Rain of Judgment

Episode II

of

by J. Kel

-- William Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida

I survived alone.

The woman stood by the cave entrance. There was a fire (heat of hatred), and the glow brushed over her (glow of lyrical beauty). Her name was Jenna Stannis, though it was a name (valorous) she had not used for years. She had many aliases now.

(Against an obsidian sky, a pinwheel galaxy is snared in the branches of a leafless tree.)

For years, she viewed herself as the last survivor of an epoch she had barely escaped. The bitter pride of that realization strengthened her. She plotted revenge; then pursued, she sought refuge. She found only despair. That was understandable, for in truth she was not as alone as she would have preferred.

No, it was not her companion, tending the low fire inside the cave. There was another, but she would not save him. Now that justice was triumphant (as her enemies boasted), she longed to bring that justice to completion. She would do that because she could not bring herself to believe the epoch had truly ended.

I ask that I be allowed a few dreams. And then one day, I will be free to find a home without them.

She still dreamed of a country life: marriage, children (dreams of happiness frequently conspire in their banality), but wished she could be less cynical about it. As a wish for the future, as one hid from the past, one could do worse.

There was a village not too many kilometers away. In the early evening quiet, she could hear bells. She was not born here -- was, in fact, a child of Earth -- but she felt this planet was probably as close to a home as she was ever likely to get.

A voice entered her mind, not altogether welcome, disturbing in its brashness. It too was a reminder of the past.

//He will be here soon.//

The woman by the fire was black-haired, with a soft, thin face, high cheekbones and an angular chin that gave her eyes a look dignified and remote. Her name was Molli. She was an Auron and a Songmaster.

Jenna did not reply. The doings of "Lord" Avon were hardly news. He was alive and it seemed that all existence conspired to remind her of that unpleasant fact. He could not be silenced. He too was a voice in her mind, and she wished they would all go away.

Nor did Molli expect a response. Her companion had been sullen ever since Molli announced her decision; the silences between them were becoming frequent and brittle. Consider a metaphor. Think of silence as a lifeless tree; tension as dry branches breaking. She tossed a twig into the sparking fire.

The night was clear, cold, cloudless; typical of early Spring. The stars burned very bright, and the sound of a remote river faded in and out like a dying echo.

Some of the "stars" had cause for being so bright. They were rather closer than the others. They were Federation warships, and Jenna knew well their orbital patterns. To a skilled observer, as she certainly was, it was easy to the point of obviousness to discern how they scanned the planetary surface. Servalan's forces had no reason to hide these days.

//He saved one of my people,// Molli continued in silent communication, pressing to bridge the widening gap between them. //And the Auron he saved will be accompanying him.//

Jenna was weary as she reentered the cave. "So they say. Saved? Saved from what?" She knew the story as well as her companion, but gave it rather less credence.

Molli hesitated. The details of what had happened were admittedly unclear -- but that was not unusual. The network was ambiguous, operating as it did on a "carrier wave" of emotion; what passed from Auron to Auron in this manner was acquainted with fact, but hardly intimate with it. In truth, "Telepathy" was a mixed blessing as far as improving communication. In fact, Molli was not even a true telepath (such had never been born of Auron science, though the effort certainly had been made), but a "telesend": that is, she could transmit thoughts easily, but could receive them from only an extremely narrow range of senders -- Aurons biologically and psychologically "tuned" to her. Without that fine tuning, "telereceiving", if you will, was mental static that warped, twisted, and all too often shredded meaning.

But there were messages, not like those she sensed in the network, which seared into her mind with violent and stunning clarity. They had started almost four years before, and they were the reason she was in hiding. None had been sent since she fled the city, however: a fact for which she was very grateful.

Yet despite the confusion, Molli believed in the story's veracity. Well, she hoped in it. As she had with hope absorbed the strange words from that place lost in time and obscurity called . . . Terminal(?).

The story had, after all, been relayed in the best of faith. And she wanted very much to return that faith. It was close to an obligation. She treasured the incident; so it had to be true. It would be improper to doubt it. The story was hopeful; Molli was never one to relinquish hope.

She spoke aloud then, dropping the telesending which she knew annoyed and, in some way, hurt her companion. Was it the implied reminder of her sister? Jenna always denied that, but it was done too strongly.

"There was an attack. It was aimed at Lord Avon. There is little more I can be certain of. There was an Auron named Mykal Hodos(?) -- he was about to be killed, but Lord Avon saved him. That is all I know. I would think it would be enough."

"Why don't you ask him when he arrives?" Jenna at once regretted saying that. Molli handed her a plate with food. Jenna sat beside her, but showed no interest in the contents of the plate. "We have a long hike tomorrow," she said.

Molli nodded, stirring the fire. They were going back to the city. The city that had been her home for almost twenty years, more than half her life. Despite what awaited her, she was relieved. A relief Jenna could not comprehend. From unbounded optimism, deliver me.

"We will reach the terminus shortly before noon," Jenna went on, returning to the confident tone that so suited her, now that the annoying subject of Avon's "heroic deed" was dropped. "There should be quite a crowd. There is a risk, but it is slight. They haven't found us in three years; there is a good chance they won't expect us to return now, but we must be cautious."

"Lord Avon complicates things," Molli added.

"He has that affect," Jenna agreed.

"They might think whoever hid me intends him harm."

Jenna looked at her closely. Tougher after three years of wanderings, Molli retained her "aura" of innocence, but she was far from naive. "I agree they suspect that whoever has been hiding you is no friend of his. They are correct."

"I am tired of running," Molli said, standing. "Aren't you? We have been doing this far too long. You, even longer. I know you are unhappy with my decision, but it is the right one. I am not a fool. If Lord Avon saved one of our people, then there is reason to hope. I don't expect you to agree. How could you? But he may truly be a friend."

"You may come to regret your choice of friends, " Jenna muttered. "I would warn you against trusting him. Those of us who have are reduced in number."

Molli stared at the wilderness outside. A meteor burned across the sky, leaving a red-lightening slash. A breeze stirred the branches of the bare tree. "You never suggested an alternative," she said. "There is none. We will go together, as you insisted, to the capitol and then we will part. I will tell them the truth -- as you say, they will not believe me at first. With luck you will be gone by the time they do. Eventually, they will give up; then you will be free."

Molli stooped and put her hand on Jenna's shoulder. "I am grateful for what you did for me. I am aware of the depth of your pain." Jenna looked away. "But I am not afraid."

"You ought to be. You will be. You don't know what they are capable of."

"Don't I?"

"I'm sorry," Jenna whispered.

Molli felt increasingly lost. There was such anger and frustration in her companion and sometimes the depth of the emotions frightened her, but more often they brought out compassion, but it was compassion without object or direction. She had never spent so much time with another person. She had been alone since leaving Auron in her late teens; even from her own people she had felt isolated. Despite her songs, she did not fully understand friendship, let alone love.

Her feelings for Jenna were frozen somewhere between sorrow and wonder. It was not often that one was aided by a legend, and even less one aided a legend in turn. Legends, unfortunately, grow tiresome; more to be endured than admired. After three years, it was only the reality of Jenna that affected her, but that reality was elusive.

In these last conversations before parting, both feared they might sound too harsh, too bitter. Both searched for consolation. Both wanted their three years together to be more than a gesture of defiance.

Molli said, softly, "Would you like me to sing for you? You used to like that. I have been writing a new song for the Festival. I could sing it," she said; then added: "or I could sing of love." She hoped that somehow that might make the end smoother, less an act of harsh finality. Songs, said the

tradition, always helped. And it was the only gift she could offer.

"I would like a song of forgetting."

"Then it cannot be a song of love."

They had spent so much time together, and yet it could hardly be said that they were friends. Jenna insisted that was the way it must be. So Jenna led, Molli followed. So Jenna decided, Molli accepted -- until of late.

For three standard (Earth) years, Jenna's strength and knowledge had kept them free from a Federation increasingly desperate to find Molli. At first it had been easy, almost fun. The open country had provided them with many resources and Jenna was skilled at finding them -- and of contacting the right people (many an old debt was paid off) when they could not. She knew the planet; knew it far better than Molli, who had never been outside an urban environment since the beginning of her self-imposed exile from Auron. When Molli was weak, Jenna gave her strength. Whether crossing river torrents, or boulder covered fields, whether through cold caves or dark forests, it was Jenna who guided her. More than once, Jenna had saved her life.

It was strange to hear rumors and realize they were about oneself. There were rumors that she had died (understandably, Molli was tired of hearing those), or that she was leading a guerrilla band against the Federation (how very silly!), ala Cally. How odd to experience one's life and observe it as a fantasy through the eyes of others. Slowly, with a sense of mounting dread, her life became a waking dream, a song with words and rhythm discordant.

The Federation's pursuit was connected with the strange messages she had been receiving, the "star whispers", but she did not understand why. Their "reception" was astonishingly clear, but they were so meaningless -- so much word play and obscurity. Hardly a call for insurrection. Jenna could make nothing of them, though she too believed they were important. Did they mean Cally was in some way alive? Both doubted that.

Forgive me, my friend. You are right. We have followed each other enough.

Now she was going back. The Festival of Judgment, the singing, that had been her life and life was desolate without it. Her famous sister had made a different choice, extraordinary considering her background and upbringing, but that choice, noble as it was, was not Molli's. And that was a problem. It could not be said that she resented Cally, but she was upset by the arbitrary way in which her sister's notoriety had increasingly interfered with her life. She was not Cally! Would never be Cally! It frightened her that Jenna sometimes slipped and called her by that name. Just as it frightened Jenna to be told that sometimes she would call out in her sleep the name that history had engulfed: Blake.

It was not right, this stranglehold of the past. If one broke the sequence, the pattern, one should be able to achieve a measure of freedom. But what if the pattern was life? An uncomfortable thought. The burden of Cally was too great; soon, Molli would carry it no longer. So she would sing one last time, be arrested, and then accept her fate. She had nothing to hide. She would tell them what she knew -- indeed, that had been her intent, before Jenna interfered and insisted she go into hiding. She had done nothing wrong, had never even composed a song (until now) for Cally, or the ill-fated rebellion her sister had been a part of. She had wept for Auron, but had never considered it home. If only she could make them understand!

Jenna took a drink of water and turned in for the night. "If Avon will be here shortly, then perhaps you are more right than you know. Things will change. I might be able to get off this world, if there is a planet to get off of."

"You still hate him?"

I offered him these words -- Do not let them break you. I could not imagine life without him. Yet I lived.

"Was there ever any doubt?"

"I will not help you."

"I am not asking for help," Jenna said sharply. "I am taking you to the Festival; then I am leaving. Let him come and get me."

"Then I will lose you both."

"I am no one's to lose. Neither is he."

Molli knew little of the story between them; it was obviously something Jenna did not like to discuss. She and Avon had never been close, even at the peak of their early triumphs. And then when the rebellion was smashed, they found themselves adrift, stranded, very far apart: one in the outer worlds, the other at the center of galactic power. Waves of violence had separated them as enemies. Now the ripples were bringing them together once more.

Molli's lips trembled. "I meant only I care about you both."

There was sighing in the branches as the wind picked up. Molli saw the distant light of another meteor as it burned through the atmosphere. "It's going to be a cold night," Jenna said absently. She wrapped herself in a blanket, her back to the fire.

