Sharon Lee - Steve Miller - Conflict of Honors

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Conflict of Honors by Steve Miller and
Sharon Lee
MAIDENSTAIRS PLAZA
LOCAL YEAR 1O02
STANDARD 1375
Eight Chants past Midsong: twilight.
In the plaza around Maidenstairs a crowd began to gather: men and women in brightly colored work
clothes; here and there the sapphire or silver flutter of Circle robes.
The last echo of Eighthchant faded from the blank walls of Circle House, and the crowd quieted
expectantly.
In a thin pass-street halfway down the plaza, a slim figure stirred. She adjusted the cord of the bag over
her shoulder, but her eyes were fixed on Maidenstairs, where two of the Inmost Circle stood.
The shorter of the two raised her arms, calling for silence. The crowd held its breath, while across the
plaza a dust devil swirled to life. The watcher in the by-street shivered, hunching closer to the wall.
"We are gathered," cried the larger of the two upon the stairs, "to commend to the Mother the spirit of
our sister, our daughter, our friend. For there is gone from us this day the one called Moonhawk." He
raised his arms as the other lowered hers to intone the second part of the ritual.
"Do not grieve, for Moonhawk is gathered into the care of She who is Mother of us all, who will instruct
and make her ready for her next stay among us. Rejoice, indeed, and be made glad by the fortune of our
sister Moonhawk, called so soon to the Mother's side."
The crowd spoke a faint "Ollee," and the shorter Witch continued, her voice taking on the mesmerizing
quality appropriate to the speaking of strong magic.
"Gone to the Mother, to learn and to grow, Moonhawk walks among us no more. For the span of a full
lifetime shall she sit at the feet of the Mother, absorbing the glory, seen by us no more. In this Wheel-turn
none shall see Moonhawk again. She is gone. So mote it be."
"So mote it be," echoed the larger speaker.
"So mote it be," the crowd cried, full-voiced and on familiar ground.
The slim watcher said nothing at all, though she ducked a little farther back into the byway. The dust devil
found her there and made momentary sport of her newly shorn hair before going in search of other
amusements.
A tall woman at the edge of the crowd made a sharp movement, quickly arrested. The watcher leaned
forward, lips shaping a word: Mother. She dropped back, the word unspoken.
It was useless. Moonhawk was dead, by order of she who was Moonhawk's mother during this turn of
the Wheel. The funeral pyre of her possessions had been ignited at Midsong while the mother looked on
with icy face and sand-dry eyes. The watcher had been there, too. She had cried—perhaps enough for
the mother, as well. But there were no tears now.
In the bag over her shoulder were such belongings as she had been able to bring away from her cell in the
Maiden's wing of Circle House. The clothes she wore were bought in a secondhand store near the river a
dark, soft shirt with too-long sleeves that chafed nipples unused to confinement; skintight leggings, also
dark, except for the light patch at the right knee; and out-worlder boots with worn heels. The earrings
were her own, set in place years ago by old hands trembling with pride of her. The seven silver bracelets
in the pack were not hers. In the shirt's sleeve pocket was a single coin: a Terran tenbit.
The two of the Inmost Circle left the stairs; the crowd fragmented and grew louder. The watcher quietly
faded down the skinny by-street, trying to form some less desperate plan for the future.
Moonhawk is dead. So mote it be.
At the end of the by-street the watcher turned left, toward a distant reddish glow.
You might, she thought to herself diffidently, go to the Silent Sisters at Caleitha. They won't ask your
name, or where you're from, or why you've come. You can stay with them, never speaking, never leaving
the Sisterhouse, never touching another human being…
"I'd rather be dead!" she snapped at the night, at herself—and began to laugh.
The sound was horrible in her ears: jagged, unnatural. She knotted her fingers in the ridiculous mop of
curls, yanking until tears came to replace the awful laughter. Then she continued on her way, the rosy
glow ever brighter before her.
SHIPYEAR 32
TRIPDAY 148
SECOND SHIFT
10.30 HOURS
"Liadens! Gods-benighted, smooth-faced lying sons and daughters of curs!"
A crumpled wad of clothing was thrown toward the gapemouthed duffel with more passion than
accuracy. From her station by the cot, Priscilla fielded it and gently dropped it in the bag. This act failed
to draw Shelly's usual comments about Priscilla's wasted speed and talent.
