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woman. Yet here was one old woman who felt astonished to the point of numbness, and perhaps a little afraid, not to mention incandes cently happy to have this abrupt, utterly unexpected challenge.
    Two
    Remoras worked tirelessly to make Miocene feel ill at ease, and without exception, their best efforts failed. Today's attempt was utterly typical. She was making one of the ritual tours of the outer hull. Her guide, a glancingly charming and notorious elder named Orleans, steered the skimmer across the ship's leading face, passing as many markers and statues and tiny memorials as physically possible. He did it without subtlety or apology. What passed for a mouth kept smiling at the Submaster, and a gloved hand would gesture at each site, the deep wet voice reporting how many had died at this place and how many had been his good friends or members of his enormous, cantankerous family.
    Miocene made no comment.
    Her spare face wore an expression that might be confused for compassion, while her thoughts centered on those matters where she could actually accomplish genuine good.
    'Twelve died here,' Orleans reported. Then later, 'Fifteen here. Including a great-grandson of mine.'
    Miocene wasn't a fool. She knew Remoras lived a hard existence. She felt a measure of sympathy for their troubles. But there were many fine fat reasons not to waste a moment grieving for these supposed heroes.
    'And here,' Orleans trumpeted, 'the Black Nebula killed three whole teams. Fifty-three dead, in the space of a single year.'
    The hull beneath them was in good repair. Wide stretches of fresh hyperfiber formed a bright, almost mirrored surface, reflecting the swirling colors of the ship's shields. The three memorials were bone-colored spires no more than twenty meters tall — visible for an instant, then gone as the shuttle streaked past each one in the blink of an eye.
    'We got too close to that nebula,' Orleans informed her. Miocene showed her feelings by closing her eyes.
    Brazen like all Remoras, her guide ignored the simple warning. 'I know the good reasons why,' he growled. 'A lot of wealthy worlds near that nebula, and inside. We needed to pass close enough to lure new customers. After all, we're a fifth of the way through our great voyage, and we still have empty berths and quotas to fill—'
    'No,' Miocene interrupted. Then slowly, with a contemptuous sigh, she opened her eyes and stared at Orleans, telling him, 'There is no such monster as a quota. Not officially, and not otherwise.'
    'My mistake,' said Orleans. 'Sorry.'
    Yet the man's expression seemed doubtful.
    Dismissive, even.
    But what did any Remoran face mean? What she saw was intentionally gruesome: the broad forehead was a waxy white with thick beads of grease aligned in neat rows. Where human eyes should have returned her gaze, there were twin pits filled with hair; each hair, she assumed, was photosensitive, all joined together as a kind of compound eye. If there was a nose, it was hidden. But the mouth was a wide rubbery affair, never able to close entirely. It was hanging agape now, so large that Miocene could count the big pseudoteeth and two blue tongues, and in the back of that yawning mouth, what seemed to be the white image of an old-fashioned human skull was plainly visible.
    The rest of the Remoras body was hidden inside his lifesuit.
    What it looked like was a mystery without solution. Remoras never removed their suits, even when they were alone with each other.
    Yet Orleans was human. By law, he was a treasured member of the crew, and in keeping with his station, this human male was entrusted with jobs that demanded skill and a self-sacrificing duty.
    Again, with an intentional gravity, Miocene told her subordinate, 'There are no quotas.'
    'My fault,' he replied. 'Entirely, and always.'
    The great mouth seemed to smile. Or was it a toothy grimace?
    'And,' the Submaster continued, 'there were future considerations at stake. A brief danger now is better than a