"I will not sing for you tonight," Molli said, "but I will sing for you at the Festival."

In the morning, they rose in silence. They ate and packed quickly but as they left the cave, Molli leading, her footsteps swift and sure, Jenna hesitated. She stopped and looked back. The tree was now outlined against the dawn sky. It looked for a moment like a dark crack spreading across pink glass. The tree was an irritation to her. It should have been dead, but it was a triumph of determination, only determination lacking a point. It had rooted in rocks under a boulder and grown to achieve a twisted path to freedom, but it would never flourish. It was alive, and in a few weeks it might blossom briefly in some tortured fashion, but that would be all.

They could have used it. They had spent several weeks in the cave, longer than in most of their sanctuaries. It had not been a pleasant refuge -- the cold of the long winter was only beginning to fade at these altitudes, and the walk down to the river for wood had been irksome. She wondered why she had spared the tree. It would have burned slowly, with steady heat and little smoke. Yet something about it had stopped her. She wanted to destroy it, but could not bring herself to do so.

She turned and went down the trail after Molli. Her lungs filled with cold morning air and that felt very good indeed. It cleared her mind. Nearly forty, she found signs of sentimentality distressing. It was all so pathetic. She should have taken an ax to the thing.

Servalan, the great and terrible beauty, was so busy! Orders flew, were transmitted, received, decoded, and acted upon -- if not always with enthusiasm, always with conviction -- across the planets, stars, nebulae and the fleets moving amongst them. Her word traveled instantaneously -- yet was never quick enough. Her orders brought movement swift and sure -- yet were never quite enough. She watched it all happen, the storm she set in motion at any given moment; never was there rest for her! And there would be none for anyone else! With all the energy and power at her command, she dared anyone, anything, anywhere, to cross her. As those who knew attested, it was only in conflict that she found peace.

Before her, the enormous 3-D display that dominated the room of Central Control awakened at her touch. It throbbed with sparkling blue lights and burning red lines, recording and displaying restless movement commanded; restless movement obeyed.

Click. A black sphere appeared surrounding the hard light of one star that had come to mean so much to her. How infuriating that it had resisted her for so long! That would not, must not, continue, this act of stellar impertinence. (She found defiance amusing, but never impertinence.)

For ten years she had known there was something in there that did not like her -- not that that was unusual. But it was smart and determined and apparently not in the least afraid. That was unusual. Here was an opponent worthy of her, but she was not in the mood to appreciate the complement. She could only wonder how she would feel when it was destroyed.

The star, a solitary white dwarf, was over four hundred light-years from Earth. Around it circled its lone companion along with the usual stellar debris. It was the artificial planet, the hand-me-down from the First Federation, the galactic myth known as "Terminal". Only one other individual knew for certain that it even existed. Yet, "Terminal", for all its obscurity, was an enemy and of the worst kind. It did not take her seriously.

The yellow display to the side of the sphere read: "Forbidden Zone." This zone was 5 light-years in radius: all Federation shipping had been diverted around it.

Click. The star in its black pool, the attendant documentation, the name of "Terminal": vanished. She skimmed thousands of light-years away, and selected another . . . what? This too was an enemy. A swarm of electronic fireflies circled in a red smear around the center of the screen. In that center of that smear was a single object, a place where language failed. It was a hole in space-time, huge, black as a midnight cave, a gravitational spider web, unlike anything that had ever been encountered. Outside the swarm, three tangles of lights circled, 100 light-years from the central object.

Thousands of light-years from Earth, it was the object commonly referred to as the Black Shield. Five light-years in radius, it rotated at nearly the speed of light, and possessed the mass of over a 100 galaxies.

(The "smear" was a representation of the thousands of antimatter mines that surrounded the object. The "light" tangles were Navy Group Omega, three of her galactic fleets which made up the Combined Fleet of 10,000 ships.)

Something in there did not like humanity -- not that that was unusual. But even granting its hostility, what could be its purpose, its origins, its motives?. She was as awed by the Black Shield as anyone, but she did not fear it. It was simply that it did not belong in this universe, her universe, by which she meant she could apparently neither use nor destroy it. It was something that did not fit. She could see it, but make no sense of it. Perhaps it did not matter. Her plans would continue regardless. There had been no attacks on Federation shipping since she ordered the "object" besieged. The Auron intelligence relayed to her military had been sound. But since it was an enemy she did not understand, it remained a concern. Like "Terminal", it insulted her by existing.

Her scientists said the object was a gravitational prison from which nothing could escape. She smiled (always a warning sign). Then how had it attacked Federation ships? She knew better than they. How typical! So they were dismissed. She was disgusted with her learned minions. Sometimes she felt she and the "object" belonged on the same side.

Click. The two screens slid together: two black spheres swelled before her, side by side. They were poisoning her, but she would live. Despite misgivings, she would absorb them both. There was no doubt she would win. She always did.

She noticed the time display pulsing brightly in the corner. It was almost time for the first of two meetings planned for this day. She sighed and clicked the button once more. The information cosmos she ruled vanished. It was as if the whole of the universe had been snuffed out. The image momentarily pleased her.

In the darkness, she inserted the activator into the computer beside her and asked quietly: "ORAC, tell me where to locate New Auron."

The computer hummed to life. #The location of 'New Auron' as you refer to it remains a matter of conjecture as Avon erased the information from the Liberator files before I had access to it. As I have mentioned previously, on numerous occasions I might add, it would be possible for me to generate a search pattern that would result in an efficient search of the area. It is conceivable that only a few thousand star systems would have to be examined. However, I must point out that this problem remains of little intrinsic interest, and I have far more pressing uses for my time. I suggest --#

"Oh, shut up, ORAC," she said wearily and yanked out its activator.

The cell was quiet; comfortable in a way that could have been almost consoling to a prisoner. To this particular prisoner, however, it was only a cell and remarkable only because he had no standard to judge such a thing. "Cozy" was a word that had come to mind, though rather few had ever had occasion to use that term when describing a Federation jail. But let us be generous. For a start there were books, and good books too (he noticed several were copies of books over a millennium old. One was a prayer book dated 1662(!) -- passages were even marked for his consideration, but he did not know if by previous occupants or the jailer.) There was music, soft and soothing. There were lush fruits brought every morning (at least he thought it was morning -- one could never be sure). Regular meals, writing implements (how very thoughtful!) -- the jailer seemed to know him well and certainly had taken a lot of trouble on his behalf. Even a phone with a direct line to the guard captain had been installed. The guards were firm, but polite. They deferred to his every wish -- well, almost every wish. They seemed almost sympathetic in an odd way, though they kept their distance. Incredibly, they seemed to be trying to reassure him, by manner, mood, and gesture.

They informed him that they had received explicit instructions from the Supreme Commander herself, ruler of the Federation, Defender of Earth, all that, (how they loved to repeat her block titles!), and those instructions would be obeyed. So Mykal Hodos waited. He hoped to hear from the man who had saved his life, but the guards informed him stiffly that Lord Avon had no time to spare. He had hoped to learn more about the death of Dr. Geir, but they insisted they had no news. They shrugged and assumed a manner suggesting bottomless ignorance combined with total helplessness. So he resigned himself to the irrevocability of it all. He wanted to mourn and someday he would. But things had moved far too fast to absorb what had happened.

A small part of him wondered if that speed was intentional.

The shock was so great; only the destruction of Auron had equaled it, though the news that Avon had teamed with Servalan to crush Blake had been a close second. Memory was brutal. There had been a moment when death was certain, then the ship, the strange teleportation devices (about which there had long been rumors), and now here. All because of Avon. It was too jarring. In his life it always seemed as if he were stumbling backwards, tripping over the present, landing flat on his rear in the future.

He wondered if there were other Aurons on Earth. Aurons were banned from the Center (the twenty or so worlds that still held the bulk of the human population), but since news did get out through the web, there had to be some kind of underground. Perhaps even on Earth itself. But he would not be able to reach them. His mental powers were academic, in more ways than one.

In the meantime, doctors of medicine, doctors of psychiatry, came and went. They were not nearly as polite as the guards. But after several days (he guessed) of tests and questioning, they apparently had what they needed. He wanted to rebel, to show them what he was made of, but it would have been futile. They noticed him only to the degree necessary. To them, he barely existed.

Thus matters stood, until one day he was awakened and informed by a nervous guard that the hour was eminent. Mykal was groggy. He knew he should have understood, but he didn't. The man became upset: Servalan would be visiting him! She would be coming to his cell! Soon! Everyone was terrified. They had been given the strictest orders to treat the captive extremely well, but this was unheard of. Clearly the prisoner was special indeed. The treatment, always circumspect, became reverential. Mykal enjoyed it: watching the terror and might of the Federation scurrying about as if on a grade school recess.

But at the moment she chose to appear, all the fears and doubts since he had come to Earth surged back in like a mud slide. He had not intended to, but he rose when she entered. And for an instant he thought of Kyv and the gun pointing towards him and the moving finger . . .

Ivory dressed, imperious, the ice empress, ruler of the Federation: there was no doubt it was her. Odd, how she was shorter than any of the guards, and yet seemed to tower over them (an effect he had noticed Avon possessed as well). She stood there a moment, then dismissed them curtly. The door quickly closed behind her. She said nothing, smiled, and moved gracefully to sit beside him, ever so subtly signaling that he could sit as well. Everything about her manner was smooth and reassuring.

She asked how he had been treated, inquired about his condition, apologized with relentless sincerity for not being able to see him earlier, touching his hand with fingers like a freezing stream. She assured him Lord Avon was indeed taking an active interest in his, oh, how shall we put it, case? She wanted him to know that. She smiled throughout; her voice squeezing out sympathy, as if from a rotted fruit. Mykal could not smile, could not talk, his lips and tongue were numb, but she was not offended. She went on regardless. She sighed that while Lord Avon was a great man, he was a difficult one. But she reminded Mykal that not everyone could be said to have been saved by the First Citizen. It was an honor. He couldn't have agreed more.

Finally, she acknowledged his unease. "I know this is a difficult time for you, Mykal. May I call you that? (He nodded ever so slightly, as if terrified his head might fall off). It is difficult for all of us, believe me. The wounds and errors of the Troubles," she paused, watching him closely, "are far from healed. Fools envy my position, but I would give a lot to be free of it." Yet I love it so.

"For better or worse, however, I rule the Federation and we must all make the best of our lot in life. I am sorry, Mykal, about your teacher and friend. Dr. Geir was a great man and I assure you those responsible will pay for their crime. But I must caution you that we err if we dwell on the past. I want you, instead, for a moment to look at things from my point of view. You may not realize it but you are a very important young man -- just turned 30, am I correct? -- and while it may shock you to hear this, the President of the Federation, your Supreme Commander, needs your assistance."

Mykal choked. "How can I help?" he said, or words to that effect. They came out strangled. He was stunned he had said such a thing, but there was something about her that drew it out of him. It was said she had power over men, power other than force. Now he knew first hand. Intrigued, he relaxed slightly.

"Thank you, Mykal" she said. "In time, you will understand why I am asking this. For the moment I simply want you to listen. Then I will answer your questions (for the most part)." She looked at him sympathetically. He waited.

"Please explain," he replied, more calmly now.

