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automatic that both Grant and Kane favored from their days as Magistrates. The holster operated by a specific flinch of the wrist tendon, powering the blaster straight into the user’s hand.
    The weapon’s trigger had no guard; the necessity for one had never been foreseen since the Magistrates were believed to be infallible. Hence, if the wielder’s index finger was bent at the time the weapon reached it, the pistol would begin firing automatically. The blaster was a reminder of who Grant had been, and its weight felt natural on his wrist the same way a wristwatch seems natural to the wearer.
    His other weapon of choice was a Copperhead assault rifle, an abbreviated subgun that was less than two feet in length. The Copperhead’s extended magazine contained thirty-five 4.85 mm rounds that could be fired—or perhaps unleashed was a better term—at a rate of 700 rounds per minute.
    The grip and trigger were set in front of the breech in a bullpup design, allowing for one-handed use, and the weapon’s low recoil permitted devastating full-auto bursts, chewing up anything that came into its path. A scope with laser autotarget facility was mounted on the top of the gun, but Grant’s hand-eye coordination was refined enough to operate the weapon without the autotarget feature.
    Grant slipped the Copperhead down beside the pilot’s seat, the safety on and grip within easy reach. If anyone tried to pry open the cockpit without warning, they’d get a face full of lead for their troubles.
    Certain that his weapons were primed, Grant reached into the storage pouch at his left and pulled out the book that his girlfriend, Shizuka, had loaned him. It was an ancient and well-thumbed copy of Family Traditions on the Art of War by Yagyu Munenori, a samurai treatise from the sixteenth century. He could be in for a long wait.
    * * *
    F OUR HOURS PASSED without incident. Kane had taken his Manta away to the north, settling down by a clump of trees in the densely forested Serra do Norte three miles from where Grant had set down. He left his engines powered down but idling, ready to reignite at any moment, should Grant patch an alert to him.
    “This is taking too long,” Kane grumbled as the clock ticked into the start of their fifth hour hiding in the forest. “I’m going to call Grant and let him know it’s a bust.”
    “Don’t,” Brigid replied from the seat behind his. She sounded sleepy, as if she had been dozing when she had first heard him speak. “Give it time.”
    “How much time?” Kane asked, a note of challenge in his voice. “We’re going to start getting old if these twerps don’t show up soon. More to the point, my stomach tells me it’s lunchtime.”
    “Then eat,” Brigid told him calmly. “You have ration bars there, don’t you?”
    “Yeah,” Kane grumbled and he reached into a storage pouch located beside his right knee and pulled out one of the foil-wrapped bars. He unwrapped it and took a bite, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he was reminded why he hadn’t eaten them earlier. “This ain’t food. These things look like cardboard, smell like cardboard and taste like cardboard.”
    “Quit complaining and eat your lunch,” Brigid chided, closing her eyes again as she settled back into a light doze.
    * * *
    B Y THE SIXTH HOUR , Grant was more familiar with the philosophical musings of Yagyu Munenori than he would have wanted to get in one sitting, and the straps of the pilot’s couch were chafing him no matter which way he sat. His Manta had long since cooled down, and the plume of smoke that might have acted as a location marker to any passing scavengers or cosmic tow trucks had long since faded.
    Putting the book down, folded open and resting on one knee, Grant leaned forward and glanced through the canopy once more. The skies remained clear. The trees were swaying with the breeze and, as he watched, tiny, brightly colored birds flitted between branches, dining on berries or aphids, whatever it