"Miserable, stinking half bit of a ship!" Shelly continued at the top of her range, which was considerable.
"One shift on, one shift off; Terrans to the back, please. and mind your words when you're speaking to a
Liaden! Fines for this, fines for that… no damn shore leave, no damn privacy, nothing to do but work
your shift, sleep your shift, work your shift… hell!"
She shoved the last of her clothing ruthlessly into the duffel, slammed a box of booktapes on top, and
sealed the carryall with a violence that made Priscilla wince.
"First mate's a crook; second mate's a rounder… here!" She slapped a thick buff envelope into Priscilla's
hand.
The younger woman blinked. "What's this?"
"Copy of my contract and the buy-out fee—in cantra, as specified. Think I'm gonna let either the first or
the second get their paws on it? Cleaned me out good and proper, it has. But no savings and no job is
better than one more port o' call on this tub, and that I'll swear to!" She paused and leaned toward the
other woman, punctuating her points with stabs of a long forefinger. "You give that envelope to the
Trader, girl-o, and let Mm know I'm gone. You got the sense I think you got, you'll hand in your own
with it."
Priscilla shook her head. "I don't have the buy-out, Shelly."
"But you'd go if you did, eh?" The big woman sighed. "Well, you're forewarned, at least. Can you last till
the run's over, girl?"
"It's only another six months, Standard." She touched the other woman's arm. "I'll be fine."
"Hmmph." Shelly shouldered her bag and took the two strides necessary to get her from cot to door. In
the hall, she turned again. "Take care of yourself, then, girl-o. Sorry we didn't meet in better times."
"Take care: Shelly," Priscilla responded. It seemed that she was hovering on the edge of something else,
but the other woman had turned and was stomping off, shoulders rounded and head bent in mute protest
at the short ceiling.
Priscilla turned in the opposite direction—toward the Trader's room—her own head slightly bent. She
was not tall as Terrans went, and the ceiling was a good three inches above her curls; there just seemed
something about Daxflan that demanded bowed heads.
Nonsense, she told herself firmly, rounding the corner by the shuttlebay.
But it wasn't nonsense. All that Shelly had said was true—and more. To be Terran was to be a
second-class citizen on Daxflan, with quarters beyond the cargo holds and meals served half-cold in a
cafeteria rigged out of what had once been a storage pod. The Trader didn't speak Terran at all, though
the captain had a few words, and issued his orders in abrupt Trade unburdened with such niceties as
"please" and "thank you."
Priscilla sighed. She had served with Liadens on other trade ships, though never on a Liaden ship. She
wondered if conditions were the same on all of them. Her thoughts went back to Shelly, who had sworn
she would never serve on another Liaden ship; though Shelly had done okay until the Healer had left two
ports ago, to be replaced by a simple robotic medkit. That move had been called temporary. "More
Liaden lies!" She had said. "They're liars. All liars!"
The first mate was a crook and the second a rounder—whatever, Priscilla amended, a rounder was.
Liaden and Terran, respectively, and as alike as if the same mother had borne them.
Perhaps, Priscilla thought, the Trader only hired a certain type of person to serve him. She wondered
what that said about Priscilla Mendoza, so eager for a berth as cargo master that she had not stopped
first to look about her. Yet she had been eager. In a mere ten years she had gone from Food Service
Technician—which meant little more than scullery maid—to General Crew, and then into cargo handling.
Among her goals was a pilot's certificate, though certainly there was no hope for furthering that aim while
on Daxflan.
The Trader's room was locked; no voice bade her enter when she laid her hand against the plate. So,
then. She shook her head as the 1100 bell rang. She would be short of sleep this shift.
The captain, she decided, would do as well. She continued down the hall toward the bridge, then
paused, hearing voices to her right—a man's, raised in outrage; a woman's, soothing.
Priscilla turned her steps in that direction, Shelly's envelope heavy in her hand.
The door to the Liaden lounge was open. Heedless, Sav Rid Olanek flung the paper at his cousin,
Captain Chelsa yo'Vaade.
"Denied!" he cried, the High Tongue crackling with rage. "They dare! When all my life I have left this
finger free to bear only the ring of a Master of Trade!" He waved gem-laden fingers also at Chelsa, who
blinked, automatically cataloging Line-gem, school-gems, Clan-gem among the glittering array of others
less important to Sav Rid's melant'i.
