--William Shakespeare

I am not alone.

I am Molli and I have been a prisoner of the Federation now for several weeks. Since my capture (there seems no point in arguing that my surrender was voluntary), I have been imprisoned on a military vessel, part of a BattleGroup traveling to the Black Shield. During that confinement, I have had only two visitors. One is a young Auron named Mykal Hodos. A

well-meaning sort, I was quite surprised to discover he is in service to the Federation. He is, in fact, an aide to my other visitor: the Lord Protector, Kerr Avon.

Yes, the Lord Avon. I can scarcely believe it. The man is so wrapped in enigma, I at first worried I would never be permitted to approach him. Following the incident at the Festival, which resulted the capture of Jenna Stannis (my companion for three years) and myself, I feared the worst for us both. I anticipated that almost everyone would be questioning me except him and that the interrogation would be torture. As it turned out, however, only he asked the questions. For unknown reasons, everyone else (including even Mykal for a while) was forbidden to approach me.

As one might guess, there were some unusual aspects to my

interrogation. At first, he forbade me to telesend during the course of it, presumably so that nothing would be "off record". That concerned me, for as an Auron, I find telesending natural. Later, however, at his signal, he would insist that I telesend only. These questions were brief, always yes or no, but seemed always off the object. I did not object. Lord Avon's wish is to be obeyed with the finality of Servalan's Command.

When I told my experiences to Mykal, I hoped he might be able to shed light on the odd way the interview was conducted. Regrettably, however, he has no telesending abilities and was clearly uncomfortable in discuss the matter. He was not unsympathetic to me, however, and suggested I use his "recorder" to maintain a diary. He said it helps to write; that it clarifies one's thinking. He was correct. Writing has indeed consoled my spirit, and has given us a way to communicate in secret.

What were my first impressions of the First Citizen, hero of the Galactic War, the man who killed Blake? I felt at once that the honor of greatness, unlike its power, does not sit easy with him. There is a directness, an abruptness about the man that can lacerate the unwary who dare approach the boundary between him and us. He appears every bit as fearless, and fearsome, as his reputation boasts, yet he suggests a man more of the shadows of treachery than of the daylight of heroism. I have come to understand, as the interrogation confirmed, that in the mire of this man's life there is much he wishes to remain hidden.

Do not interpret that as a harsh judgment. He is not incapable of kindness. Indeed, at times, I found him to be not quite the terror the Federation propagandists have made him out to be. Always remember with Avon: he is never an easy man to sum. Whenever you think you understand him, he will break the conceptual bonds and forcibly achieve freedom.

I am not alone in my bewilderment. Mykal has told me (discretely: we have solidified our quiet communication during the long voyage by passing messages in distinct forms-- his written, mine mental -- to make interpretation by an outsider more difficult) that Lord Avon's personality, of which he has had ample opportunity to observe, permits great respect for knowledge but much less for people (both humans and Aurons - he is not

prejudiced). Yet this is the same man who saved Mykal's life.

So it is unwise to draw sweeping conclusions about this most complex and, I feel, embittered of men. Perhaps people have disappointed him too frequently. From what is known of his life, this may well be true. But I choose not to brood on that. Certainly, if there was anything I could read in his face, it was sadness; sadness hardened past despair, and thereby achieving a proud loneliness impossible to penetrate. He suggests an Atlas

holding up the heavens, while the gravity of earthly regret pulls him down. Indeed, that is my private name for him: Mr. Gravity.

Many would find it strange that a man who has done such terrible things should still retain an aura (forgive me) of goodness. They would be even more shocked that he drew that feeling from me that moment I met him. And Mykal, who has grown increasingly uncomfortable with Lord Avon, admits to a similar feeling.

The strongest impression one receives upon meeting Lord Avon is that of a fierce intelligence. There is the singe of genius about him. He may well be, as many have suggested, one of the great minds of our generation. That fact might also serve as an explanation of his life: the devastating affect of genius upon those nearest them is not exactly unknown.

During my interrogation, I found his questions to be sharply focused, extremely penetrating. I felt it would have been impossible to withhold anything from him -- even had I been inclined to do so. Understandably, I was grateful he always seemed to believe what I had told him, which is more credulity than I gave myself!

