remained still, though he could feel himself going pale. He'd expected death if the mission failed, but not like this—not being tortured for information while two of his people lay badly wounded in a Traiti military hospital. He knew his interrogator was right; everyone had a breaking point. He could only hope they'd kill him before he came so close to his own that he'd have to activate the conditioning. He preferred to meet death knowing who he was.

A sudden flashing movement of Joste's claws ripped the tough material of the human's shirt to ribbons, exposing the soft undershirt. A single claw took care of that, still without breaking thin human skin. "Why did you here come?" Joste asked softly. "Now say, and yourself much pain save. You no honor have to lose."

Now what the hell did he mean by that, Marguerre wondered. Not that it really mattered, under the circumstances. "Forget it. I'm a Marine, not a traitor." His muscles were tensed in anticipation, but it didn't help much. He gasped and flinched anyway when the claws touched his flesh, digging in and across, drawing blood.

Joste was fully aware of human frailty, and was being far gentler than he cared to, but he was still startled at the amount of blood welling from such shallow wounds. He would have to be even more careful; if he weren't, this Marguerre might bleed to death before giving him the information he needed. It might be best to use fists or slaps instead of claws or teeth, at least for the most part, until the time came to execute the man.

"Why?" he asked again.

"Go to hell," Marguerre snarled.

"We do not that belief hold," Joste said calmly. "And if either of us to such a place going is, it will you be. I have never a female to her death sent."

"And I have. So? Nobody forced them to join the Marines, or apply for Special Forces. They knew what they were getting into. Every last one of them's a volunteer."

Joste growled in disgust. The human must think him a fool, to expect him to believe such nonsense! The only time a female fought was in last-ditch defense of the clan, something that hadn't happened since the clan wars almost four thousand years ago. "You lie, human."

Marguerre shrugged, awkwardly because of his bound hands, but said no more. He'd already said more than he should have; he knew the best way to avoid giving anything away by accident was to remain silent except for the required identification information.

"Enough of that," Joste said. He'd not discuss females more with this perverted filth. "Now you will me truth give. Why came you here?"

It was almost dark, and Joste was becoming discouraged. The man, except for sounds of pain, had remained silent. He was sprawled on the floor now, naked except for his own blood, his hands no longer bound because he no longer had hands to bind.

Yet he was trying to rise, had actually made it to his knees with his wrists pressed against his chest and his head bowed to hide empty eye sockets, in a sickening parody of one paying homage to the Lords.

Marguerre knew he was done. The pain, the maiming, were too much … and his tormentor wasn't going to allow him to die by accident. He had to activate the conditioning or buy his death with the information the Traiti wanted. For a Marine, that was no real choice—but there was one thing he wanted to make absolutely clear before he went out. "Joste …"

"Speak, human."

"You said … I've got no honor." Marguerre raised his head, faced the sound of Joste's voice. "Maybe not … your kind, I don't know. I'd … hoped you'd miscalculate … kill me clean … 'fore it came to this. Now I just want you … t'be certain … I do know what I'm doing." He straightened as much as he was able, drew in breath, and forced himself to speak the single short phrase he'd chosen. Hearing himself say it, deliberately, would wipe out Major Horst Marguerre.

Nonsense syllables, Joste thought. "'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves"?

For a