THE PATTERN OF INFINITY

By J. Kel

-- John Milton, Paradise Lost

"Iacta alea est!" ("The die is cast!")

--Julius Caesar (100-44 B.C.)

And it came to pass in Year 178 (New Calendar), Year 584 (Revised Standard Calendar), Year 2789 (Old Calendar) that the Lord Protector, Minister of Science and Defense, the only man honored twice with the Order of the Falconer for bravery in service to the Federation, was summoned before the Supreme Commander, his knowledge and skills required once more.

Silver contrails etch smoked-glass sky,

"To each remember: man is not alone." What a strange sentence to conclude a scientific paper! Yet the man before him had done just that. Nor was the sentence an aberration. The whole body of his later work was in a similar vein. Nor was that all. The man uncomfortably reminded Avon of someone (yes!). But for several minutes he could not explain who or why.

The scientist, Geir, was from the outer worlds. In his sixties, he had an air of nervous energy that would have credited a much younger man. Bald, carefully dressed, there was a crackle of intensity about him, an intensity that never subsided. His eyes were always focused forward, and that Avon concluded as the man closed his presentation was probably the only thing that was bothersome. He looked like he never glanced to the side. He

seemed to feel he could be carried forward on the strength of his vision alone and wanted others to be very much aware of that. Of course! Avon knew the type only too well. Such people were trouble. They never left you in peace.

The man had been speaking for nearly an hour. Avon listened but his eyes were on the world outside. It was winter in the Capitol, and winter was for him the most honest of seasons. Winter was a negative universe, and the black and white contrasts in that certain slant of light satisfied a need within him. They formed a starkly simple and reassuring view of existence. An inadequate view to be sure, but why not indulge that feeling of on occasion? From this office he affected the destiny of a hundred billion people over several thousand worlds. That was a simple fact. And it was a fact that the man before him lacked such simplicity.

Winter Earth. The Central Tower and all it surveyed -- his!

Long ago this had been the site of Kalgerry, one of the largest cities of the continent's dominant 20th century nation, the Unlimited State. A popular site, it had been obliterated in both Vesperas. That was about all that was known for certain about the predecessors of Servalan City. But for those who study the past, "facts" filtered through time, eroded through the centuries, were a pleasure regardless of accuracy. Only the dull questioned the details: one can love and doubt simultaneously -- why dwell on the cracks between the emotions? Once there had been cities here. If those cities were ground forever under waves of war, so be it. What was crucial in life was defiance. And in defiance there was a new city. This city would last a millennium. So it had been decreed by the woman who had given it her name.

". . . I therefore felt it of vital necessity that I carry my appeal to the highest levels of the Federation. I understand, of course, resources are limited: 'strained' is perhaps the better word. Things are better since Blake's . . . the Troubles . . . but recovery is far from complete. I believe, however, that as a fellow scientist (Avon wanted to wince, but his face remained impassive) you will understand the importance of this work and

why it must be carried to its conclusion." He paused. "You were highly recommended."

I always am. Avon remained silent. He talks too much.

He wondered about the man as much as the request. What to make of him? Geir's story was consistent and despite the man's visionary, even mystical, inclinations, he was not a crank. That had been apparent, curiously, even to her, who always before had let him handle such matters, her distaste for science and its practitioners being so extreme. Not rushing to answer, Avon examined the file the central database had prepared. What was there seemed of little consequence.

But curious fact one: as a graduate student Geir had worked with Ensor (a bad sign). In fact, he had worked on an ORAC prototype, then broke with his teacher and went off to do independent research on machine intelligence. There was no explanation for the break, though a personality conflict was hinted at (not surprising). Thereafter he remained out of sight for nearly three decades until the Star One debacle (his world had been one of those under the control of that poorly thought out computer complex) pushed him into prominence as both a scientist and politician. He had been credited with great political skill for his efforts in bringing conflicting factions together to save his home planet, but that thought Avon was going too far. As a scientist he was brilliant, no denying that. But as a politician he was too naive to be anything other than a hack.

Still, you had to hand it to him for persistence. Not many got through the ultra-tight net of security and protocol to present their case to the Lord Protector, let alone the Lord Protector's superior. The man had earned an answer, if not entirely the one he was seeking.

Click. An entry concerning the project code name of "Terminal" replaced the data on Geir. Curious fact two: Geir's interest, indeed obsession, with Terminal.

The "Terminal" file was bordered in flaming yellow indicating the highest security status (i.e., only general information would be available for inquiry, unless special permission was granted). Yet most of the fields were either flagged "UNKNOWN", or filled with question marks, not "*S*E*C*R*E*T*". So why the elaborate security ringing this incomplete, one might even say prehistoric file?

Briefly, the available facts were this: project initiation date (year 105 Revised Standard, about 470 years ago), duration (50 years), and conclusion ("PRESUMED FAILURE", as the artificial planet -- actually a rebuilt asteroid, the project's primary deliverable -- was nowhere to be found). The entry explained that the project had been initiated to integrate several sciences, among them machine intelligence, molecular mechanics, and genetic engineering. It was believed Terminal was intended to yield and/or test a very advanced and complex evolutionary theory or series of them. The origin of the project name was unknown but was possibly a reference to computer "terminal", and early in the project the artificial planet had taken on the same designate. And a planet it was. Its earth-normal gravity (despite a high rotational velocity -- arguing that a Kerr-type black hole of at least earth mass resided at the core), breathable atmosphere, seasonal variations, and ability to support human habitation (barely), ensured it qualified.

Click. A second screen went into more detail concerning the project outcome. Under "CONJECTURE", a frequent database flag where the distant past was concerned, the analysis noted that most information regarding the project had been presumed destroyed in the Atomic Wars, prior to the Second Vespera. No definitive conclusion regarding the fate of Terminal was

therefore possible. The planet had vanished from its orbit at the outbreak of said wars -- was it destroyed? This was likely given the interweave of intense mass/energy fields confined in a relatively small space -- doubts had been expressed about its stability. Yet, if Terminal had imploded, there should have been x-ray seared debris throughout the solar system -- not to mention a nasty black hole. Nothing of the kind, however, had ever been

detected.

Terminal, the entry concluded smugly, though it likely had existed, was now a myth and certain to remain so.

It was irritating that she had not consulted with him in more detail before this meeting. If something was being hid, this computer could not, would not, help him. ORAC might. But access to ORAC had been forbidden for years. Since . . . Something was wrong, something was missing -- that much was obvious. The implications might prove interesting.

"I am not a scientist, Dr. Geir. My skills lie in recognizing the military value of proposals. As you understand, the Administration frequently receives requests for support and is usually disappointing to the requesters. I am, however, impressed with the body of your work and while I am not yet ready to give a full recommendation to the President, I feel your research laboratories are worth investigating (following along the script with me, my love?). A visit for purposes of State and science to your home world is justified, though you understand support cannot be promised at this time."

The scientist looked relieved. Actually, he looked like he was going to shout. Instead, Geir let out a sigh.

"My Lord will not regret his decision," he said, dropping each word with measured relief, "I assure you that once you see the progress made on controlling the morphogenetic field . . ."

Avon waved him to silence and logged off the network. This job had its problems. One was the way people carried on in his presence, as if they could never bring themselves to state what they really wanted in a short simple manner before such a figure of awe and terror. Yet there was compensation as well. It was good to be able with a gesture to silence almost anyone.

"I will discuss the matter with the Supreme Commander, President Servalan, shortly. Afterwards, a formal visit should be a routine matter for the diplomatic channels to arrange," he said firmly.

Geir nodded but stopped as if he remembered something important. Even knowing his precarious position, he gave the impression of being less than finished.

Am I to be spared nothing? "Yes?" asked Avon.

"Forgive me, my Lord, I am curious. I have heard that you once met my teacher, Ensor. Is that true?"

Avon hesitated, but there was no easy way to avoid answering. "I'm afraid he was dead before I had a chance to meet him," he answered cautiously. "I can't help you."

The man looked disappointed but nodded in understanding as if he expected little else and was grateful to know the truth. Lord Avon respected that.

"I so hoped you had. I was curious what direction his work had taken after all these years. You were with Blake then, weren't you? Before . . ."

"The 'break'?"

"Yes."

Fact number three: Geir's curiosity about things that could not possibly be relevant. Dangerous things. "For a while. You might say I was unemployed at the time."

"Who was he? I mean, what kind of man was he?"

She knew he was going to ask that! "Blake? As I recall, he was a dull man, Doctor Geir," replied Avon. "I assure you the legend in death eclipses the reality in life. Not meaning to sound callous, but some people are better off dead. He was probably one of them."

Geir rose slowly and continued to pursue his subject as Avon escorted him out (an unusual courtesy, but she had insisted on it -- no doubt part of her continuing program to render his manners commensurate with his titles). "What is death?" the scientist shrugged. "I was curious about him. There was so much I was unaware of -- until Star One, when the universe came crashing in on me. All because of him I'm told. Everybody was talking about

him. And you. What did it all mean? I was thinking that having known him, you might attempt an answer."

Avon stopped at the door. "I have always found that 'knowing' a person is one of those concepts like infinity that lacks a bottom. I can't deny spending time with the man, two years to be precise, but I would not say that afterwards I 'knew' him. Perhaps because for most of the time I felt there was so little to know. I apologize for what must appear to be indifference, but life is unforgiving. And some of us," he smiled, "come to mirror that harsh steadiness and cruel sanity of the cosmos. As you say, the universe has a habit of crashing in when we least expect it."

Then Avon added to Geir and whoever else might be listening, "For all his real suffering, I don't believe he ever understood that."

The scientist nodded, bowed slightly, and then hurriedly exited the room.

In the center of a large circular room deep beneath the city (Avon was one of the few who knew exactly where) was a white marble desk shaped like a falcated moon. Nearby on a black pedestal rested a rectangular plastic box filled with amber glowing lights. Angled to one side were a bank of screens; to the other a row of communication panels. And to the back a huge display of the human universe: the Federation.

Filling half the room, the deep sea blue display, a three-dimensional matrix crossed with colored lines and dotted with blinkers and symbols, was the font of Federation power. Every star, planet, asteroid, station, and ship was represented. With slight movements of a hand, the controller could track any individual known to the Federation, examine the continually updated data on same, trace that individual back as far as records would permit, and extrapolate courses of action. Under the control of ORAC, it was possibly the most complete, accurate, and perfect database and communications network ever built -- at least known to have been built.