Can I summarize the interrogation? As for the questions themselves, I have written on them in detail in the recorder (what I could remember and I think I missed only a few), but for now I want to point out how he asked one question repeatedly, though in different guises. He was extremely curious about the first message I received. Clearly, the oblique reference to Blake disturbed him. It was as if he felt that message was directed to him personally. At first, I resented his harsh manner of asking the questions, but as he continually returned to that first message then I began to feel for him not only sympathy but empathy. So, he too is looking for a sign.

My sympathy is not a matter of forgiveness, though Avon, like Blake, is a hero to the Auronar. It was just a sense, entirely unwarranted I am sure, that his fate is bound with ours; that he is part of us and that we cannot turn our back on him -- if you will pardon the grim ambiguity of that statement!

At the conclusion of the interrogation, I finally found courage to request if I could ask some questions. He seemed surprised at that, as if it were understood that only he would be so permitted, but replied evenly that he presumed I was referring to my status as a prisoner. That was true, but only partially so. Seeing the opening, I told him of my concern for Jenna. I

wanted (almost said demanded) assurance that she was being treated well. The name "Jenna" had an affect on him, but he simply replied that no harm had come to her. I wanted to press further, but I got the distinct impression that he did not wish to discuss the matter. Unhappily, I had to drop the subject.

I then asked for clarification of my legal status. Though I am not a Federation citizen (by definition!), I am (was) a citizen of my planet of (former) residence and thus had certain derivative rights (well, I thought I did). As my courage, or foolhardiness built, I insisted that either I be formerly charged or be released on my own recognizance (I am not sure what that would have meant aboard a Federation warship, but it sounded

reasonable). I said that with all the strength of voice I could summon. This time he seemed amused. He said my request would be "taken under advisement", adding that no decision regarding my "case" could be made until we reached the Front, the zone where Federation forces surround the Black Shield.

He reminded me that despite his titles, his powers were limited and suggested in a manner implying a hint that I might wish to deal with Mykal, not him, concerning the matter. I had doubts about Mykal's effectiveness, but he was better than nothing. Though I had little hope at the time, it would turn out that my risk would pay off.

I did not see Lord Avon again for the duration of the voyage.

Thus began my "involvement" with Mykal Hodos, Auron Ambassador-at-Large for the Federation(!). I should state up front that while I would come to appreciate Mykal's efforts on my behalf, we were not at once compatible. It is not so much that he is working for the Federation, however unpleasant and embarrassing that must be for him. No, I realize he has little choice in the matter and, further, he does sincerely hope some good will come of his efforts. There is an air of acceptance in him of the personal cost which I truly admire.

No, the reasons for our difficulties are more subtle, perhaps "personal" is the better word. While we are attracted to each other, for one thing I am several years older (admittedly, it is not obvious), and for another our relationship has come about under less than conducive circumstances. This makes for awkwardness. And, as already alluded to, it does not make things

easier that while he is an Auron, he lacks the telesending ability. He might as well be a human male (that probably sounds harsher than I intend). There is also the chasm between our education and careers.

Please understand that Mykal is a good person and that I am grateful to him. I am not untouched that he is desperate for companionship. He visited me every day after Lord Avon finished, and brought me such amenities as were permitted. In captivity little things mean a lot. He does his best to reassure me, in his own fumbling fashion. He is surprisingly open. He has even showed me his writings -- they are quite interesting, but I fear too romantic and occasionally silly given the seriousness of the subject.

But he can be such a pain. Had not our fates brought us together, I probably would have gone out of my way to avoid him. But it would be wrong to refuse to acknowledge the reality of our situation. It would be self-destructive to permit antagonism to weaken the bonds between exiles. We are both caught in events far beyond our ability to understand, let alone control. We deserve more than being petty. Let us make the best of it.

So, annoyed as I get with him (his taste in music is as bad as Cally's and every time I ask a teaspoon of question, I get a truckload of answer -- he acts as if I had never been to school!), I am grateful for his presence and kindness. Kindness, in these times, is the rarest and most gracious of gifts.

