"There was no need to," the old man said. "It was quite predictable,
considering the sort of person you are. Bold but not ruthless. That's
your trouble, Barrent."
The old man had dropped the obligatory form of address for a Privileged
Citizen; and that, under the circumstances, was predictable, too.
"I've seen it happen year after year," the old man said. "You'd be
surprised how many promising young men like yourself end up in this
room, out of breath, holding a needlebeam as though it weighed a ton
with Hunters three minutes behind them. They expect us to help them, but
mutants like to stay out of trouble."
"Shut up, Dem," the old woman said.
"I guess we have to help you," Dem said. "Myla's decided on it for
reasons of her own." He grinned sardonically. "Her mother and I told her
she was wrong, but she insisted. And since she's the only one of us who
can skren, we must let her have her own way."
Myla said, "Even with us helping you, there's very little chance that
you'll live through the Hunt."
"If I'm killed," Barrent said, "how will your prediction come true?
Remember, you saw me looking at my own corpse, and it was in shiny
fragments."
"I remember," Myla said. "But your death won't affect the prediction. If
it doesn't happen to you in this lifetime, it will simply catch up to
you in a different incarnation."