Description: 1. No Blaze of Glory The captain was a notorious rebel runner. He was called Alihahd. This was his last run. He had no real name, only a Chesite word, alihahd, which meant "he left." He had no country, no planet, though several including Chesa claimed him. To most of the known galaxy he was a legend without a face, and to the rest a face without a name. He was very tall, lanky. His long arms were gnarled like the ancient olive trees of Earth. He had the punished look of one at war too long. A dignity of bearing saved him from being gangly. His eyes were splendid, expressive in their depth. His features were strong and regular, but he was too drawn to be called handsome anymore. He''d lived over half his natural life span, which was much older than he''d ever expected to get. He was not surprised that it was to end now. Luck and disguises had finally given out, and a Na''id squadron was in fast-closing pursuit of his runner ship Liberation. Alihahd had begun loading his refugees into Liberation''s twelve emergency shuttles. They would need to make the rest of the journey to the free planet New Triton without him. Alihahd and a handful of volunteers would stay in the mothership to lead the Na''id on a chase in a false direction until overtaken and destroyed. Or, should the Na''id try to board the Liberation, she would self-destruct to cover the absence of her passengers and shuttles. Alihahd stood motionless on the command deck, one large and knobby hand at his belt, one fist on the console, knuckles down as if he''d punched it and frozen there. He could overhear sounds of orderly flight drifting up from below where refugees spoke in whispers and shuffled in steadily moving lines onto the emergency craft. He heard an air lock close, lock. The life bay thumped open. A shuttle detached and moved silently to the port side of the mothership where four other loaded shuttles were grouped in the bright oasis of the Liberation''s docking lights, waiting to depart all together in a convoy when the last of the shuttles was boarded. Another air lock closed. Locked. That was six. The mind counted without passion. Alihahd hadn''t thought that the end would feel like this. He was feeling nothing. He had planned for this contingency a long time, down to the clockwork details. The actual crisis was so like the countless times he had run it in his mind that this seemed just one more exercise. He was fundamentally alone in this, without friends or lovers. There was no one aboard who honestly knew him as a man. To his passengers, and even to his crew, he was a distant, unfailing protector come from nowhere without selfish motive to spirit discontented subjects away from Na''id rule. His history was a blank but for a hint in his beautiful, correct voice. He would slip into high prose at times, and everyone supposed he was fugitive royalty, but his cosmopolitan accent didn''t say from where. He kept himself remote. There was a too-gentle way he moved his hands, suggesting a tender nature--or hiding a violence that dreaded all but the lightest touch lest he destroy. He was staring straight out the viewport without really seeing, when a pattern of lights appeared out of an unexpected quadrant, and a slow sick horror penetrated the blank space inside him. Na''id? Could he possibly be, he wondered, surrounded by Na''id ships? But it wasn''t a Na''id ship. It was worse. A ghostly white image of a derelict sailing ship glided into view on the waves of a nonexistent sea. Misty at first, the frosty glow took the shape of an ancient brigantine, its shredded jibs straining from the bowsprit on fraying ropes, its topsail a fluttering rag on the splintered yard. This ship was the last sight of many a Na''id crew. "Marauder," Alihahd breathed without voice. The Flying Dutchman of the stars. A chill ran up Alihahd''s back, pricking at the hair along his spine and his arms. His thick lips twitched, then he resumed his habitual stone face. The Marauder had once been only a legend, for centuries the terror of superstitious travelers. Someone in recent years had made the Marauder real and used it to destroy ships of the Na''id empire. Marauder''s long tradition had fixed it in popular memory as a childhood fear that never went away. On sight, it was instantly recognized and instantly feared. The Marauder could scare a victim to death before firing a shot. But the eerie brigantine was only a projection. Alihahd knew the real ship must be nearby. He found it. It hovered outside the periphery of the Liberation''s sphere of light, painted black and difficult to see, its surface albedo nil, giving the impression of something not there. The backdrop of stars allowed only glimpses of its clawlike angles. It looked like a nightmare. The spectral hologram was the announcement: You are next. It was the lurking ship that carried the guns. Many horrified people fired at the hologram. Then died. Alihahd wouldn''t be thrown by the unreal--though he''d been accused of the tendency. He kept his eyes on the black ship. He should''ve been relieved to meet the archfoe of his enemy-- --except that his own ship bore Na''id markings. Liberation was disguised to travel in Na''id space as a Na''id vessel, so how could the Marauder know that it wasn''t? The command deck had become still. His crew looked at Alihahd the way they always looked at him--as if he could perform miracles. He could see a ghost of his own reflection in the viewport--a rangy, underfed man, old beyond his years--and he wondered what it was they saw. He was conscious still of the unwary shuffling of refugees below deck. On the Marauder''s blank surface appeared the ragged outline of mandibles opening to a red furnace within. The thing was about to open fire. Alihahd moved to his ship''s transmitter, intending to get out an order for the six waiting shuttles to scatter and run. At least one might escape. But he froze at the switch--not from fear or indecision, but from instinct. He drew his hand away from the switch--and braced for the fire when his instincts proved wrong. But the Marauder didn''t fire. It held its position and observed, as if sensing something not right, something different, maybe curious as to why a sound vessel was being evacuated. Or maybe the Marauder had instincts, too. An air lock closed. Locked. A shuttle detached, oblivious to the threat. Shuttles had no viewports. Still the Marauder watched. Alihahd moved his hand back to the transmitter. He masked out the shuttle channel, and opened all others. In what code did one attempt contact with the Marauder? He decided on a voice message. "Alihahd," he said. He did not know if the Marauder understood the Universal tongue, but maybe he would recognize the name of his enemy''s enemy if nothing else. "This is Alihahd. We are not--not--Na''id." He paused. There was no movement on the command platform save for the silent shifting of panel lights that washed pale red and green across bloodless faces, some of them terribly young. There was no acknowledgment from the Marauder. But neither was there an attack. The phantom ship menaced with its red maw gaping, a ticking bomb to be defused before the caprice of a moment turned the decision. There had to be a way to get through. With every second, the Marauder could imagine deception in a blinking bow light and open fire. Without taking his eyes from the viewport, Alihahd spoke to his bridge crew in a quietly urgent whisper. "Close that hatch." They scuttled across the deck to obey, sealing off the hatch to the shuttle bay before someone could come up and catch sight of the shimmering sails of the ancient derelict and scream its name. The command console had lighted up all over with hailing signals from perplexed shuttles, which could detect but not see or identify the presence of an extra ship near them. They could only tell that the configuration was not Na''id. Alihahd clicked off all the demanding lights with his long fingers and glanced at the chronometer. The Na''id--real ones--would be closing in soon. Six minutes. He leaned straight-armed over the console, glowering at the black ship, his mouth drawn taut. His dusky face darkened. He lowered his chin and glared. The gaunt muscles of his arms stood out in high relief as he grew angry over a sudden suspicion. An instinct. The bomb was not ticking. It was chuckling. Alihah

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