In fairness to Mykal, part of the strain of our situation results from Lord Avon. I know now for instance, and it should not have been surprising, that Mykal and he have not been getting along. Perhaps I am reading more into this than I should. It is not clear that anyone has ever gotten along with Avon. But in this case it is approaching a complete communications breakdown: in fact, they have been avoiding each other. When I ask Mykal

anything regarding Avon, he bristles. He says they discuss technical matters, dry subjects like gravitational theory of which Lord Avon has a surprising grasp, but little else. I wonder if this friction is similar to the tensions between Jenna and myself.

Lord Avon. How I wish, as Mykal must, that we could bind this man within the limits of our understanding. But having, as I did, the telepathic resonance with Cally, I know the strength of this man only too well. There is no freeing myself of him. The reasons are complex, but I can say that for the three years she was aboard the Liberator, her feelings for him became as much a part of me as they were of her.

Are you startled? Confused? Mykal certainly was when I told him, but let me try to explain. I have been asked if, since I was supposedly in full telepathic contact (such is the myth) with Cally, I somehow got to "watch" the three years Avon and she were together. How those questions exasperate me!

Telepathy doesn't work that way; its effects are much more insidious than a kind of mental voyeurism. What happens when "telepathy" take place over very long distances is an emotional transmission that can leave a strong and not easily integrated mental "residue".

Only over very short distances can Auron telepaths "send" to each other as easily as talk. So I was open to Cally's deepest emotions (as you might have guessed, of the three sisters she was the most rebellious and lacking in self control) in full force during those years. Given her psychology, she could not help but share her most intimate feelings, but such things are seldom for the best! Have you ever had a sister? Women without sisters are the ones who have the most difficulty understanding what I went through (men, of course, are hopeless in these matters). After I left Auron, several years before she did, there was no contact between us except the emotional sharing, but that was quite sufficient! I couldn't tune her out.

I thus came to know intimately the feelings and frustrations she had with that man. Her emotions became infused with me; that is the tragedy of telesending.

Would you want to spend the whole of your life being drenched in another's feelings? Would you not fear that you might in some way become that other, be caught in their life pattern, never fully be yourself? Aurons have a curse that supposedly reveals our fear of being alone: may you die alone and silent. How ironic that the truth is much worse. I can never be alone. Cally is always with me, and she was never silent during her life.

You understand then how compelled I was to know more about the Lord Protector. And Mykal, poor Mykal, was my only guide. So, that meant I needed to get along better with Mykal; to make the effort to understand and accept him on his own terms. It would not be easy, but it would be done.

When we arrived at the Front, I assumed our ship would dock at one of the BattleStations, but instead it "parked" several hundred Spacials(?) (Mykal told me a "Spacial" was jargon for a distance of about 44 kilometers) from the 'Station called "Citadel". I then presumed we would be shuttled over. Wrong again. Instead, we were taken to the room in which we had originally boarded the ship -- the teleportation chamber -- and teleported over. It was quite early and I was very tired when I was taken from the chamber by security personnel (not Special Services to my great relief) and separated from Mykal, who looked endearingly unhappy about it. Mykal told me later that Jenna teleported over soon after. And she was "escorted" by the

Special Services.

At least my new cell was more spacious and my new clothes less degrading. My magnificent stage dress is, of course, long gone. What I have now is a rather stylish (in a military way) outfit of green leather that looks like some sort of commando uniform. It almost fits, and I rather like it.

But other than that, I began to resign myself to things being much the same as on board ship. It was thus quite a surprise when a few days later a grinning Mykal practically bounded into my cell and told me I was being released -- provided I observed two conditions: I was never to be far from him, and we were both to avoid the Special Services areas. Well, maybe the first was a bother, but I could not complain about the second!

I was ecstatic, irrationally so. More than once, Mykal was put out with my seeming delight in being in a military establishment, but I had no qualms about being among the soldiers of the Front. They had taken no part in the crime against Auron and whatever our misgivings about their profession, they are our allies against the Black Shield. In any event, I was too grateful to be outside that cell to engage in moralizing.

I can't say, however, my delight was reciprocated. For the most part, the soldiers avoided us while watching us closely. Few could be persuaded to speak, and fewer still could be described as friendly. I am not clear if this reluctance was the result of orders, or the fact that we are Aurons, or civilians, or all of the above. But as the days progressed we began to slowly break through their reserve and suspicions and get an understanding of what was happening.

