Tylan Kahn,

Commander Tealson Hesar, Lieutenant Alexi Noll, Ensign Paegan Thorne, Sergeants

André Arbra and Hern Belvoir, and the two Princes, Raine McGregor and Lares Taborn.

In sick bay, there were six women: Doctors Beryla Dean, Amala Dayle, and Aurora Burds

and technicians Dorrie Burkhart, Ivonne O'Malley and Tina Portas. In all, sixteen

survivors making a run for their lives to avoid the plasma missiles aimed their way.

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"No matter where we go in this galaxy, they'll follow," Kahn was telling the men. "As long as they know Cree is alive, they'll keep coming."

"What do you suggest?" asked Raine.

Kahn drew in a long breath, and then exhaled slowly. "We make for Terra."

Raine blinked. "Earth?"

Kahn shrugged. "What choice do we have?"

"You do not think they will follow us there, warthog?" snarled Lares.

Tylan Kahn slowly turned his head and glared at the dark man. "Don't call me that

again or I can promise you I will have you jettisoned out one of the gods-be-damned air

locks!"

Lares grinned. "Warthog," he replied.

"Lares," Raine sighed. "Now is not the time."

"I can see a few problems with that plan, Admiral," Hesar put in, wanting to postpone the confrontation every man there knew would take place between Kahn and Taborn.

"Let's hear them," Kahn growled, snapping his attention away from the dark man.

"For one thing," Hesar said, holding up his hand and counting the reasons on his

fingers. "We need a cybot to fly this baby while we're in ES."

"Make a run by FSK-14 and pick up Troilus," Noll suggested. "Or get one off The Sirocco, Teal."

Hesar thought a moment. "Our `bot was off-line when we landed." He looked worried.

"What are our chances of snatching yours before we get blasted into dust?"

"Computer!" Noll snapped. "Status on C-051468/040771."

The Vid-Com clicked on. "One moment, Lieutenant." After a five-second pause, the

computer reported: "Cybot 051468/040771 is in hard stasis on board The Revenant."

"Are there guards near The Revenant?"

"Negative, Lieutenant."

"Is the cybot being monitored?"

"No, Sir."

Noll exchanged a grin with Thorne. "Activate cybot 071468/040771 and have it ready

for transport in 30 seconds."

"Understood, Lieutenant."

"Take us in range, Mr. Hesar," Noll requested, "and we'll pluck Troi off the tree like an overripe lemon!"

Thorne winced at the analogy. "By the gods, I hope he isn't carrying fruit blight, then!"

"A virus, you mean?" Lares grunted. At Thorne's nod, the Necromanian smiled. "I am very good at curing viruses."

"A veritable whiz when it comes to computers," pronounced Raine McGregor.

"Any more concerns, Tealson?" Admiral Kahn asked as the men prepared to fly over

FSK-14 to retrieve the cybot.

"I'm sure there's enough hypersleep chambers aboard, but what about sustenance for

Cree?"

The other men paled. Noll looked up from his navigational console. "Sweet Merciful

Alel," he whispered. "There is none on board!"

"Then we'll have to make a run on the ancillary—"

"They will be expecting us to try that." The Admiral shook his head. "We can't risk it."

"We've a sick bay," Thorne reminded them. "We'll just have to donate—" McGregor ABC Amber LIT Converter

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shook his head.

"Why not?" Thorne demanded.

"When he was on Hell-12 and had to have blood during Transition, the Healer wouldn't

take it from anyone there," Raine explained. "She sent offworld for it." He held up his hand, forestalling anyone's questions. "The reason she gave is that any blood a Reaper

consumes is encrypted into his genetic makeup. It is bookmarked and stored for retrieval

just as any data is. That is how a Reaper can find his target when he's on a termination

mission. He's given a vial of the target's blood and he will home in on that scent."

"So?"

"Under normal circumstances, I'd say that wouldn't be a problem because every man

here is connected to him in a good way, but, now?" He shrugged. "He was without

oxygen a long time. If he can't remember who we are and he goes into Transition and gets

loose..."

"We can't keep him in the sick bay!" Kahn broke in. "We'd never be able to keep him there if he does cycle!"

"Then we have no choice but to place him in one of the containment cells," Lares

pointed out. "We will make him comfortable there."