"They say you might reapply, cousin," she offered hesitantly. "You need only wait a Standard."
"Bah!" Sav Rid cried, as she might have known he would. "Reapply? That for their reapplication!" He
snatched the letter back and rent it twice before flinging the pieces away. "They think me unworthy? They
shall be schooled. We shall show them, Daxflan and I, how it is a true master of the craft goes about his
business!" He turned then, eyes catching on the shadow at the door.
"You, there!" he snapped in Trade, crossing the room in four of his short strides. "What is it, Mendoza?"
Priscilla bowed, offering the envelope. "I did not wish to disturb you, sir,” she replied in Trade, "but
Shelly van Whitkin bade me give you this."
"So." He tore the envelope open, glanced at the paper with no great interest, and fingered the coin idly
before slipping it into his belt.
One cantra, Priscilla saw, her stomach sinking. A sum so far beyond her resources that it was absurd to
consider following Shelly's example. She might, she supposed, jump ship, but the thought of the dishonor
attached to such an action cramped her stomach further.
"You may go, Mendoza," the Trader told her, and she bowed again before turning away. As she stepped
into the hallway, she heard him address another comment in High Liaden to Captain yo'Vaade, something
about having made a cantra and lost a big mouth to feed.
SHIPYEAR 32
TRIPDAY 151
FIRST SHIFT
1.30 HOURS
Daxflan was two days out of Alcyone, and dinner looked terrible. Cargo Master Mendoza meekly
accepted her tray and carried it into the crowded, steamy Terran mess hall. Peripheral vision showed
Second Mate Dagmar Collier waving to her from a table near the door. Face averted, Priscilla moved to
a newly vacated corner table. Self-preservation would not allow her to sit with her back to the noisy
room, but the temptation was strong.
She frowned at the greasy soup and put her spoon down, then picked up the chipped plastic mug.
Grinning, she sipped the tepid coffeetoot, recalling that Shelly had never sat down to a meal on Daxflan
without indulging in a rant, the salient point of which was always the economic infeasibility of a tradeship
serving' toot instead of the real bean.
It had been Shelly's belief that serving' toot to the Terrans was another deliberate snipe from the Trader.
However, Priscilla had overheard Liaden crew members complaining that the beverage called tea
aboard Daxflan had never seen Solcintra. Shelly had only a spacer's handful of Liaden, High or Low,
and had just shaken her head at Priscilla's theory that perhaps none of the crew was treated very well.
Resolutely, the cargo master put the toot from her and picked up her spoon. Horrible as it looked, the
soup was dinner and she would get no better; the alternative was the sodden breadroll and the sticky
lump of cheese she knew from experience to be inedible to the point of nausea. It would have to be the
soup.
Taking a gelid spoonful, Priscilla found her mind turning, as it had these last two shifts, back to the
containers they had taken on at Alcyone Prime. Sealed cargo. Nothing unusual in that; she had the
mainfests listing the items the sealed hold contained, their weights and distributions. All according to
book. And yet there was something…
With a scrape and a thump the second mate was with her. Priscilla jumped, splashing greasy soup on her
sleeve. Clamping her teeth, she patiently daubed at the spot, avoiding Dagmar's eyes. The second
grinned and leaned back in the chair, flinging her legs out before her.
"Scare you, Prissy?"
Priscilla's slim shoulders stiffened. Dagmar's grin widened.
"I was thinking." There was no emotion in the cargo master's soft, level voice.
"That's our Prissy," Dagmar said indulgently. "Always thinking." She leaned across the tiny table and
touched the back of a slender hand, delighting in the slight withdrawal. "What about after dinner, though?
What say I bring along something to keep you from thinking, and we have fun?"
"I'm sorry," Priscilla said, hoping she sounded like it, "but the distribution charts are behind. I'm going to
have to spend some of this off-shift getting caught up."
Dagmar shook her head, secretly pleased at Prissy's seemingly endless supply of excuses. The game had
run three months now. Dagmar considered the quarry worthy of an extended pursuit. It might be easier if
the girl weren't so serious about her work—and so popular with the crew. The younger woman wasn't
much on getting high or sleeping around. But Dagmar knew that Priscilla would have to relax and reveal a
weak point one day—and when she finally did catch Prissy out, the spoils would be that much sweeter.
"That's all right," she said consolingly. "You work as hard as you want. Good to see that in a new hire.