"Good," she said, going straight to the point. "There is an Auron whom I want to question. She has information which may be vital to the Federation (especially its ruler). You may have guessed of whom I am speaking."

His eyes were wide: "Molli." He added as an afterthought: "Cally's sister."

"Yes. Cloned sister of the legendary Cally," she replied in an airy way, with frost on the words, not sparing either of them. "Outside of this room that is only a rumor. An unfounded rumor it would be unwise to spread -- and I know you wouldn't do that. Here, however, between us, it is emphatically the truth."

He watched her intently as she continued. "Mykal, the Troubles were a terrible experience. We came very close to civil war, of havoc that has not been seen for centuries -- and we remain on the edge. We dare not move any closer -- another Vespera could mean the end of everything."

Despite himself, he respected the passion in her voice. That seemed genuine, and he was grateful to be in agreement with her overall statement. She continued: "As long as I rule, threats to order will not be tolerated. Though," she hastened to add, "I believe Molli is innocent of wrong intent (unlikely, but possible). However, those helping her are not. They must be captured and brought to justice. From your own experiences, you no doubt are aware of certain romantic types who look on the Troubles as a kind of 'adventure'. The gang that tried to kill you was of that ilk. Such political criminals must not receive further encouragement."

She stopped, waiting, as if having given a cue. Mykal hesitantly finished for her. "You want me to help Lord Avon find Molli. And you want me to enlist the aid of the Auron community in that effort."

She smiled warmly, sincerely, thrilled as always to discover intelligence in a male. "Yes, Mykal, that is precisely what I want! I will add that Lord Avon is quite impressed with you. We have had several talks concerning you (have we ever!)."

He looked at her doubtfully.

"It is true that Lord Avon and I were once enemies, but he has come to be an ally and a good friend. I owe him a great deal," she said brightly. "You see, I can be trusted."

"You made him a Lord and Gentleman," he muttered noncommittedly.

"I made him a Lord," she sighed, the smile fading, "Nobody makes Avon a gentleman. My point is that I am reasonable. Especially when I have something in common with the person I am trying to reach." He looked at her, startled. "We do have a common concern, Mykal -- neither of us wants any harm to come to Molli. So, I want you to be my 'ambassador' to the Auronar. You agree such is needed."

He was miserable and sounded it. "No denying that. But why me?"

"A legitimate question," she nodded, "and I believe you may already suspect the answer. You are fortunate, Mykal, though you may have difficulty believing that at this time. You have a gift for being at the right place, if at the wrong time. There is a glorious destiny in your future. Your family was once prominent on Auron -- Hodos is a name that commands respect. While I have counted on Avon to perform many difficult assignments -- and he has done well -- I feel it best this once that he be accompanied by someone who can, shall we say, serve as a 'guide'."

"Lord Avon is well respected among the Auronar," said Mykal, empty of profundities.

"By that you mean I am not?" she asked delicately.

"True," Mykal said steadily. He couldn't keep the word in.

"You don't trust me?" Her voice was composed and calm.

He winced, but could not deny the truth. "No, not entirely."

Mykal felt bare, small. He had a feeling he was now walking a well-paved road to hell and the ideal companion for that journey was at his side. What had been done to Auron was too terrible to contemplate. Though there remained questions on what had happened, there was total agreement that the criminal responsible was this woman. She had, after all, done nothing to deny it. And given her history, she was hardly going to ask a few questions and then let him go. He could be left to rot here. That was one possibility, if she were inclined to mercy.

The murky logic of his situation had not gotten any clearer during his captivity; indeed, it had gotten worse. Something was very wrong -- yet that uncomfortable feeling was dominated by one resolute fact: Avon had saved his life. The same Lord Avon who had tried to save Auron. And the same man who worked tirelessly for this most feared of rulers. If in that appalling contradiction there might be a way to freedom, only Avon could provide it. But the Lord Protector had not exactly been chummy since the incident.

Mykal had a flash of brilliance: "Can I think this over?"

"You may, Mykal," she replied, rising, a hint of offense in her tone. "But Avon leaves tomorrow. It would make matters easier, if I could assure him you would be accompanying him."

At that, she walked to the exit. The tenuous hold of civility was slipping; the glacier girl was coming back. She looked at him: neither was happy. "And if I refuse?" he asked.

She smiled warmly, and he was ashamed to admit his reaction was momentary relief. "Then we will have to talk some more," she replied.

In his cabin near the fore of the starship, on a gray metallic deck, which was not metal and not truly a deck, sitting in a comfortable chair facing the blank screen of the monitor, Avon examined the two plastic cubes. She had not discussed them, but gave them to him silently, closing her hand over his palm with frightening delicacy.

She explained that he was not to contact her until the matter with this Molli was settled. She did not wish to be bothered and towards that end she had given him full authority over this operation. She emphasized her confidence that he would not fail.

He thought of asking if this too was a trap, but the timing seemed bad; her answer certain to be unenlightening. She looked at him, subdued, almost shy, again seeming to guess what was on his mind. "You will set the trap this time, Avon. Not me. You know I don't want to lose you."

He opened his hand and looked at the cubes, then at her. "You're never afraid, are you?"

"Afraid? Of what?"

"Of losing me. You would never let me go."

"No, Avon, it's more complicated than that. I will lose you someday. But for now, I am confident you would always return."

"You're counting on weakness," he said. "That's dangerous."

"Oh, I'm counting on much more," she said, adding: "Remember: bring me a gift."

He gripped the cubes and walked angrily out of the room.

It had been less than two weeks since his return from "Geir's" world. Now he was on his way to "Molli's" world. Odd that he should think of them that way. They were worlds of their own, possessing millions of inhabitants: worlds with histories, customs, beliefs, but all reduced in his mind to the individual that was his mission.

He was now thousands of light-years from Earth, far above the galactic disk, and was idly turning the data cubes in his fingers. One cube was red. It held the data on Molli and everything related to her disappearance -- possibilities of who might be hiding her, extrapolations, personal data, sightings (ORAC, he had been assured, had done its usual thorough best). The other cube was black. It held the information on the artificial planet known as "Terminal" -- the messages, along with ORAC's deductions and conjectures as to what they could mean.

The cubes could not be copied. In 24 hours, (16 had already passed) both would dissolve into useless puddles of molecules. Avon put them on the table with a rap. "Belief Lives After Knowledge Errs". That was the first message received from Terminal. Take the first letter of each word and it spelled: BLAKE.

It was impossible to miss the punch line, but what could be the joke? Avon did not know what he felt. Blake was only a cold memory, an indecent reminder of an embarrassing past, yet as a name he would not die. What was it saying and (this was the most disturbing part), saying to him? He felt certain that the message was addressed to him as well as Molli; that it was sent by something, someone, who knew him very well. And it wanted to talk.

Not to mention possessing a truly bizarre sense of humor.

Avon pressed a control key; the workstation came to life. He inserted the red cube into a slot and began reading. He would start with the business at hand. "BLAKE", as usual, could wait.

Molli's world and its solar system was, using a tolerable metaphor, a space reef, a solar hazard for any ship entering its orbit. Yet it had been for centuries a major trading center -- when legal -- and a major source of smuggling -- when not. The Federation had tried for decades to control it, never fully succeeding, and until of late, giving up. The resolution of this paradox resided in human nature.

It was a young world by the standards of the galaxy; a fluke planet surrounded by stellar debris, like Earth's solar system before the first biochemicals started to mate. Billions of years off-schedule; yet fully capable of life. The stellar debris should have been swept up and congealed, but like Saturn's rings, only on a far grander scale, remnants of trillions of worldlets which had never amounted to anything resembling a planet and could only be called asteroids by the generous, drifted in deadly orbital paths. Navigation was hazardous, difficult, slow. In addition, the orbit of Molli's world was highly eccentric, which did little for its habitability -- Summers and Winters were too long (its year was equivalent to three standard (Earth) years) and temperatures too extreme.

So the natives compensated. You wouldn't want to go there? Ah, but think of the great time you would have if you did! The planetary culture developed a reputation for openness and friendliness rarely equaled, certainly not by the closed worlds of the Center. Critics derisively called it "Hell" -- not for the climate, though that would have been reason sufficient, but because it would "take anything". Even Aurons were welcome, and there were not many places in the galaxy of which that could be said.

He recalled from sometime, many years before, that Jenna had spent many years here.

Then there was the Festival. Every "year" in the early Spring of Molli's world, the interplanetary dangers provided a spectacular excuse for the pious to avoid work -- a huge prolonged meteor shower hit the planet, producing an atmospheric display of astounding splendor. To the religious, this was supposed to mimic the end of creation. To those not so inclined, the shower, called the "Rain of Judgment", provided a holiday wild with color and noise, that loosened tongues and inhibitions and resulted in, well, a really good time. (Sad to say, several people were invariably killed during the course of the Festival. But on a happier note, many more became pregnant. Note, it was a religious event and the locals would have been saddened if you poked fun at it.)

It had all begun during Dreamtime, after the overnight collapse of the so-called "First Galactic Civilization" (historians had never settled on a name for that near anarchic arrangement of worlds held together by only the gossamer-thin lines of instantaneous communication -- curiously, there had been very little trade at the time). Dreamtime, in the depths of the First Vespera, was a time of terror: when no one knew what had happened and rather few wanted to find out.

Molli's world (as all others) was cutoff as the new Dark Age began. In the century and a half that followed, myths and legends arose; all manner of cults formed, joining despair and longing in variations that ranged from pathetic to poignant to grotesque. Like a fetid swamp that light seldom penetrated, the oxygen of reason was polluted with the vapors of superstition and dread. And while most of these ghosts of departed sense dissolved back into the mental ooze from whence they sprang (frequently taking a goodly number of converts with them), one that did not was the cult centered around the "Tree of Life."

It did not stay a cult. The "Tree of Life" became a religion: that is, it acquired social respectability and political power. How that happened is uncertain. Obviously, the meteor shower provided "heavenly" encouragement -- that always helps. True, the early settlers had been a sturdy, stolid lot and that helped as well. Yes, they struggled hard, and initially hated harder, but eventually, as the social cost got ever more extreme, they learned the value of tolerance. The "Tree of Life" became peaceful and all-embracing, having cautiously and skillfully grown after the early excesses to become something for everyone. It encouraged hard work and pleasure; offered both solace and good cheer. Perhaps, given the lack of fastidiousness, its triumph was inevitable. Even cynics granted it seemed to speak to and of something deep within humans (and Aurons -- there were many converts). Harbinger of the end of existence, of the end of time itself, the "Tree of Life" and its supreme sacrament, the "Rain of Judgment", eventually permeated every aspect of planetary culture.

The Festival, in keeping with the religious base, had begun as an attempt to assuage a God grown distant, an unknowable God who had ceased to speak at a moment when human triumph staggered and fell (cynics who pointed out He/She/It hadn't been all that communicative before hand were dismissed).

The Festival became an effort at prophecy. According to myth, the meteor shower was a portent of the falling of all stars -- an event that was never too far in the future (the date of the great "Rain" had been predicted many times). When it happened, the "Tree of Life" that shaded, supported, and in some sense was the whole of existence, would flower and it would be Judgment Day, the end of existence.

And on that dreadful Day of Judgment, the dead would rise and the secrets of all hearts would be revealed.