(Behind the marble desk was a woman dressed in white. A woman who, like the display, possessed a beauty cold and austere, sublimely pure, without appeal to weakness, and capable of the sternest perfection.)

For three years Servalan and her technicians had labored on the network. And now ORAC, more or less grudgingly, was in service to the Federation (more precisely, its most well-known representative), just as it had once, more or less grudgingly, assisted Blake. She spared no effort and certainly no expense in completing the network. Another individual who had also, more or less grudgingly, assisted Blake, once joked to her about the

enormous cost of the database. If she ever left Servalan City, he told her, she would not be invited back. But she did not laugh.

There was reason for her lack of humor on this subject. This is Servalan at maximum power, true. A "mathematician of the soul" (she liked the phrase), she could wipe out a planet on the basis of a calculation, true. (Though had not done so since Auron.) Yet this was the room she seldom left. As the source of power, it was as much psychological as real. Here she could keep the demons of the time distant. Here the cool face and the black

hair were safe.

Partly because of lessons learned about leaving positions of power physically vacated. Partly because of a waning desire to yield to the public responsibilities of her position. Partly because the business of power was never finished, she remained here. Except for sleep, she seldom ventured outside the room of central control. For someone who knew power as both abstraction and ultimate physical reality, there was no need to go anywhere

else. And more to the point, there was nowhere else to go.

Though the tension never ceased between them, she remained

convinced that her choice of "number two man" of the State had been one of her finest decisions. And the man standing before her, the man who had once been an enemy second only to Blake, in turn had accepted her triumph. He would survive -- that was always his first consideration. The days of rebellion were over.

The people were exhausted; their greatest need was for peace. With the most notorious symbol of resistance verifiably dead, their broken morale had given her at last the freedom and total power to act. Luck and fate, good and bad, and not a little guile had brought this oddest of couples together. It was up to him to make the best of it.

As counselor, Avon guided her in expunging the most odious aspects of Federation rule and she was receptive to his advice. She consulted him regularly and seemed to trust his judgment on many subjects. She was not in the least concerned about the unhappiness of some regarding him and felt no embarrassment in having him by her side. It was almost as if she were flaunting him. She spoke of fate and destiny and love, always love. She

said it was good to work with a man skilled at hastening the natural course of events.

She reformed the system of prison planets by essentially abandoning them -- henceforth, prisoners were now to be kept on Earth in model camps (for "humanitarian" reasons, she said. He knew the word to her meant only increased control).

She dismantled the most onerous aspects of the Federation's command economy. The results were as good as she could have hoped: tax revenues increasing, the fleets rebuilding (now nearing full strength once more), and a populace willing to give her time.

The Troubles were over. There would be no reoccurrence. Resistance had been reduced to negligible levels. Remaining opposition would be corrected where possible, crushed where necessary. So it was decreed. Together.

So it was for those years that Avon's will and hers -- (always hers) prevailed. Together.

(When they touched, stars fell . . .)

They would reminisce, if that is the proper word, about "before". Not that they were comfortable now with the past, far from it, but it seemed the sort of thing that one should do now that the new order was established and accepted. She would talk at length (in the early morning she could go on for hours): sometimes remembering the terror of the Galactic War, but usually

it would be about the "necessity" of Auron's destruction (he would listen, saying very little) and the final chaotic months before Gauda Prime. But she was reluctant to say anything about the gap between those two events. Once she told him that in every victory there is a defeat but would not elaborate.

The past was to be wiped clean to admit her glorious future -- on that she was emphatic. If anything was to be retained, it was only the "gift", the captured letter she gave him. But the rest (especially Blake) was to be forgotten.

In fairness to her, there was much he too wished to forget.

Only Auron remained to separate them. He did not understand her obsession with the Auronar, the dread and fear that was always with her. It seemed that the annihilation of Auron had been as much a psychological turning point as her triumph at Gauda Prime. She viewed that "alien" race as unfinished business. She loathed their culture and science with a passion

that defied all reason. She even blamed Auron biotechnology for bringing back "Blake". Nonsense on the face of it (she herself knew that Blake had never been within 10 lightyears of the planet), yet she seemed to truly believe it.

Her first decision after regaining the Presidency had been to order Auron burned from space -- it had been under permanent quarantine, but that was deemed insufficient.

Her feelings about Aurons were forbidden territory, never to be entered. He obeyed the prohibition. He never raised the subject; never objected to her ravings on the matter. Yet she seemed to know when it was on his mind. In the middle of a completely unrelated subject, she would suddenly speak of making that lava-coated cinder planet a "monument". Or she might launch into a tirade about the Auronar being a race that should be "extinct". She spoke of isolating them further (their so-called Community in Exile was already restricted and confirmed on all Federation worlds) so that revenge would be impossible.

There would be further measures, but what she would not say. It was odd her preoccupation with Aurons when the Empire of the Black Shield was an infinitely greater danger.

The Black Shield was an immense object -- there seemed no other way to put it -- a sphere of diamond foam, ten light-years in diameter, having the mass of over a hundred galaxies. For a billion years it had drifted through galactic space, its inhabitants unknown, watching, and waiting to strike -- or at least so the Aurons said.

As a life, perhaps it was not so bad. She used him; he accepted it. She would never risk losing him, of that he was certain. He was her most visible symbol of triumph. He was the human face of her power. He was the hope of the Federation. And when he was among the people, as he was increasingly these last few years, he was the warning of a time that few dared think about.

Poor Avon! How he dreaded the visits among them. The price one must pay for even the illusion of power. But she insisted to her advisors (and to him) that it was good the people favored their new "leader" and while she did not understand (neither did he) why they viewed the man with the black and silver cape as one of their own, it hardly mattered. As long as it did not get out of hand.

He waited. She ignored him. The usual.

"You did well," she said finally, looking up. "What do you think of our visitor?"

What is being hid this time?

He answered cautiously. "A competent scientist. It's difficult to gauge the value of his speculative writings, but his accomplishments are real enough. A strange one though. Why the interest in him?"

She smiled as if nothing could be more natural and obvious. "Why shouldn't I be interested? ORAC tells me that he is brilliant. A rare compliment from our mutual friend."

"ORAC has been wrong before."

She rose from her desk. "That was harsh, Avon. ORAC does quite well when it has all the information." She paused. "Well, almost always. Seeing as I never expected omniscience from it, it remains an extremely useful research tool. Most of the time, I am inclined to give it the benefit of the doubt. And ORAC informs me that Geir's work should be looked into."

Why?

She continued, moving gracefully towards the computer. "Do you disagree?"

No. "Frankly, much of what Geir says isn't resplendent in clarity, so forgive me for failing to give an enthusiastic endorsement. This business about a 'morphogenetic field' and his obsession with Terminal is . . ."

"I do forgive you. And I agree that the whole business is bothersome, along with his dreary world and questionable friends."

It does make sense to you. That much is clear.

Standing beside ORAC, she stroked her fingers along the plastic case. "I have studied him since I was contacted by their embassy. Some of his associates worry me. One is an Auron, but Geir may be unaware of the danger. He is rather naive, isn't he? So many scientists are. Anyway, I want you to meet with his people and let me know what you think, nothing more. Perhaps bring me a 'gift' for observation. You be the judge. Then I'll

decide what to do."

She came over to the silent Avon. "You are forgiving as well. I like that in a man," but her face had lost its softness. "Actually, I was rather hoping you would tell me he was a fool. I have had the network track every lead on him, yet I find nothing of substance. He is clean, apparently, though not clean enough. There are rumors of 'disharmony' on his world, would-be

terrorist groups, that sort of thing," her face became gentle again. "Maybe your presence will change their attitude."

I have that affect at times. "Are you worried you might be getting more than bargained for?"

She put her arms on his shoulders. "I rather hope we do. I believe you miss my intent, dearest. It is not enough to stop a threat. One must also know what is feeding it. And I don't know nearly enough about this one. Sometimes I think that's the difference between us. My vision is focused on the future; yours on the past."

He looked down at her. "There is much that is intriguing in the past. As our visitor indicates," he paused. "What is the threat?"

Her arms slid off his shoulders. She put her head on his chest and gently embraced him. You never were good at taking hints. "Dear Avon, so cold. I will tell you later." She pulled his hands around her. "Kiss me."

He did, but her face showed disappointment. She sighed. "So much goes in," she said, touching his lips. "So little comes out. I worry about your love at times," breaking the embrace. "Are the years dimming your need for me? Or is something other than the physical troubling my Lord Protector?"

He studied her. Warning shots fire in the distance. You know what's bothering me. "I would like to know more. I am not indifferent to whatever danger Geir may represent. But I am curious about your new found interest in science."

She looked up again at the monitor. She shrugged and spoke as if giving a lecture to a dull student. "It's a matter of Federation, therefore it interests me. Shall I pull rank on you? I hate to do that, but I will. Really, Avon, what else is there to say?

"Do you know Geir was quite thrilled about the chance of meeting you?" she went on. "Says his real interest is locating Terminal, but I doubt that is the whole of it. You remain a romantic figure, even to a scientist. I think there is a little of the hero worship I find so touching. "

This is bad.

"And my hero as well. The Federation is more secure than it has ever been. How long since Gauda Prime? Seven years? Time flies, doesn't it? Think of what I have accomplished with you by my side. My internal enemies are liquidated, my rule is unchallenged, the last serious incident occurred years ago. And he is but a memory, if a bad one. My companion," she stroked ORAC again, "informs me of so much of interest -- if not everything I want. And I have you. But I am not happy."

She made a sweeping gesture to the display. Then she angrily faced him. "I'm worry about you. I need you, Avon. I need your insight and your energy as much as your loyalty. And lately I have begun to suspect I am not getting them in the quantities necessary for our mutual survival. There are fears, expressed by some, not me, that you might . . . revert." She hesitated, not quite seeming to have the right words. "That should concern you."

"It does, though maybe not for the same reasons."

"And what are those reasons? You should trust me more." She

was exasperated.

"I recall you once told me trust is good, but control is better."

"I am glad you remember that. I worry about your memory as well. Sometimes it is too good. But control is not always possible to the extent I would prefer and this appears to be one of those instances. I have this feeling that something is missing, that something is very wrong. If true, and I trust my feelings, it could be bad for us."

"I will do what you will," he said, sounding more resigned than intended.

"Then we will discuss this no further. Wait, there is one more thing. I know you don't like doing this, but I must insist. It is an order. You will go armed."

"Why? I will have guards . . ."

