Note: Thanks for your patience. I had some bad health and overwork recently that made it very hard to concentrate on this thing, but finally I couldn't stand it any longer and just decided to finish this section. I wanted to finish the next one after this too, and post them both together, but I can see that I'll never get done with that one until I get this one off my plate. Too bad, because not all that much happens in this section. But at least it's something. A sign of life anyway.

Rayman © Ubisoft Ent
Everything else in here © Rayfan

Chapter 14: The Black Hole, Part 1

"It was brilliant, First Mate, brilliant! You had the whole roomful of them oiled and running as smoothly as one single machine! What a leader! I've never seen anything like you!"

Hacker, his enormous white metal body folded practically in half to bring his face as close as possible to Piranha's, scuttled alongside the first mate as he walked rapidly down the crowded corridor. Piranha threw him a sour glance, but did not alter his stride.

Hacker's striped pirate headscarf was set at a rakish angle, his gold-loop earrings (attached directly to his head, as he had no visible ears) jangled against his hollow skull. Like most of the robots, his face was not very mobile; but his doubled-over posture (so sycophantic it amounted to sarcasm), his high-pitched synthetic voice even squeakier than usual, and the rapid rolling of his round, ball-bearing-like brass eyes, with their empty little black pupils, all added up to a barely-contained, hysterical glee.

"And then!" Hacker continued, with a chuckle – in fact it could more accurately have been called a giggle – "What a masterful piece of talk that was, when you finished giving the evidence and dived in like a battle cruiser to sum up! What a prosecution! No jury could have acquitted after that! If ever a pirate should have been a man of law, Lord Piranha, you are that pirate!"

The small black figure halted abruptly, leaving the robot to overshoot him, stumble, and clumsily turn around.

"All right," Piranha growled, quietly. "You've had your joke. Now go get your boarding party together. The attack's in less than an hour."

"Attack?" snickered the robot. "Why, who could have expected that to come up all of a sudden?"

Piranha's voice, rigidly controlled, was almost a monotone. "Not you, of course. I don't suppose that could have had anything to do with you disappearing for three hours, with half the crew scouring the ship for you – and the other half sitting around in the meeting hall waiting to start the hearing!"

"Oh, Lord Piranha! So unfair to your loyalest man! How could I have known? Can a poor little Second Mate possibly know anything the First Mate doesn't?" Bending his massive body even further, Hacker flattened his face to the floor in the most servile bow imaginable. But a suspiciously jaunty motion kept quivering through him, his entire oversized frame quaking with silent laughter revealed only by those earrings, jingling like sleighbells.

"A shame, such a waste, First Mate! When I arrived, you were proving all my crimes so expertly! The men would have found me guilty for sure if they hadn't been called unexpectedly for an attack! Don't you think?"

Piranha maintained a wry silence.

Face still at floor level, Hacker said, wistfully, "The men, they're such crooks. Booty, that's all they think about, booty, Lord Piranha – just say the word 'attack' and they —"

Abandoning silence after all, Piranha exploded. "Where'd you get this 'lord' garbage? Knock it off!"

"Oh, but Boss," giggled the robot, "'Lord' is a special human title! No robot would want it, but it's so flattering, I mean, respectful, to humans of a certain kind—"

Piranha yanked open his coat, snatched out his blaster. At the sight of that glowing nozzle pointed in his direction, Hacker stopped talking. He couldn't seem to repress the jingling though.

"They'd never convict you, Hacker." Piranha's harsh voice seemed to emanate from the level of his boots. "You know that. So lay off the comedy. Go get your men together for that 'totally unexpected attack.' They won't be allowed on that booty hunt unless you show up personally to lead them."

Not Piranha's words, but the sharp jerk of his hand holding the weapon, finally jarred enough sobriety into the robot that he made an appeasing gesture with his anvil-like hands, got off his knees – though still bent in half – and backed quickly down the hall and around a corner out of sight. A last soft jingle tinkled after him.

Piranha glanced savagely around the corridor as he stowed his gun away. Fifty scattered pirates, robot and human, were elaborately unaware of everything except their own business.

