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equally dangerous in its own way.
    Smart private guards, dressed in Garrick’s livery, escorted them all to the door. Exiting past the security station, they emerged onto a utilitarian concourse divided by a sunken track for the auto-cabs that looked more like a fairground ride than a transport system but sped efficiently around Crossways’ complex spiderweb of interconnecting routes.
    A tub-cab, garishly hand-painted yellow, red, and blue, pulled up. Serafin West stepped out, trim for seventy, but with a face wrinkled like a walnut. He had a satchel of small engineering bots slung over one shoulder, which he was able to connect to, mentally, via his implant. He called them his boys.
    â€œHey, guys.” He grinned at them. “Glad of an excuse to get out of the stadium for a while. It’s good to see my fellow criminals looking so well. I hear you ran into trouble.”
    Ben shrugged. “Had to change our plans about Chenon. Crowder outmaneuvered us. We’ll get settled here first and try again.”
    A second cab pulled up, equally bright. Gen Marling, nearly four months pregnant and just starting to show, leaned into the protective embrace of a tall settler with a brush of dark hair. Ex-settler, since Max Constant had thrown in his lot with the psi-techs, even going so far as to have an implant fitted, though he’d barely learned how to use it yet. His civilian suit set him apart. Maybe that’s why Gen had elected to leave her buddysuit behind. She wore leggings topped by a lightweight tunic in blue with a spray of peacock colors emblazoned across the front that flattered her small bump and set off the golden undertones in her skin.
    â€œWill you two get a room?” Wenna said.
    â€œGot one,” Max said. “The stadium’s not the place for us to hang out. I may have been forgiven my romantic indiscretion . . .” He squeezed Gen’s waist. “But having an implant fitted is one step too far for my former settler colleagues.”
    â€œSo we figured we’d come house-hunting with you,” Gen said. “I want to make sure we get somewhere decent.” She patted her belly. “We don’t know how long we’ll be here and I don’t want to bring up baby in a dump.”
    â€œHow come you know where we’re going?” Ben said. “I only asked Serafin to come and do a structural survey of the place.”
    â€œAh, my fault,” Serafin said. “I may have mentioned it to a few people as I was getting the boys together.” He patted his satchel.
    â€œAll right.” Ben sighed a mock sigh. “Come on.”

    â€œCoffee, Mr. Jussaro?” Crowder pushed a lidded cup toward the squat, genetically engineered individual with a serious case of monobrow and unsettling nictitating third eyelids. His dark purple-black skin, slightly scaly, was designed to be impervious to the cancer-causing radiation that swamped planets in the Hollands System.
    Jussaro blinked his inner eye membrane sideways, like a reptile, and reached for the cup, hesitating just short of grasping the handle, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether the offer would be snatched away. He glanced toward the clear panel on the interview room door to see if anyone was observing.
    Crowder opened his hand to indicate the coffee was his, free and clear.
    Jussaro nodded and drew the cup between his palms, holding it under his nose and breathing in the fragrant steam before sipping slowly. “Nice. Thanks.”
    â€œYou’re welcome. No need to be uncivilized. I believe you’ve been Mr. van Blaiden’s guest on Sentier-4.”
    â€œYou might say that.”
    â€œHe wanted to know the whereabouts of Cara Carlinni, I expect.”
    Jussaro put the coffee on the table and sat back, eyes suspicious. “I’ve not seen van Blaiden for weeks . . . months . . .” He jerked his shoulders. More of a nervous twitch than a