"Yes. Of course." She was getting quite irritated. "There will be guards. Do you have objections to one more defense? Avon, I insist. It is an order. Despite your reputation as a quick learner, sometimes it seems to me you have trouble catching on to the obvious."

Maybe I do not want to understand.

"I am unsure I can kill in anger."

"Then kill in the state of mercy." She paused and drew in a breath, "I spared your life, Avon. Several times. I have never regretted it. I feel deeply for you. You may doubt that at times, but I assure you I never lie."

It is not my problem if some occasionally misunderstand my meaning, she thought.

"For now, you are needed elsewhere. I'll miss you, as always, but this is more important than your usual duties. All I ask is that you be alert; look both ways before crossing the street, all the things a diplomat is paid to do."

"I will," he replied. "I appreciate the assurance that you never lie. I never lie either."

It is not my problem if some occasionally misunderstand my meaning.

"I am aware of that. You will be fine."

One last try. "Did you also know that Geir was going to ask about Blake?"

"Oh. Him." she laughed relieved. "Of course I knew. It wasn't amusing to me, but I thought it might amuse you. You aren't angry at me, are you, for my little surprise?"

"It was the last thing I expected to be asked."

Looking every bit the ultra-efficient executive she was, she said: "That's the nature of surprises, dearest. Someone in your position must be ready for them, whatever they may be."

She returned to her desk. "Anyway, good luck on your trip," she said serenely. "I'm sure you will find it interesting."

For endless minutes he stands on the starship's observation deck. The low throb of the vessel sounds eerie as it presses against him. He holds a letter in sweaty hands twisting slowly its plastic skin. Preserved and protected for as long as he may live. It is the "gift".

He wonders at the flush of warmth he feels. Somewhere in the black and silver night move the ships of the squadron, but he does not see them. The stars are gone. The dark fog of space like a heavy sea inflows, envelops, overwhelms. What is happening? What is this feeling? He reads the letter again.

Avon--

For the record, the Liberator is yours. Your remaining crew are outstanding and you should have little difficulty finding replacements -- if you can learn to trust your people. Like listening, it is something you need to work on.

(Underneath, in a different hand):

Avon--:

Avon raged: Such endless and insufferable nobility! You would expect that from him and you would never be disappointed.

The letter did not reach its recipient by the route intended. The underground pipeline had burst; the courier was caught. Security at the highest levels was informed. You can guess the rest. A few weeks later Blake was theirs but not Jenna. Realizing the end was near, they had separated shortly before. According to Servalan he was seriously wounded in the capture, but alive enough for Federation interrogators to complete the work they had begun years before. Armed with that information and her

discovery of Terminal, she was able to construct an elaborate trap for the Liberator and its crew. As she always insisted, she had told the truth. She saw the body cremated. She herself strew the ashes to the wind. And though not as cleanly and as swiftly as she had hoped, eighteen months later, the rebellion was most emphatically over.

Of Jenna, there had been no further word or trace.

He folds the note. His hand is slippery against the smooth plastic. He puts it back in his breast pocket and continues to stare out into the diamond mist he does not see.

What had happened? Images, memories, dissolve, confused. Why had he led his people into a massacre for a man who could not possibly have survived without him? What had she told him . . ?

("The sector ruler was a butcher as well as a fool. He would have killed all of you given the chance. But he was not easily deposed. My power had not yet reached the point where I could crash in with impunity. I had to be cautious; the timing had to be perfect.

"Something strange was happening on Gauda Prime -- frightening rumors of Blake and a new rebellion. But the rumors, disturbing as they were, meant I had you once again. Arlan was my agent and her orders were to clear the way for my attack. She was to keep you alive and to make certain only Dayna and 'Blake" were dead. Of the others, I did not care . . .")

Troopers surrounding him, closing in, his empty gun raising.

The throbbing deepens. Waiting. She appears. An answering smile. There is a shot, he expects to be hit, but a trooper falls. The warmth increases. There is another shot. Another. She walks to him, stepping carefully, ordering all weapons lowered. The gun is slippery. For a moment she is the only human in the universe. Someone rushes up to her, throws off his mask, demands loudly what she is doing. She ignores him. Closer. The man reaches for his gun; another shot, and the man falls. She takes the barrel in her hand and wrenches the gun from red sweat fingers with strength he cannot resist. She pitches it away.

("I knew for some time you were nearing collapse. We were watching you and you were making incredibly stupid mistakes. You were living on luck and that being the case, it was certain to run out. There were so many signs you were not well. Even you must have noticed, but I never doubted that you would be of great use to me. Remember the first thing I said: 'I love you'?"

"The second. The first was: 'Where is ORAC?'")

"It's over, Avon. I win. Finally." A pause. "Where is ORAC?"

No response. The light dims, the throbbing deepens. It is hot. There is screaming down the corridors. She speaks again, firmly. "I love you. It's been a long day. Don't spoil it. I need you."

She glances at the body he straddles. "You are thorough. I admire that."

Finally he moves.

"Now that I have your attention, I am sorry I'm late," she says walking beside him. "I came as quickly as I could. I worried I might not find you alive. But I did hope. Actually, it was more than hope. Let us say I had a hunch. And here you are: a surprise and a pleasant one."

He replies: "I always thought your life and mine were linked."

"More than you will ever know," she says and takes him by the hand.

It is difficult to breathe. He feels light headed. Doors slamming, people shouting, dissolve into a roaring. She leads him out as he yields. Troops, black blurs running across smoking fields. There is redness flowing. Transports beat against the air, soaring. The day is dying in oily twilight. Distant fires glowing.

The throbbing has no source; it pounds from all sides. He stumbles, she catches him. A light breeze stirs his hair. It is good to be alive. Something is burning. It would end this way. She watches him, her hand holding his. Together. "Your a mess, Avon. But we'll get you cleaned up."

Words clog in his throat. "I murdered . . ," then he shrugs.

"No Avon. I did, over a year ago. Remember? It's something we have in common. Sadly, it is you who will get the credit. For purposes of state, that is the way it must be. I suppose one can't have everything."

"Then who?"

"One of life's little mysteries. Nothing more."

The throb merges to a buzzsaw hum. The heat burns. The day is charred black.

. . . He remembers awakening in a white room, cold air circulating about him. He is strapped in, medical monitors surround him. Sensor wires everywhere, some in his arms and legs. There is a strap of plastic on his wrist. It reads "K. Avon", as if someone might have trouble knowing who he

is. The sound of engines and ventilation, iron surf of a steel sea, surges. He watches the equipment do its best to analyze and decipher him.

His mouth is very dry. An aging square-faced doctor observes

him closely with angry eyes. Security men stand with guns ready. The doctor looks sharply at Avon as he mumbles something. Avon tries to focus, but it is all a blur. The doctor steps back then makes another check of the equipment. He detaches the wires with a sting and orders the guards to remove the restraints. A plastic container filled with liquid is pushed in front of him. Hesitating, he drinks it. The stuff tastes syrupy, slushy, awful. He grimaces. His tongue is like sand, but this is worse. The doctor shoves another one into numb fingers.

"Does this one taste any better?" he chokes.

The man says nothing.

Monitors ping. Tracer lines dance with photon beads and wires sing. But the pounding weakens as does the sting, and the iron surf recedes.

"Shall I to call you in the morning if I'm not doing . . . ?"

The doctor ignores him and speaks to the guards. "He'll live," he snorts, as if that weren't the best news heard all day. "See that he gets his fill of the fluid. Nothing solid until ordered. Watch him closely; assist him as necessary. He'll be weak. Call me at once if his condition worsens."

The door slams. Avon tries moving. Weak muscles, like liquid lead, crawl along his extremities. His neck feels like it has been karate-chopped.

Turning over is a major accomplishment. How long has he been out? Where is he?

Later he is playing a board game with one of the guards.

"You, nurse," he says to his opponent. Though the guards have been as unobtrusive as possible, he is having trouble concentrating. He is losing interest in the game. "Where am I?"

The guard is unsure how to respond. He glances over to the others. He is winning, beating Avon! And now this clown wants a road map! He answers with his best effort at formal seriousness: "Aboard the Nimrod, flagship of the Supreme Commander, Sir."

She has moved back up. He props himself, drinking some more of the liquid. Sir? And so have I. He is getting used to the stuff. Seems good for me. I'm alive and the buzzing is gone.

"Then it isn't necessary to take me to your leader, but I would like to know where I am going."

"Earth, Sir. Her city, the Capitol to be precise", the guard seems surprised he hadn't guessed. Of course.

One of the other guards emboldened by this conversation asks, "You were under Blake, didn't you?"

"I suppose it must have seemed that way at times. If you're

thinking of joining up, you're a little late."

"Just curiosity, Sir. You'll be under Servalan now."

Avon smiles, thinking a crude thought. He flexes his arms slowly and

rolls over again, finished with the game. "One or the other. You'll have to ask her."

("I worried all the way back to Earth, but I knew you were recovering when I was informed of your irritability and disgusting sense of humor."

"Forgive me, I was out of my mind. I'm normally so respectful of women. By the way, whatever happened to Arlan?"

"My finest, and she lets Vila of all people get the drop on her! What did you think happened to her? She was executed on the spot.")

The guards, apprehensive, watch his every move. He rolls the die, but Avon ignores it. I still have the reputation of a dangerous man.

His opponent is unhappy. "You don't want to play any more?"

"Game's over," says Avon, pushing it away, starring at the wall, "I lose."

He believed when ORAC told him of its find. And he believed when he pulled the trigger, repeatedly. The belief of murder would live on, long after the knowledge of his error had been confirmed. What is death? No answer will be attempted here, but for those philosophically inclined towards it being a "natural state", let them take comfort from Avon's hastening of the inevitable for this one individual.

Later ORAC confirmed by molecular analysis that it was the real Blake who had been killed by Federation guards under Servalan's command nearly two years before. ORAC was thus able to recover some dignity from its embarrassing error. It was known there were always distinctions at the molecular level -- even in the case of clones raised in identical environments -- and with the looted Auron equipment it was straightforward to determine who was what, and what was who. But ORAC was not aware of the complications brought about by those molecular subtleties when it had tried to divine the pattern of infinity.

It was a very close match.

All investigations failed to yield any information as to where he had come from or who/what he was.

Who was he, on that dying day, reaching for me, far away?

Had Avon in some tortured fashion hoped it was that man? Hope is a very ordinary need and because fools who luxuriate in the emotion seldom concern themselves with just what it is they are hoping for, frequently a fatal one. In hoping, if that is what had happened, he had achieved his most spectacular failure.

