"Hey, where are you going?"

Trip nearly jumped out of his skin when his shoulder was grabbed, but he relaxed just a little when he saw who it was: Datz! Trip didn’t know much about him—after all, he’d only met him just yesterday at the diner—but he was a friendly face and Trip was in big trouble. Any second Whistler and his buddies might show up. Trip had to find help or a place to hide right now!

Datz was standing inside an open doorway, smiling. He rested his gloved hands on his hips. His energy pistol, strapped to his right thigh, gleamed as it reflected the sunlight streaming into the open doorway. Behind Datz, the inside of the building was hidden by shadows, but the building sure looked safer than being out in the street.

"Trip, you look like you’re running for your life! What’s wrong?"

Trip tried to explain, but first he had to catch his breath. In between gasps of air, he explained, "Help me! Strange men … chasing me! Don’t … know why! Got … to hide … from them!"

Datz smiled. "Trip, don’t worry. Just follow me!"

Datz stepped back inside the building and flipped the light switch. It was a small storage room, with another door going deeper into the building directly across from the entrance where Trip stood. The room was filled with crates of all sizes, with stacks reaching to the ceiling. From the packages of food lying on the shelves, Trip figured this was the back room of a restaurant. Considering the dirt on the floor, it wasn’t someplace he’d want to eat. Still, a dirty place to hide was better than no place at all!

Trip glanced down the alley again. Whistler was nowhere to be seen. Trip stepped inside the storage room and closed the door behind him. Trip’s mind whirled. He spoke as quickly as the thoughts came to him.

"Am I safe here? I think those guys are criminals or something. They were threatening Uncle Craz yesterday."

After a few moments, Trip finally let himself relax. Datz looked pleased with himself.

"See, Trip. I told you it would be safe here. Nothing to worry about."

Trip started to move and nearly fell as the exhaustion caught up with him. All the energy drained from his body. The power converters clinked loudly as he dropped his backpack to the floor. Datz reached out and held him steady.

"Hey, hold on Trip! You look like you need to sit down for a few minutes."

Datz slowly guided Trip over to a small crate and helped him sit. Datz grabbed Trip’s backpack. Trip’s heart skipped a beat when he heard the power converters clink again.

"Hey Datz, be careful! Those power converters are worth a lot of money!"

Trip was dead-tired and just wanted to rest. The plastisteel crate wasn’t the most comfortable thing to sit on, but Trip felt he could fall asleep for years right now. Datz was still messing with the backpack, but Trip was too tired to argue.

Datz set the backpack down on the crate next to him and pulled out one of the silver power converters. He slipped off his left glove and ran his fingers up and down the smooth metal cylinder.

"So, this is what all the fuss is about. It’s heavier than I thought it would be."

Trip, half-asleep and only half-listening, wondered what Datz was talking about.

Trip asked, "Fuss? For who, Datz? And be careful. My uncle needs them for a ship he’s fixing."

"Trip, don’t be too concerned about it. It’s not anything important. The guys on my ship have been looking for some power converters."

Then Datz paused. He stared into space, his mind seemingly a million miles away. "Unfortunately, the one man who could help them—someone who used to help them and at one time wasn’t too different from them—turned his back on them. Does he think he can get away with that and act as if nothing happened? Does he think we’ll just walk away and forget?"

Trip was suddenly wide-awake, his heart pounding. What was Datz talking about? This sounded like trouble. Datz stared at the power converter, his voice trailing off, as if he was talking to himself instead of Trip.

"Imagine. People you used to trust with your life and then you turn them out into the cold. You’d think they’d be a little upset, maybe? Trip, what do you think?"

Datz gently slid the power converter back into the backpack, cinched the straps and moved the backpack to the floor. That was when Trip noticed the scar on Datz’s neck—small, hair-thin, barely two inches long.

When Datz looked up he had a smile on his face. Not a warm, friendly smile, but one that made a shiver roll down Trip’s spine.

"But that doesn’t matter now, Trip. Our problem is solved, kid, now that we have these," Datz said while patting Trip’s backpack.

Then Trip was certain. Datz was planning to steal the power converters! Trip couldn’t let this go, even though he felt too exhausted to move. Trip wondered what he should do. Should he make a run for it? How would he get the backpack away from Datz? Trip wondered if he would be fast enough to get out of here before Datz grabbed his energy pistol.

Trip weighed all the options, but Datz seemed to read his mind.

"Don’t try it. Don’t even think it, Trip. It won’t work. You’ll only get hurt."

Datz then slowly pulled off his right glove, revealing the same coiler tattoo that Whistler and the others had on their right hands. Datz was one of them! Trip was trapped. Datz reached down and pulled his energy pistol.

Trip had just a split-second and he tried to make the most of it. He leapt for the back door and pulled it open. Standing in the doorway was Slayton and one of the alien thugs who’d confronted Uncle Craz yesterday.

Trip tried to dash between them, but Slayton just shoved him back into the room. Slayton chuckled when Trip fell and slid backwards into the crates. The two stepped into the room and locked the door behind them. They pulled Trip to his feet.

The other door swung open and Whistler stepped into the room. He laughed—a high-pitched laugh so loud it almost hurt Trip’s ears—while the gill-pouches on his cheeks wheezed a high whistle.