As noted, Aurons had long been treated with tolerance on this planet and since the inhabitants placed a premium on commercial skills, they had prospered. The open policies of trade if not leading directly to brotherhood had worked inexorably to reduce violence. Until recently, things had been going well. The planet was neutral; the Troubles for the most part passed it by.

Enter Molli. Her life as an actress and singer had been the Festival. She had become immensely popular; so much so she had even been given the honor of being the first and final singer and the even rarer privilege of composing her own songs. (Avon reviewed the songs, but could find nothing of significance in their lyrics.) For an Auron, even here, that was unheard of. Perhaps it was a gesture of sympathy, for permission had been granted only following the destruction her home world. Anyway, the Federation had protested, but the honor granted was not revoked.

But then Molli disappeared and now "her" world was besieged by a Federation Battlegroup of one hundred warships. Nothing left or entered planet without the most extensive searching. The Special Services was certain she remained on the planet, as was whoever had helped her vanish. But who could that be? Molli had been under surveillance well before then. It had to be someone very knowledgeable of the planet and someone skilled at fighting the Federation. There were not many living possibilities.

As it stood, the natives were cooperative but unenthusiastic. The Auron community insisted it knew nothing, and for once Servalan believed them (she had, after all, forcefully interrogated enough of them). But her patience had run out, and now it was time for the Lord Protector to bring the business to a close.

He skimmed the remainder of the information. The fact that his arrival was timed to be just prior to the beginning of the Festival might help. If the Festival did indeed celebrate the end of the world, his presence might be persuasive of that very real possibility unless Molli was found.

(He knew he should rest but could not bring himself to do so. He was now entering that mental state in which the sheer fascination of the problem drove him forward relentlessly. He pitched the first cube away. He no longer had need of it.)

He quickly programmed the database to search for every enemy (alive or dead) of the Federation who had spent time or been suspected of spending time on the planet. Not a few names poured out of the screen; one of them was a name he knew only too well. He suspected, but it was still a shock. He studied the list for a long time.

But she was long dead. She could not be a possibility.

He inserted the black cube in the port. Servalan insisted there was a connection between these two cubes, and the connection was the demon hiding in the depths of Terminal -- the demon determined to prod him with a pitchfork past. It was at least succeeding in irritating him. He could not sleep. He read on.

Far to the rear of the ship was a sullen Mykal: in his cabin, guards at the door (a ceremonial display only, he had been assured). He examined his new clothes, the insignia, the papers presuming to give him power and position. There was a mirror, but he did not look at it. On the table was a gift. It was from her -- a compact computer for writing, called a "recorder". Beautifully designed: you could open the case and key in, or on an attached pad you would write in long hand and the machine would automatically encode it as text for later editing, or you could speak into it with the same result. It was truly portable, for when folded was not much larger than a deck of cards. He refused to touch it.

As he was driven that evening to the spaceport, Earth's moon, Luna, loomed over the western range of snow- covered mountains like an unanswerable question. He told himself he had no choice. When one is in trouble, sometimes the best, the only, option is to go in deeper. The logic being that something might turn up. It was clear nothing was going to turn up in his cell on Earth.

The aircar raced past a construction site, acres of shadow girders and brilliant pinpoint lights. Probably the enormous stadium he had heard about on the Federation News Network -- the stadium planned in her honor.

At the port itself things moved very fast and soon he was in space and that offered a freedom of sorts. Freedom and a chance to act, he told himself, a chance that he increasingly felt was becoming an obligation. But his discomfort continued and in the tiny cabin nothing beckoned. What was it about the Federation that whenever he thought about it he wanted to take a bath? Though a pacifist, he would have gladly died for his people. Now, he was in service to the oppressor, and no amount of rationalizing could change that. Cally and the others had been his heroes, and were hardly pacifists themselves. Now, he was on a mission to find her sister in the name of their greatest enemy. He wondered, glancing at the paraphernalia of power, what Blake would have done in a mess like this. He tried not to think how Avon would have handled it.

Shortly after her meeting with Mykal, in an area adjacent to Central Control, she stood before a enormous monitor. Facing her, as if there were no barrier, was a table surrounded by a dozen seated men, solemn and silent. From their vantage, she was projected much larger than life, a figure towering over them -- radiant and wary. From her vantage, in contrast, it was if she were presiding over an assemblage of overly dressed dwarves. The "dwarves", however, were her highest ranking military officers: the men commanding Navy Group Omega. The meeting, they insisted, could no longer be delayed. They would be returning to the Front shortly, so perhaps the urgency was understandable. Yet, there was something odd about the request. Too much was being left unsaid and that was a bad sign.

(At this meeting, the Special Services would not be present. There was a distinct lack of affection between the two Service branches. A feeling of mutual detesting that she encouraged for her own security -- though it concerned her on occasion that the animosity was so easy to maintain.)

Could the meeting have something to do with the production of anti-matter mines? There had been long-standing complaints about supply delays. Anti-matter mines were made only in the huge complex of factories that dominated Earth's moon -- their production was forbidden anywhere else. And since it was thousands of light-years to the Black Shield, the logistic problems involved in the transporting of the devices were unprecedented in magnitude.

Yet her informers reported the issue was not central. It was that fact that had persuaded her to meet with these men. It fed her growing suspicion that there were indeed serious problems at the Front, but they had nothing to do with the technicalities of military operations.

She waited until all eyes were fixed on her, then spoke.

"Gentlemen, as you are aware, I am extremely busy and do not wish this meeting to last longer than necessary. I have read your agenda. I have concerns. Given the urgency you relayed to me, it appears that something has been left out. I suspect that missing 'something' is the point of our gathering. Very well," she said in triumph, "I assume you have selected a spokesman. If so, I would like that individual to explain the true purpose of this meeting and why you insisted I attend."

"Madam President," said one man rising without hesitation. That was Fleet Commander Marden, second only to the High Admiral (herself) in rank. He had long been a concern, despite (or because of) his abilities. It was Marden who had worked closely with Avon to rebuild the galactic fleets. It was Marden who persuaded her to take action against the Black Shield when

evidence of its involvement, always circumstantial, became overwhelming. He had a forehead that looked like it belonged on a steamroller; a body that looked always on the verge of attack. Something would have to be done about him.

"Supreme Commander, Defender of Earth . . ." he continued.

"You can stop there, Fleet Commander. I am familiar with my titles."

"Of course," he replied, bowing slightly, unperturbed. She frowned. "We concur that time is short. We have no desire to detain you from your duties. Now," he said, raising his voice, "There is a matter pertaining to the defense of the Federation; I am speaking for the record. It concerns Navy Group Omega, now surrounding the object commonly referred to as the 'Black Shield'. I am here to express what I and others perceive as a lack of support to and understanding of the circumstances at the Front."

He's evading! "You speak nonsense, Fleet Commander. My administration has never faltered in its support to the navy. I have given substantial sums and will continue to be most generous. You speak to me as one ignorant of military affairs. May I remind you of another title: the Victor of Star One. Should there be another war, you can be certain that I will win it."

"Meaning no disrespect, Madam President, but may I remind you of the circumstances of your previous victory?" he said firmly. "For it has bearing on the matter. Historians fail to note the degree of luck involved (if they value their lives). Had you not ordered every available ship in pursuit of the mad traitor Travis, an act unprecedented in Federation history; had the fleet not by luck been within a few hundred light-years of Star One when the call for help was received, defeat would have been certain. We faced an enemy whose every ship was a match for ten of ours. The current enemy shows every sign of being even more formidable. All soldiers acknowledge luck, but few think it prudent to rely on it."

She was furious, but would stay in control! "Nor do I. I believe in luck Fleet Commander, but I assure you I do not depend upon it. My support will continue; the funding will not be reduced. If it is assurance you seek, then you have it."

"Budgetary support is not our concern," he said blandly.

No, I thought it wasn't. Impatient as she was, she could not resist drawing this out. "Oh. What in my ignorance have I overlooked? Allow me to speculate. Is it technological? The new anti-matter mines give us the most devastating weapons ever devised. Since they have surrounded the Black Shield, not a single ship has been attacked. And yet, I apparently am missing

something." She steadied herself, "Now, what could that be?"

Marden weathered the storm. "It is not a technological matter, High Admiral."

"Then what is it, may I ask? Or is this an exercise in suspense as well as time wasting, Fleet Commander?" Impudence!

Again, not a blink. He was very ready. For a moment she wondered if he were aware of the secret report on the Front operations. Now she was alarmed. "The matter is more subtle, I assure you," Marden said, unhurried. "It is of morale and of perception. Forgive me for stating the facts of the current situation. Three fleets surround the 'object' termed the 'Black Shield'. They monitor every aspect of it. They control the planting, distribution, and movement of the mines. A total of one hundred thousand support personnel and three thousand ships are involved: mine-layers, pursuit vessels, cruisers, destroyers, battleships. Except for the battle of Star One, there has never been such a concentration of power by any human space force.

"Yet, Navy Group Omega might as well be abandoned. There is hardly any communication with the Center, the scheduling of replacements is haphazard, more accidental than not. Earth -- (he stressed the word) -- barely acknowledges us. It is as if as a force we do not exist, or if we do, we are best not mentioned, best forgotten. Over the past two years this situation and its consequences has steadily worsened. Fighting among our people, endless requests for transfers, incidents, accidents, all at an accelerating rate. The statistics are not to be denied. It is an extreme situation and one that is deteriorating.

"We therefore make a request. One we feel is reasonable."

"Oh, I am sure you do. Now what is this request," she demanded. So the report was true. Oh, wretched hell!

"We request a full inspection and a written report from the highest level of the Federation regarding our concerns," Marden said bluntly. "The individual who would perform this inspection would be one held in great esteem by all personnel at the Front. One whose technical knowledge is unquestioned. One whose presence would be an ideal symbol of your administration's support."

She was appalled. She wanted to scream. Impossible! "Lord Avon is not a piece of military hardware!" She exclaimed. "I assign his priorities, no one else. Vital as the operation against the Black Shield is, he has far more pressing matters to attend to. You will have to request someone else."

"There is no other. He is the only man," he stressed the word (insolent!), since the statement he was about to make was also true of the individual he was addressing, "awarded the Order of Falconer, twice. Lord Avon is universally respected. There is no substitute -- unless you yourself could be persuaded to perform the inspection."

So that was his trump. "I will take that offer seriously and thank you for giving it," she responded coolly. They expected threats, but would not get them now. "But that is out of the question. I have not left Earth in years, for obvious reasons."

"Then Lord Avon remains the only acceptable choice," he said.

"Acceptable choices are mine to make," she replied.

"And ours to submit to, Madam President," he bowed

She glared at them. "Is that the consensus of this meeting? I wish to bring this to a conclusion. The other matters can be dealt with routinely," she said, attempt to sound bored and not quite pulling it off.

"We agree. That is our conclusion and request. Failing yourself, there is no substitute for Lord Avon, and the need is pressing. If there were any reasonable substitute, we would gladly accept that person. But there is none."

How true! "Gentleman, I am not pleased with your request or this state of affairs. I will, however, take the matter under advisement and will give a formal reply. I will first verify that the situation is as serious as you say and that there is no course of action other than the one suggested. Of that, I am unconvinced, but I will keep an open mind." She added loftily.

"You will agree that I have always done so."