Wheeling sharply away from the last traces of Hacker and his giggling, Piranha resumed his rapid stride through the corridor towards an elevator. The message was playing again over the announcement speakers, louder than before and considerably nastier.

"All hands prepare for boarding. Prepare for boarding, thirty minutes. Target vessel no cannon, may have small arms. Boarding from staging level, all starboard tubes. Piranha, GET YOUR LEGLESS ASS TO THE BRIDGE RIGHT NOW. Repeat, PIRANHA–"

Scowling, Piranha rammed a finger into the elevator button as if poking out an eye. That was some underling's voice, not Anaconda's, scolding him on the speakers for the entertainment of the whole crew. But of course it reflected the captain's own words, still no doubt reverberating on the ship's bridge.

For all its enormous size and boxy shape, the Insurrection was a fast and maneuverable vessel. Despite its weight, it was able to land on, and take off from, most humanoid-gravity planets. In space, of course, mass didn't much matter as long as the ship had enough power to overcome its own inertia, and its structure could withstand the stresses of acceleration, deceleration and turning. With its many and sophisticated engines, ingeniously reinforced construction, and powerful gravitation simulators (which, while providing internal gravity, also helped reduce the stress of directional changes) – not to mention weaponry that would have been the envy of most planet-based governments, the former travelling city had long ago been very thoroughly transformed into an impressive pursuit and attack device.

Though nowadays the Insurrection rarely attacked other spaceships, it was ready enough. Along with the big energy guns, effective both in space and in an atmosphere, the robots had fitted it with a number of huge grappling arms, flexible tunnels ending in drills, which could be extended to latch onto, and bore into, the hull of another ship, creating an airtight passage large enough for pirates to swarm through. At least, the passageway attempted to be, and nearly always was, airtight – since an outrushing atmosphere is inconvenient when dealing with humans.

Drumming his fingers impatiently against the wall, Piranha grimaced as the PA system chattered on, a gathering excitement detectable in its tinny voice.

"Closing on prey vessel. Apparently unarmed. Size – too large to estimate. At least triple, quadruple, mass of Insurrection. Weak forcefield defence. Titanium multiple-alloy hull. Vast caches of precious materials detected on board. Also heavily populated. Will board from [starboard, fore, staging level, as connections made. All hands to boarding tubes, all hands, staging level, staging level only—"

Abruptly the voice cut off, followed by silence. Barely audible in the background, some muffled shouting. Piranha's eyebrows raised. Had the helpless prey suddenly come up with some sort of weapon after all? There had been no jolt.

A moment later the elevator door opened. Piranha raced down the short corridor and through the door into the bridge. The room, as usual, was dark. Robot silhouettes gleamed, outlined by the low light of glowing instrument panels. On the viewscreen – Piranha boggled. That was a spaceship?

Whatever he was looking at, the Insurrection seemed to be much too close to it; all one could see was a slight curve extending out beyond the limits of the viewscreen, like the rim of a planet. Its smooth, dark grey mantle would have been invisible, even at this close range, in the dim starlight of space, but for a copious sprinkling over it of tiny, slowly flickering lights. The effect was oddly beautiful and mysterious. There was no sign of doors, engines, or anything else to mar the perfect circumference; though clearly artificial, the thing looked as self-contained as any natural inhabitant of the cosmos.

Anaconda was standing beside his chair in the middle of the room, his dark red cape thrust back from his black shoulders, his legs apart, arms stiff, head up: a picture of suppressed metallic rage. But when he spoke, his words came out in a languid drawl, as though he were lounging in his own personal quarters, enduring for the hundred thousandth time the unchanging excuses of subordinates. "Well, Grouper. You could have mentioned at some point over the past year that you'd got a new ship. You could occasionally make some vague effort to identify yourself to approaching vessels. It's your own corroded fault if we didn't recognize you."