Whistler said, "There’s our troublesome little friend. Good work, Datz. Diamond Black Joe will be very pleased to get both the power converters and the boy."

Datz chuckled and shrugged off the praise.

"It was easy, really. He thought he could trust me."

Then, Datz raised his energy pistol and pointed it at Trip. Trip’s heart pounded and he panicked. Trip knew he didn’t want to die, but what could he do? There was no escape.

For a second, Datz almost, almost, looked like he felt sorry for Trip, but then the cruel smile returned. He winked at Trip and said, "Sorry, kid. This is just business."

Trip saw a flash of green light and felt a surge of intense, burning heat. Then his world went black and his knees gave out….

When Trip woke up, all he could feel was the throbbing in his head. It felt like his head would burst apart as each pulse hammered against his skull. Tears welled in Trip’s eyes. Every sound—his breathing, his heart pounding, the rumble of the starship drives—was magnified a thousand times, all of it so loud that it was deafening. He couldn’t think. Trip wanted to bury his head, to curl up in a ball and scream at someone to turn it all off.

Then it hit him. The flash of light. The heat. Being shot. The rumble of the starship drives. Trip wondered, Where am I?

Trip calmed down enough to feel the vibration that shook his whole body. He felt himself being pressed back in an acceleration couch as the starship drives pushed on. It was a sound he’d heard a million times. In fact, he was so accustomed to it that most of the time he could identify a starship’s engines just by the sounds they made.

The motors sounded like they were Monoclars, probably 3VXs or 3VYs. They were old and cheap, but also very efficient and easily found in almost any scrapyard in the star cluster. The engines were ideally suited for short-range craft, particularly military ships.

Trip slowly opened his eyes. The lighting was low, the type typically used during space flight so pilots could read instrument panels and use visual reckoning to navigate by the stars. He was aboard a small shuttle. The ship had seats for about ten people plus the two pilots at the front of the ship. Trip was at the back of the ship. Through the forward viewports he saw stars.

Trip realized he was in space!

Considering the circumstances, this wasn’t the thrill he expected his first flight to be. Maybe it had something to do with being kidnapped by a bunch of thugs.

Datz sat comfortably on an acceleration couch directly across from him.

"Glad to see you’re awake, Trip. From the look on your face, I bet you’ve never been stunned before. The headache will go away in a few minutes. And welcome to the club!"

"What club?"

But Trip already knew the answer before Datz said it.

"Diamond Black Joe’s pirate gang. Your destiny is in our hands. Be smart about this."

Trip craned his head around for a better look. He couldn’t move anything else since he was tightly strapped into the couch, with belts across his waist, legs, and shoulders, as well as restraints on his wrists. Trip tried to wriggle his hand out from under the restraints.

Datz said, "Sit tight and relax."

"I don’t see that I have much choice, Datz."

Behind Datz, Slayton and another human sat behind the shuttle’s controls. Off to Trip’s left, one of the aliens from Uncle Craz’s garage was lounging in an acceleration couch and playing with his energy pistol. Trip thought it looked like he was trying to realign the blast chamber. Trip could probably fix it in a few seconds, but he didn’t much feel like helping any of these guys. Besides, he didn’t want to let them know how much he knew. They probably assumed he was just a dumb kid who didn’t know how to do anything. He was better off to let them keep thinking that.

Whistler was towards the front of the shuttle, looming over Slayton and the other pilot, barking directions at them. Trip’s backpack sat on an acceleration couch next to Whistler.

Trip took a good look around the ship. The ship was definitely made by Monoclar. Seating for ten people meant the ship was probably a D-16 Courier shuttle. That would make sense—the 3VX engines weren’t original equipment, but they could easily be retrofitted to fit the shuttle’s energy conversion systems.

Trip noticed, in addition to the controls, an automated weapons console was off to the far right of the pilot stations. That wasn’t standard equipment; it was probably bought or stolen on the black market. The control panel could run almost any type of energy cannon, allowing a single pilot to fight and fly at the same time. Trip realized the panel had been fitted with controls for energy redirectors on the bottom of the unit.

Redirectors allowed people to mount high-energy weapons on ships with small reactors. The directors continuously drew power form the ship’s fusion reactor during normal flight and shunted it into banks of storage batteries. In combat, the redirectors controlled the flow of energy from the batteries into the weapons, sending just enough for peak performance but not so much that the weapons would blow out. In case of a massive power surge—something that could easily happen in a battle—the redirectors would blow out like circuit breakers instead of allowing the surge to blow out the ship’s weapons or, worse yet, funnel back into the ship’s power grid. That kind of a backlash could disable a ship, stranding it in space. A powerful enough surge could blow up the whole reactor, taking the rest of the ship with it.

If these guys had a power redirector, they probably had multi-pulse cannons, which were very powerful weapons for a ship this small. Trip looked behind him to the back wall and saw a gunner’s console on a retractable lift. That meant the weapon was concealed beneath the ship’s outer hull plates. It was probably also shielded against sensor scans since most law enforcement patrol ships would take a dim view of a "civilian" shuttle with this kind of military hardware. In combat, the hull plates would slide out of the way, the weapon would slide out into place and whoever went into combat against this "simple shuttle" was in for a nasty surprise as they got a mouthful of energy blasts.

