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Bechimo
Dock A


The crisis ’doc finished its inventory, and provided an estimated time of completion.

Anthora rose from the stool Kara had provided for her comfort, put her fingers lightly against the lid, as if touching the cheek of kin, and left the alcove.

“How can he just be gone?” Theo asked.

Hevelin was sitting upright on her lap, his back pressed into her chest. She—there were other things that she should be doing, other than staring at an empty room that had no physical presence on the ship. She’d do them, soon. But first she had to understand…

“Tocohl said that he was attempting to enclose the virus with a trap—perhaps he intended to push it back to its entry point in the legacy system just before Tocohl sealed it,” Bechimo said. “He was not completely reckless; he did employ armor.”

“But he went, himself.”

“Yes,” Bechimo agreed.

There was a step in the corridor.

“Anthora yos’Galan approaches,” Bechimo said.

Theo was at the board, staring at a screen displaying an empty comm tower. The last time Anthora had seen that room, Joyita had been sitting at the desk, sparring with Clarence.

However, the empty tower was a mere curiosity. What demanded her attention was—Theo.

Theo had always been—bright in the Inner Eye, very nearly as bright as Val Con. The energy was not merely emotion, nor purpose, nor intellect, nor even her alignment with luck. There was a definite tang of dramliz energy, very like Val Con when he was standing fully as Korval, or when he was riding a hunch.

Anthora took a careful breath.

“Theo,” she said. “We need to talk.”

Bright burning anger flared. Theo’s shoulders lifted—and fell. The flare subsided.

She spun the chair.

“About what?”


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Framed