"We agree," he repeated politely, with a hint of a smile. "We await your response, Madam President."

"This meeting is concluded!" she snapped. The men rose and saluted. She violently turned off the screen. She was furious and it had showed, so she was angry at herself now as well. She had to get this situation back under control. Marden had surprised her. To the degree a man was predictable, to that degree he was vulnerable. Marden was not predictable enough. She had to think.

As Marden left the room, the officers buzzed around him. He said nothing. In the lion's lair, it would be unwise so much as to think dissent. But he was reassured that the meeting had not gone badly. She suspected, of course, and a good deal. No plan survives contact with the enemy, certainly not one as formidable as the Defender of Earth, but the prime objective had been achieved.

The Lord Protector would be sent to the Front.

Marden's life was the military; thus he was a realist. As one of the living heroes of the Galactic War, he realized he owed his continuing survival both to his fame and the fact that Lord Avon had interceded more than once to the monster on his behalf. Marden was grateful. He regretted that this was such a poor way to return a favor.

One way or another, Avon would be part of the plan.

Avon? Why did he always want to put a question mark after that name? If Marden were to give a name to this plot, it would be "Enigma" -- in honor of its, unfortunately, key element.

What a man to depend on.

There was understandable concern among the local officials and Federation occupation forces when it was announced that Lord Avon would be visiting. The blockade was now in its third standard year and while the economy so dependent upon interstellar commerce had readjusted, and there had been no serious incidents to date, it was altogether possible the Lord Protector would be greeted with little enthusiasm, if not outright hostility. Fortunately, several factors worked to prevent this. For one, it was Festival time, and the locals were loath to let anything negatively impact it. For another, there was hope that with Avon taking over, the matter would be quickly settled. If anyone could do it, it was said, it was Avon. Finally, there was the man himself. Even here, even under these circumstances, the popularity of the hero of the Galactic War and the man who killed Blake was undiminished. This was evident even as his motorcade made its way to the Capitol. The crowds lining the road could not be said to be exalting, but they were far from unfriendly. Banners were restrained ("WELCOME LORD AVON" was about the most exuberant), but cheerfully colored nonetheless; urging with glowing letters: "COME TO THE FESTIVAL!". There were also a few "REPENT"s. These placards, it was hastily explained to the dour Avon, were of no significance. During the Festival, "Repent" meant about as much in social discourse as "How are you?" or "Have a nice day." Only a bore would take the word seriously. And as the entourage left the cars and ascended the steps of the Capitol building, a few even shouted his name.

So the ride from the spaceport was pleasant, allying most everyone's fears. Avon's official companions were eager to please. They and the hundreds of carefully drilled guards posted along the route showed that everything was under control. The business at hand was serious, to be sure, but there was every reason to be confident that a particular Auron would soon be in custody.

(Mykal, riding several cars back, glanced at the crowds from time to time, but preferred not to look at them. Even though the windows were outwardly reflective, he felt certain the people along the road were glaring at him. And seldom in his life had he wanted to be less conspicuous.)

Lord Avon, dressed in full diplomatic splendor, his two medals (stylized star clusters caught in a falcon's talons) gleaming gold, was greeted by the planetary Prime Minister, a tall, elderly man who, despite his age, managed to be quick in a way that almost suggested impatience. He had a manner that seemed to imply a particularly attractive date was waiting and could we please get on with it? Surprisingly, Avon did not bother much in the way of pleasantries himself. So once inside the PM's office, everyone remained standing. The host spoke first.

"We welcome you, Lord Avon. I assure you that full cooperation will be given," and he added, "as it has from the beginning."

"So one might hope," replied Avon.

Taken aback, the PM became firm, almost stiff. "We have been fully cooperative with the Federation," he protested. "My people wish as much as you for this difficult matter to be brought to an . . . end." He momentarily faltered for a word. "Naturally, we are convinced Molli is innocent, and if she would only surrender that would become obvious. Sadly, our broadcast appeals, our many searches, have all failed . . . but we have not given up!"

"Do you know any more about who is helping her?" Avon asked, not expecting any new information.

And not getting it. "Not one of our people!" the PM burst out.

"I don't recall saying it was," Avon drawled.

"Well, others have implied it."

Avon said nothing. This was getting nowhere.

"Lord Avon, please, we will not rest until she is found." It was then that the PM noticed Mykal, flanked by several Federation guards, looking very uncomfortable as he entered the office. Grateful to change the subject, he asked: "May I ask who he is?"

"His name is Mykal Hodos," said Avon, glancing over at Mykal. "He is to assist me in certain matters. He is an Auron."

"An Auron! Well, times change. Welcome, Mykal, welcome!" He went over and shook Mykal's hand vigorously. Turning to Avon, "What does this one do, may I ask?"

"I am not sure myself, but I have been informed 'this one' has talents in many fields."

The PM looked at Mykal again, seemingly embarrassed and the subject was dropped. "We have quite a large community of Aurons living here, as you no doubt know," the PM went on. "Molli was one . . . oh, now I understand." He studied Mykal and shook his head. "The Federation must really want her. Pity it was never clear to us just what she had done."

"The Federation has been known to interrogate first and determine the crime afterwards," Avon said laconically.

The Prime Minister looked pained. "Of course. Our esteemed President is known for a certain, shall we say, 'style' in these matters. Sad business, nevertheless. Molli was such a sweet girl. I enjoyed her singing very much. Have you heard any of her songs?"

"I've read the lyrics."

"Hardly the same thing! Aurons do funny things with songs, you know. It is said an accomplished Songmaster can sing a stew recipe and bring grown men to tears of romantic longing . . ." his voice trailed off. "But no matter! You'll find out. To the business at hand," he went behind his desk and dared to sit down. "So is there anything I can do?"

"Have the leader of the Aurons summoned," demanded Avon.

"No!" interjected Mykal. "I would prefer to go to her . . . " his voice trailed off.

The PM eyed Avon. Avon eyed Mykal. "Is there a disagreement?" he asked, smiling.

"Only temporarily," replied an icy Avon.

"Then I will arrange for Mykal an escort at once," he said, now enjoying himself thoroughly.

"Do that," said Avon. "In the meantime, Mr. Hodos and I have business to discuss."

As they were leaving, the entourage whipping behind them, the Prime Minister, thinking of Molli, said wistfully, "What a singer she was! Strange, isn't it? She sang to the stars and then one day the stars sang to her."

Mykal braced himself for the worst, but by the time they were alone, Avon's irritation was under control. Mykal had learned that moods with Avon passed quickly, though as a rule bad ones tended to stay longer. Indeed, what Avon said seemed so startlingly beside the point, it was as if he had forgotten the incident completely, and that was unusual: "Assure them that no harm will come to them."

"How can I do that?" Mykal exclaimed, both relieved and bewildered. "I can't lie. I don't know how."

"Since you are in the diplomatic corps, I suggest you learn. It would make both our lives easier." Avon wouldn't look at him.

"I'm sorry. I had to say it," said Mykal.

Avon had nothing more to say. He was already back on the problem.

In another time, the movement of the black and silver transporters across the evening sky would have been noticed and commented upon for its ominous implications. But being Festival time, the eyes of the city were elsewhere: on motorcades rehearsing for the parades, on strolling bands of singers (many barely sober), on the banners, lights and decorations of the upcoming celebration. So a few Federation aircraft heading for the distant suburbs were scarcely noticed. But to the one passenger, it was like the whole universe had him in its sights -- though as they touched down near a domehouse, he knew they were so far from the city, there was not another house for kilometers.

Upon exiting, he was escorted quickly by several guards to the main entrance. There several more guards greeted him, saluted, checked IDs. Once inside, there were more guards, and more confirmations.

It was tedious business, but his hostess, a short, plump woman with amused green eyes that he noticed at once, was taking it well, watching the proceedings contemptuously, as if he were a guest who had arrived too early for a party. The presence of nearly a hundred Federation troops seemed a matter of indifference to her. Her attention was focused completely on him, Mykal Hodos, Federation Ambassador-at-Large.

After they exchanged stiff greetings, she informed the guard captain haughtily that she wished to confer alone in the library with her visitor. The captain, who never removed his face mask, said nothing, but simply gestured his troops outside.

"Thank you," she snapped and led Mykal to the back.

They came to a huge wooden door. She held it open, and watched as his wary curiosity became astonishment. Mykal had never seen so many ancient books -- real books, not fake "antique" copies. He surveyed the rows, awe-struck, while his hostess patiently waited. He pulled one out, slowly. She evidently had counted on the reaction. Despite her misgivings, she was enjoying this.

"Which have you selected?" she asked, sitting down regally.

"Shakespeare," he murmured, holding it up. "The tragedies."

"How appropriate," she replied, glaring. "I do not know what you know of me, nor do I care, but I am only the 'keeper', you might say. These volumes do not belong to me. They came to me over the years for safekeeping. This room is more properly a museum than a library. All these books are pre-Diaspora or Singularity or whatever term people feel like using. After Vastator, Auron science preserved and protected them -- our gift to human culture. Outside you may have noticed how they repay us. But, of course, you know all of this. You are welcome to check one out, or do you believe you will not be staying long?"

He ignored the provocations. She continued in her museum keeper role. "Programmable microorganisms restored the paper, the lettering, even the colors. Now they keep the books preserved -- as you no doubt know, the organisms ignore anything except book material. Yet humans fear to touch these books: only Aurons have no such fear."

Mykal reluctantly closed the book and returned it to the shelf. "Auron as yourself."

"I wonder," she scrutinized him. "What is your talent, other than duplicity?"

Mykal kept his cool as he took a seat. "Patience. I was bred to put up with the most severe of irritations."

She laughed. "No wonder you are in Lord Avon's employ! Still, in fairness to you, I gather he has quite a following among younger Aurons; they seem to trust him, though for the life of me I cannot grasp why. But you certainly have gone a good deal further than most."

He moved to cut this short. "May I ask, Eldress, what you know about Molli?"

"You may ask, provided you don't call me 'Eldress'! I take it you mean her disappearance. Nothing that I haven't already told them," she gestured angrily to the outside, "several times. I am, frankly, much more interested in you. Why do you trust him?"

Mykal hesitated. "I don't believe I am mistaken, if that is what you mean. He did save my life; that much is true," he said.

"It's the 'why' of that action that concerns me," she muttered, sitting beside him. "Lord Avon has demonstrated a remarkable gift for survival over the years. He is not likely to risk his life for someone he had just met. Sorry, but you don't look worthy of his attention. Nor, might I add, do you look like a person who would betray his people." She waited for his reaction.

And got it. "Lord Avon also tried to save Auron," he burst out, "in case you have forgotten. I want to help him. There is no betrayal in that."

"Yes," she sighed, "So we've all heard. Do you truly believe that is the full story? Have you gotten a second opinion?"

Mykal shook his head, but added, though not clear why, perhaps as a confession: "I have spoken with Servalan."

"Her! And lived to tell about it," she said bitterly. "Well, the Day of Judgment must truly be near!" For sarcasm, this woman could teach Avon things.

"Would you tell me about Molli, even if you've told it many times before," he said wearily.

She shrugged. "I met her only once. She was beautiful, charming, quite independent, with a remarkable, clear voice. Many men wanted her."

"Lord Avon is not here to ask for a date," he replied sourly.

