Rhombur staggered out of the swirling spice gas, choking and coughing. His artificial lungs sounded ragged, too overworked to process the massive melange exposure. Spice residue thrummed through his mind, making it difficult to interpret the combined visual impulses of his organic eye and its prosthetic companion. He lurched two steps, leaned against a wall.

Wearing a filter mask, Gurney Halleck pushed his way forward to help him. He guided the Prince back into a corridor, where the air was clean. An anxious Flight Auditor used a compact air jet to blast the powdery coating of melange from Rhombur’s clothes. Touching a control on the side of his neck, the cyborg Prince activated an internal mechanism that purged his lung filters.

One of the route administrators grasped him by the shoulder. “Can the Navigator still function? Can he guide us out of here?”

Rhombur tried to speak, but in his muddled state of mind he didn’t know how coherent his words sounded. “The Navigator is alive but weakened. He says his spice gas is tainted.” He took a deep mechanical breath. “We need to replace the melange in his tank with a fresh supply.”

Hearing this, the Guildsmen spoke quickly among themselves. The rotund Banker seemed the most alarmed. “The concentration of melange in a Navigator’s chamber is high. We don’t have the resources.”

The aged Mentat stood as if in a trance, checking data in his head, running through his memorized ship rosters. “This Heighliner carries over a thousand vessels, but none are listed as spice transports.”

“Still, there must be a great deal of melange scattered in small portions throughout the ships in the hold,” Gurney said. “What about all the passengers’ personal possessions, all the dining galleys? We have to look everywhere.”

The Banker agreed. “Many noble families consume spice daily to maintain their health.”

“Such supplies are not reported on passenger manifests, so we cannot be certain of the quantity available,” the Mentat-Guildsman said. “In any event, dealing with all the passengers could take days.”

“We will find a way to move faster. The Navigator is very afraid,” Rhombur said. “He says a great enemy is drawing closer. We are in danger.”

“But from what?” the Flight Auditor said. “Nnnn, I don’t understand what could possibly be a threat to us out here.”

The Mentat said, “Perhaps another intelligence, something… not human?”

“The Navigator may be hallucinating,” one of the route adminstrators pointed out, sounding hopeful. “His mind is damaged.”

The Banker disagreed. “We cannot gamble on this. He has prescience. Perhaps we are in the path of a huge cosmic event, a supernova or something else, that will swallow us with it. We have no choice but to demand that all private passenger ships surrender their melange. We’ll get the Wayku and the security men started immediately.”

“It won’t be enough,” said the old Mentat-Guildsman.

Impatient with the bickering and endless discussion, Rhombur spoke in a commanding tone and insisted, “Nevertheless, we will make it work.”

The mission went slowly. Despite the Heighliner’s obvious need, passengers were reluctant to surrender their precious melange, not knowing how long they might be stranded out here in uncharted space. To force the issue, the Guildsmen enlisted security forces to scour ship after ship.

But it was taking too long.

Gurney Halleck went on his own to the upper Heighliner deck, where he stood inside a plaz-walled enclosure. He had trudged from docking section to docking section, searching, listening, attempting to spot something none of the others would think to look for.

While gazing out upon the congregation of vessels inside the hangar bay, he scrutinized every hull plate, every ship configuration, every serial number and insignia. The Guild Mentat had mentally reviewed all of the cargo manifests, and the other officials had accepted his assessment with dismay and resignation.

But they failed to ask Gurney’s question: What if there was an undeclared cargo of spice?

He was no expert on spacecraft, but he studied the streamlined frigates, the sharp-angled military craft, the cube-shaped orbital dump boxes. Some ships proudly displayed the colors of noble families on their hulls; other nondescript vessels were battered and dirty from age and overuse. Gurney focused on those in particular, raking his gaze from one to the next, remembering his smuggler past when he had made unobtrusive journeys inside Heighliner holds himself.