Count on Blake to make a mess of things even when he's dead.

He did not want to think about the others. What was there,

after all, to think about? They never seemed real to him, especially during that final year. Well, except Vila. The thief had always seemed too real. He would miss Vila (every other day), but Vila like the others knew the risks and had chosen to follow him regardless. They could have left at any time (space

is deep), but they stayed until the end. And in the end were as stupid and as helpless as . . .

Not that he had displayed "conspicuous intelligence" either. Paying their money and taking their chances, it was an old story with an old ending. So be it.

Behind him stood Sergeant Beale. She was not a mutoid, creatures long since expunged by Servalan's insistence, but on a bad day she might have passed for one. She was a member of the Special Services, a group totally loyal to the Supreme Commander. The sergeant and her equivalents were always nearby. They served as both a reminder of his power and from whom that power originated.

"My Lord", she asked, "have you reviewed the security arrangements?"

Avon turned to notice her. Ever since this mission began, she had never been far from him. Though used to Federation surveillance, this was unusual in its personal intensity. Perhaps it was her manner. He seldom paid attention to the Special Services, their people were so interchangeable and they were changed frequently enough. This one might be new. "I have.

There are no questions or complaints. Despite the presence of malcontents, it seems safe enough." What do you know?

"In my experience, my Lord, such appearances can be deceptive. In fact, they are frequently the most dangerous."

He eyed her. "Your concern about appearances is noted. I have had some experience with errors in perception myself. However, is it necessary for me to be armed on a diplomatic mission? (She won't like it that I keep bringing the subject up.) I would have thought that dual teleport bracelets and guards would be sufficient for my safety."

"An additional precaution, my Lord. It is a new policy. As the report states, there has been talk of terrorist gangs. We prefer not to risk your honor."

"That is a new policy. Pity I wasn't informed. How did I manage without it all these years?"

"Weaponry?"

"Honor."

"Attention to honor and defense are vital for all citizens."

"Even for me?"

"Especially the First Citizen."

"By the way, is Geir back on his planet?" He was weary and wanted to change the subject. You have no illusions, do you?

"Yes, my Lord. I have been informed that his ship arrived yesterday. He continues to be guarded closely. In fact, we offered to increase the guard on his laboratories, but he objected quite strongly."

I can't bring myself to hate you. I'm tired of hating. "I suspect he finds security arrangements tiresome. I can appreciate that. Well, good Sergeant, carry on. You seem to have matters well in hand. Now please leave me."

"Yes, my Lord," she saluted. "May I add, since these matters cause you irritation, it still remains my belief the Federation could not survive without you."

But that is not why you watch me. He turned away. "I know."

She received the call at once. She had been anxiously awaiting it and now it was coming in on one of the private channels. The caller would be very much aware of the value placed upon punctuality. It would not do to keep the Supreme Commander waiting. Beale's grim face appeared on the monitor.

Servalan liked her attitude.

"Confirmation of final instructions requested, Supreme Commander," said the sergeant.

It was a problem of meaning, of communication, Servalan had decided when she began this planning months before. There were subtleties she had seldom experienced, and though she was confident, not since Gauda Prime had she faced such complexity of operations, such delicacy of timing. It was not enough that her Special Services stay ahead of the terrorists. It was not enough that he suspect little. (He knew something was wrong. How much more would he guess? Avon.) Her people should know why they were doing this, but she could not tell them. So much was being risked because of one mistake and no one must know! Fate was giving her an opportunity to correct that error, an opportunity that had to be taken now! She reviewed their reports daily, pleased with the thoroughness, hopeful of the results. The trap was set. Avon was perfect bait. It was a plan of genius, if she dared say so herself. But would it work?

The orders would be confirmed! Retrieve Geir's data and equipment, destroy the site, crush the terrorists, keep the Auron Mykal alive, and by so doing earn his trust. Above all keep the Federation clean!

"Confirmation is given. There is no change in the plan."

"Understood, Supreme Commander."

You had better! She wanted to snarl but was silent. One dared not lose one's manners, even one in her position.

"We are now certain," Beale continued, "they will not hesitate to kill the Auron 'Mykal' in their attempt to take Lord Avon hostage. Indeed, they look forward to doing so."

"The Auron." How strange her voice sounded when she said that word, even to her. It almost sounded like "Avon" when she said it. How many times had she been revolted at the thought of saving one of their lives, but it had to be. This Molli (don't these people have surnames!) had to be captured and soon. "I am aware of the difficulties involved in keeping him alive, as well as earning his trust. It was I who stressed them."

Would this business never be over? How many times had she lectured them on each crucial item?

"The Auron 'telepathic' web," she had said, "is a great strength, but if used properly by us it will be an even greater weakness. To achieve that advantage, we must regain their trust to some degree. To that end, the Lord Protector must be with this Auron when the attack occurs. And there must be at least one significant casualty, one that appears to harm the Federation. Suspicion on their part is not acceptable.

She added. "It would be unfortunate if Mykal were to be harmed or were to doubt our intent. He is useful. Do not fail," she had told them repeatedly. I see big things in the future for this Mykal.

And how many times had they sworn they would succeed? She should relax. Her people were very good. Geir would be dead soon, and the scientist was far more useful dead than alive. His data was needed, nothing more. ORAC had assured her of that. And ORAC would get it all. No records would remain.

The place and the time of the attack were known -- the surveillance had been most efficient. The ships with the teleportation units would soon be in stationary orbit. All elements were in place. It was ready.

Others would do the killing, but she would have gladly done it herself.

If only she could be confident she had conveyed that feeling and need to her people! How she longed to be there in person directing what was about to happen. As she had once done.

"I admire your audacity and brilliance once more, Supreme

Commander."

She was not listening. But she was pleased with Beale. As one of the individuals charged with maintaining Federation security at all costs, to risk her life for an Auron must be both absurd and offensive. Yet Beale never flinched. Beale was also very good at discerning subtleties of meaning.

"And Lord Avon?" they had asked.

"He takes care of himself," she had responded. "As always."

"He will be in great danger."

"He will survive. Trust my insight."

And they did. Beale saluted. But Servalan looking at the monitor could see only Avon's face.

"One final question, Supreme Commander. I observed he was reading what appeared to be a letter. Do you wish me to make a copy of it? Do you wish it destroyed?"

Servalan jolted back to here, now. "It is of no importance!" She struggled to remain in control. She should have told them about that. She regretting more than even giving him that thing. Her voice softened, "It was an act of kindness (which I have truly come to regret). Leave it. Let it serve me as a reminder that one should never be kind. It does no one any good."

"Understood, Supreme Commander."

It was set. It would work. As the future foretold, so would it be.

Alone.

Avon watched the monitor, the days recorded events unfolding before him. On an unknown floor, in an unknown underground installation, surrounded by the might of the Federation, guards and force fields protecting against those less enchanted than the average citizen with his presence, he was but a solitary man on a mission, watching and being watched. A simple mission, or so it seemed, and when completed he would return to his home, the world he loved, returned as he had so many times before. So why did his unease grow? (If he had stopped to think about it, one factor might be that he was essentially under a not very subtle form of house arrest, but he seldom thought about that).

The regular programming had been preempted for a special devoted to the Lord Protector. What a show! Cameras followed the golden shuttle descending against a gray misty sky (Geir's world was rain soaked). A sonic boom and a flawless landing. Acres of black-uniformed troops, a spaceport greeting by the planetary president and various high government officials. Some stuff about how glad he was to be here. A weather joke. Everyone smiles, cheers, salutes. The motorcade into the capitol, the streets lined with enormous trees, long branches drooping in sorrow. The crowds were enthusiastic; bobbing faces of genuine affection. These scenes are the most difficult to watch. Posters displaying approved messages: "Avon, Protector and Hero", "Long Live Avon", "Avon Forever", and of course, "Servalan and Avon -- Heroes of Humanity". A tormented sea of placards waving, his face melting in rain drops.

(However, no mention of Blake. Servalan's policy was in full force, even here, though there remained rare occasions in which the Federation still had use for his memory. It was regrettable, but death had given Blake a dignity denied him in life -- as Avon and his employers knew. Avon had seen underground art works seized in raids over the years and Blake always figured prominently in the pictures and amateur dramas of resistance. He had seen a modified version of the ancient play, Julius Caesar, in which Caesar had been transformed to Blake, and he to Brutus. The teleplay had apparently originated on Lindor, at least they had been blamed for it.

One mildly amusing painting had shown Blake in the Garden of Eden with a woman who could have been Jenna and Servalan as the Serpent. The woman was offering Blake an apple with a particularly repulsive worm peaking out. The worm had Avon's face.)

The crowd faces. The cloud faces in the fog. Would these people ever accept the dangerous reality of the Federation? They had been Blake's Curse -- their needing for a hero to lead them from bondage to some indefinable heaven. Now they were his. They would cry out to Blake one moment and then to his "murderer" the next. What did they want? Why were their needs now focused on a man forever beyond their comprehension? They could see him, they could shout, they could hold on to his picture and wave it about, but they could never know him. (He could hardly be said

to know himself.) And in never knowing, how could they care?

What had happened? History had happened, yes, and history is

a cruel god. History had crashed them against the reef of time and now battered and dazed they were calling for help. Exhausted at the shores of eternity, he was to throw them a lifeline. What had gone wrong?

Dreams fall grieving: Diaspora.

Was the Federation preferable to the chaos of the Vesperas? The past remained a warning without meaning. Warnings would not be heeded if they could not be understood -- there were doubts this Federation could withstand much more.

Blake had misjudged the people's fear of instability (had misjudged at lot), though he had gauged correctly the extent of their need for hope with a human face, even his. Beliefs persisting through centuries were testimony of that primordial longing. But hope is deceptive, treacherous. The waters of hope are gray with mist, turbulent, and bitter to the taste. Blake had plunged in and drowned. As would others, if they were not cautious. And this man retained his reputation for caution.

The official version of Avon's life concluded the program. It went like this: an unhappy youth, but with early signs of genius. Then tragedy: the set up by agent "Bartholomew" as she plotted against the Federation (the narrator assuring viewers that that discredited branch of Security had long since been liquidated). The flight of an innocent man into the clutches of,

well, that awful person. Avon reluctantly serving same, desperately trying to soften said individuals's dreadful deeds and turn him away from lawlessness. The many adventures, edited and enhanced where appropriate, culminating in the battle of Star One (". . . whence all but he had fled.") where Avon alone stood between humanity and the Andromedan Evil -- until rescued by the great Servalan.