"No, I suppose not," she sighed. "More's the pity. For a man so skilled at evading the past, she might make for a difficult reminder. Which brings us to his master," she said in disgust. "Molli was receiving some very strange messages. We do not know from whom or where. They made no sense. Did the Supreme Commander tell you why she is so afraid of them?"

"No, and I prefer not to speculate," Mykal said quietly.

"Such wisdom in one so young! Well, neither do I," she waved to the walls. "Mykal, I warn you. Years ago there was a man named Blake who led an inspired and, some might say, foolish rebellion against the tyranny that rules us. He did it for all of us, Aurons as well as humans. And he came within a hair's breadth of winning. Had he pressed his victory after Star One -- and it was his victory not hers -- things might be very different now. But then he disappeared under strange circumstances. Within two years he and his followers, with one exception, were dead. That exception remains, in service to his enemies. Do remember that."

He stood. The woman clearly had nothing informative to say, but she had given him an opening, and he was determined to take it. If defending Avon was going to be his lot in life, well, so be it. "Lord Avon is not the criminal you make him out to be. You refuse to acknowledge that he is all that stands between us and the Federation. And has done so for years. He will find Molli, and when he does, I assure you, he will protect her as he does the rest of us." How I wish I believed that!

She looked up at him, depressed. "Do you think I know more than I am telling?"

Mykal was blunt. "I think you know even less."

For the first time she looked at him with respect, her face softening. "I am sorry Mykal, for you and for all of us. There is nothing I can or would do to help him, but I wish I could help you. Yes, I am certain he will find her. There is always a feeling about him of some inevitable disaster looming."

She added, sincerely, as she stood to escort him out. "The strain on you must be terrible. I understand the Hodos family were always considered outsiders, even among the Auronar; that they were quite conservative, very close, very guarded. Correct me if I am mistaken, but they never approved of cloning, though they accepted many of the other programs of genetic engineering? Is that correct? Is that part of your alienation from your people? You don't have to answer."

"My family," he replied firmly, "believed that the evolution of intelligence was far more crucial than the program to develop telepathy, which after centuries was never a full success. It was not a popular opinion, but if you're trying to imply that impaired my loyalty to my people, you are mistaken."

"I did worry, " she said, hesitantly, "but now that I have met you I realize you are doing what you think is best. I apologize for suggesting otherwise. I was only trying to find what might have drawn you to trust that man. I had no family on Auron -- the pain for you must be terrible. Perhaps they felt they had to be close, given their contrary nature," she smiled, but the effort at reconciliation went nowhere. "I respect them for doing what they thought was right. And I respect you."

She held out her hand. //You must be very lonely.// "You were the first Hodos to leave Auron, weren't you?"

"No," replied Mykal, taking it weakly, "I was only the last."

It was late in the evening, still very warm, the hum of the air conditioners sweeping the air, when Mykal returned. Avon, reviewing the database files was informed of the fact by an interrupt message on the monitor. He acknowledged with a keystroke, but gave no notice when Mykal entered the room. He wouldn't have noticed had Mykal's hair been on fire. The man is made of wood, Mykal thought, but fought the feeling of intimidation, and stood there until Avon finally deemed to notice him. What Avon saw was a young man damp from the humid air, emotionally exhausted, but otherwise in his usual wondering-what-to-do-next mode. No one had expected the meeting to produce anything new and the look on Mykal's face confirmed that was indeed the result.

Avon, however, was not concerned. He now had access to every bit of computerized data on the planet and he was confident the Molli problem would at last be solved. During the hours he had been alone, he had pulled in everything he could find on the woman: rumors, sightings, guesses and whatever else the heuristics could deliver. It was more than an intellectual pursuit, though that in itself would have been sufficient. It was the coming to grips with one element of his past that in one remote corner of his mind

fascinated him. He had never expected this. He was certain Molli was alive and that he could find her and whoever was helping her. But that would be only the beginning. They would be his prisoners then. They would tell him what he wanted to know.

"No doubt you're eager to tell me something of vital importance but can't quite bring yourself to do so," Avon said in top form, his attention fixed on the monitor.

"It was an interesting talk," Mykal said quietly.

"Did you lie a lot?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "She says that there has been no contact with Molli since her disappearance. She also says they wouldn't tell us even if they did know where she was. And it's not just Auron. There is still a lot of emotion about . . ."

Avon frowned, looking up. "Auron. Auron and Servalan. You can say the names, or do you worry I'm easily offended?"

Mykal ignored that. "I don't like doing this," he said. "I want you to know that. These are my people. I am only trying to minimize the inevitable cost."

"No other reason? I'm glad we're clear on that."

"I would think that is sufficient. But yes, I am grateful for what you did," he said.

"I will try not to extract too high a price for your gratitude. I would hate to see you regret being alive." No, it was not easy to offend Avon.

Mykal looked more unhappy and frustrated. "You know, people keep warning me about you. Do you ever feel that you are constantly running into a past against which one is helpless? What I am trying to say is that Cally was a hero to my people; that puts me in a very difficult position. I would think it would do the same to you."

Avon stopped. "The position you describe is one I have been in for several years." He added, as an afterthought. "I know the feeling. I ignore it."

I wonder, Mykal thought.

"Did they at least give you any indication that Molli is alive?" Avon asked, getting back to work.

"'What is life?'" Mykal replied, mirthlessly.

Avon looked at him sharply. "You keep saying that phrase. Geir said something like it also. Why? What do you mean by it?"

Mykal was surprised at the reaction. For once, he had penetrated the armor; he had registered. "It was a game Dr. Geir and I played," he explained. "Whenever we would have a discussion, eventually we would get to the 'big' questions: life, death, existence, all that. He could never resist the metaphysical; he thought it was his greatest weakness as a scientist. We had a standing joke -- well, it was funny to him. I don't know what he meant, but I always played along."

"Tell me, or do you doubt my sense of humor," Avon insisted.

"No," said Mykal, "never that. Anyway, one of us would ask the set question; the other would give the standard answer. One would ask, 'What is Life?'; the other would respond: 'A pattern in infinity'."

Avon was thunderstruck.

"You've heard the expression before?" Mykal asked, astonished at the reaction.

"Yes," Avon said slowly, "I've heard it before. The circumstances are of no concern." He paused for a long time, then asked: "What was the answer to the question of 'death'?"

"Dr. Geir had no answer for that."

It was almost noon when Jenna and Molli arrived at the terminus, arriving along with hundreds of frantic pilgrims, yelling, shouting, excited to near panic. The departure of the monorail had been repeatedly delayed and the Federation troops, guns ready, trying to verify every ID, were not helping matters. The two women wore loose white, their veiled faces (signifying the status of being unmarried) were covered from a sun now near zenith, but they had not experienced anything like this discomfort since they first left the city. They struggled to stay together, but the crowd of screaming, running children, and pushing, cursing adults, kept threatening to separate them. It was desperation time. This far from the capitol, the monorail would only stop once a week.

Doing her best to ignore the turmoil, Jenna's attention focused on the station master. His help had deserted him days before and alone now, he was trying to manage the torrent. Alternately terrified and fierce, he looked like a man who at any moment would run or attack. Quite understandable, she thought, since a good many people wanted the monorail loaded now!

The Federation officer in charge, his gun ready, was also obviously overwhelmed.

(He had been warned about the Festival, but had never expected anything like this. His troops tried to beat back the crowd. He considered shooting guns into the air to get order, but on reflection, not implying that was the actual thought process, realized it was not the brightest of ideas).

Jenna had counted on this. She held tightly to Molli's hand as the noon signal blew. The whine of the engine went up in pitch; the crowd surged forward again. She pulled Molli over and they linked arms tightly, as the maelstrom neared panic.

"We might be in luck," she shouted into her ear. "Look at the one with the gun," she pointed. "He's near giving up."

Molli nodded, feeling sympathy for him and not knowing why. This man, she knew, had been ordered to check everyone for a fugitive, black-haired woman.

And he had every intention of performing that duty, but his orders were equally clear on avoiding incidents. Nor did it make sense, he thought, that she would ever return to the city under these circumstances.

His eyes darted over the crowd. He tried to ignore the station master. His men were near their limits, as was the crowd. Someone near the ticket counter who had passed those limits had was being dragged away by the guards.

Molli watched in anguish. She wanted to telesend to Jenna, but there were too many people. Was all this worth it? But it was her idea. Molli may have set the strategy; Jenna alone determined the tactics.

The engineer yelled that they were falling behind schedule and another brawl started. Jenna tightened her grip; another surge and both nearly fell. The temperature gauge of the station went up a degree.

Exasperated, the officer pulled out his gun. He signaled to the station master, then shouted: "Load!" Jenna smiled: "Hold on!"

Everything according to plan! Everyone desperate, the solders terrified, the crowd roared past, sweeping the two women forward as if caught in a monstrous wave. They fought for balance, were crushed, and finally were carried into the monorail. There they managed to break free and ran to the back. With their packs firmly gripped, they searched for a seat, their heads low, whispering.

(It was not uncommon for women to travel alone from the far provinces to the Festival. Occasionally, they did so to find husbands: women in search of mates was one of the many roles they were prepared to play, though admittedly Molli was more persuasive in that than her companion. Jenna decided that "curious travelers never having been to the big city" worked better.)

A few minutes later, far to the rear of the monorail, they came to a man who had been saving a seat, a man looking very impatient, but who was surprisingly gracious when the blond woman and her "ill cousin", pleaded with him for a place to sit. That too was an effective role. The man, touched by Molli's condition, impressed with their gratitude, vanished into the crowd. They collapsed together as the monorail began moving.

Molli sat by the window, trying to rest, her face pressed against the cool glass, her reflection in weary agreement. In truth she was not far from the state Jenna had described. She had slept poorly the night before and now heat exhaustion was overcoming her.

There was also another problem, one she dared not mention.

Jenna alternately glanced at her and watched and listened for the harsh orders of security personnel. She was certain none would show: too many of the passengers did not have tickets and there was no turning back now. There was only the loud talking and incessant shrieking of the "pilgrims".

The monorail went faster. Two teen-age girls with their mother were seated opposite. They were exchanging pictures excitedly. The pictures were of Avon. One of the girls said excitedly to her mother that she was going to have the Lord Protector autograph it. Now it was Jenna's turn to feel nauseous. I can never escape you. It would only be fitting if you could never escape me.

Jenna offered Molli something to eat, but she shook her head. Her face was pained. She starred outside as the countryside rushed past. The breeze of the air conditioning cooled them. Ever since making her decision, it seemed to Jenna that Molli had become more withdrawn. Once, alarmed, Jenna she had seen her weep; Molli would not say why. She had seemed to recover, but now looked worse than ever. Was she reconsidering?

There was a high-pitched, reed-like sound to the monorail as it flashed across the land, boring through the magnetic rings with a blur. Accelerating rapidly to its peak velocity, it was now moving at nearly a thousand kilometers an hour. There were mountains in the distance and on the highest elevations Jenna could see snow, coral bright, speckled with vegetation in the noon sun. They cut through a pass, then shot out across a broad undulating plain thick with ancient craters, worn and smooth. Jenna glanced at her watch. The capitol was less than an hour away. She wanted to point out one of the peaks, a landmark in the distance, but Molli was sleeping. Jenna relented: she would need her rest. Let her sleep. She gently removed Molli's pack.