These guys meant business! They could sneak up on a ship, appearing to be an ordinary small shuttle. Seconds later, this "innocent" shuttle could have its multi-pulse cannons out and firing while the target’s gunners scrambled just to get to their weapons. Under the right circumstances—if, for example, they caught a ship with its shields down and its gunners asleep at the controls—the battle would be over in two or three volleys, with the target ship disabled and begging for surrender.

A million questions raced through Trip’s mind. Why am I here? Why did you capture me? What’s going on?

He didn’t know where to begin.

The shuttle gently rocked as it pushed through the darkness of space. Trip realized it might be a long time before he saw home again.

Datz looked around, bored, while Whistler directed the pilots to take a new heading. From the fact that he couldn’t see Saronon, Karrison’s star, Trip assumed they were headed out-system for deep space.

Trip finally got up the courage to ask, "Where are we going?"

Datz snapped to attention.

"We ask the questions. Now, be quiet until we reach the Diamond Shadow. But, for now, quiet. For your own sake."

However, the damage was done. Trip saw Whistler look up. The alien had heard Trip.

Whistler stared at Trip and immediately stalked back to Trip’s chair. He wheezed and as he came close, Trip picked up the strong scent of onion mixed with cinnamon. Trip looked up into Whistler’s cold, red eyes. Trip looked away quickly, frightened.

"Our little prisoner has something to say?"

Trip wanted to shut up, but he knew that giving no answer would be looked upon as defiance or disobedience. Whatever the punishment, it would be much worse if Whistler thought Trip was going to give him a hard time.

"I was just asking where we were headed."

Whistler grabbed Trip’s collar. Trip felt Whistler’s rough skin rub his neck; it was like living sandpaper except that it had a slimy coating. Whistler pulled on the collar and shook him so hard he got dizzy. That didn’t help Trip’s pounding headache.

Whistler sneered at him, shook him around again for good measure and whispered in Trip’s ear, "Look, kid. We have the parts we need. We don’t need you. Understand?"

Trip didn’t dare to look at Whistler, but the alien grabbed his chin and turned his head to face him. Trip looked again into the red eyes and saw the black pupils pulsing with anger. The onion-cinnamon smell was overwhelming.

Whistler repeated, louder, "Understand?"

Trip nodded quickly.

"Good. Then keep your mouth shut, kid."

Trip sat quietly. Terrified. Helpless.

Whistler strapped himself into an acceleration couch before ordering the jump to lightspeed. With a sickening lurch, the ship seemed to pop "up" hard and quickly. Trip’s stomach tried to drop out of his body and through the bottom of the ship. Trip looked out the viewscreens as the stars disappeared, replaced with a swirling vortex of spinning colors—reds, greens, blues, golds—all spinning in a rainbow blend, constantly changing and shifting. They were at lightspeed!

While the ship felt like it was going almost the same speed as before the jump, Trip knew that they were now travelling at several times the speed of light. He wondered where they were going. Trip knew that a ship was impossible to track once it jumped to lightspeed so now it would be impossible for Uncle Craz to find him. Trip was on his own.

Trip always believed his first trip into lightspeed would be exciting and thrilling. It was the kind of moment you spent a lifetime looking forward to and savoring. He never thought it would be against his will, held prisoner by criminals who’d threatened to kill him if he didn’t do as he was told. Now he was racing out into the unknown, leaving behind Pennick’s Crossing, Uncle Craz and the only life he’d ever known.

Trip watched the swirling patterns of color as blues shifted to purples and greens, the golds to reds, browns to silvers. He saw patterns—a starship, a strange creature known as a squorion with two dozen squirming tentacles—form cloud-like out of the colors and then fade away as quickly as they appeared. Trip knew they were all illusions. His brain was just trying to make sense of the random color patterns. He was unable to turn away as the colors raced by.

He’d always heard stories from spacers about lightspeed. A few claimed to have seen "monsters," claiming they were creatures from other dimensions. Others seemed hypnotized by visions they saw. Some claimed they’d been granted divine insight and then started new religions. Inspired artists tried to recreate these images through holo-painting. Some were never the same again: They always had that far-away look in their eyes and they lived just to watch the colors and images of lightspeed, seemingly bored with everything else in life. A few went flat-out insane.

Now that he’d seen the lightspeed effect in person, he finally understood. He felt the call of the stars, sensed the lure of space and adventure. Now it was stronger than ever before.

A few minutes later, Trip felt another lurch as the shuttle dropped back to regular space. Trip looked around anxiously while he waited for his stomach to slide down from the back of his mouth back to where it belonged.

Trip looked out through the viewport and saw Saronon, except now it was simply a very bright star, the brightest of the thousands he could see. It was far from the huge glowing orb he was used to seeing looming in the sky every day. From here, Saronon looked unexceptional, average, just like all the other stars.

One of the aliens glanced over and laughed at Trip.

"You’re a long ways from home now, kid."

Whistler joined in. "And you’ll be a lot further from home soon, Trip. Things will get a lot worse before long, little human child."