The "break" now that Avon could take no more. The long search until you know who was found on Gauda Prime. And there, the ever brave and resourceful Avon redeemed himself for all earlier errors by crushing the rebellion -- with the assistance of the great Servalan.

The trial and exoneration; his rapid rise to a position of power second only to the Supreme Commander. Finally, the stirring summation of the life of the First Citizen: friend of the people, loyal, noble, courageous, trustworthy, self-sacrificing, a man of exemplary decency.

That's our Avon.

(Sadly, he could not be given credit for his two "gifts" to the Federation: ORAC and the teleportation system. But the first was unmentionable indeed, and the latter was a State secret of the highest classification.)

The closing scene: Avon dedicating a memorial to those who had fallen during the Troubles. Black and silver banners curl and snap under a blue arch of sky. Granite face, gray cloud hair, Avon speaks to the crowd about whom he now serves, reading the carefully prepared words:

"I declare I do not recall that any public person has ever said to me that there was anything which, for the honor of our arms, or for the credit of the Federation, it would be well to keep concealed. Every citizen has taken it for granted that what is best for the Federation is the truth."

The public statements one must make for the benefit of a certain ruler! Assuage the gullible, confuse the remainder, that was all that was required. One could despise the content, but the necessity of the package remained. Lies had their uses; mankind had never outgrown its need for them.

Would that others in their rectitude had granted him that pardon.

As was the style in urban planning following the Atomic Wars, key installations were located far underground. So it was via tunnels that the group made its way to Geir's laboratories. One can applaud the prudence of such planning, but over the decades above ground construction had begun reappearing. Even the Troubles had not altered the trend. Underground architecture seemed to lack for most people the attractions it did for the leadership.

The security forces accompanying the group through the passageways halted a distance from the laboratories. There was a difficulty; it was thought prudent to have the situation checked. Avon unhappily concurred. Not everyone was disturbed by the development, however. Geir welcomed it. Beale said nothing.

With Lord Avon were Geir's chief lab assistant, a woman named Kyv, a dozen Special Services guards including Beale, and an Auron named Mykal. As they waited, Geir steered him to the Auron, a young man he had mentioned frequently. Earlier Geir had introduced him to Kyv, but the meeting went badly. The brief conversation clawed on the ragged edge of politeness and went nowhere. Mykal, Geir made clear, would be a happier story. Geir

raved about him: ("I must warn you he is a bit direct for an Auron. Brilliant, though. You'll like him."). And as Geir had the two shake hands, it seemed that his hopes would be rewarded. Mykal was eager to meet the great man and harbored none of Kyv's barely concealed resentment. Avon had noticed she seemed to dislike Mykal as well, so wrote it off as a permanent bad temper. Mission accomplished, Geir then slipped away as the two men looked at each other curiously. Again Avon felt something was very wrong. He wanted to get this over with.

"You are a hero to my people," Mykal began awkwardly. "We know what

you tried to do for us. We do not understand what happened afterwards, but we hold no bitterness towards you. If you ever seek refuge or forgiveness, the Auronar will provide."

Avon was pained and looked it. Was this why Geir had brought them together? "I am not an object of pity, yours or anyones."

"I did not mean to sound presumptuous."

Avon said what he had said many times before. "Despite what you may have heard, I avoid heroics. Especially of late."

Mykal nodded gravely. Avon studied him. Like many Aurons, his

features were delicate and he looked much younger than Geir had indicated. He had black, intelligent eyes, and a manner that mixed both shyness and pride. Other than that, there seemed to be little remarkable about him. "You did what you could. That is what matters. We are all creatures of bounded rationality and we are, despite our spiritual reputation, practical people, quite

accepting of limits -- having so unsuccessfully attempted to circumvent them ourselves. And we know people change. . ."

No response.

Mykal tried another tack. "Did you know Cally is now looked upon as a hero? It was not always so."

Avon felt very old. This was going nowhere. "So Mykal, what brings you to this wet little world?"

Mykal shrugged. "I was part of a trade and diplomatic delegation stranded when Auron was annihilated. We came to help after Star One, but it turned out we were the ones who would need assistance. We have done our best to meld into the society here but it has not been easy. We have had some help -- not extended eagerly, I might add. The local Auron community keeps out of sight and from the start they have regarded us as a source of

trouble." He added: "When we left we were told by the Elders of Auron it was doubtful we would return -- how right they were."

Perhaps we can get to the point someday. "What do you have to do with Geir?"

"Dr. Geir is a lonely man, as obsessed types are, and there are not many people on this backwater planet he can talk to. Thus he became curious about us. He helped us find places to live and work as best he could. He is fascinated by our experiments in evolution, which have some similarities to his own researches. It was a difficult situation for us all, so we were grateful for his assistance and aided him in turn. The arrangement bothers some but it makes sense, especially when you're stuck on this planet."

"You don't like it here?"

"Not particularly. We can't seem to escape the suspicions and resentments of the locals. As usual, if anything goes wrong we get the blame -- we are even blamed by some for Star One! The problem is that lately things have gotten worse. One of our people has been murdered and, judging from the note that was left, by a resistance group. To be blunt, I would like out of here."

Avon watched the guards. "So how do you help him?"

"There are, as I say, similarities in interest. Perhaps I should tell you I was a philosophy and economics student, though my degree is in gravitational physics," he smiled. "Some Aurons have difficulty making up their minds. I am interested in the late-twentieth century social thinkers, partly because records of them are so fragmentary -- they are quite a challenge in

interpretation. And partly because it seemed they really did have something to say, a few of them anyway, and it seemed a shame that knowledge was mostly lost. Geir agreed. He had similar interests in his youth but was unable to pursue them. His teachers frustrated him, but he never gave up. He is quite the idea enthusiast and we have had many talks over the years.

He even thinks these old writings might hold a clue to what happened. He is fascinated by references to a mysterious technology of molecular manipulation that might offer a unified explanation of what happened. So much of what we know of the past are legends, yet I can't but feel he is on the right track. You must understand Geir is obsessed with what he calls the problem of 'regression'. He considers it very troublesome that every advanced civilization we have encountered is hostile to the point of paranoia and self-destructive. He can't help but feel that something is wrong, is missing." Mykal shrugged. "Who can blame him for trying to find it."

"I suspect a lost is wrong in our understanding. It is by studying the

past that we comprehend the present; the present, the future," Avon said bored and becoming anxious. That is, we learn which way to run from the future.

Mykal beamed. "That's true. You have similar interests?"

"There is a lot it would be useful know about the past."

Mykal leaped for it. "Such as the dark times we call the 'Vesperas'? That is exactly Geir's interest. You two will get along. They are worthy of study -- especially since we may be on the verge of entering a third."

Avon frowned. Mykal's ability to take the most innocuous of comments and run halfway down the road with it before anyone could stop him was truly amazing. "The Vesperas, yes. Forgive me, but such speculations are unwise, Mykal. A word to the philosophically inclined."

"Intellectuals are used to such caveats. But we sometimes slip. Does such speculation bother you?"

"It bothers some," he indicated the guards.

"Your employer?"

"Encouragement of individual expression has never been one of her strong points." Your people should know.

"I would be the last to deny it." At least there was a lack of bitterness in that man that was appealing. Mykal seemed to accept the horrors of the past and hoped only to continue with his life. This a rational man could appreciate. "It is, however, proper to be concerned with the condition of one's society," said Mykal.

"In private. When ordered."

Mykal bristled. "Aurons are pacifists but we do not like being ordered. Forgive me if I have intruded into delicate matters, but one hears rumors of war."

"Never confuse chaos with war, Mykal. They are quiet distinct."

But Mykal went on regardless. "I don't expect you to discuss them, but you should be aware that many are concerned," he said, standing his ground.

(From time to time the two peered down into the dark abyss of

trust. It was an uncomfortable feeling for both.)

"There are rumors of any number of things. I advise caution lest one be accused of spreading them."

"Very well. Here is a rumor I would like confirmed and I have never spread it. It is true as a young man you spent time on Auron?"

Avon paused, astonished. How could this character possibly have heard of that? "I can assure you that is a rumor with no foundation. In any event, you should know that no such statement is ever going to be believed."

Mykal swallowed, then nodded quickly. "I see we understand each other. May I continue? Perhaps I misspoke. As a loyal citizen, I admit to only hearing such mutterings, talk of the 'last days' and all. I agree such talk is potentially disruptive; that it invites notions of the leader of the last days, also known as the Mes . . ."

Avon cut him off again. "Forbidden thoughts; forbidden words. You have quite a streak going. As an educated man I am sure you give no credence to such talk and would not discuss it with anyone equally knowledgeable."

Mykal smiled. "You are right of course. I was actually reminded of the old tale that the last days would be such a cataclysmic event, that only the emergence of people with extraordinary powers, able to alter reality itself, would succeeding in holding off final doom."

"I truly wouldn't get my hopes up."

"I don't. It's just that one has to hold on to something."

Avon tried to move on. "You mentioned a family?"

This was an even more sensitive subject. "My surname is Hodos. As is our custom it is not used with outsiders. Allow me to explain. Auron clones do not have surnames, so that probably accounts for the belief we are all that way. For the record, the use of cloning was widespread and growing among the Auronar, but it never constituted a majority of our births. And in the opinion of many of us, cloning is just another dead end and it is well the Federation forbids it. Anyway, I came in the world as yourself, twenty nine years ago."

Avon had already tuned him out. He looked around for Geir, but the scientist and his lab assistant had gone on ahead. Beale remained distant. The guards milled about, no words passed among them. Mykal was saying more about his family but Avon cut him off. "What does Geir want?"

"We would all like to know. He seems driven by things far removed from the traditional domains of science. Legends and myths guide his researches. It is very unclear."

"Fools or visionary? She does not suffer either. Care to comment on which Geir is?"

"Perhaps a little of both."

"That would be the worst possible combination," Avon felt his voice raising. "Let me put it this way. He was insistent that we meet. Why?"

"I have been made aware of certain information circulating about the Auron community," Mykal responded, quietly, hesitant. "Something strange is happening. What, no one is sure, but whatever it is there is a connection with an artificial planet called 'Terminal', an artifact left over from the First

Federation. All attempts to clarify what is happening have failed. As for Geir, he wants you to help him locate the planet. And he thinks I can be of assistance."

"'Something strange'? What?"

"Messages. One of our people is getting messages."

"Who? From where? What are they saying?"

"Her name is Molli. She is the second cloned sister of Cally, the only one alive."