(Molli heard . . . ? ? ? . . . the voice that had sent the messages. It was like a voice calling from a cave: so strong, so clear now, but there were no messages this time. Just her name echoing; her mind falling down into that cave . . . )

The pack was loose; the items buried within it carelessly. Jenna shook her head. She would redo it. A final favor for a friend. It was but a few seconds later that Jenna found a folded note crushed inside. A note addressed to Lord Avon.

(Molli could not fight it. It was overpowering, yet it seemed to be only testing the link between them. Why? It had never doubted the connection before. What did it want?!)

The land melted, flowed past, then was gone in a smear of brown under a light blue sky. Cottages in the distance flashed by, roads, farms, a space port of silver spires and golden-winged Federation shuttles.

Jenna held on to the pack, not looking at Molli. With each minute, the crowd in the cabin, many were standing, grew more exciting, more restless.

. . . At some point, the monorail began decelerating. At some point the note was open, her fingers not touching it directly, but the writing visible to her. She closed the pack. She now had the chance. A final gift from her friend. . .

When they arrived, she jostled Molli, who awoke, startled. She forced a smile. Jenna smiled back, gave her the pack, and asked how she slept. Her face pained, Molli murmured something. Jenna did not understand but did not ask her to repeat.

Leaving the monorail was only slightly easier than boarding it, but Molli, recovering, noticed that Jenna retained her confidence, though in an oddly nervous way, so unlike her. It was probably to be expected. Finality was beating down on them both. Jenna asked how she was feeling. Molli nodded, said nothing. They held their packs tightly and were pulled along by the crowd. They moved, heads low, faces covered, out of the station until they could hear one another. Guards were trying to check IDs, but they had the same exasperated, overwhelmed look of the guards when they boarded the monorail. They were not a problem.

The station was only a few kilometers from the Festival field. Banners were everywhere, and everywhere there were preachers, hucksters, and the even more disreputable. Inevitable calls to "Repent" stung the air. Molli looked in the distance. She pointed to the direction of the Festival field, to the black towers thrust up like derricks. The way was clear; she had her bearings. Jenna waited. "It's going to rain," she remarked.

"Will I see you again?" Molli asked.

"No," Jenna replied.

"Will you give up your plan to kill him?"

"Yes," Jenna murmured.

Molli swung her pack behind her and faced her companion of three years. "I will forget you," she said, her voice cold, distant. "In a few minutes, you will be a memory; a few minutes after that, you will be nothing. Will it be the same for you?"

"Naturally," agreed Jenna, their hands gripping firmly.

//Good bye, Jenna Stannis.//

"Good bye, Molli."

We note that though this parting conversation was admirable for its brevity, it was even more remarkable for the fact that seldom were there more falsehoods spoken per second, even by the standards of Federation discourse.

In the room of Central Control, Servalan tried to relax. The decision was a good one (as to be expected). It would solve several problems (without a doubt). It would enable her to dispense with an irritant (finally). And, of course, it would tighten her grip on the Front (so much for that).

She was concerned, however, that her Special Services had perhaps become a bit lax of late, even complacent in this matter. Marden should have been tripped long ago. Perhaps it was time for a shakeup, but that would be decided later. The inspection would give her the information needed as the inevitable was hastened along once more. Naturally, it was gratifying to her that Avon would do the legwork.

But Avon was also a source of the anxiety (again). Since he had first submitted to her will over seven years ago, this would be their greatest separation. The prospect of him being some 10,000 light-years away was not a happy one. Still, he would be watched very closely (obviously) and after all where was there for him to go? As assurance, that would suffice. She could smile at that. He would be watched; they would watch him. Oh, the slick logic of power! Oh, how excessive, and yet, how exquisite!

She punched in a code and a prepared screen appeared on the monitor. She entered her password, the destination and priority of the message. She selected the code phrase and entered it. Then she logged out and snapped off the monitor.

Field headquarters at the Front received the message at once. A bored operator became suddenly alert when the advance code came in and the warning buzzer went off. A direct communique from the Supreme Commander! He quickly inserted a memory cube, copied the message before it erased (he had 15 seconds to do so), and ran down the hall. He would now have five minutes before the cube dissolved and only one man would have the key to unlock the message. Breathless, he handed it to another guard, who in turn rushed into the anteroom of Marden's chambers. The Fleet Commander who had been asleep awoke at once upon hearing the alarm. It could only be a message from the Center and one of such priority that it could have only one source. He hoped it only had one meaning. The cube was placed in his hand. The guard departed at once. Marden inserted it in the monitor, entered his code, and read. It was a single sentence:

"GRANT TO US SUCH STRENGTH AND PROTECTION, AS MAY SUPPORT US IN ALL DANGERS, AND CARRY US THROUGH ALL TEMPTATIONS."

S.

Despite himself, he laughed. Lord Avon was coming. And since her message had been received in the Com Room, the rumors would be all over the fleets in a few hours.

She suspected something -- it went without saying. She was, after all, far more skilled at playing these games. But the fact that he was still alive argued that she might not yet have guessed the extent of his plans.

Of course, there were other possibilities.

Soaring through the databases, Avon continued his pursuit. Searching for an overlooked lead, straining for a clue. He would not be defeated. Sheer force of curiosity would conquer. The problem alone would drive him; nothing else was needed.

The data was impressive in its extent, vast in its depth: genetic, historical, psychological, personal. Molli was in there somewhere, he was sure. When he found her in the database, capturing her outside would be trivial.

A blinking "URGENT" suddenly appeared on the monitor. That meant a guard wanted to see him. I'll kill you, he thought, irritated. He jabbed in an affirmative response; glowered as the messenger entered the room. The Special Services man appeared frightened, unusually apologetic.

"Forgive me, My Lord, but," he held out a piece of paper wrapped in plastic; held it like it was a scorpion. "We received this note. It's hand-written. It might be important."

Avon wordlessly took it. The guard closed the door quickly, silently behind him. Avon opened the crumpled note.

My Lord Avon:

Working rapidly, Avon had the note scanned and compared against samples of her handwriting. The computer began returning analyses on the screen. There was no doubt: the writer was Molli. The paper was crumpled, implying the note might have been held at one point in sweaty palms. He scanned now for biology, the distinctive DNA of the Auronar. The machine confirmed it. Then he checked for deception. The pattern of sentences, words, and emphasis, the stress of character and line. The machine judged to the best of its programmed ability that the writer was not lying.

So the orders went out, for always remember: when Lord Avon says "Do this", it is performed. Teleport operators orbiting overhead were alerted. Messages to the Special Services and Planetary police were sent: messages firm, brief, explicit. Molli had been located, or more precisely, it was known where she would be located. Festival field was to be surrounded, a command post seized and prepared, but operations were not to be disrupted.

Then the final order, the one that would caused the greatest dismay: watch Molli -- but take no action until he commanded it. He would handle the arrest in person. They obeyed, for the orders were in the name of Servalan.

Within minutes, undercover agents were swarming out onto the highways, into the rainy evening, converging onto the field. Within hours, the area was surrounded, observed by hundreds, then thousands, of alert and highly suspicious eyes.

. . . And one old agent, a planetary cop near retirement, who loathed the Federation (though he had a soft spot for Avon -- "Best of a bad lot," he would grumble to himself), read the orders with wrinkled eyes and obeyed with stiff reluctance. He had endured this case for three years and had had more than enough. There had been false alarms before, he reminded himself with disgust, riding in unhappy silence to the rain-soaked field.

Strolling in the grass and mud among the awakening crowd, patrolling in the early morning sun in the reddening sky, two young black-uniformed Special Services agents were never far from his side. They were contemptuous of everything and everyone around them. Yet they frequently asked him questions, trusting his judgment in ways he hardly did himself. They had been his charges for several months. He kept them out of trouble. He called them his "Boys". They called him "Old One."

He had been on this case since Molli disappeared. He knew the eyewitness accounts perfectly, especially of the unknown woman who had fled with Molli. He was confident neither would be found. The Federation always won the war, but this was a battle that would be denied them.

. . . Walking and musing and never dreaming that before the day was done, he would be a hero to that Federation . . .

Jenna, ambivalent Jenna, knew she should get away. The Federation wanted Molli, not her, a woman they believed dead for years. An occupation force would be left behind, but she was confident she would have little difficulty evading it. She would then make her way as far from the Center as possible and keep moving into the Big Deep. But that would mean an old score would remain unsettled, a score that had become far too crucial in her life. She wanted revenge. She would have it. The note had given her the chance.

Molli would understand; in time, possibly even forgive. It is easier to forgive the dead.

In doing so, she would betray Molli, but that was justified considering the nature of her target. What reasonable alternative was there? He was far too heavily guarded anywhere else. Fate agreed and had given her a hand; she was hardly going to settle for a hangnail. With luck, the man who killed Blake would be given triumphant justice indeed.

So she kept telling herself.

There would be a cost. If it were proved that the notorious Jenna Stannis alone had killed Avon, and if Servalan were convinced of that, the planet might be spared. Then again, it might not. But murder on such a scale would be on the hands of the Supreme Commander, not her.

So she kept telling herself.

Jenna watched the antics of the preachers and their audience: the vulgar, the innocent, the naive. One particular agitated preacher, who had been giving graphic descriptions of the evils of drink and lust was becoming anxious as his audience began drifting away now that he was getting into less racy prohibitions. He kept jabbing a finger to the sky, to the crowd, to her. "Have you been saved by the Tree of Life?", he roared. "Life is infinite. To murder one person is the same as murdering a world. To betray trust is the same as to murder. Judgment is with the Tree. If you judge, prepare to be judged! Repent! I say! Repent!" he kept repeating. The old wheezer was more galling than effective, yet a few around her were praying loud and terribly.

"It is the dreaded moment!" he said, the finger shooting straight for the heavens. "Behold! The end of all existence is at hand! The Tree of Life is blossoming! The dead have returned!"

There was lightening in his eyes and thunder in his voice as the tormented sea of humanity flowed past down the road. Jenna gripped her pack, felt the gun press heavily against her side, and followed them all to the Festival of Judgment.

Thousands of years before, a meteor had crashed into this plain. White hot, all cosmic violence, earthquakes, and red flowing lava, the result had been a steaming crater kilometers across. The crater cooled from the rains and filled with blown soil. The rains eroded it; summer heat and winter cold cracked its surface. Then plants formed a glaze of life in the rich mixture of soil and eroded lava. Over the millennia, the crater became a shallow, gentle depression. And for the humans who would eventually arrive, it would be found to be the perfect setting for an outdoor arena.

Now, in the center of what had been that crater was a stage complex: amphitheater, orchestra pit, buildings housing workshops, equipment stores, generators and control rooms. Behind it, a vast graded lot for local transportation, surface and air. But to a visitor the most impressive sight, spread along the radii fanning out from the center, were the dozens of amplifier and lighting towers: black spider-web spires, thrust up a hundred meters for the shortest of them. They lit the field at night, keeping it safe. They gave it splendid acoustics. They had to: the noise when the field was fully packed could, it was said, disturb the dead.