And at the end of the run—if you do real good—I'll give you a reward." She narrowed her eyes a bit,
looking for signs of distress on the other woman's face. She detected none and played her ace.
"A reward," she repeated, and reached across the table to take one cool, slim hand in hers. "How
'bout… at the end of the run you and me go off—just us two—and have a Hundred Hours together?
Huh? A hundred hours of loving and cuddling and fancy food and drink. Don't that sound nice?"
It did, Priscilla admitted to herself. Present company excluded.
She withdrew her hand carefully. "You're very generous," she murmured, "but I'm not—"
The second recaptured her hand. "Think it over. Got plenty of time." She squeezed the hand until she
heard knuckles crack and then released it. "Nice, long fingers. You ought to wear rings." She smiled
again, tipping her own hand so that light glittered sullenly across the dirty gems worn three deep on each
fat finger. "I'll buy you a ring," she finished softly, "after our Hundred Hours."
Priscilla drew a deep breath, trying to drown a sudden, flaring urge to mayhem. She stood.
"Going so soon?"
The cargo master nodded. "Those calculations are going to take awhile." She fled the mess hall.
A ring! Holy Mother! Priscilla became aware that she was breathing hard, nearly running down the
lowering corridor. She slowed, willed her hands to unclench at her side, and continued with outward
serenity toward her quarters.
Inwardly she still raged. Day after day of the second's pursuit was bad enough, though at least she could
be put off with excuses, but only this past shift had First Mate Pimm tel'Jadis come to her in the master's
cubicle, and the less thought of that encounter the better.
Caught between the two of them, powerful as they were, with neither the Trader nor the captain willing to
take the part of a Terran against a Liaden, or of one Terran against another… Priscilla slapped the
palmplate and thumbed the light switch to HIGH before entering her tiny cabin.
The room was empty.
Of course, she jeered at herself, stepping in and locking the door. She leaned her head against the door
frame and closed her eyes briefly. Stress, poor food, little sleep—she was getting nervous, fanciful.
Surely the first mate would not secret himself in her cabin and wait to surprise her.
Not yet.
"Damn!" she said violently. She moved to the cramped 'fresher cubicle. Stripping off her clothes, she
shoved them into the cleanbot and twisted the dial to
SUPERCLEAN. More carefully, she removed the silver and opal drops from her ears and put them on
the shelf under the short mirror. Then she dialed the unit temp to HOT, the intensity to NEEDLE, and
stepped under the deluge.
SHIPYEAR 32
TRIPDAY152
THIRD SHIFT
19.45 HOURS
Priscilla rubbed dry eyes and sat back, frowning at the screen. She was right. At first, she had mistrusted
her equations and so rechecked everything a second time, and a third. There was no doubt. She
wondered what she was going to do now. Contraband drugs were certainly nothing she wanted to be
involved with—and as cargo master, she had signed for them!
Shaking her head, she leaned over the keyboard again.
First, she told herself, you're going to seal this data under the cargo master's "Confidential" code. Then
you're going to take a cold needle shower and hope it'll make up for a sleepless night—you're on duty in
an hour! She rose and stretched.
She would make no decisions until she had had at least a shift's sleep. It was important not to make a
mistake.
"The following personnel," blared the speaker over the door, "will report to Shuttlebay Two at 20.00
hours:
Second Mate Dagmar Collier, Pilot Bern dea'Maan, Cargo Master Priscilla Mendoza, Cargo-hand Tailly
Zeld, Cargo-hand Nik Laz Galradin."
"What?" Priscilla demanded, spinning to stare at the speaker. Bay 2 at 20.00 hours? That was less than
ten minutes from now!
She spun back to the desk and cleared the screen, then spun again to rake her gaze around the
closet-sized room, tallying her meager possessions. There was nothing she would need on Jankalim here.
Smoothing her hands over her hair, she left the room.
It was only as she was striding toward Bay 2 that it occurred to her to wonder why she was needed at
all. Jankalim was a drop-only, the sort of thing most commonly handled by the first or second and a
couple of hands.
Maybe there had been a mistake? There had been no trip worldside listed on her schedule last shift, of
that she was certain. Come to think of it, it was silly to send the cargo master on a trip like this one.
Almost as silly as sending the Trader.
She rounded the corner into the bay corridor at a spanking pace and brought herself up sharply to avoid
walking over the small man just ahead.