Trip felt his stomach slide around some more as the ship banked on its side. From the viewport, the stars seemed to slide to the right as the ship changed directions. Saronon slid out of view. As the shuttle flew towards deep space, Trip became aware of a small red dot. It steadily grew larger and larger. It wasn’t a star.

Within moments, the object slowly took on the shape of a long box, with a large, bulging circular stub at the front. Trip noticed a long stream of red-hot gasses jetting out of the other end. At the center of the box was what looked vaguely like a short, squat tower. Trip was looking at a starship. It was a big one, too.

The shuttle curled around towards the back of the ship. Datz had earlier called it the Diamond Shadow. The ship must have had a dozen engines: The engines, plus their reactors, energy cells, and lightspeed drive units probably filled the last third of the ship with machinery. With that many engines, the ship must be fast, but considering that it was a large vessel, it still probably was not very maneuverable. It was hard to turn that much mass quickly, no matter how many drive units you crammed into a ship’s hull.

Trip knew the Diamond Shadow’s design from holos he’d studied. It was a Tratellian Pocket Cruiser, designed for combat. The hull could take a lot of punishment, while it had enough weapons bays to be fairly dangerous. The large power generators were military grade and up to the challenge of powering several banks of combat lasers. The Tratellian Pocket Cruiser was supposedly available only to planetary governments, but Trip also knew about the black market. A few Steds in the right pockets and a ship in transit could be "lost" and diverted to interested buyers far from the reach of the law. Or, the pirates might have just captured it in combat and refitted it for their own needs.

The rounded front of the Diamond Shadow probably housed primary weapons and shielding systems. This area normally housed primary and backup power generators, too.

The ship probably also had sophisticated sensors. A ship this big couldn’t hide from other vessels by using baffling systems. Since it obviously was a pirate ship, it must have used its sensors to detect incoming vessels at a great distance. With enough warning, the Diamond Shadow would have time to jump to lightspeed and get away if it detected a superior enemy force. If the sensors detected suitable targets, the ship could power up its engines and race into combat. Trip thought the paint job—blood red with black trim—was a nice touch. It was ominous and fairly difficult to spot from a distance.

The shuttle eased below the Diamond Shadow and angled towards its large, belly landing bay. As the shuttle moved in close to the pirate ship, Trip spotted a least half a dozen double laser turrets protecting the belly section. That was a lot of weaponry for a ship this size. Trip guessed that it would mean the cruiser could have over two dozen, maybe even three dozen multi-pulse cannon turrets. It was obvious that these pirates expected to be in a lot of battles.

As the shuttle slowed and eased into the landing bay, a pair of heavily armed assault shuttles moved in alongside. The three ships slowly rose up into the pirate ship’s cavernous belly bay. Trip spotted a dozen fighters and half that number of assault shuttles on the deck. Many of the shuttles showed heavy battle damage and were partially disassembled, obviously waiting for repairs.

As the shuttle settled down on the landing deck and Trip studied the damaged ships, he now knew why the pirates were so desperate to get their hands on those power converters. Datz released Trip’s binders.

"Welcome to your new home."

Join the pirates or be dumped out the airlock. Trip didn’t think it was much of a choice.

"Of course I’ll join you," he said.

Diamond Black Joe waved Datz over.

"Datz, I’ll put you in charge of our newest crewmember. Trip, I knew you’d see things my way. Now, there’s just one little thing we have to take care of."

Suddenly Trip realized that Datz, Whistler and a pair of other crewmembers had surrounded him. They grabbed him by the arms and held him tight before he had a chance to wriggle away. Someone pulled his right arm out straight.

Whistler warned him, "Hold still, kid. It’s time for you to become one of us."

Diamond Black Joe opened one of the pouches on his belt and pulled out a small wand with a needle-tip point. He pressed a control stud and a series of lights on the wand lit up. The needle-tip glowed red.

Trip realized that the wand was a laser etcher, a tool of artists and craftsmen. It was normally used for cutting patterns in glass, ceramics and plastics, where pinpoint accuracy was essential. Colors could be set into the grooves carved out by the etcher; Trip had seen some magnificent works of art that had been created with this type of tool.

Diamond Black Joe handed the etcher to Whistler.

"Whistler, my good friend, you can do the honors. Brand him."

Whistler eagerly grabbed the etcher and twisted a knob to tighten the beam. Then, Whistler grabbed Trip’s right arm and twisted until he could see the back of Trip’s hand.

Whistler wheezed, "Now don’t twitch or we’ll have to grow you a skin patch and redo the tattoo."

Trip closed his eyes. Whistler lowered the etcher’s tip to his hand. Trip winced, hoping it wouldn’t hurt. Then he felt a thousand pinpricks crawling over the back of his hand, like miniature insect feet crawling back and forth. It itched so badly that Trip had all he could do not to pull his hand away. Trip tried not to notice the faint burning smell that drifted through the air.

After a few moments, the pinpricks stopped and Whistler dappled a clear, soothing gel on his hand. Instantly the itching went away.

"It’s all done," Whistler muttered, releasing Trip’s hand.