After the Auron courier (it had not been easy to find one) had taken the note late that evening, Molli went directly to the arena, moving with the flow of the crowds, just one more Birnam tree on the road to Dunsinane. Jenna had taught her plenty about self-defense, but the last thing she wanted was an incident. If she were not arrested during the night, she felt confident that Lord Avon had trusted her and that would be a good sign. He would have read the note and trusted her. That would mean she would have a chance.

During the night, she stayed with a group of women who had traveled thousands of kilometers for the first time in their lives to the Festival. Molli was relieved to discover they were so far out of touch, they had not even heard their planet was besieged.

In the early morning, she left before they awoke and made her move. It was not a spectacular entrance as such things go, but it did the job and the effect was sensational enough. Approaching the stage, she was stopped by one of the private police assigned to keep spectators away. The guard, who thought he was merely shooing away yet another too curious spectator, just about jumped out of his skin when he recognized her. She calmed him and was quickly escorted to the office of the stage manager, who was not in, but who did come rather quickly when he was informed who was waiting. Understandably, the man, short with a twitching mustache, nervous under the best of conditions, was beside himself upon seeing her. That is to say, he was terrified, as he had every right to be, especially when she told him what she had done.

He swore the guard to secrecy and dismissed him. Then he studied Molli. Her face was tanned, taut, and her veiled eyes looked sadder, harder, but despite everything she had hardly aged. He had always loved Molli, as so many had, but now he only wanted to bury his head in his hands. In a few hours at most, Federation forces would occupy the field; unpleasant individuals would be pounding on his door. Always prone to the worst fantasies, he saw troops invading the stage, guns blazing, the arena in flames, bodies everywhere . . .

Fortunately, Molli was more objective. She was, in fact, way ahead of him. She explained that with nearly a million people camped on the field, Federation Security was unlikely to take any action that might result in a riot and possibly losing her. Servalan had been restrained (so far) and with Lord Avon in charge that policy should continue. To the inconsolable, it would have to do.

Had she really sent him (Avon!) the note?

She had. She continued. If Avon granted the request, and it appeared he had, they would be given time. He nodded. She began her instructions. Make up artists and costumers were summoned; then light technicians, electrical workers, programmers. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, until the room was filled with people, the transformation began; by mid-morning it was complete. And it was thorough, Molli standing firm throughout, surprising even herself, until the job was done right.

A new, albeit temporary, surfeit of "Molli"s were born -- several women now bore a striking resemblance to her. Outside, the stage and interior lighting began to experience "problems", which sadly could not be corrected, until say, 8:00 that evening. Molli had lost her uniqueness, was very much back in hiding, but in the confines of her world had regained her identity.

So throughout the morning, she rehearsed where places could be found, napped when time permitted. She was with actors, performers, people of the theater, people she knew well and liked. They were worried, but they trusted her, and she trusted them. She had a plan everyone was assured. And it seemed a good omen that she made it back for the start of the Festival. Being actors, they believed in omens. They were her true family once and for a brief time would be again.

By noon, the rumors were flying, first confined to the stage complex, inevitably they were soon out among the spectators. Rumors heightened as more Federation officers began asking questions, as more transporters landed disgorging troops. She was told in harsh whispers to avoid certain areas. Those areas grew in number. She saw less of her "doubles" and after a few hours, they were gone completely. She tried to contact the manager, but by noon she was informed that he was no longer available. Shortly thereafter an entire wing of the complex was sealed. More transports landed. In hiding, she watched as scores of Special Services agents moved with grim purposefulness through the complex. Only idealism and determination kept her going now.

The voice inside her mind was silent. She forgot about it for now.

Through dark passageways, she kept moving, forgetting about rest. The songs were her being and her meaning. The Festival was her life. It would not be denied her.

All through the afternoon, the crowd slumbered and ate, drank and played, yelled and cursed, as the stage was occupied by a succession of preachers spreading the word one last time; by jugglers and musicians, comedians, bad and worse, by acts unclassifiable. The crowd jeered and laughed and hooted. But as the long afternoon wore on, as the rumors spread, as the Federation aircraft hummed overhead, the mood turned increasingly solemn and occasionally sour. The Festival beast was awakening. Amateur hour was wearing out its welcome. One evangelist who should have known better discovered this when in a fit of soulful passion, he vowed to run into the opening ceremonies. Several hundred thousand voices and a few dozen mud balls urged him to reconsider. He did.

At 7:30 p.m., the lights of the towers and the stage came on, flooding the amphitheater in radiance and sweeping over the field in frantic white ovals. Amplifiers screeched and boomed and were answered by a universal shouting and clapping.

(It was on one of the amplifier towers, only a few hundred meters from the stage, that Jenna waited. It was an excellent vantage point: the view high, unobstructed. It was comfortable too: the early evening was still hot, hot and humid enough to make her feel occasionally faint, but the breeze from the cooling fans was a blessing.

If fate were to give her this chance, if Avon were to appear on stage, she would have one, maybe two clear shots. And then, judging from the number of Special Services troops, it would be over for them both.)

The shouts and cheers grew ever louder. Part revival, more circus, the Festival of Judgment was about to begin.

It began with an advance shower of meteors bombarded the pale twilight. A dozen streaks raked the sky: the crowd "Ooh-ed". A boloid exploded with a sound like thunder: they applauded. In quick answer a distance away, a sky rocket shot up, then fizzled, popped, and sputtered miserably. They laughed as it fell to an embarrassing plop.

At that moment the master of ceremonies walked on stage. He apologized for the delay ("BOO!"), promised his remarks would be brief (cheers), and nervously added that there was going to be a surprise (silence). He glanced to stage right where she waited. "She has been away for awhile," he said, his voice rising, "but she has not forgotten us, as I am sure we have not forgotten her, so please welcome . . . ," and he briskly exited the stage. And it was then Molli entered.

For the first and only time in memory, silence greeted the opening performer of the Festival. Dressed in a flowing white gown streaked with silver, Molli, exuberant as she was nervous, stumbled slightly, but managed nevertheless to make a million people stone still.

Jenna held her breath, expecting guards to rush on stage (she was not alone in that), but nothing happened.

"As you may know," Molli said into the microphone, her voice echoing across the field, "I have been away for a while, but I never miss the Festival." There was uncertain applause. "My time has not been idle. I have written a new song, and I would like to dedicate it to a friend." She turned to stage left, where Avon was waiting. How sad his face, she thought.

One hour previous, Avon, Mykal, and several dozen elite of the Special Services had teleported into the command post set up by the advance teams. By then the complex was under Federation control. They forcibly took technicians and performers out of the Festival operations, until it was being run by only a closely supervised skeleton crew. But they obeyed the unusual orders and avoided the areas where it was thought Molli was likely to be.

The Stage Manager, when informed that Lord Avon was coming, had been most cooperative in providing information, but he steadfastly insisted he did not know Molli's whereabouts. By the time Avon arrived, the question was moot.

Surrounded by his guards, the Lord Protector was ushered to one side of the stage while more troops closed in on the other. Mykal found himself herded with the rest of the actors and support personnel off to the side. When Molli walked onstage, she couldn't have fallen into the orchestra pit, without landing in the arms of the Federation.

She took the microphone then turned towards the audience and began singing, without music, the first two verses of her song.

"They were the heroes of our time . . .

If time is a winding river,

Then she stopped. More meteors flared above. A few in the crowd applauded; most were silent. She grinned. "My, you're a quiet lot! Let's see what we can do to liven you up for the last verse! As you know, there has been a lot of interest in my whereabouts." There was some nervous laughter.

(Jenna tensed; pulled the gun carefully out of the pack.)

"I haven't received so much attention in years." More laughter. Avon, ominous, studied her. "Not every girl is pursued by the Lord Protector."

Gasps. "So I have composed the last verse for him." She held out one arm and turned to Avon and without the slightest irony said: "And I would like that gentleman to join me as I sing it."

His guards were doing all they could to restrain themselves. Voices shouted in his ear: arrest this mad woman! Now! Mykal could only shake his head. Watching her on a monitor, he found himself captivated. "She's like an angel," he said tenderly. Cally reborn, in voice and face, in brave and foolish spirit.

Avon understandably was not in a tender mood. He gestured furiously for silence. He waited. Mykal, along with the stage personnel and performers, watched him, ignoring the monitor.

Molli was prepared. "Now he is rumored to be shy," she said slyly, "so he might need a little coaxing." She grinned and turned to the audience, stretching out both arms now. "So I would like you to show our Lord Protector we mean no harm. Everybody, rise to your feet! Repeat after me, 'A-Von'. Again, 'A-von' . . !" And after several hesitant seconds, everybody did. Far in the distance the shouting and foot-stomping began. It rolled over the field like an earthquake; broke on stage like a tidal wave. Louder it got, gaining in confidence and strength. It became a pounding, deafening chant of "A-VON!", "A-VON!", "A-VON!" . . .

The individual in question, his arms crossed, his face glaring, glanced to his guards. They were violently indicating "NO!" He was inclined to agree with them, but he had not expected this and that amused him. Nor had he loved this woman's sister, but he had never ceased to be fascinated by her, and curiosity remained a flaw in him without hope of redemption. What the hell.

He broke loose and as they watched frantically, Kerr Avon, First Citizen, Lord Protector, hero of the galaxy, walked onstage to the roaring crowd.

(Mykal thought sourly: had he murdered their mothers, they would have done no less.)

He did not acknowledge them. He went directly up to Molli and put his hand firmly over the microphone.

He said: "I arrest you in the name of the Federation."

She replied: "I surrender in the name of all that is good."

She put her hand on his and despite himself, he let her remove it from the mike. With uneven eagerness, both turned to the crowd and a million people went crazy. Everyone knew the blockade would soon be over.

She waited, gesturing repeatedly for quiet. Gradually, the crowd stilled. Avon looked to his guards at both wings. They stayed.

(Jenna steadied her gun.)

"We need to talk," he said.

//I'm free. Anytime,// she smiled.

The heavens opened. A thousand neon needles, stellar splinters falling, etched the evening sky. And Molli in her liquid crystal voice sang:

"He is the last of them,

Aim, indeed. Jenna had Avon in her sight. He was in range; Molli scarcely a meter. Jenna's finger moved. She could kill him. Now.

And had he been alone, so it would have been. But the sight of them together, (she could not focus) brought the past rushing forward; the years gripped her hand. She remembered the man she abandoned (he had insisted she go); was hopelessness overwhelmed. The gun lowered. It was the console of despair: Who am I to judge?

Hesitation saved her. Her palms grew slick; she could not hold the gun. The cheering of the crowd pressed upon her. She was shaking. She closed her eyes, moist.

At that moment, the aged planetary guard, passing with the two troopers, glanced up and saw her. He grabbed for his pistol, then saw her gun waver.

With one heave he leaped on the tower, grabbed her arm and pulled her down over his head, the two falling together into the mud. Her grip was not strong; her wrist twisted, the gun flew into the air. Someone shrieked as they crashed together. Ordinarily, he would have been no match for her, but she did not struggle. He got up as the "boys" pinned her down, their guns drawn. For the first time he saw her face -- the face of legend. It could not be, but there she was, muddied, older, but still Jenna Stannis. He pushed them off her furiously and pulled the dazed Jenna to her feet. "It's Jenna Stannis, idiots! You must have been in diapers," he growled; adding in exasperation to their uncomprehending looks: "Blake's woman." They looked at her, curious, like they couldn't place her, but knew they shoul