Even in unflattering overalls this prisoner cut a striking figure. Lithe, lissom, she gripped a bar with one slim ivory hand to work her battement tendu, now her plié, now released it to stretch in a graceful arabesque, all the time counting to the jumbled music in her head.

Harmanda stood flat-footed and solid, arms folded. “Still,” she went on, “it’s nice that you’re keeping in shape.”

The prisoner continued to ignore her, crossing to the opposite wall in a spectacular soubresaut.

“Though I guess there’s not a lot else to do. Seeing as you’re stuck in this tiny cell for the next five to seven.”

The prisoner stretched arms above her head, spread fingers wide, long nails glinting in the half-light, the very image of concentration.

“Yes, this cramped little cell. With its concrete floor. Thing is...” Harmanda stepped right up to the bars and dropped her voice down low. “Seems to me that’s a waste. A girl of your talents. You jump to my beat, we could get you back on the big stage a little sooner.”

The prisoner executed a delicate jeté that brought her snub nose an inch from Harmanda’s. “You givey my blades,” she hissed, pointing at the silver electrodes on her temples. “Wann cut-a-cut.” Flecks of spittle stood out on her lips.

Harmanda didn’t blink. “Naturally we’d remove the power dampers. You’d need those freaky blades of yours during the operation. And after that, well, we’ll see.”

The prisoner’s eyes blazed and her breath came in little gasps. “Ya. Ya. Getty my back little pretties. Chopitty-chop.”

“So you’re in?”

The prisoner hesitated, nodded once, and pirouetted away.