Trip opened his eyes and studied his right hand. He saw the same tattoo—the coiler wrapped around a stellar diamond—that was on all of the other pirates’ hands. The image was perfect, almost a work of art. And now Trip was marked as one of them.

Diamond Black Joe put the laser etcher back into its pouch. Trip felt all the tension rush out of his body. Finally, he might be safe. Then he realized that the pirates had not released their grip on him.

Diamond Black Joe reached into another pouch on his belt, opened it slowly, and pulled out a spray hypo. Normally used by doctors to inject medicines, the spray hypo was painless. All the patient felt was a rush of cool air and the medicine was in the bloodstream.

Diamond Black Joe opened the top of the spray hypo and pulled a small vial of gold liquid out of the belt pouch. He poured two, then three drops of the solution into the hypo’s storage chamber. Diamond Black Joe flipped the hypo’s power switch, glanced at the readout screen and muttered to himself, "Good, we’re ready for the final part of the initiation."

Diamond Black Joe held the hypo up so Trip could see it clearly.

"I assure you, this is not painful. All of my crewmembers have this. It’s a kind of insurance."

Diamond Black Joe stepped up to Trip, who tried to squirm away but was held tight by the others. Diamond Black Joe roughly pushed Trip’s head down and to the right. There was a cool puff of air on the back of his neck. After the shot, a dull ache lingered.

The pirates released Trip. He pulled free, rubbing the sore spot on his neck. Trip knew there was a scar on Datz’s neck at almost exactly the same spot. Looking quickly at another crewmember, Trip saw the same scar.

"Yes, it will leave a small scar, barely noticeable," Diamond Black Joe said. He put the hypo back into its pouch and pulled a small, handheld microcomputer from the case on his belt. He punched a few keys before saying, "Good. It’s working perfectly."

Trip hesitated, then finally built up the courage to ask, "What is it?"

"It’s a small, microscopic transmitter. Now I can track you anywhere on this ship. I will always know where you are if I’m looking for you. Every member of the crew has one."

That wasn’t too bad. It could have been worse.

"Oh, one thing," Diamond Black Joe added. "The transmitter is for more than just tracking you. It is connected to a small capsule no bigger than an eyelash. If I’m unhappy with you, all I have to do is enter the transmitter’s identicode and type in a special command. That activates the transmitter and shatters the capsule."

Diamond Black Joe stopped. Trip’s mind raced, trying to take it all in.

"There are any number of things that could be in that capsule, aren’t there Trip?"

"Yeah. I don’t think I want to know."

Diamond Black Joe enjoyed this torture. He laughed.

"Oh, Trip, ignorance is not bliss. Your life could depend on it. You see, inside the capsule is a potent neurotoxin. When the capsule is broken, it releases the poison directly into your bloodstream."

As he spoke, Diamond Black Joe leaned in close to Trip’s face, speaking more and more slowly and softly with each word, until his voice was barely a whisper.

"At first, you’ll feel nothing. Fifteen seconds later you’ll start to feel lightheaded, as if you stood up too quickly. Your fingers and toes will start to tingle.

"After thirty seconds, your arms and legs will be numb. You’ll feel your heart start to pound rapidly as your body begins to realize that it is dying.

"Another thirty seconds and you’ll lose all control over your voluntary muscles, collapsing to the floor.

"Fifteen seconds more and you’ll be struggling for breath. Shortly thereafter, you will black out. Two minutes after the capsule shatters, you will be dead. It will all be quite painless, even peaceful, but the end is swift and certain. Inescapable. Death."

Diamond Black Joe’s voice trailed off and he backed away, an evil smirk on his face. Trip’s life was in the hands of a madman.

"Trip, this may sound harsh, even merciless, but it is fair. All members of my crew have this implant. All work—and prosper—under the same rules. This has helped me develop a fiercely loyal and highly skilled crew. Those capsules have helped me squelch mutinies and discretely eliminate troublemakers who are bad for morale. And, as I said, there is vast opportunity for wealth here. All you need to do is follow the rules and do as you are told. It’s simple. Do you understand?"

Trip understood all too well. He’d never even thought about death before. But now there was the very real possibility that he could die because of the slightest mistake or misunderstanding. Then Trip looked at Whistler, who’d done nothing but threaten and bully him since their first meeting. A chill crawled down his spine. Trip realized that he might die if he angered one of his shipmates and they lied to Diamond Black Joe just to be rid of him.

Trip felt like curling up into a small ball and hiding. But that would do no good.

"Now, you’re one of us, Trip. Your Uncle Craz would be proud!" Diamond Black Joe said. Then he turned to Datz. "He’s your responsibility now. Keep him out of trouble, will you?"

Datz saluted, half-serious, half-mocking.

"No problem, sir. He’ll be ready for front-line duty in no time."

"Good. Good. Show him to his bunk and get him settled. Some proper clothes would help. But don’t waste too much time. He has deep space training in one hour."

Over the next few minutes, Datz guided Trip through the Diamond Shadow’s dark, cramped and foul-smelling corridors. Trip found himself more confused than ever: each deck looked virtually identical and there were no deck numbers on the corridor walls. Trip began to think that the homing beacon in his neck might be useful after all. If he got lost, at least they’d be able to track him down. He’d be able to call with his transcomm and ask for directions!