The reply was heard throughout the bridge from an unseen speaker. A bit petulant at first, the voice gradually relaxed into expansive jollity by the end of its speech. "I thought even a pirate gives some warning before it starts punching holes in passing strangers! Sneaking up on me like that! By the lights of the universe, you knew I was going to meet you in this quadrant. Who else but me would be hanging around doing nothing in the middle of nowhere, way off all the trade routes, and no civilized planet within twenty days' travel at least? I wouldn't put it past you to pretend you had no clue who you were about to raid, you dented, demented old scoundrel. Ah well, once a pirate, always a pirate – I'da been disappointed if you'd done any different."

"How pleasant then that I didn't disappoint you," Anaconda replied dryly. He glanced towards the door, spotted Piranha, departed from the conversation long enough to freeze his subordinate solidly in place with an icy look. Then, flinging himself back into his chair, he returned to the Black Hole, glowering at the silvery-grey curve in the viewscreen with an expression much at odds with his cool, ironic vocal tone. "You'd be wise not to play that kind of game with other pirate ships. That new vessel of yours is a tempting bit of engineering; they might not be as quick on the uptake as I was."

"That's my Anaconda. Still with delusions of robot superiority." The thick voice was quite at ease now, oozing with good fellowship (to such a degree that Piranha, grimacing on the sidelines, unconsciously stroked his gloved hands against each other as though to wipe off grease). "Good, then," the voice continued, "we'll dock at, oh, 18:25, and I'll come aboard at, say, 19:00? Good enough?"

"Good enough." Anaconda hit a switch on a console near his chair, ending the conversation. Then swivelled towards his first mate. "Where were you?"

Piranha, however, was grinning. "Don't tell me that's the Black Hole? That's why the raid was cancelled? But you're right, it does look tempting. No wonder you didn't know what it was."

The robot scowled. "Nonsense. As always, I'm surrounded by blind, clueless incompetents." He turned away, slumping back in the big chair. "That idiot Grouper didn't bother to identify his ship until the last moment. He's lucky we received the code at all. And yes, it's the Black Hole all right. Enlarged. And upgraded. Considerably." Anaconda's glare focused absently on the metal tip of his swagger stick, twitching spasmodically in front of his face. He added, in a harsh mutter, "That – smirking swindler... Profits must be exceptional." The glowing yellow eyes took on a radioactive intensity.

Piranha gazed again at the planet-like curve in the viewport. "So they buy the – captives? All of them?"

Anaconda gestured irritably. "All the ones I decide to sell."

"And they – sell them—"

"It's no concern of mine what that skinflint does with them." Slapping his whip irritably against the chair arm, Anaconda thrust himself flat against the chair back. "He can devour them for all I care. But no doubt he will sell them in various ports. At a nice little profit." The black robot leaned abruptly forward again, his slender hands gripping into fists. His eyes narrowed to glowing slits; absently-mindedly he tapped the whip handle against his metal knee with a series of hollow tocs. "Yes... Seems he's not doing too badly. Not badly at all. On my oil and toil."

A brief silence. Piranha ventured, "Well, if you don't like it, Anaconda, what do you need him for? Why not just —"

"What? Sell off fifty thousand slaves myself? I'm not a goddamned grocer! Besides, the Insurrection does not land on planets – not ones that would be in the market for that sort of merchandise. All packed with pious hypocrites who raise their dainty hands in horror at the sight of pirates, and then start shooting. Bah, let Grouper take the risks, damn him, that's how he gets those obscene profits."

Piranha tilted his head, innocently. "You can't mean that Anaconda could be worried by poor little planetary yokels?"

The Boss leaned regally back in his chair, his long arms out straight, and clanked his jaw in disgust. "Don't confuse your pitiful backwater with actual civilizations. Those can put up a decent fight. But I don't give a jolt about them or their opinions. I'm an adventurer. I collect the plunder. Let that mundane clerk deal with the unglamourous disposal of it."

"Does that mean this guy also buys your – er – non-living plunder?"

The black robot swivelled his angular head to bore that hard gaze directly into Piranha's.

"Such intense curiosity about the affairs of others, First Mate. Most unbecoming. What are you doing here, anyway?"