Let me explain about the Citadel. Unless you have been on a

BattleStation, you can't imagine how huge the things are (the three assigned to Navy Group Omega orbit the Black Shield at about 100 lightyears, separated from each other by about twice that distance.) From far away, a 'Station resembles a spiny cylinder, one twice as long (over a kilometer, in fact) as it is wide, gleaming silver and protruding all manner of antennae and

devices, most of them defensive weaponry. It is said a 'Station can hold even a Fleet at bay with little difficulty.

Statistics: each has a capacity of about 10,000 people, but usually no more than a couple of thousand are present. Rotation provides the pseudo-gravitational field, which saves considerably on power. The 'Station is built in modules, each with their own power sources and escape vehicles in case of an emergency.

This rotation can lead to disconcerting effects: for example, the "wall", or what you would normally think of as being the wall, becomes under rotation the "floor"; "down", because gravity increases the further away you are from the rotation axis, is "out". The architecture is thus totally different in character from that of most spaceships. If you're not used to it, it can be very disorienting.

It was a rare friendly soldier who enabled Mykal and I to observe Lord Avon's official arrival. This was about a week after I teleported in -- the First Citizen seemed in no particular hurry to begin his inspection tour. The soldier whispered to us that since this was a special occasion, a relaxation of the security rules (to allow such sinister types as us Aurons) could be tolerated.

We were grateful for her courtesy, but there wasn't much to the arrival ceremony, though an effort at a spectacle was made. We saw Lord Avon's golden shuttle glide slowly into the open central docking bay (the air is held by an electrostatic barrier, so it is easy for a ship to penetrate, but like granite to an air molecule). Everybody, except the Special Services, cheered and clapped when Fleet Commander Marden greeted him like an old friend. Avon, however, wearing a red cape, which I admit looked rather good on him, his two starburst medals gleaming, was very reserved, almost stiff.

No doubt, as experience has shown, this is his usual manner, but one wonders if there is something to the rumors, as Mykal has suggested, that he has grown weary of his role. At the podium (behind him the stars turned in tired circles), his remarks were brief (curt, actually): the administration was grateful for their defense of the Federation; his presence here should be taken as proof support would continue. That was about it. He then quickly stepped down and surrounded by his Special Services' entourage, disappeared into the 'Station depths.

As I say, it was not that impressive, but I did find it striking how throughout the ceremony, the two service branches kept rigidly apart. We noticed there was a lot of unpleasant muttering whenever the camera showed a Special Services functionary, dressed in black and invariably fully armed. Though the Special Services is a subject the soldiers have been ordered not to discuss, it is clear tensions between the two branches are

high.

My curiosity about my new "home" could not be satiated and I was determined to explore it. The wisdom of that may be questioned -- Aurons are curious as cats, and frequently possess as much sense. But probably there was a desire to get my mind off the hopelessness of our position and to stop worrying about Jenna. Mykal must have felt something similar, for he did nothing to discourage me.

Like most intellectuals, Mykal is fascinated by the spectacle of power, though he is loath to admit it. Now he had a chance to experience first hand what had so repulsed him throughout his life. My feelings towards the military, as noted, are more ambivalent. Aurons have always insisted that isolation and peace went hand in hand, but there is the Cally part of me that feels such may not have been the wisest of policies. My sister, as is well known, caused a sensation in rebelling against her home planet's pacifism. I am not sanctioning her decision, but I am less inclined to dispute it.

Note: Cally is remembered even here! It seems the soldiers, after they got used to us, began taking an active interest in me -- other than the usual interest soldiers have in single women. Mykal and I would separate (still within sight of each other) on occasion and he confirmed that many were commenting upon my "resemblance" (putting it mildly) to Cally. Though Blake's Rebellion is a forbidden subject (another one!), it's memory cannot be suppressed. In this center of Federation power, that was truly startling.

Eventually our wanderings took us up the central (spin) axis of the 'Station, away from the docking areas and to where there were less soldiers. That made us both feel more comfortable, and it turned out that our explorations were to be given a remarkable reward. At the very top of the `Station, directly over the axis, we made our "discovery". I had never been in a place like it. It was an observation deck, but with no gravity and no light

other than what the galaxy provided.

