Refuge. Bain hadn't been back to this planet since he was twelve. He was fifteen now.

At the beginning, when Lin hadn't been allowed to tell him they were relatives, Bain had feared the authorities would separate them the next time they landed on Refuge.

Now, he watched the screen as they approached the planet and he grinned. He was a Spacer, born and bred, trained and proven. The only thing that could get him to leave Sunsinger was if someone offered him a ship of his own. Nothing else that Bain could imagine could ever get him to leave Lin or Ganfer or the ship. Sunsinger was home, and Lin and Ganfer were his family. To Spacers, home and family were as sacred as the Order and obeying Fi'in's laws.

Refuge grew bigger on the computer screens, filling them with the blue-white clouds of the upper atmosphere, then changing to blue and brown and green as the ship penetrated that layer and headed down through thickening air for the landing field.

Sunsinger's hold was filled with medical supplies for the scientists stationed on Refuge. Bain only knew the Mashrami had hit more planets with plague bombs in the last five months than they had attacked in the last six years. Lin speculated it was a desperation move; a spoilsport mentality that drove the dying race to destroy worlds they would never own. It was only speculation, because the military wasn't telling anyone anything.

Lin reasoned that either the military didn't know or they didn't want to panic anyone. She understood their reasoning for what they did. That didn't mean she or Bain had to like the silence, though.

Like everyone involved in aiding the military, the crew of Sunsinger had to get by on guesswork. They guessed what was happening in the war based on the cargo in their holds, snippets of conversations overheard in military offices or activity glimpsed on Fleet-occupied planets.

"Refuge spaceport, this is Sunsinger," Lin said. On the viewscreens, the scorched expanse of the landing field had just become visible. "Requesting landing coordinates and decontamination protocol. We have priority level three medical supplies to unload."

"Acknowledged, Sunsinger," a metallic-toned voice responded. Bain couldn't tell if the speaker was male or female. "Sending now."

"Receiving," Lin said a moment later, as numbers scrolled down the screen by her left elbow. She pressed the buttons that cut off voice communication. "Their communication system needs an overhaul. I doubt they'll get it until the whole wretched mechanism breaks down." She sighed and stretched her arms to the ceiling. Her long, black, silver-streaked braid slid over her shoulder and swung across the back of the chair. "Exigencies of the war."

"I thought it would be over by now," Bain said. He winced when his voice cracked.

Lin grinned at his embarrassment. Bain's voice had been cracking, rising to unnatural squeaks or dropping to subterranean levels, for nearly three months now. Lin kept telling him it wouldn't last much longer, that it was part of his body's maturing process. Somehow, Bain doubted something so painful and embarrassing could be explained away that easily.