Trip wondered what kind of a warrior he’d make if he couldn’t find his way around his own ship!

Datz guided him down a corridor, then stopped and pointed towards a short, dark corridor. At the end were three small, identical doors, each barely large enough to crawl through. Each door was labeled, "Escape Pod."

Datz explained, "There are escape pod bays all over the ship. Enough for the crew—most of us, anyway. Each pod has room for six people. You never, ever launch until Diamond Black Joe gives us the order to abandon ship."

Trip noticed that the corridor looked darker than the rest of the ship. He ran the tip of his shoe across the gray floor plating and left a trail in the dust.

As Datz walked away, he added, "We’ve never abandoned ship. Diamond Black Joe would rather die—would rather have us all die—than surrender."

Trip jogged a few steps and caught up with Datz just as he entered a turbolift.

"Hurry up, little pirate," Datz taunted, laughing at him. "You don’t want to be caught alone in these dark corridors. You never know who—or what—might be lurking in the shadows."

Trip just nodded and went to step into the lift, but he stopped as he heard a scratch, scratch, scratch noise above him. It sounded like something raking across metal. Trip looked up and felt a warm breeze of freshly recycled air smelling of sweaty clothes and someone who hadn’t brushed their teeth in a week coming down from a heating vent. Trip hoped he’d get to the point where he didn’t notice how this ship smelled. After a few seconds he heard more scratching sounds.

"Datz, what’s that?" Trip asked.

Datz shrugged it off.

"Come on, get in here."

After Trip got onboard, the lift started, rocking gently back and forth as it rolled down into the ship.

"That was just the drannets. They’re all through the ship. They use the heating ducts for nests. They’ve been on the Diamond Shadow since before I got here. We ignore them mostly. Except when the crew gets bored and starts using them for target practice. They’re scared of us. Don’t worry, they’ll leave you alone."

As the turbolift eased to a stop, Datz led Trip through still more corridors. Trip was thoroughly lost, but he realized they’d entered a sleeping area. He saw several crewmembers, out of uniform, wandering the hallways and lounging in small side rooms. As he passed one room, Trip heard three pirates singing. They’d turned a familiar childhood tune into a bawdy ballad about the dancing girls on Thrembus Outpost. The words would have made his teacher blush.

Datz led Trip to a barracks room with six rows of bunks, each row stacked three high. On the far wall was a row of lockers. To the side, at the front of the room, Datz unlocked a door leading into a private room. It had a bed and a desk with a computer and holo terminal. In the back of the room was a shelving unit with an entertainment console.

Datz waved to the back of the barracks, saying, "Yours is the fourth row, bottom bunk. Most of the guys in this room are on duty right now, but they’ll be back later. Get settled while I find you a locker."

Trip found his bed and lay down on it. It was hard and lumpy. He couldn’t believe he was expected to sleep on this thing!

He heard Datz rifling through his desk as the clink, clink of too many pieces of plastic being shoved around too small a drawer echoed through the room. Then Datz spoke softly, too himself. "Ah, here we go. This will do."

Datz walked into the barracks room, tossing Trip a small, plastic card. He caught it and saw there was a small metal strip on the back.

"It’s the identicard for your locker. Number eight. You can keep your personal belongings there …." Datz paused for a second, then added, "When you get some."

Trip walked over and opened his locker.

Datz explained, "Just like everything else, quarters are allocated based on merit. Right now, you’re in with the newest, youngest crewmembers. You’ll be rooming with cooks, maintenance staff, basically non-essential crewmembers. Most people don’t stay here long. Either they move up or they get moved out. Prove yourself and you’ll get a bigger locker. Eventually you may get a private room with a couple of other crewmen. Now, let’s get you some clothes."

Datz went to the door in the back of the room and opened it. It was a disheveled closet with several racks of clothing. The shelves were stuffed with boxes although it looked like the closet was used like a trash bin, too. Datz rifled through the racks, muttering to himself, "No, too big," and "That looks like it’s about to fall apart," before presenting Trip with three changes of clothing.

Like the other crewmembers, the pants and shirts didn’t quite match. Datz just said, "This will do. Go get ready."

Trip placed the spare clothes in his locker, which he noted hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned out. The locker bottom had a layer of food wrappers, a couple of betting chips no doubt used in shipboard games of chance and—ugh!—crumbs from crackers and cookies. The locker smelled like rotten fruit. No wonder the ship was infested with vermin!

Datz showed Trip to the changing room. A few minutes later, Trip emerged dressed as a pirate. He stowed his old clothes in his locker. The new shirt was too tight around the shoulders and the pants were too long. The whole outfit itched.

Trip wanted to take a shower to wash away the feeling of little bugs crawling all over his skin, but he knew it would come back as soon as he put the clothes back on. Instead, he just told himself to get used to it.

Datz looked him up and down. "Not the best, but it’ll do. We don’t have much call for clothes in your size. Normally anyone your size isn’t much use so we just sell them off."

Trip wondered what that meant.

"Trip, this is your first time out as part of the crew. Diamond Black Joe wasn’t kidding. Get him mad, make a big mistake and …."