With growing anticipation, he moved to the next observation deck for a better vantage. Finally, he spotted a small ship tucked behind a much larger frigate that bore the crest of House Mutelli. The dingy vessel was an outdated pinnace, a commercial craft used to haul salvage and other unimportant cargoes.

Gurney studied the stains on the hull, looked at the enlarged engine compartments and repairs that had been made to the superstructure. He knew this unusual craft. He had seen it before.

It was exactly what he’d been looking for.

Accompanied by guild security forces, Gurney and Rhombur led the way under a huge hull-support buttress to the old pinnace. When the group demanded entrance, the captain and crew refused to acknowledge. However, before berthing aboard a Heighliner, every vessel had to submit certain override codes to Guild manifest personnel.

The pinnace hatch finally cracked open and the security men thundered aboard, Gurney surged to the front of the group. The ragtag pinnace crew had armed themselves and taken up assault stations, ready to fire upon the intruders. But Gurney raised his arms, putting himself directly in the crossfire. “No! No weapons! Either side!”

He gazed around at the scruffy men who looked like down-on-their-luck salvage workers. Marching deeper into the corridor, he glanced from one unfamiliar face to another— until finally he recognized a squat, stubble-cheeked man chewing on a stimleaf plug. “Pen Barlowe, you don’t need your weapons with me.”

The defiant expression on the rugged man’s face melted into a look of wonder. He spat out the end of his sodden plug and stared, openmouthed. “That inkvine scar. Gurney Halleck, is it you?”

The Guild security men waited anxiously, not sure what was happening.

“I knew if I looked hard enough among the ships here, I was sure to find one of my old comrades.” He came forward to greet his smuggling companion.

Pen Barlowe began to laugh loudly, braying like a pack animal, and pounded him on the back. “Gurney, Gurney!”

Gurney Halleck gestured back in the direction of the cyborg Prince, who approached in his cloak and cowl. “There’s someone you need to meet. Allow me to introduce… Dominic’s son.”

Several smugglers gasped, for even those who had not served with Dominic Vernius knew of his legendary exploits. Rhombur thrust out his synthetic arm and clasped Pen Barlowe’s free hand in the half handshake of the Imperium. “We need your help, if you’re a friend of Gurney’s.”

Barlowe gestured toward his men. “Stand down, fools! Can’t you see there’s no emergency here?”

“I need to know your true cargo, my friend,” Gurney said gravely. “Is this vessel carrying what I think it is? Unless you’ve changed your ways since I left the smugglers, you may have the key to saving us all.”

The swarthy man looked down, as if considering whether to retrieve the stub of his stimleaf plug from the deck and stuff it back into his mouth. “We heard the call, but thought it was some kind of trick.” He met Gurney’s gaze and shifted nervously on his feet. “Yes, we’ve got an undeclared cargo, and it’s illegal to haul… dangerous, even, with the Emperor’s crackdown…”

“We are all relying on Guild confidentiality here, myself included,” Rhombur said. “These are extraordinary circumstances— and we are far beyond the reach of Imperial law.”

Gurney studied his comrade, not letting his gaze waver. “You have melange aboard, Barlowe, to be sold to black marketeers at a fine profit.” He narrowed his eyelids. “But not today. Instead, you’ll buy us all our lives.”

Barlowe glowered. “Yes, we have sufficient spice aboard for an Emperor’s ransom.”

Rhombur smiled, crinkling his scarred face. “That could be enough.”

The smuggling crew looked on, their faces stricken, as the Heighliner security men hauled container after unmarked container of compressed spice up to the top levels. Taking several Guildsmen aside, Gurney negotiated for some compensation for the smugglers. The Guild was notoriously frugal, and the amount they agreed to pay was not nearly full value, but the smugglers were in no position to argue.

In the midst of all the activity, Rhombur stood outside the Navigator’s tank, trying to attract the attention of D’murr. The mutated human lay slumped and barely breathing. “We must hurry!” he called back to the others.