Trader Olanek turned his head and inclined it in unsmiling recognition. "Mendoza. Punctual, as always."
The words were in Trade and heavily accented.
"Thank you, sir," she said, politely shortening her stride to match his. Somehow, she had never managed
to inform the Trader that she had limited fluency in his language. She glanced at his profile and shrugged
mentally. The Trader's temper was legend on Daxflan, but he seemed to be in as amiable mood as she
had ever seen him.
"Are you going worldside, sir?" she ventured respectfully.
"Of course I am going worldside, Mendoza. Why else should I be here?"
Priscilla ignored the irritation in his voice and plunged on. "Has there been a change in schedule, then?
My last information was that Jankalim is only a drop point. If we're going to take cargo on—"
"I must therefore assume, Mendoza," the Trader cut in, clearly irritated, "that your information is not
complete."
Priscilla bit her lip. It was folly to goad him further. She inclined her head and dropped back to allow him
to proceed her into the shuttle. Then, sighing, she slipped into the first unoccupied seat, eyelids dropping.
Half an hour, ship to world. At least she would get a nap.
"Hi there, Prissy," an unwelcome voice said in her ear. "You're not asleep, are you?" A hand was placed
high on her thigh.
Gritting her teeth, Priscilla opened her eyes and sat up straight.
Jankalim possessed one spaceport, situated on the easternmost tip of the southernmost continent, within
a stone's throw of the planetary sea and the edge of the world's second city.
As spaceports went, this one was subaverage, Priscilla decided, watching Tailly and Nik Laz unload the
few containers and pallets that represented their reason for stopping here at all. The spaceport boasted
three hot-pads for in-system ships, four shuttle cradles, and a double-dozen steel warehouses. All the
pads were empty, though there was a surprisingly well-kept shuttle in the end cradle.
She glanced at the corrugated metal building to her right. A lopsided sign proclaimed it to be the port
master's office. Trader Olanek had disappeared within it immediately upon setdown, Dagmar trailing
behind like a double-sized shadow.
As if summoned by the thought, the second appeared in the doorway, jerking her head as she crossed
the yard. "Gimme a hand, willya, Prissy? Trader wants a couple boxes from that end house. Ought to be
able to get 'em fine between us."
Raising her eyebrows, Priscilla looked back at burly Tailly and miniature Nik Laz, who were just setting
the last pallet in place.
"Aah, give 'em a break, Prissy," Dagmar growled. "They worked plenty hard already."
Kindness was uncharacteristic of the second mate. Probably the woman wanted a little privacy to press
her suit further. Trapped without a reasonable excuse, Priscilla nodded and fell into step beside her,
keeping a cautious distance between them.
The lights came up as they entered the first warehouse. Dagmar turned confidently to the right; Priscilla, a
few steps behind, let her lead the way. Several more turns led them to a musty-smelling hall, somewhat
dimmer than the previous corridors, flanked with blank metal doors.
Priscilla wondered what the Trader could possibly want from a section of warehouse that was clearly
abandoned, then she shrugged. She was cargo master. It was her job to stow what the Trader
contracted for.
It just would have been nice, she stormed to herself, if the Trader had seen fit to inform his cargo master
that he expected to take on goods at Jankalim.
Dagmar moved slowly down the hallway—counting doors, Priscilla thought—then stopped and slid a
card into a doorslot.
The light in the frame lit, but nothing else happened. Dagmar grunted. "You're real good with computers.
You try it."
The tone of voice made Priscilla uneasy. She took the card, inserted it, and was rewarded with both a
light and a clicking noise from within.
Dagmar pushed at the door, then grunted again. "Damn thing's stuck. Come 'round here, Prissy—that's
right. Now, I'm gonna pull back on the door an' get it started in the track. When it starts to slide, you get
yourself between an' push, okay?"
"Okay."
Dagmar lay her hands against the door and exerted force. For a moment it looked as if the mechanism
would resist. Then Priscilla saw a crack appear. She slipped her fingers into the slender opening as the
crack began to widen, adding her own pressure to the enterprise. The gap widened farther. She slid her
body into the opening and shoved.
As she pushed, there was a shadowy movement behind her, and she heard Dagmar say, "Can't be all that
smart now, can ya, Prissy?" Then something clipped her behind the ear, and she crumpled sideways,
tasting salt.