Piranha took a breath with careful patience. "I've been waiting for you to tell me."

Abruptly Anaconda seemed to lose interest. "Do I need to hold your little hand every moment? Show some initiative for once." He slumped once more in his seat, a brooding, irritable look coming over him again. Vaguely, he waved a hand in no particular direction. "You might see to the idiots stowing the boarding equipment. No end of trouble if one of those sprang a leak. Oh, and make sure you show up in my reception room when the chiseller arrives. 19:15 hours. Might throw him off guard to give him a really good laugh." He sank into silence, staring fixedly at the grey curve on the viewscreen.

Piranha, not entirely sure he was dismissed, gave a small cough. Anaconda's head snapped around to face him again.

"Where did you come from? Get out!" His swagger stick cracked through the air.

Rolling his eyes, the First Mate departed.

Piranha sauntered out of the elevator into the lowest level of the ship, the huge, wide-open staging section, from which attacks on planets were launched, and to which booty and prisoners returned. Most of the boarding tunnels connected to this level. Glum orders were broadcasting throughout the ship: "Cancel boarding stations. Boarding cancelled. Cancel boarding stations. Retire boarding tunnels. Repeat, boarding cancelled, no attack, just forget it!"

Piranha had never seen the tunnels before. They were impressively huge, tall and wide enough for even the biggest robot pirate, or three humans abreast. There were six of these tunnels on this level, well separated, all partially extended and open enough that Piranha could see into their shadowy depths. He couldn't deny a little stir of excitement at the thought of dashing down one of those mysterious things into a completely unknown, exotic world. He shook it off.

A gang of some twenty to thirty pirates was clustered around each tunnel. A few minutes ago they had been excitedly setting them up; now, under the shouted orders of their gang leaders, they were sulkily closing them down again. Hundreds more pirates milled about, scattering across the enormous room, cursing and grumbling. Every few steps, Piranha was accosted by another disgruntled pirate demanding to know why the raid had been cancelled.

"You'll hear," was all the First Mate would say. "First stow those tunnels." The men did, working without enthusiasm. Among the crews he spotted Tulik, overseeing the demobilization of one of the massive devices. Piranha stopped, silently watching. After a time Tulik noticed him and gave a quick, low-key salute, tapping a half-closed fist against his silver chest. Piranha echoed the gesture with some formality, then moved on.

Most of the gangs were headed by one or another of his own personal subordinates. He passed Hacker and his unsurprisingly thuggish-looking band. Seeing him, the white robot bowed his upper body so low to the ground, with his hindquarters still raised, that he looked like a piratical stepladder. Piranha twitched an eyebrow in curt acknowledgement.

And there was Bubo with his group. Unhurriedly, Piranha moved closer, waiting to catch the big scarred pirate's eye.

The ship's intercom let out a harsh squawk, then boomed: "Attention all crew. Attention all crew. Rendezvous with the Black Hole. Docking at 18:25. Entertainment at 20:30. Liberties as will be notified."

The voice gabbled on, but whatever it was saying was lost. The room erupted with a cacophony of stamping, hollering, roaring, cheering.

Bubo glanced briefly at the first mate before returning to bellow orders at his crew, who were already melting magically away.

Piranha helped snatch a couple and thrust them back towards their work, then hurried to add his ferocity to the desperate effort by the crew bosses to keep their men on the job.

Long before the tunnels were finally stowed, the room had become a seething chaos. Piranha, hunting for Bubo, had to keep his sword raised to keep from being trampled. Forcing his own way through the parti-coloured, multi-odorous throng, Bubo nearly fell on him in the massive tide-like undertow of large distracted bodies.

"First Mate! Not crushed yet?"

Piranha motioned the giant's head down closer to his own. "What the hell is going on?"

"Are you kidding? It's the Black Hole!"

"The slave ship? So what?"

Bubo laughed. "So what? Liberty!"

Piranha squinted up at him. "I must be missing something."