Avon didn't move. "I was unaware Cally had a second sister. The Auron reputation for reticence is well-earned."

"Aurons are quite reticent about their 'family', particularly their cloned one. She would have told you only if absolutely necessary, such as in an emergency. Or if you and she had made love. Sorry. As for Molli, I gather she is a singer, a SongMaster to be precise. I know little more than that."

"Can we take this one step at a time? Some woman is getting messages from 'who knows where'? Geir can't possibly believe that."

"I mean only that she is a perfectly normal person who keeps to herself," Mykal said stiffly. "I have no reason to believe she broadcasts lunacy and neither does anyone else."

"Not given to hallucinations or mental difficulties?"

"Was Cally?"

"You mean, if Cally was not, one can argue neither was Molli. I reserve judgment on that. From whom are these messages originating?"

Mykal looked ever more uncomfortable. "It is believed, well, by some, Cally."

Avon looked away. "Somehow I knew you were going to say that. I think a psychological failing is more likely."

"I admit that cannot be ruled out, at least until we know more. By the way, all she says is that the messages are related to Cally. Others have drawn the more controversial conclusion. But if the messages are faked, or the product of a deranged mind, they are inspired fakes and also extremely obscure. I admit it would be easy to dismiss them."

"It would appear so. Why is Geir so interested in these 'messages'?"

"According to rumors, never confirmed, Cally died on Terminal. That adds a bizarre twist to Geir's attempts to locate the planet. If Terminal is what he thinks it is, then it is possible that in some way she is still alive, or has been absorbed into Terminal's computational structure. She would still

retain her identity, and yet be something more, something different. That is Geir's belief. I can't comment further."

Avon snorted, "If it were to happen to anyone, it would be her. Cally is not alive," he said flatly.

"What is life?" Mykal shrugged.

"Before proceeding further along the path to enlightenment, Geir believes Terminal is some kind of a computer?"

"Oh, that and much more. He is convinced the planet is a laboratory of accelerated evolution. He also believes Terminal is the key to our destiny, that it will be either the end or the true beginning of humanity and," he added, "its children."

The more he thought about this the more he wondered what she

could possibly want from Geir. "You will agree these ideas are speculative. Why does he believe they have any basis?"

"Dr. Geir is fascinated by the problem of knowledge. He views knowledge as metaphysical, that the patterns of knowledge not only underlies the structure of the universe but in some way are existence -- that it is a substance, a kind of a thing. Geir believes intelligent life is, or should be, evolving towards an Omega Point, where it will become omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient. Since knowledge guides evolution, he thinks it feasible to speed the process. His ideas are unusual but not worthless. On the basis of his researches and conjectures about Terminal, there is no

other explanation of the strange things emanating from it, other than the possibilities you mentioned." Mykal paused. "Would you be willing to comment on the circumstances of Cally's death?"

Avon ignored the question. "Mykal, if this Molli is saying the things you relate, her situation will become difficult in the near future." As will mine.

"I am aware of that. But I believe the risks are worth it. And in all sincerity I do not believe she is lying or insane."

"Mykal, this is nonsense. Geir talks about Terminal as if God lives there."

To the appalled Avon, Mykal replied, "if Geir is right, in a

manner of speaking, He/She/It does."

It was then the conversation was interrupted.

An enormous explosion -- daggers of rock, storms of stone, and a

rising roar shattered the tunnels. Blocks of wall caved in as doors down the passageways blew out. They were crushed by the forced of the blast. Time went mad.

The explosion went on. Of the senses, only a numb sense of touch remained. They were deafened, sightless. If there was emergency lighting, it was useless. They drowned in showers of sand and concrete.

Two men had fallen together; endless minutes later time congealed. It seemed they were looking up, and while they could not see what remained of the ceiling, they could see something -- sparks from frayed power cables flaring in turbulent dust. One reached out with an unsteady grip. There was movement and for a moment both thought the same word: alive.

Nearby, a bleeding woman struggled to move, to find direction. She remembered she had a job to do. It would be done. She crawled to them while trying to find how many were still alive. They did not recognize her until she was almost upon them.

The men regained identities. Avon . . . He motioned violently to . . . Mykal. Keep down. He took out his gun.

As Beale approached, Avon looked around, his head pounding. The walls were broke open -- concrete and steel and the guts of broken pipe.

She knew!

How much time had passed? The guards were confusedly taking up positions. Shadows stumbled and shouted in the dark. They could feel the rumblings, but could not distinguish voices. Numb, Avon could barely hold his gun. Dust was in eyes and mouth; eyes and lips were burning. He spat. The air was very hot.

Guns drawn, the guards sought cover, waiting by the broken walls. Someone should be coming shortly.

And there were sounds and lights coming down the corridor. Beale put on her mask and gestured to Avon to do the same. She handed a spare to Mykal, and a teleport bracelet. What do they want with him? Closer now. Lights pierced the darkness, shots fired, energy beams cracked through the air. Teleport! Why don't they teleport!

The firing was returned. The Federation troops used energy and automatic weapons, but the attackers were ready. Their weapons were crude, but expertly aimed. One found its mark almost at once. A guard dropped with a scream.

The rumbling quieted. He could move his legs. Strength returned to his arms. He glanced at Mykal. The Auron was too dazed to be frightened. Firmly removing Mykal's hand from his arm, he took the mask and angrily threw it away.

He could hear now -- barely. Beale's voice sounded like it was underwater. "I think some of my people were killed by the explosion. Stay with the Auron. They," she gestured, "don't want to kill you. I'm trying to

reach the ship, but there seems to be trouble with the communicators."

He watched the lights as the attackers fanned out. He said nothing. Her expression was steady on him. He looked at her. She held his gaze perfectly. Now he knew there was nothing wrong with the equipment.

Beale crouched and moved quickly away. A searchlight found him, blinding Avon but nothing fired in his direction. As she said, (knew!), they did not want to kill their prey. Avon fired at the light, but his aim was poor.

Mykal tried putting on the mask but quickly gave up. Then he noticed. Struggling to see as the dust flowed. . . there. He touched Avon's arm and pointed above. Avon looked. He swore. The overhead damage was very bad. Immense beams protruded from the rock, held only by ruptured piping and torn cables. It could all come crashing down in an instant.

Mykal was moving the teleport bracelet on his wrist. Avon hissed, "I'll explain later!" Mykal nodded briskly, having been just recently promoted from the state of being stunned to the state of being totally bewildered.

The emergency lighting was becoming visible, a fog glow in the dark. Avon fired again, several shots, and this time one of the attacker's lights went down. He gestured to Mykal to follow.

Mykal was shocked. "Why are you doing this?"

"If I'm in the midst of it, they'll be confused. It will slow them down; give us time, for what it's worth."

"That's not what I mean. This is not your fight."

(One more fact was also becoming visible. Somewhere in his

mind freeing itself from the explosion the conclusion formed. Geir was dead and that too was part of the plan.)

"It is now."

Other lights began cutting through the darkness. The firing from both sides cracked and merged, a sound becoming as loud as the original explosion. He tripped over a body.

He kept low; Mykal needed no encouragement to do the same. There was not much cover. Avon removed the weapon from the dead guard and gave it to Mykal. "Use only at my command. As long as you are with me, they won't shoot in our direction," he shouted.

Mykal nodded. He touched the weapon as he had the teleport bracelet; both were equally foreign to him.

The guards began falling back. One of the attackers charged through the defensive line, but he tripped or was shot and went down. Avon looked for Beale. He saw her strengthening their defensive position, using bodies if necessary.

Another guard fell. Energy beams sizzled overhead. Fires were starting. Flames, almost solid, are weaving before his eyes. There are charred fragments of memory, drifting.

Running, shouting in the hallway ahead. Lights searching for him among the dead.

Avon crouched against the broken wall, firing at the lights. He shouted to Mykal, "You know them?" But then thought better of it as Mykal nodded briskly. "Never mind," Avon said. "It doesn't matter."

"Didn't your people warn you?"

He said to himself, "I should have paid closer attention." Avon motioned Mykal to follow him again. Keep moving. Running, he fired. A light went down.

As more of the attackers tried to break through, the fighting became hand to hand. Avon found Beale speaking into a communicator. Her look remained calm and certain.

"We have to wait. A few minutes," she shouted.

Avon gestured above. "Look! No time! Teleport!"

"Soon. There's a delay, very brief. They know about the damage. They need to recalculate," she looked at him. It was no longer important that he believed her, and she knew he did not.

"I would advise you to stay," she said.

For a moment, he thought he saw her gun move in his

direction.

You see me as I am. Trapped at every moment, in every place.

For you, no illusions.

One can experience both resignation and exhilaration together. A feeling stirs inside him. It is hatred.

"Can't hold them much longer," she added to herself.

"Do what you will."

Someone broke through the side. She moved quickly and took the attacker down.

Avon glanced above again. He could still see nothing for certain more than a few meters away. But for a moment, he thought he saw one of the support beams sag.

The explosion must have grossly miscalculated.

It was then, for the first time, the firing lessened. He hoped for a moment the attackers were unsure of their advantage and might start to retreat. There couldn't be that many of them. But the voice coming through a megaphone was quite certain of where the advantage lay:

"THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS. YOU ARE OUTNUMBERED AND OUTGUNNED. YOU CANNOT ESCAPE. LOOK ABOVE. THE SUPPORTS ARE NEAR COLLAPSE."

Kyv. The lab assistant. Of course.

Beale had moved again. He could not find her. The firing stopped. It appeared as if half his guards remained. He stood by a couple, their weapons still at ready. There were lights everywhere now. Blinding lights, watching him.

He heard the sergeant's voice. "I will meet to negotiate," she said.

"NO! SURRENDER NOW!"

"Accepted. I need to get my wounded. We will toss out our weapons."

The remaining guards rose and slowly pitched their weapons before them. The attackers moved in quickly, cautiously. Avon dropped his gun and motioned Mykal to do the same. The Auron eagerly complied. Hands raised, they walked over to Beale.

Kyv was now visible. Her face was dirty, contorted, triumphant. She looked at him in contempt. "You're ours now, My Lord. And we're going to make good use of you." She motioned him to the side away from the others. Mykal moved to follow but she stopped him. "The Auree stays. We have no need for him."

For the first time Beale looked worried. "As a hostage he would be of great value to you. He's a friend of Lord Avon."

Kyv hurried the others along. She looked at Mykal, amused and impatient. "Yeah, for a half hour. Since when does the Federation value one of their lives?"