Datz made a motion as if he was punching buttons on Diamond Black Joe’s remote controller.

"‘Click, click,’ you’re dead."

Datz laughed and walked back out into the hallway.

"Come on, you must be starved. Let’s get you something to eat."

Datz took just four or five steps when he stopped and said, "Wait a second. Forgot my transcomm! Stay here and I’ll be back in a second."

Datz moved back towards his room. Down the hall, Trip saw some rough-looking characters. As the newest—and probably smallest—crewmember, Trip knew he might as well be wearing a flashing sign that said, "Defenseless kid! Push me around!"

A loud crash and screams of pain—followed by hoots of laughter and cheers from a chorus of human and alien voices—echoed from down the hall. Trip muttered, "Uh, Datz, I think I’ll stick close to you."

Datz didn’t pay any attention and just walked back to his room. Datz bent down over the security lock and Trip realized he had a chance. Trying to look casual—and not like he was watching—Trip peered over as Datz entered his identity code in the lock’s keypad. One, two, three—eventually ten numbers in all—and the door slid aside. Trip had the security code committed to memory. He didn’t know now what he’d use it for, but sometime it might come in handy.

Datz was soon done while Trip stood out in the hall, looking innocent.

"Come on, Trip, we’d better get moving or all the good stuff will be gone."

Trip wasn’t really hungry but he knew he should eat something. He also might learn more about how to get around the ship.

Datz switched from being a bully to acting like he wanted to be Trip’s best friend so quickly that Trip didn’t know what to make of him! Could he be trusted? Was he as desperate to get away as Trip was? Or would he abandon Trip when he needed him most?

Trip stopped himself. No matter how friendly Datz was, he was a pirate through and through. There was no trusting him. He was the one who lured Trip into the trap that got him captured. Of course, maybe Datz was just following orders and didn’t have any choice. It was all so confusing and frightening! What could he do?

As if reading his mind—maybe Datz just saw the look of confusion on his face—he put his hand on Trip’s shoulder to steady him.

"Trip, you’ve been through a lot, but you’ll adjust. You’ll do just fine. And what Diamond Black Joe said is true. Once you’ve earned some trust and respect, you’ll find the money is good—better than anything you’ll get repairing starships in your uncle’s grimy old repair bay. We did you a favor by bringing you here. While you’re new, keep your mouth shut and stay out of the way. In time, you’ll find your place here."

A few minutes later, Datz escorted Trip into the ship’s galley. The room was almost dark, with just a few round tables. There were probably two dozen crewmembers in the room and it felt crowded. A thick haze of smoke hung in the air. Trip spotted thick, smelly Jimantian cigsticks, Phloleam water-pipes and he smelled the cherry of aromatic Wat-burners.

As Trip and Datz walked in, the room fell silent. Chips from card games rolled on tables and crewmembers lowered their forks as everyone sized up the new arrivals. Trip heard the soft wheeze of Whistler’s breathing. He spotted the yellow-skinned alien and his fluttering breath-flaps in the back of the room.

Trip followed Datz to the food stations, but he felt Whistler’s stare drilling into his back. As Trip looked over his choices—steaming, foul-smelling green slop or steaming, foul-smelling orange slop—he knew Whistler was studying him, perhaps planning what he’d do to him when no one was around. Trip knew somehow, someday, Whistler would corner him. He tried to shake off the thought.

"Take the orange."

Datz’s voice brought Trip back to reality.

"What, Datz?"

Datz chuckled.

"Datz to Space Cadet Trip. Take the orange. Never take the green if you don’t have to."

Trip reached out and scooped two heaping spoonfuls of "orange" onto his plate.

"Datz, what is this stuff?"

Datz grabbed a couple of biscuits, wrapped two more in a napkin and slipped them into his pockets, and picked a trellberry-flavored nutrient drink pouch.

"No one knows what this stuff is except for the cooks. And you don’t see them eating it, do you? Near as we can tell, the orange has prond in it—we think. The green stuff is just plain nasty."

Trip grabbed his biscuits and a drink packet and followed Datz through the maze of tables. He stepped carefully between the chairs. It was a tight fit and he didn’t want to bump any of the crewmembers. Trip thought it best to follow Datz’s advice and keep a low profile.

Trip was relieved that Datz didn’t sit anywhere near Whistler, although there were two others at the table he’d picked. Trip took the last remaining seat while Datz shoveled some orange glop into his mouth. Between mouthfuls, Datz explained, "New kid’s name is Trip. He’s a mechanic and wants to be a pilot. Trip, this is Blaze and Donnigal."

Both of them nodded. Before Trip could take his first bite, Blaze pointed his fork at Trip, saying, "A pilot, huh? A lot of competition for those spots, kid! You’ll have to get through a lot of people before your fanny ends up in a fighter."

Trip tried to play it cool. "I meant someday. Someday I want to be a pilot."

Trip winced. He knew he sounded like a scared kid. Trip looked down, took his first bite and realized that the "orange" did taste like prond. It wasn’t bad. A little chewy, but the flavor was good.

Blaze broke out laughing. "Someday is for sissies, kid. Either you want to be a pilot or you don’t. And if you want to be one, don’t be a coward about it."