JANKALIM SPACEPORT
LOCAL YEAR 209
There was a window high in the sidewall, and that was good. The door was locked from the outside, and
that was bad. Her head ached, and that, she decided, was worst of all. Neither the soreness of her face
nor the pain in her shoulder came near it, though the throb of her ribs ran a close second.
Moving with extreme care, Priscilla went to the window and stood on tiptoe, craning. No way out there:
the pane was solid blast-glass, and even had she the means to break it, the opening itself was too small
even for her lanky frame.
Outside, the well-kept shuttle was still in its ratty cradle.
Daxflan's shuttle was gone.
Left me, she thought through the fog of dizziness and pain. And then, with a gasp that sent knifing fire
down her side, the reality hit her. Left me! Here, with the door locked and no way out and how could
they have left me? Surely the Trader would have missed me… or if not me—but how could they not
have missed me! Tailly, Nik Laz, Bern… how could they have left…
She took a deep, deliberate breath, ignoring the pain.
"I will not," she informed the room austerely, "sanction hysterics."
Her voice came back to her from the empty walls, deep and oddly comforting. Priscilla closed her eyes
and concentrated on breathing until the panic stilled.
I have to get out, she told herself, forming the thought carefully.
She surveyed her prison. Empty. Dustless. Dim. What light there was came from the window. She would
have to do whatever she did before day failed.
Leaning against the wall, she went through her pockets: stylus, pad of paper, ID, strapping tape, comb,
two Terran wholebits, magnetic ruler, penknife, calculator—nothing heavy enough to break a triple-thick
window or strong enough to jimmy the door.
She took another look outside. The yard was as empty as the room she stood in. She settled her
shoulders against the wall and considered her resources.
Stylus. Not too likely. It went back into her pocket. Likewise the paper; also comb, ID, and money.
Tape? She kept it out for the time being. Penknife? Why not? Ruler? No—Yes. Yes, wait a
minute—magnets… lock… jimmy the lock!
She knelt at the door to get the cardslot at eye level, then peered cautiously within. It just might be
possible…
Sitting back on her heels, she unrolled the ruler and tried unsuccessfully to pry the thin rectangular
magnets off with her fingers. The penknife did the trick—fifteen minutes later she had four flat magnets,
each with its own long tail of tape, lined up on the door next to the cardslot.
With the tip of the knife she inserted them, one at a time, thanking the Goddess that there were only four
contacts within the mechanism and that no one had expected the place to be used as a jail.
The last magnet was affixed. She withdrew the knife, holding her breath… but nothing happened.
Wrong combination, she told herself, and patiently inserted the knife point again, reversing the polarity of
the magnet on the extreme left.
She had worked through twelve combinations, and multicolored spots were shimmering before her eyes,
when there was a soft click. Hardly daring to breathe, she looked up.
The light over the door frame was lit.
She scrambled to her feet, folding the knife automatically and dropping it into her pocket. Leaning
forward, she put her hands against the panel and prepared to push—but suddenly the door slid open.
Priscilla twisted, gasping, and regained her balance before the man on the other side extended a hand to
grab her.
"Hold there, now." The grip on her arm changed. "Who by hell are you?"
"Priscilla Mendoza—cargo master on Daxflan."
"That's so, is it?" He eyed her. "Bit beyond yer territory, would say?"
"Without a doubt." She gritted her teeth against the pain and fought to keep the edge out of her voice.
"There's been a—misunderstanding. I'm sure Trader Olanek will vouch for me. He was with the port
master…"
"That be so," the man agreed. "Then he an' his went off. Nothin' was said about a missin' mate. Happen a
Trader would notice his cargo master wasn't to hand, would say?"
She sighed. "I don't really think I'm prepared to say any such thing. Are you going to let me out of here,
or aren't you?"
"Now there, mistress, don't be chivin' me. Happen you'll have a better tale for Master Farley." He
stepped back, keeping a firm hold on her arm. "We'll be walking this way now."
Priscilla clamped her jaw and matched his stride firmly.
The glare of sunshine made her gasp with quadrupled pain. She was abruptly thankful for the man's
bruising hold—without his support she would have fallen.
Sunlight gave way to shadow. Her captor paused and laid his hand against a plate, and a door slid open.
Obedient to his tug, Priscilla stepped into an echoing cavern of a room. Four dark terminals sat at
摘要：

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：175 页 大小：427.53KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-20

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