The captured guards, followed by the rebels, scrambled out the corridor. She hurriedly motioned Avon and Beale forward.

Beale stopped. "You're making a mistake. You will need him."

"Maybe you do. I don't." There was more rumbling, a cracking sound and coughs of concrete. "Move!" she yelled.

"No!" Beale rushed towards Kyv, knocking her down, but Kyv's reactions were too quick. She rolled to the side expertly, shooting the sergeant on the roll. One of the rebels herding the prisoners turned and shot Beale on the ground, killing her.

Avon watched, impassive. What do you want? Kyv got up, pointing the gun at him.

"In my teens, you were one of my heroes. Now you're as lazy and as stupid as the rest of them. Don't give me an excuse. I can wound quite severely without killing."

He adjusted his cape, indifferent to her. The group ahead was almost out. It was him and her.

"Move!"

Avon was rooted to the spot.

"Very well." She has a crazy look. "You will learn that hate is the first freedom." The gun pointed at Mykal, square to the face. Steady. A slender finger moved towards the trigger -- never expecting Avon to react as he did. He pivoted and rushed towards her. All she saw was a blur. He crashed into her at full strength, falling on her as he grabbed her wrist. Her hand cracked on jagged concrete; he deftly removed the gun from loose fingers; she yelled. He pushed loose, out of range of her kick, as he rose slowly. Her mouth

was open, gasping in agony.

The rear guard of the rebels turned. They saw him in the fire light. Smoke curled around him. He pointed the gun straight at her. He smiled, death flowing in that smile. Everyone stopped.

A sea green glow enveloped the two men. And that was it.

The next instant Avon, his guards, alive and dead, and Mykal were on the ship surrounded by troopers and medical personnel. An officer rushed up to him bursting with apologies. Avon did not notice; did not say a word. He glanced over to where the astonished Auron was already being examined by Federation doctors.

Sirens wailed through the ship; troopers rushed into the teleportation units to capture the fleeing rebels. It would be over shortly. He looked at the body of the sergeant. The gun slipped and from his hand dropped.

Mykal watched Avon, struggling, as so many had, to separate the man from the galactic fable. He thought he saw a flicker of sadness like a dying flame upon that face. If so, the emotion was in an instant gone. He decided that whatever the judgment of history, this man would always be a friend to the Auronar. And perhaps something more, if he could ever achieve redemption.

It was a pleased Servalan reviewing the final report. The operation had gone well. Except for the business about the size of the explosion, which was disturbing. He might . . . the Auron might . . . well, now it was nothing to worry about. One can't foresee everything. And what what does not see is unimportant. Still, at the very least there had been a near catastrophic failure to adjust timing. Someone would pay. Yet perhaps it was better something had gone wrong. The result was more than she could have hoped for. Even her problem child had performed well, if a bit recklessly.

The report concluded with a list of successes: the Special Services were assisting the planet's government in improving its security, the incipient rebel movement had been crushed, and the State had a surfeit of new heroes, if some posthumous ones -- including Geir for whom she ordered a month long period of mourning on his planet.

And the Auron, the crux of the operation, the key to her next triumph (and her greatest one after that), had accompanied Avon back to Earth without resistance. Mykal Hodos, scion of what had once been one of the most influential families on Auron, was now in protective custody and apparently not suspicious of his drastically changed circumstances, taking on face value everything that had happened. And her agents informed her that

the Auron telepathic network was again a buzz with wonder at the

heroics and decency of Avon. What more could she ask?

Nevertheless, she could tell by the look of the man standing before her that one individual was not pleased. She was prepared for that, however. Avon had been astonishingly careless at times, but was no fool. He knew from the beginning something was off. Soon he would know what that was.

"It wasn't necessary to murder Geir," he said. His voice was angry, defiant, more so than she had seen him in years, yet the control was perfect.

"If you mean I did not act to prevent his death, you are correct," she replied coolly. "But I did not kill him, nor is that why you are angry."

"Your people knew exactly what was going to happen."

"They knew most of it."

"And you did nothing."

"On the contrary, I did a great deal. I did what the situation required. You should grant me that. Avon, Geir is nothing. Why do you keep dwelling on him?"

"It was stupid, letting him die. It will take decades to duplicate his research. Unless," and he stopped for a moment, looking over at ORAC, "you made sure you got everything you needed before they blew up the labs. What are you hiding?"

Servalan risked a smile. "Oh, any number of things. You are quick, Avon. Not quite quick enough, but still not bad. Yes, I got everything I needed. Really, you are being hard on me. Geir's most important researches were done years ago. His later papers were more speculation than substance. I have the word on that from my authority," she rose and walked over to ORAC. "When I spread rumors of your impending visit, I got the response I wanted: the traitors would kill Geir for 'collaboration', but you they would take hostage. That enabled me to solved several problems. You should thank me: I'm always putting excitement into your life."

He glared at her.

"It hurts that you are so angry with me. I am grateful you are alive. I did warn you."

He remained silent. She sighed. "Would you like to hear the rest?"

"All of it."

"Very well. Believe me, I did what I had to do. I may not be kind, but I am not cruel."

"As assurance that falls somewhat short."

"I regret assurance will always be in short supply with me."

She spoke quickly and firmly. Dangerous as it was to reveal a weakness to an ally, let alone an enemy (and he would always be both), she was determined to take the risk. She would, however, spare him certain unsettling details.

"I do not deny withholding information. I have been concealing it for some time.

"Nearly a decade ago I discovered the centuries old files about Terminal. There had been a time lock on them and one day as I was making inquiries, they were open. As you might expect, they were hard to understand -- they spoke of how Terminal had moved itself just before the Wars, they spoke of it as deciding, of thinking, of almost being alive. My first reaction was to destroy the files, but I continued to read, fascinated. The records mentioned things that I felt would be of great use to me. You must understand my situation at the time. Blake was finished. We had completed our interrogation. I was preparing to make my announcement, one which would have solidified once and for all my power in the Federation. Yet I hesitated. I felt I was no closer to ending this rebellion or what had seeded it. My triumph increasingly seemed unsure. Then I saw how Terminal could change that. According to the records there were strange machines stored on the planet. They could absorb data similar to what we had collected and create artificial "personae" -- indistinguishable from the real. We can do similar things, crudely, but these machines were much more sophisticated and powerful. If there were any chance they still existed, it was worth the effort to find them. The records told us Terminal's location. And I knew of a perfect subject for experimentation.

"It seemed a good idea at the time.

"I am one of your two weaknesses," she smiled. "Blake was the other. As long as you had doubts about his death, I could use that weakness to trap and destroy you whenever I wished. And that was my intent. Though I have long admired you, I was desperate to finish this business before it finished me. I assembled a team of psychological and computer specialists and we

went to Terminal.

"From our arrival bizarre things began happening. There was something odd about those abandoned laboratories, something terribly wrong: like they were haunted -- we were not only using the equipment but the equipment was in some way using us. I can't explain it better. Sleep was terrible, almost non-existent. I had nightmares of Blake killing me. I would

close my eyes and I would see his vengeful face. He was damning me.

"There was a constant feeling of being probed, watched, studied, but from where and how we did not know.

"Terminal would tell me things -- I know of no other way to express it -- 'messages' in my dreams. Sometimes they were as clear as you standing before me. Others were obscure, wrapped in darkness and enigma. I was informed the Lynks were our destiny. I was warned that attempting to take any of the equipment would mean my death. I believed what I was told.

"My people began dying, some by accident, some by suicide. They became careless. I ordered them to work faster, harder, anything to keep our minds off what was happening to us. I appealed for help, but we were cut off. Later, I learned that whoever or whatever controls Terminal continued to send messages to Earth that everything was fine.

"There was so much on Terminal that could be of use to me! But it was clear we would have to settle for getting off the planet alive. I tried to make new plans, to think new strategies, but everything was washed away in the desperation to get out. My plans changed, were changed . . . I am not sure which. I no longer wanted any of you dead. Terminal itself would complete the experimentation I had begun. I set bombs, yes, but only to eliminate any chance of escape. You would be marooned and you would go mad -- a much more interesting fate than execution.

"By the time I boarded the Liberator, I was grateful to have won your ship, but Terminal would deny me that as well. No, I did not intend to leave ORAC, but as I said, my people had grown careless.

"You know what happened next. Fortunately, before the ship disintegrated, I was able to teleport to one of the abandoned observation bases orbiting the planet. There was food and water and communications equipment, perfectly preserved over the centuries. I survived, if not in comfort. And after weeks of frantic effort, I was 'permitted' to summon help.

"Three ships were sent for me. Powerful ships, manned by the best of the Federation. Only one got through. The others suffered the fate of the Liberator -- all hands were lost. The third barely made it to a Federation base before going out of control. Shortly after we abandoned ship, it self-destructed.

"You can understand my terror. I felt that whatever controls that planetoid was following me, playing with me, watching me wherever I went,

whatever I did.

"By then the political situation had changed drastically. Shortly after my return the base was attacked and destroyed. My rescuers and troops loyal to me were killed by reactionaries. Fortunately, I got to a ship and escaped. I went into hiding on the outer worlds and assumed a new identify. Given all that had happened and the extent of my failure, I did everything possible to put awful place behind me. I certainly never wanted to go back. It was enough to stay alive and return to power, someday.

"I wanted it to remain my secret. As you know, sharing is not my way. By necessity I must share the teleport with my security forces. But I do not wish to share Terminal. Only now I must, at least with you.

She indicated a star in one of the distant sectors of the Federation and clicked a switch. A woman's picture appeared. Though prepared, it was still startling to see a face identical to Cally's. "Three years ago I was informed about curious messages being received by this Auron, Molli, who you now know is Cally's second sister. I keep close watch on the Auronar and

these messages, which she calls 'star whispers', disturbed me greatly. There was a certain familiarity to them; their oddness was telling. She spoke of things that no one besides you and I could possibly know. And she told her people the messages were connected with Cally. If one does not allow for lying or insanity, which I admit is asking a lot of credulity, there remains only one reasonable explanation for their origin.

"Very few are capable of taking me on -- especially considering the penalties for failure. Molli is not one of them. There is nothing to show her capable of anti-Federation activity. Aurons are doctors, artists, scientists, traitors -- to be sure -- but not rebels, except for one.

"And," she sighed, "despite their so-called telepathy, Aurons are not in contact with the spirit world.