Bubo opened his mouth to speak, but Piranha raised a hand. "Wait a minute." Taking hold of the big pirate's belt, he dragged him towards the stairway. They shoved and squeezed through the surging, boiling crowd – much like attempting to stroll through an avalanche – reaching at last the heavy door. They pushed past the uninterested guard, forced the heavy door open, and as if ejected into deep space, popped into the sudden dark vacancy of the staircase.

Piranha collapsed onto a stair with a gasp that echoed faintly up and down the vast metallic vortex. Bubo peered into the tunnel winding dimly up through the ship's many levels.

"Damn, Piranha, I'd forgotten all about these stairways."

"Nobody but me uses them – thank the gods."

"The slaves ain't allowed, and I guess the pirates are just too lazy. I know I am."

Piranha, feeling somewhat less smothered after a few breaths, stood up and stretched. He eyed Bubo sardonically. "Well, Bubo? What's this about the liberty of the slave ship?"

The big pirate grinned and sat down on another stair, pulled out a pipe. "The Black Hole. We meet her once a year or so, when we're full up. Big occasion for all the pirates."

"Why such a big occasion? Do the men get a share of the sale or something?"

"Oh, the sale, that's between old Groper – I mean, Grouper, the slave trader, and Anaconda. Nothing to do with us. Except that we lose most of the slaves on board, kinda shorthanded for a while." Bubo lit his pipe. "But – When the BH arrives it's like a carnival. It's loaded with – everything, that's all – hundreds of merchants, who come swarming aboard the Insurrection to buy and sell – mostly sell, to pirates with booty that's been burning holes in their treasure bags. Then there's bars, gambling spots, and, naturally, women. Not to mention the wingding the Boss throws right here to impress the Slaver. Talk about girls! The Boss trains 'em himself for the show. It's a tradition."

Piranha grimaced. Bubo took a puff of his pipe and laughed. "You're not gonna be a spoilsport are you, First Mate? We never get any liberty but when Black Hole arrives."

"I don't get it. What about all the time you spend ransacking planets?"

"Man, that's not liberty, that's hard work! No, see, the Insurrection never goes near a port, never visits the pleasure planets, never goes anywhere civilized, noplace except backwaters where we can do a little looting in peace. We never get to see new – you know, new girls, except for the slaves we capture ourselves. And those ones – bah, primitives, not quality like on the BH. And anyway you put the captives off limits, didn't you? So don't go giving the men a hard time about the Black Hole. That won't improve your reputation."

Piranha grinned wryly. "I wonder when I turned into the chief prude of the universe? I'm not, you know, it's just—" He sighed. "Well, don't worry, Bubo, your tradition is safe from me. So, how long does the party last?"

"Two or three days. Depends on how long it takes for the Boss and the Slaver to work out a deal, and how long it takes to transfer the slaves. Could be 40 or 50,000 of them."

Piranha leaned back against the uneven metal wall, thought for a moment. "So you sell slaves that have lived here for quite a while sometimes."

"Sometimes. The Boss doesn't like to let them get old and unsalable. We do have a few we keep – smart, trained, experienced ones, like the cooks or techs."

"How do slaves feel about being sold? I mean—"

Bubo blinked. "Feel?"

Piranha made a dismissive gesture. "Ah, never mind. The thought keeps hitting me, that's all. Just the name of the Black Hole was enough to petrify Elly."

The pirate eyed him with sudden curiosity. "Elly? Who's that? Not a slave? A girl slave? You, Piranha?"

"What are you talking about? You know, Elly – the little one —"

"Oh, wait! Her! The tiny one, that tasty bit. Haven't seen much of her in – that's right, the Boss gave her to you, didn't he?" Bubo cocked his head, squinting knowingly. "He must have wanted very badly to get on your good side, back then. Unless he was trying to get the crew mad at you. She was a popular little mite."

"She was?"

"Oh, very popular."

A look of faint distaste spread slowly across Piranha's features. After a moment, he said quietly, "Listen, Bubo. The bastard 'gave' her to me. That doesn't mean she's – she's mine."