Crewmen worked feverishly, draining the tainted spice from the tank. Afterward, other men converted containers of packed melange into aerosol and fed fresh gas into the chamber in long, orange streamers. They hoped that this batch of uncontaminated spice would be enough to revive the Navigator and give him the ability to guide the Heighliner back into familiar space.

“He has not moved in over an hour,” said the Flight Auditor.

Rhombur cleared the area again and went back inside the sealed chamber. Orange spice gas curled and flowed into the tank from vents high in the chamber. Moment by moment, visibility decreased, but the Ixian Prince plodded toward the center of the Navigator’s tank, to the hulk of what once had been a dark-haired, handsome young man like his twin C’tair. Long ago they had both flirted with Rhombur’s sister, Kailea Vernius.

He recalled the twins, children of Ambassador Pilru. Everyone had been happy in those glory days of Ix. It all seemed like a dream, even more so because of the spice now seeping into his consciousness.

D’murr had been so proud to pass his examination to become a Guild Navigator, while C’tair had been devastated at his failure and remained behind on Ix. Always on Ix…

A past so distant it might never have happened…

Rhombur spoke in a soothing tone, as if he were a medical practitioner. “We are replenishing your spice, D’murr.” Kneeling, he saw the Navigator’s glassy eyes. “We have found pure melange. Whatever was wrong will be fixed.”

The creature no longer appeared even remotely human. Distorted and atrophied, his body looked as if it had been remade by a sadistic sculptor of flesh. The bloated hulk stirred weakly and flopped, as helpless as a fish on a hot dock. D’murr’s face twisted, his strange mouth forming an odd expression. He sucked in mouthfuls of the potent spice gas.

Rhombur’s thoughts floated, and the movements of his mechanical arms and legs seemed slow, as if inhibited by thick liquid. The cyborg’s artificial lungs labored. He needed to get out of the tank soon. “Will this help? Can this new spice let you see through foldspace and bring us home?”

“Must,” D’murr said, exhaling curls of smoke. “We are in danger… the enemy… has seen us. Approaches. Wants to destroy.”

“Who is the enemy?”

“Hatred… extinguish us… for what… we are.” D’murr managed to bring his twisted body more upright. “Flee… as far as possible…” He turned, his tiny eyes surrounded by folds of waxy flesh. “I see the way now… to bring us… home.”

The Navigator seemed to be consuming all of his strength for one last gesture. D’murr squirmed closer to the vents that sprayed dense melange gas. He drew in a deep breath. “Must hurry!”

Instead of rushing to the hatch to escape, Rhombur helped him grasp the controls. The faltering Navigator powered up the Holtzman engines and, with a sudden jerk, the Heighliner shifted and then spun over, righting itself in space.

“Enemy… is near.”

And the great ship moved— or seemed to.

Feeling a lurch in his stomach, Rhombur grasped the tank wall and sensed the transition as the powerful Holtzmann field folded space, wrapping it around the Heighliner in a precise manner.

The Navigator completed his sacred assignment.

The Heighliner winked into view above the planet Junction. D’murr had instinctively brought them back into the Imperium, back to Guild headquarters, to his only home since he had left Ix as a young man.

“Safe,” D’murr announced weakly.

Touched by the tremendous effort of the Navigator, Rhombur went back to him, ignoring for the moment his own need to escape. D’murr had used the last of himself to rescue everyone aboard. “C’tair—” With a long, hissing sigh that sounded as if his entire body were deflating, the Navigator slumped to the floor of his chamber and did not move. With the cyborg Prince crouched beside him, surrounded by potent melange gas, D’murr died.

Rhombur could say no farewells now, and knew he needed to leave the chamber before the melange overwhelmed him. His vision reeling, the organic parts of his body burning from saturation with spice, Rhombur staggered back toward the hatch. D’murr’s body dissolved into the orange spice fog and disappeared from sight.