"I was becoming increasingly concerned -- more information was imperative. ORAC suggested robot probes. It is, after all, as curious about Terminal as I am. That helps. You have no idea how humiliating it is to have to plead with a plastic box! It warned that the destruction of the Liberator and the fate of the three rescue ships necessitated extreme caution. I had my technicians build the probes. ORAC programmed and launched them.

"The probes," she said facing him directly. "Six have been launched over the past three years, each reporting, shall we say, 'terminal' difficulties. Some were destroyed before reaching the star system, apparently as the Liberator was. Others malfunctioned after working perfectly for weeks in orbit around the planet. All attempts to revive these probes have failed. Not that these problems were unexpected. Whatever is there is clearly capable of defending itself. I have an enemy. One whose knowledge and power is significant."

"I ordered the surveillance of Molli increased, but she must have been warned we were closing in. She has since vanished. My agents are certain she is still on her planet, which have been blockaded, but they have no idea where. She is clearly getting 'professional' assistance from someone; a woman we are certain, but that is all we know. I should have scorched the planet, but for the time being a more subtle approach is advised.

"It was shortly after the last probe failed that I received Geir's request. I had his proposal and papers scanned and given to ORAC -- the routine procedure. But it saw what I did not. There was nothing routine about his work -- I think there is a connection between Geir's researches and Terminal.

"My life will not be at the mercy of whatever lurks there! I will not be

cowed. I am prepared to do whatever is necessary, which is why Mykal is crucial. The Aurons like you, Avon, but not that much. However, it will obviously be considerably easier with you two working together than without you. Discover why these messages are being sent and who or what is sending them. Capture Molli and whoever is helping her.

"Loyalty and obedience are not enough. More is required, much more, and while I continue to have doubts about you, I believe I can now hope. I need to hope -- I haven't had much occasion to do so lately.

"You two will be the wedge driven between the Aurons and my enemy. With you and Mykal working together, the trust of the Aurons is assured. With your skill and knowledge . . . well," she hesitated, "I believe that will be sufficient, but I am not sure."

"Such faith."

"You are improved Avon, but far from well. I will win, whatever it takes."

"Even me?"

"Even you."

A lesser man might have savored the irony of a situation that had, in effect, replaced the number two man of the State by an Auron, but not Avon. "The question was rhetorical. Has ORAC attempted to contact Terminal?"

She nodded and inserted the key into the computer. "Yes, but Terminal refuses to respond. It is aware of our efforts to reach it, but brushes them aside. ORAC is powerless against it."

"Have you asked ORAC its opinion?"

"Of course," she said wearily. "Whenever I do it babbles something about a vector, or a wave, or a line through the 'pattern of infinity'. I have no idea what it is saying, so I finally gave up."

Avon looked at her oddly but remained silent.

"Nothing to say?"

"Not yet. Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"Yes, there is. There is one message, the first Molli received, that I will now share with you. It will give you something to think over."

With fear and resolve bound together, she said, "the message is: 'Belief Lives After Knowledge Errs.'"

And Avon laughed.

Overhead an icicle moon moves through imaged dead sky.

The Lord Protector was in bed reading when she entered. It was almost three in the morning. He turned the electronic pages of his electronic book, waiting for her to speak. Away from the room of Central Control, she was always anxious and frightened. And he could sense the tension in her now was worse than usual.

The Supreme Commander poured herself a drink. She watched him, his manner composed and relaxed. He did not fool her for an instant. She hated him more deeply than she wanted to admit, but he was still the most desirable man she had ever known; the man who remained her destiny. She finished the drink and put on her gown, then crawled beside him, taking the book and tossing it. He did not resist.

She murmured, "Did you love Cally?"

He expected the question. In one form or another it had been asked many times. "Her feelings for me were far greater than mine for her," he said, reciting, "for a while, anyway. In the end she gave up, on me especially. I think she always cared, but I had no desire to reciprocate. We never made love, as I've said. I did not mind. I did not mind a lot of things at the time."

She moved closer, dimming the lights, holding him in the misty glow. Like other women in his life, she sought a comfort he could never give. "Cally died more of despair than her wounds," he continued. "As you said, Aurons make poor revolutionaries -- though she put in a good effort. Examining her

afterward, I realized the explosion on Terminal was not enough to have killed

her. She wanted to die; was quite content to do so. We touched, she smiled; that was it."

He was desperate to change the subject. "Your enemy of Terminal is merely using cheap psychological warfare. It's only word play; an acrostic at that --the first letter of each word spells out 'Blake'. Not exactly a threat."

"There are other messages, Avon. Taken all together they do disturb me. They seem to indicate whatever is on Terminal knows something crucial about me. And yet is unwilling to state it openly."

He shrugged. "There you have it. Your 'enemy' is afraid. So why the concern?"

She looked at him curiously. "It is planting seeds in her mind. Those seeds will grow."

"Are you be willing to show the other messages to me?"

"No." She recalled one she had a particular dislike for: The Rebel Eludes Earth.

"Then you are afraid. You and your enemy are on equal footing."

"You will be told, eventually, but not now," she said irritably, then sat up on the bed. "The later messages hint of strange powers of the mind. Powers that may belong to Molli, and perhaps one other."

"Unnamed?"

"Not yet. Oh, I wish I could put the whole business out of my mind, but it is so very odd. I was reminded, and this must sound strange, of old legends . . .

Even knowing the risks of cutting her off, Avon did not want to hear any more. "I've quite had my fill of them of late."

"Don't interrupt! The Auron legends speak of the end time, when there would appear people who could change reality by the power of belief itself. Those people, it was said, would be humanity's last hope."

Avon frowned, thinking of Mykal. If there were ever two people who were further removed from each other than those two . . . yet together . . . It made no sense. Now at this hour, listening to this nonsense, even he was becoming tired.

"It's nothing but an old myth," he eyed her. "Why do you care?"

"Not all their fables are meaningless. Not all their reports false."

"This one I think qualifies."

She sighed. "Perhaps you are right. I hope so. Am I am reading more into this than there is? I perceive a threat and I trust my perceptions."

"We'll discuss it tomorrow."

She looked as weary as he felt, but there was an odd kindness in her voice as she continued. She moved her hand closer to his. "Poor Cally, how I hated her. Yet I can sympathize. I know what it is to have a hopeless love." She suddenly threw herself back on the bed. "Your friends still continue to trouble me. How relieved I was to see them all dead. Everything seemed to fall into place after that. I worry about your fondness for Aurons. Useful as it is to me, that might change. I got two-thirds of them -- I would hate that effort to have been wasted." Her hand neglected, she rolled over, her back toward him. "If you run into this Molli, you will let me know, won't you?"

"I'll do what has to be done."

"You'll do what I order you to do!"

"It was my understanding you wanted information. You will get it."

"Don't tell me what I want."

"I never will." He said, trying to placate her. "You have my word."

She faced him once more. She spoke with the irritating deliberateness of an often repeated lecture, which it was. "Aurons worry me. They must be watched. They won't forget what I did. They want revenge -- but this new threat will not be allowed to aid them. I will see to that." Then she said idly. "Someday it will be over forever. When I locate New Auron. When you guide me there."

He was so disgusted he wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her, but he remained in control. He got up abruptly and retrieved the book. "What do you know about them? What do they mean to you?' he muttered.

Her eyes were narrow slices of rage. "I am more interested in what they mean to you."

She watched as he returned to the bed. "And what you know of them. I believe this Molli and your new friend know things they are unwilling to share." She saw his eyes distant and resentful. "But nothing will be done for now." Once back in the bed, she touched his lips with a slender finger.

He said nothing; had nothing left to say. Her threats and warnings formed an unrelenting fog he struggled to make his way through, and in that moral fog both the desire and the hatred for this women were inseparable. Both were caught in the grip of emotions neither could escape. There was no point in assuring her of his loyalty. Whatever assurance he gave, it would not be long before she would begin to doubt, to feel cornered, and to demand of him again that he obliterate the past. Nor was there any point in her assuring him of her love, as much as she could be said to give. It was a problem of being and meaning. Like the placard people, she loved the image, the illusion, the man who did not exist. And the love for that image would live on whatever happened to its irrelevant physical embodiment. That was the reality of her love, and one day the reality that was this man would no longer be needed to sustain it. It hardly mattered.

She watched him closely, seeming to read his thoughts. She caressed his hands, holding both together to her pale cheek, feeling the warmth of life. "Avon, I love and need you. Love is a very ordinary need; even I have it. Each year the feeling grows deeper. But if you were to die, I would live on. If we

found ourselves on opposite sides again, I would not hesitate. I would mourn. I would make you an even greater hero in death than you are in life. But I would do what must be done."

He studied her. She almost seemed to be saying that he would, and it frightened him that he could no longer deny the possibility. "I'm becoming increasingly aware of that," he said. "We are together, but even that is not enough."

She lowered his hands and moved beside him, a soft slow movement that barely registered on the bed. She lay her head on his chest, exhaustion seeping into her now muted voice. "I never have enough. That is my tragedy. You are mine but even that leaves me wanting. When you love someone, Kerr, is it necessary to know them? And if not, does love mean anything?" she whispered. She was almost asleep.

He stroked her hair awkwardly. "I think 'knowing' someone is far more difficult than 'loving' them," he said mechanically, his exhaustion as great as her own. "It would seem enough to love -- to the extent the word has meaning."

He felt her nod. "How illusions die over the years! How they drain you. I thought that, before... love always knew enough...," her voice trailed off.

"Before?"

"Before loving you."

The imaged moon envelopes them, whispering silences white,

In the morning, the hum of the cleaning robots awakened her to the now brightly lit room. Her eyes opened. She saw him standing naked before the wall-sized monitor, looking out to the city and the icy plains. Though far underground, the monitor gave the perfect illusion of a winter window. She could imagine the icy wind and the cold slanting sunlight piercing between the towers and domes of her city. She could imagine a cocoon of light and

air enveloping that body, fusing both vulnerability and strength. And for a moment, she could imagine him plunging through that electronic window to the Earth.

Who is she, on this dying day, reaching for me, far away?

She rose from the bed too quickly. She put on her robe and rushed beside him. She knew he was aware of her every movement, of every breath (as if she were inside him), but would never give a sign. (He had given her all he could, but she would always want more).

She said, touching him, "Believe me, I do love you."

"Just enough," he said resigned, mourning the fury now buried

within him.

"Look, Avon." she said, gesturing to the city. "It is my city, but it is our city as well. As long as I remain, it will be here for the two of us. For always."

"Not nearly always."

Taking her by the shoulders, gently, looking at the white-marble face in the bright artificial sunlight, he said, "Until death us do part."