The fleet had scattered back to the hundreds of hidden berths among the farflung Asteroids. I came awake in a pressurized burrow dug out in the particular rock Thorsten had chosen for himself and his crew. I'd been dropped in a corner and searched down to my shorts. There wasn't anything on me that I could use for a weapon.
Except—no, I caught myself before there was even a quiver in my left arm. Now wasn't the time to press against my ribs, to try to feel the almost imperceptible bulge of the singleshot capsule between my ribs.
I groaned and let my eyes flicker open.
"How's it, Ash?"
I looked up. Thorsten was standing a few feet away from me, looking down from under his spreading black eyebrows.
I put my hand up to my head. "Crummy. She hits hard."
Harry chuckled.
He wasn't a specially big man, but he was large enough. He had deep black eyes under his brows, an aristocratic nose that had been broken, a slightly off-center mouth whose lower lip was tighter on one side than the other, and a firm jaw. His hair was black—almost as black as mine, and as short. He hadn't changed much.
His voice started in the pit of his stomach, and worked its way up. When he chuckled, the sound was almost operatic, deeper than I remembered it.
"Why shouldn't I kill you, Holcomb?" he said.