Bubo grinned. "Then you won't object if some of your loyal men move in on her?"

Piranha leaped to his feet, eyes flashing. Bubo chuckled. "That's what I thought."

"Look, it's not—"

"Just joking, First Mate, of course you have your rights."

"Oh, for— Oh, never mind."

There was a brief silence, while Piranha sat back grumpily against the wall. Bubo said, offhandedly, "First Mate... Seems like the second mate was out with his gang this afternoon, readying the boarding arms."

Piranha sighed. "You noticed."

"So the trial didn't go well?"

"Might have gone better if you'd been there."

"Now Piranha, what good am I to you murdered? I'll collect evidence for you, but I'm not about to get my throat cut by giving it!"

"Well, it probably didn't matter anyway. I couldn't believe what went on in that room. I still can't. The whole crew despises Hacker – I know they do – but he played the clown for them and they lapped it up. He didn't even try to defend himself – he couldn't. Everybody knew he was guilty – theft, deception, cheating Anaconda and his own gang, not to mention murder. He made fun of every charge, and – my god, he had the whole audience laughing. First at him, then with him. Most of all, I think, at me. Why? Don't they remember the thousands of times Hacker's betrayed them or ripped them off? Don't they care?"

"They expect to be ripped off. They take it for granted. They're grateful when it's done with jokes. Piranha, you should have made them laugh. You did a lot better with the crew when you didn't take this whole 'First Mate' deal so seriously."

Piranha smiled sardonically. "I suppose you're right. I keep getting foolishly distracted by threats of death."

Bubo shrugged. "A trial wasn't a bad idea, Piranha. You just gotta remember that it's entertainment. Like every other public meeting. Treat it as entertainment next time, and you'll have no trouble getting anybody convicted of whatever you like."

Piranha squinted his eyes shut, rubbed his forehead. "See, you should have been there. I need my political adviser. Okay. So what do I do about Hacker?"

Bubo took another puff on his pipe, found it empty, and stuck it back in his pocket. "I think you already know what I think."

Piranha snorted. "I'm not going to get rid of him by becoming him."

"Hey, it's your funeral, Piranha." Bubo grinned. "I'm not criticizing you – I'm just some guy who actually knows something about being a pirate."

"What I can't figure," Piranha mused, "is why Anaconda hasn't done anything about Hacker yet. He was in such a hurry to get rid of him awhile back."

The big pirate leaned closer to speak in a low voice. "Don't count on that. Things change. Don't ever count on the Boss to follow a straight line in any direction."

Piranha glanced at him with amusement. "You're full of good advice today, Bubo."

"I save it up."

He was supposed to be in Anaconda's chambers at 19:15. With nothing particular to do till then, Piranha followed his policing rounds through corridors already awash with celebration.

But what he was more uncomfortably awake to, now, was the slaves. Over the long months he had been on the Insurrection, they had gradually vanished into the scenery for him, become mostly invisible. Now that he looked, it was astonishing how many of them there were. They were everywhere, furtive as mice in the underbrush; darting nervously across halls, through doorways, behind crates, between clumps of hollering pirates; carrying small things, moving large things, delivering messages; and right now, many of them were tending to the pirates themselves, cleaning their boots, polishing their metal ornaments, trimming their hair and beards, and buffing robot carapaces to a shine.

The pirates themselves were rowdier than he'd seen them in a long time, maybe ever. When they saw the First Mate come glowering by, they'd straighten up a little, pretend to concentrate on something or other, but it was quite clear that the scant discipline he'd spent so much effort to build up had crumbled entirely into ruins. The men were roaring about the corridors in gangs, many clumping together to play dice or cards, quickly graduating to rougher games involving knives and other more improvised weapons, while others lolled around singing obscene songs, gossiping, trading insults, and yelling at the slaves who were nervously attempting to tend to them. The only ones who didn't break into fights every few minutes were those who were too drunk.