The upper observation deck is enclosed in a transparent dome, one quite roomy. And because it is directly over the axis of spin, weightless. We could float, light and gentle, our cares forsaken. We had a view directly into the galactic core swirling like a snowstorm above us -- and also right into the Black Shield, hanging like a huge target bullseye. I could not get enough of the observation deck. It was enthralling, enchanting. We began coming every day and would stay for hours. Even Mykal, who I never would have thought would respond like he did, was affected by the chill beauty of the place.

This was both my first experience with "zero-g" and my first clear look at the Black Shield. Around the dome we would "swim", like fish in a dark spinning sea . . . or birds slowly turning and twisting in a spiraling night sky . . . or weaving plants drawn to a black sun . . . sorry about the simile salad. Zero gravity has mental as well as physical effects: it does take a bit of getting used to. Even Mykal admitted something similar, but he wrote it off as stomach queasiness.

It was here that I began to understand the hold that space (what Jenna calls the "Big Deep") had upon my sister. I too began to feel this was as near to pure freedom as one would ever attain. No wonder once it gets into your "blood", the grip of interstellar space is impossible to break. Jenna told me that many times, and here I came to understand what she meant. I was

enraptured. I could seldom speak (Mykal was not so inhibited). I was grateful to be permitted to see this, even as my life hung in the balance. Curiously, few ever came to the deck -- I could not see how, but I guess people become jaded, even by infinity.

Private note (for my eyes only!): I believe Mykal truly wanted to get close to me, but I was relieved he didn't make a strong effort. After all, I was supposed to be learning about him! Not that I am totally untouched by him, but if there were ever a time and place to avoid involvement, this was it. Yet my reluctance, in all honesty, may result more from a lack of experience that anything else. I wish I were not so afraid of "it" (and the fact that I use that most impersonal of pronouns must say something about my anxiety).

There is romance to the Black Shield, but it is a romance that speaks to the intellect, not the heart. One's words and abstractions become numb and cannot adhere to it with any degree of meaning. You can say it is like a huge tunnel drilled right through the galactic starfield, but such is only an image. Our minds cling to it, like the drowning dashed against a rock, but

we cannot be saved. Before the Black Shield, silence is preferred.

To anyone but mouthy Mykal, that is! To him, it's just another thing to measure. Good old Mykal: if you can't understand something, at least nail a number to it. He told me that from where we were, the Black Shield is the same apparent size as the Large Magellanic Cloud seen from Earth: that is, about 10 times the apparent diameter of Earth's moon (I've never seen Luna, but Mykal said he had, briefly).

(I must digress, for that bit about the Magellanic Clouds reminds me of something Mykal told me. Did you know that Lord Avon, who prowled the Galaxy for a good four years, actually thought the Magellanic Clouds were in Earth's Solar System? I'm not making this up! Mykal tried to excuse the gaffe by explaining it was not unusual for hacker-types to be so involved in their work as to be oblivious to everything else. Well, really. I grant that is possible, but it is hard to conceive of our Galactic Hero as being at root a computer geek!)

I suppose Mykal can't help being the way he is, but seeing and naming and measuring, crucial as they are for communication, are not always the royal road to knowledge. Here is Mykal's attempt at explanation: the Black Shield is a rotating black hole ("Kerr"-type, named for a 20th century physicist and champion Bridge player Roy Kerr who first discovered the "rotating" solutions, if that is the correct way to put it, to the Einstein Field equations), and a lot more besides. I always assumed if you had seen one black hole you had seen them all, but the Black Shield is different.

It is big. Ten lightyears in diameter stretches anyone's idea of large. And it was built! Don't ask how, but it was. Mykal says the best model for it is what is termed a "Nordley Sphere", an bizarre idea developed by a certain Gerald Nordley, again of the late 20th century (they were a busy lot!)

Back up, Mykal. As everyone knows, nearly all of the technical knowledge of civilization survived Vastator, but most of the historical and large parts of the cultural knowledge vanished. The idea of a Nordley Sphere did survive, but no one ever thought it would be anything other than a mathematical oddity. And odd it is, for a Nordley Sphere is a black hole that

just happens to possess a surface gravity of one standard (Earth) "g". It's not solid all the way through, either, but is a shell, about a quarter of a lightyear thick(!). Such things cannot result from nature.

