The corridor smelled stale. John huddled against the display panel, replacing microchips with the latest models--more memory, more function. The near-robotic feel of the work was all that mattered: pull, grab, replace; pull, grab, replace. They should have had a 'droid doing this, but they had given the work to John, sure sign that his contract was nearly up.

He didn't mind. He had been on the trader ship for nearly a month, and it was making him nervous. Too many people, too close. They watched him as if they expected him to go suddenly berserk and murder them all in their sleep. He wouldn't have minded if their wariness had been based on his work as a bounty hunter. But it wasn't. It was based on the events on Bountiful, things he had done--and paid for--when he was little more than a child.

Footsteps along the plastic floor. He didn't move, figuring whoever it was would have nothing to say to him. A faint whiff of cologne and expensive illegal tobacco. The captain.

"John, someone to see you."

John looked up. The captain stood on the other side of the corridor, the lights from the display giving his skin a greenish cast. Once, John had fancied this man his friend, but John hadn't had any real friends. Not since he was fifteen years old. The day Harper betrayed him. The day they took Beth away.

"I will not see anyone," John said. Sometimes he played the role, the Dancer child everyone thought he was. The one who never spoke in past tense, only present and future, using the subjunctive whenever possible. The one who couched his thoughts in emotion because he had nothing else, no memory, no ethics, no soul.

The captain didn't even blink. "She flew in special from Rotan Base."

John stood and closed the display. A client, then. The time on the trader ship would end sooner than he had expected.

He followed the captain through the winding corridors. The ventilation system was out. The entire ship smelled of wet socks and too many people. Down one of the corridors, the techs were discussing whether they wanted to fix the system or whether they wanted to wait until next planetfall. John would have argued for fixing it.

The captain stopped at his personal suite and keyed in the access code. John had never seen this room; it was off-limits to all but the captain himself. John stepped in, but the captain remained outside. The door snicked shut.

Computer-generated music--technically proficient and lifeless--played in the background. The room itself was decorated in whites, but the lighting gave everything a reddish cast. The couch was thick and plush. Through open doors, he could see the bed, suspended in the air, cushions piled on top of it. A room built for comfort, and for seduction.

A woman stood at the back of the room, gazing out the portals at the stars. Her long black hair trailed down her back, her body wrapped in expensive silks. She looked the part of the seductee, although she was the one who wanted to hire him.

John never hired out for anything but bounty work. He would tell her that if he had to.

"I would like you to work for me, John." She didn't even turn around to acknowledge him. He felt his hackles rise. She was establishing herself as the adult, him the child in this relationship. He hated being treated like a child. The claustrophobia inched back on him, tighter than it had been in months.

He leaned against the door, feigning a casualness he didn't feel. He wanted her to turn around, to look at him. "Why should I work for you?"

"Forgive me." This time she moved, smoothing her hair as she did. Her face was stunning: full lips, long nose, wide eyes. And familiar. "I'm Anita Miles. I run an art gallery on Rotan Base. We specialize in unusual objects d'art...."

He stopped listening, not needing the explanation. He recognized her face from a hundred vids. She was perhaps one of the most powerful people in this sector--controlling trade and commodities. Her gallery sold anything that could be considered art. Once, she sold a baby Minaran, claiming that since the species was nearly extinct, the Minarans could be appreciated only in an aesthetic way. He couldn't remember if she had won or lost the ensuing lawsuit.

Baby trader. The entire galaxy as an art object. If she had been in business when he was a boy, what would she have done with the Dancers?

"Why should I work for you?" he repeated.

She closed her mouth and gave him a once-over. He recognized the look. How much does he understand? I thought I was explaining in clear terms. This is going to be more difficult than I thought. "You're the best," she said, apparently deciding on simplicity. "And I need the best."

He often wondered how these people thought he could bounty hunt with no memory. He shook off the thought. He needed the money. "What will you pay me?"

"Expenses, of course, a ship at your command because you may have to travel a bit, and three times your daily rate--which is, I believe, the equivalent of four hundred Rotan zepeatas."

"Eight hundred."

Her expression froze for just a moment, and then she had the grace to flush. John crossed his arms. Too many clients tried to cheat him. He took them on anyway. If he tried to avoid those who treated him like a Dancer, he would have no business.

"I'm not a Dancer." He kept his tone soft, but made sure the sarcasm was there. "I wasn't even raised by them. Just influenced. The trial is over, and I've served my time. When they released me, they declared me sane, and sane for a human being means an understanding of time and an ability to remember. After that little stunt, I won't work with you for anything less than five times my rate, one month payable in advance."