However, the chaos had its limit. With so many slaves around, no weapons were carelessly dropped, although cards, dice, cups, odd bits of clothing, and even money might be. It was pure reflex for any pirate to keep any slave, no matter how docile, from any hint of temptation. And even lying soused on the floor, a pirate would consider it beneath his dignity to speak to a slave in any way but a harsh bark. Meanwhile, the slaves were kept very busy propping their superiors against the wall, cleaning and grooming them much like worker bees caring for larvae.

All the slaves looked sickly, pale, hunched. Had they always been this way? Thin, underfed, skittish creatures. Elly had looked like that too, when he first saw her, anxious and tired, those lion-gold eyes huge in her sharp-boned little face. He'd seen that face again last night for the first time in months, at the mere mention of the name "Black Hole."

That damned ship. Piranha growled softly under his breath. Was it really so bad? How much worse off could you be than to live in servitude on a ship full of metal ruffians who'd captured you and murdered your village?

Anyway, she had the paper he'd given her. Dammit, she wasn't a slave. She was free, nobody owned her. He'd told her not to go anywhere without that document, and she damn well better not. With it, no one could lay a hand on her.

Piranha strode down the hall. He caught himself flinching now and then, when some enormous buffoon of a buccaneer stumbled too close to him – or when yet another wispy, grey little slave darted apologetically across his path like a fleeing sparrow.

Admit it, Elly had no confidence in that paper whatsoever.

Piranha took off his hat, running a black-gloved hand over his face and head. He sighed.

He turned suddenly. Behind him, down the corridor, there was an uproar of pirates, all bunched together, waving their arms, guffawing loud enough to penetrate the cacophony of celebration in the halls. This didn't look like a normal game, there was something moving in the middle of that cluster. He thrust his hat back on his head and made for the spot at a run.

As he ran, shoving aside alcohol-petrified bodies that swayed over him like trees, a tiny form burst out of the knot of shouting pirates and darted through the crowd in the corridor. Arms and legs flailing, it scrambled between thick limbs and over fallen trunks; then, for the first time seeing Piranha's approach, froze momentarily, turned and made a dive behind a groggy pirate seated on the floor (tankard of grog in hand).

Piranha dived right after the little creature, snatched hold of its brown, bare leg. It screamed, writhed, kicked, bit at his hands, then collapsed to the floor, sobbing.

Piranha, keeping his hands on it just tight enough to prevent a sudden lunge away, reared up and glared at the nearby group of pirates it had just escaped.

"Where did this child come from?" he demanded. "What were you doing to it?"

They shrugged, some defiantly, some rather sheepishly.

"It was just running around," one of them muttered. "We didn't hurt it."

The others, like a group of schoolkids, shuffled and nodded.

Piranha growled. Then looked down at the child. Unconsciously, his black-gloved hands were stroking its back. It had already stopped crying. Its reddened eyes glanced up at him for just a moment before it closed them, stuck its thumb in its mouth, and curled up close against his boots with a long, heartfelt sigh.

He gritted his teeth. Angrily, he turned to another nearby pirate, who was lounging against the wall while a tiny, timid old woman polished his boots with frantic speed. "Did you see where this kid came from? Any sign of its mother?"

"Probly don't have one, First Mate. The slave quarters' full of these orphan brats. Don't usully get out, but you know how discipline goes all to hell when the BH arrives. Damn vermin." Aiming this remark, along with a mild kick, at the slave, who showed no reaction except to rub even faster.

"Right," Piranha said. He picked up the child – already, with an unnerving trustfulness, sound asleep – and, grabbing the old woman away from the pirate, shoved it into her arms. "You know where to take this?"

"Ah – oh yes – master – if it's okay with the other master here—"

"It's okay," Piranha snapped, over the pirate's startled objections. "Get going, and you make sure no more kids get out of the slave quarters today!"

Ducking her head deferentially, the slave skittered off with the sleeping child. Piranha watched until he saw them escape into an elevator. A pang ran through him. Then, shutting off with a scowl any remaining piratical protests, he moved on.

Admit it. Maybe he didn't have too much confidence in that paper himself.

[End of Chapter 14, Part 1