Trip looked at Datz for encouragement, but Datz just looked on, trying to hold back a grin. Trip was on his own.

"Okay, I want to be a pilot."

Trip downed another bite of food, watching Blaze carefully. A humanoid with light green skin and gray streaks in his thick blue-green hair, Trip thought Blaze was a Freystrellian. Blaze was probably at least as old as Diamond Black Joe. Coarse, jagged scar tissue ran across the whole right side of his face. When Blaze spoke, the right side of his face seemed slack. His right eye never blinked. The right side of his mouth barely moved. When Blaze grinned, nothing on the right side moved. It looked downright scary. The paralysis must be some kind of nerve damage. It could have been caused by anything: Nerve gas, battle injuries, perhaps even some sort of alien microbe. Trip figured that decontamination procedures probably weren’t a high priority on this ship.

"Kid, you want to be a pilot, you’ve got to earn it. See these scars?" Blaze pointed at his face and Trip saw that he was missing two fingers. He had vicious looking wounds on his hand.

Blaze waited until Trip nodded.

"These scars—I got them fourteen years ago. Chemical burns seared away half my flight suit. The chemicals worked up under my helmet. Then my engines died and the cockpit depressurized. My ship floated dead in space for three hours. This—" he said, running his hand along the scar tissue, "was the best reconstruction the medics could do."

Trip looked down at his food. Datz and Donnigal sat in silence.

"That’s how I got the name ‘Blaze.’ So when some kid who’s barely out of diapers says he wants to come in and be a pilot—after all the sacrifices I made—to replace me—"

"I didn’t say anything about replacing—"

Datz and Donnigal snickered. Datz whispered under his breath, just loud enough so Trip could hear. "Bad move!"

Blaze hollered, "Quiet when I’m speaking to you!"

Without having to look around, Trip knew all eyes in the room were on him. Trip wanted to defend himself but his resolve wilted. He looked at Datz, silently pleading for help, but Datz sat back, uninvolved. Then Trip realized that Datz had deliberately set him up! Trip just sat there while Blaze roared at him.

"You don’t just get your way when you sign on with the Diamond Shadow. You have to work your way up. But I’m not going to stand aside for you. You’re a threat to me and you won’t move me out of the way! If you want my seat, I’m going to do everything in my power to keep you under my foot."

Trip sat in stunned silence. Everyone watched to see how he would handle himself.

Finally, between bites, Trip said softly, "I’m just going to do my job, that’s all."

Blaze sat silently, then smiled his frightening left-sided smile. He put his fork down and stared at Trip with his good left eye. "You do that. Do your job."

Trip finished his meal in uncomfortable silence. Around him, conversations resumed as the crewmembers realized—most likely with disappointment—that there would be no fight.

After a few moments, Blaze and Donnigal left, leaving just Datz and Trip at the table. Soon the argument between Blaze and the new kid was forgotten as the room filled with the sounds of conversation and the clatter of chips and Steds being won and lost in card games.

As Trip ate—an act of routine, not because he was hungry—he remembered how much he didn’t belong here. But what could he do? If he tried to escape, he’d die. The situation was hopeless.

As he pushed his final bite around the tray with his fork, he sensed someone coming up behind him. He felt a shove on his shoulder and heard the wheezing of breath-gills behind him. He smelled the disturbing mixture of onion and cinnamon. It was Whistler.

Trip didn’t want to look up. Things were getting worse by the second. Trip looked down and felt his stomach churn as fear gripped him.

Whistler wheezed, "Already causing trouble? Blaze is a good man, but you can’t get along with him. Seems that you can’t get along with anyone."

Trip sat silently, looking down.

"What’s wrong? Not good enough to talk to me?" Whistler sneered.

Finally Trip spoke. "I don’t have anything to say to you. I don’t have a fight with you."

Whistler sat on the table, right next to Trip.

"Oh, you don’t want to fight. But you don’t have much respect for me either. Or Blaze. Or even Diamond Black Joe."

Datz just grinned. Trip felt cornered. Trip chose his words carefully.

"Whistler, I’m just doing what I’m told. What do you want me to say?"

Whistler shoved Trip’s tray onto the floor. Trip had no choice but to look up into Whistler’s cruel, red eyes.

"Kid, I don’t like you. If I hit you now, no one would say a word. Not a single person. How does that feel?"

Whistler raised his fist. Trip was cornered. He was helpless now, but if he moved to protect himself Whistler would strike. Or was this just a test of his nerve?

Whistler held his fist in the air, but Trip did nothing except look Whistler in the eyes. Finally, Datz spoke.

"Whistler, leave him alone."

Whistler turned to Datz.

"Should I? Don’t you think he needs an attitude adjustment?"

Datz smiled. "Oh, he’ll get one soon enough."

Whistler lowered his fist, apparently satisfied. He pushed Trip’s shoulder again, adding, "I’ll be watching you. Don’t screw up—I’ll be there."

Whistler left. After a few minutes, Datz grabbed Trip’s tray to take it up to the washer. He leaned over to Trip and whispered, "That’s your low profile? Keep up the good work."

As Trip was left by himself at the table, he felt like a fool.