"That still doesn't solve the problem of sustenance for him," Thorne reminded them. "If we can't donate and we can't lift it from FSK-14, what the hell do we do? Have any of

you seen a Reaper in Transition?"

"I have," Hesar said quietly, "and I don't care to see it again."

"So what do we do?" Thorne demanded. "We can't let him suffer like that for two and half months. If he isn't..." He couldn't say the word `brain damaged'. "...hasn't been affected by the loss of oxygen, he'll be stark raving mad by the time we get to Terra!"

"There is an alternative," Noll said quietly and everyone looked at him. The Keeper hesitated.

"Go on," Kahn said.

Noll let out a long breath before saying: "There are the bodies."

Kahn looked as though he might throw up. He stared at Noll, swallowed convulsively,

and then tore his eyes from the man. The others were as revolted by the suggestion and

shocked silence settled like a blanket over the flight deck. For a long time, no one said

anything, but each of their thoughts centered on the thirty corpses that still rested in the

cargo bay.

"Can he..." Lares cleared his throat, tried again, although he, himself, felt acutely nauseous. "Can he eat..." He fanned out his hands, waved them in circles, unable to finish. "You know," he finished lamely.

"I believe the word is carrion," Belvoir supplied and looked ill as well.

Kahn flinched at the word and felt bile rush up his throat. He sat down at the Captain's

console and put his hand over his mouth.

"As I said, it is a consideration," Noll told them.

"There is no..." Kahn swallowed. "...blood in..." He gagged and had to stop.

"Not fresh blood," Noll agreed, "but dried blood has..."

"Please!" Thorne insisted, looking green.

"I don't like the thought of it anymore than you do, Paegan," Noll snapped, "but what choice do we have?"

"None," Dr. Dean said and the men looked around at her. "I would suggest if you are ABC Amber LIT Converter

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planning on putting Cree where he can not harm us, you do it now. He is waking."

"Admiral?" Noll questioned.

Tylan Kahn looked at the Keeper, considered him for a moment. "Tylan," he corrected.

"There is no need for a Chief of Space Fleet Ops, now."

"All right, Tylan," Noll said. "What do you suggest we do?"

Kahn squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then made up his mind. "We move the

bodies to the containment cells."

TROILUS PEEKED through the Siliplex window of the main room of the

containment cell holding facility. It put its hands on the wall to either side of the

rectangle. "`My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr'd; And I myself see not the bottom of it.'" When there was no answer to his words, the cybot banged its head on the glass.

"`Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, sit like his grandsire cut in

alabaster?'"

Cree looked up from the place where he knelt on the floor. A sad smile touched his

lips. "Perhaps he's dead in his own mind, Troi," he answered quietly.

"`These words are razors to my heart,'" Troilus sighed.

"How are the others?"

The cybot laid its head on the Siliplex. "`The rest is silence,'" he reported, having injected the other travelers with hypersleep.

Cree stood and walked to the secured door of the holding facility. "Did they find my

lady?"

Troilus shook its head. "Ò mistress mine! Where are you roaming?'"

Deep, abiding hurt flitted through Cree's eyes. "He has her, Troi."

"`The day will come when thou shalt wish for me to help thee curse this pois'nous

hunch-backed toad,'" the cybot declared.

"I'll do more than curse him," Cree swore. He pushed away from the door and slid

down the wall to sit with his legs splayed out. "Go back on deck," he commanded. "I'm all right." He looked out over the bodies lying in the containment cells and hung his head.

"Àll the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: They have their

exits and their entrances,'" the cybot reminded him.

"Aye, and there is no greater sin to be committed but than to defile the dead," answered Cree.

Troilus made an almost human sound, its voice a whimper of pain. "Àre not these

woods more free from peril than the envious court?'"

Cree flinched. He looked down at his hands, saw the nails elongating, the coarse fur

sprouting from the backs of his hands. "No," he whispered.

"Ìf it were done when `tis done, then `twere well it were done quickly,'" Troilus

warned him.

"Find my lady," Cree snarled. "Go, Troi. Find her! I can smell her blood. We're not that far away."

The cybot stood for a moment longer at the window, then, turned. "`The attempt and

not the deed confounds us,'" it replied.

A long, low snarl came from the Reaper. He dug his claws into the holes of the

corrugated metal floor and refused to acknowledge the scent of the bodies only a few feet

away. His hunger was immense and his thirst a desert in his mouth. He tried to settle his