Part 1 (2/2)

The bag was halfway open-the stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d should have tossed it-and she reached in, her fingers closing around the coolness of the laser. She found the depression that turned the weapon on full, then brought it out- Only to have another man emerge from the trees, grabbing the laser from her hand. He turned it on her, slas.h.i.+ng just below the man's grip on her stomach.

Hot pain seared through her skin and she would have doubled over if the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had let go of her. But he hadn't. She flailed at him-panicked now-striking at everything.

The other man came toward her, the red blade still active, and pointed it at her face. She turned away at the last moment, and heard the man behind her scream.

Maybe the men weren't working in tandem. Maybe the man with her laser knife was trying to rescue her. Maybe he had hit her by accident as he went for the other man's arm.

Then something red flashed near her right eye and the pain seared down her face, cutting into her cheek and her mouth. She couldn't scream if she wanted to.

She was thras.h.i.+ng now, kicking and flailing, her entire body as much of a weapon as she could make it. C'mon, c'mon C'mon, c'mon, she sent to the security people through her links. Help me. Help me.

The redness slashed across her throat and she made a gurgling sound that panicked her even more. If she survived this, she would need surgery; she wouldn't be able to talk or to breathe on her own- Like she couldn't breathe now. Black dots ran across her vision. She couldn't pa.s.s out. She didn't dare. She would die if she pa.s.sed out. She willed herself to stay awake- And fought the darkness, even as it took her away.

2.

Miles Flint hurried into the Administration Center in the Port of Armstrong. His heart was pounding, and he wasn't sure whether it was from anger or confusion or both. He headed down the familiar corridors to the offices of s.p.a.ce Traffic Control, where he had started his work as a police officer more than a decade ago.

After his daughter Emmeline died.

He stopped a few meters from the large windows overlooking the corridor, and made himself take some deep breaths. His old friend Murray in s.p.a.ce Traffic had called him less than thirty minutes before to tell Flint that his daughter was in holding.

His daughter Talia.

Talia was Emmeline's clone, and two and a half years younger than Emmeline would have been. Flint had gotten Talia when her mother, Rhonda s.h.i.+ndo, had died. Before that, Flint didn't even know that Emmeline had been cloned, not once, but six times.

He had no idea whether the previous five clones had lived. He wouldn't let himself investigate. If they had lived, his investigation might endanger them.

He took a step forward and peered through the window. s.p.a.ce Traffic's headquarters was one large room that hadn't been updated in decades. A desk sat near the front, with some chairs for the handful of visitors s.p.a.ce Traffic got each year.

Talia was sitting in one of those chairs, her knees pressed against her chest. She'd wrapped her arms around her ankles. Her cheek rested against one kneecap. She had her eyes closed, but Flint knew she wasn't asleep.

He sighed. In the past, he used to imagine himself with his daughter Emmeline as she grew up. He'd envision himself holding toddler Emmeline's hand as she crossed the street, laughing with six-year-old Emmeline as they played ball in what once pa.s.sed for his backyard, scaring the boy-friends of teenager Emmeline when they came to call for that very important first date.

He'd never ever imagined his daughter as a difficult thirteen-year-old who had tried to run away five times in the past six months.

He rubbed a hand over his face, then straightened his shoulders and walked past the windows. He pulled the door open, expecting Talia to open her eyes. But she kept her eyes closed, playing at being asleep. He could play that game, too. He gently closed the door behind himself as if he were trying not to wake her up.

Murray, who had been desk sergeant since Flint was a rookie, turned toward the door. When he saw Flint, he shook his head.

”That's trouble over there, that's what that is.” Murray hadn't had the enhancements most people his age got. So he looked elderly and had from the day Flint first saw him. Flint used to think Murray was long past retirement age, but now he knew better. Murray could be anywhere from seventy to one hundred and twenty. There was just no way to know.

Flint stood near the desk, angled so that he could see Talia, Murray, and the murals painted across the walls. The murals covered the entire history of the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps that had traveled to the Moon, starting with the first Apollo modules so long ago. He used to love those murals. Now they were looking a bit faded, rather like he felt.

”What happened this time?” he asked Murray. ”Caught her boarding a freighter for Earth. Thank whatever G.o.d you believe in that the freighter captain was ethical enough to run her through the networks. Most wouldn't have.”

Talia still hadn't moved, but she looked rigid.

She was listening.

”You didn't see her board?” Flint asked. That was how Murray had caught her on two previous occasions-the very first time, when she tried to sneak aboard a cargo s.h.i.+p, and the last time, when she'd boarded a pleasure cruise heading for Mars.

”That little one has figured out how to stay off my screens.” Murray gave Flint a significant look. Apparently Murray knew Talia was awake as well. ”Never said she wasn't bright.”

”Believe me, I know,” Flint said.

Murray gave him a compa.s.sionate glance. Murray had raised four children of his own. He used to regale Flint with stories from his children's past.

”You got to hire some help. Maybe a specialist. The kid would be a handful for anyone. For a new parent . . .” Murray let the word trail off, then shrugged his shoulders.

Meaning Murray didn't know how to handle her, either.

Flint studied his daughter. No one knew she was cloned. He'd told everyone in Armstrong that she was the child of a last-minute encounter with his ex-wife-and his ex hadn't told him about the baby before she left for her new job on one of Jupiter's moons.

Flint didn't care that Talia was a clone or that the law had made him jump through a dozen hoops to claim her as his own. She was biologically identical to the child he had lost, if only a few years younger. She had been raised by her biological mother.

Talia was his, and he would have claimed her as such even if she didn't have his curly blond hair-so unusual in this part of the universe-or his deep blue eyes. Her dusky skin had come from her mother, but in all other ways, she was Flint's child, through and through.

Right down to the brilliance.

He'd been that smart at that age, just not that rebellious. For the first time in years, he wished his parents were still alive so that he could ask them how they had managed to keep his brain occupied while his hormones jumped out of control.

Which wasn't entirely fair to Talia. The bulk of her problems didn't come from her changing hormones. Her problems came from the way that her life had imploded.

In the s.p.a.ce of twenty-four hours, she had learned she was a clone, that her mother had lied to her about almost everything, and that her mother was dead. By the end of that week, Talia had left everything she'd ever known to move in with a man she'd never met before, one who claimed to be her father even though, by Alliance law, he didn't have to.

She was angry, she was sad, and she was lonely, and he didn't know what to do about any of those things.

He pushed himself away from the desk and walked over to the chairs. He sat in the one next to hers and put his hand on her back. The k.n.o.bs of her spine felt sharp beneath his palm.

”Talia,” he said gently. She didn't move. She was breathing quietly. ”I know you're awake,” he said.

She let out a large gust of air and sat up so fast he had to move his hand so that she wouldn't slam it against the back of the chair.

”Now you got half the Moon spying on me,” she said.

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