on--before the leader approached her,
holding another one. He looked at her consideringly, then nodded.
"I've seen better, but you're not too bad. I like redheads, they tend
to be spunky." He grabbed her jaw, forced her mouth up for a rough
kiss.

She took advantage of that; as soon as he was within reach, she bit
him.

He swore, backhanding her, then signaled the two holding her to let go.
"Spunk's one thing, lady, but you've just bought yourself more hurt
than you've ever had. Fight if you want to; that'll just make it more
fun."

Dana moved back, licking blood from a split lip as she dropped into an
awkward protective crouch. She really should have paid more attention
to the unarmed-combat lessons Chief Hanson had insisted she at least
watch . . . but it was too late now, facing the leader's feral grin and
twirling baton. Fear was a coppery taste in her mouth, and sweat
trickled down her back under the enviro-suit.

The leader could obviously tell he had an inexperienced opponent,
because his grin became a laugh. Then he moved with smooth, deceptive
swiftness, and before Dana could back away or defend herself, his baton
lashed out, seeming to do no more than tap her forearms--until she
tried to move them.

She gasped with the pain, somehow managing not to cry out, trying to
focus on the use of batons by thieves. The pain did have an advantage,
though; it helped her distract herself from what took place next. She
kept fighting, but it was by pure reflex, and she couldn't keep herself
from being stripped, or ignore the sudden cold air against skin no
longer protected by an enviro-suit, or the other pain and humiliation
as six men took turns using her body. Neither the pain nor the odd
weapons were enough, though. She couldn't concentrate on them
single-mindedly enough to block out everything the attackers were doing
to her, and before they were done, she heard herself whimpering. By the
time they finished the rapes and began a general beating, she could no
longer control her reactions; she fought and screamed and wept, to no
effect, until she felt consciousness starting to depart, and welcomed
it.

Shouts and weapon-fire interrupted her descent into peace, something
she resented even as she knew it meant safety for her thakur and
perhaps for herself. Then someone knelt beside her, and even with pain
blurring her vision, she could tell it was a Sandeman; that dark skin
and blond hair didn't belong to