According to the math, however, the Black Shield is like any other in one respect -- it is escape proof. Once past the boundary (the "event horizon"), a black hole, like death, forbids any traveler to return. So why would anyone build such a thing, let alone live on (in?) it? The consensus is that the Black Shield is a prison, holding some very nasty and extremely

intelligent life. They did something horrendous and were sentenced for all eternity, (Note: their judges don't appear to be around any more), with no chance of parole and no time off for good behavior. But while they cannot escape, they have figured out how to "influence", indeed, attack their surroundings. Mykal says that argues the topology of the Black Shield is not that of an ordinary "3-sphere" at all, but possibly a "horned sphere", whatever that is.

Continuing: despite their most awesome of prisons, they are neither deaf nor blind. They can hear the telepathic crosstalk and they can sense our movements and technology. For example, they have never attacked a vessel powered by anti-matter. They fear the more exotic forms of matter, such as negative or anti-matter (that crucial intelligence is courtesy of the Auron telepathic web).

It appears they are not sane. They are paranoid even of us. Their chosen weapon is a form of biological warfare very similar to the one that destroyed Auron (how they use it we do not know). Yet despite the enormous danger they pose, the may continue to be contained within their prison. Which is good, for once escaped, we could never defeat them.

The anti-matter mines orbiting the black shield are our only defense.

What do they do in this bizarre prison, where the walls were built from the ruins of a hundred galaxies and where no one can ever look and return to tell about it?

I posed this rhetorical question to Mykal. He was not fazed in the slightest. Mykal, as one might have guessed by now, was "bred" for genius (and little else, I might add). My question was all he needed to launch into an explanation of how he did graduate work on gravitation physics (life for Mykal began at the moment of entering graduate school), his thesis being on the Penrose Process (named after the famous mathematician, physicist, and calligrapher). I recalled from a history of science class that the process is a theoretical method of extracting energy from a rotating black hole: think of a bucket dipping into a whirlpool -- the "water" is analogous to the zone of rotational energy, called the "ergosphere", surrounding a black hole. The ergosphere is just outside the "event horizon" (look closely at the Black Shield and you will notice a faint ring of light, called the "Devil's Halo" -- this

light is starlight bent and almost trapped by the object: the ergosphere is just inside the "ring".)

Only to extract energy from this well, you would have to haul the bucket out at nearly the speed of light. Despite that practical shortcoming, the discovery of the Penrose process opened the way to the understanding of black hole physics and a great deal of cosmology besides (there is still plenty of work to be done in the area) and that is how Mykal became attracted to one of his fields.

In other words, he didn't know.

Mykal then told me of his interest in economics and philosophy and, surprisingly, literature, and finally, in a way, got around to responding to my question. He said something I found poetic and very strange: "'What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight?'." I liked that. He said it was from Shakespeare, whose works remain one part of our shredded common culture that survived Vastator. The quote is a marvelously ironic description for such an imposing object -- "the bed at midnight", indeed. One cannot help but wonder what nightmares await us in our sleep by that cosmic bed.

It struck me later that if someone were to seek a metaphor for Avon, and I admit a fairly obvious one it is, it might very well be that of a "black hole": he is singularly secretive; little that is enlightening about his mysterious core is emitted; and the sheer force of his personality crushes anyone who dares come too close. Yet, we continue to be drawn to the "gravity" of this man. These observations occurred to me during one of my

later conversations with Mykal, when he found it easier to talk about his relationship with the First Citizen. Call it comparing notes, or call it therapy, but the mystery of Lord Avon, despite the pain he causes, is irresistible: a man in whom the milk of human kindness soured long ago. Whoever said smile and the galaxy smiles with you, never met Avon. Mykal says when Avon

smiles, seek shelter.

Why does he serve the Federation? He certainly does not appear to be one to yield under any pressure, yet the conclusion is inescapable: Servalan has a hold on him far stronger than the usual Federation methods for forcing obedience.

We would both want to deny that truth, but Mykal's own meeting with her confirms it. (It sounds incredible, but Mykal has indeed met the Supreme Commander! He has written a good account of that meeting, so I won't repeat it, but I will repeat his conclusion: never underestimate her.)

Could it be that Avon has at last met his match? I refuse to accept that! This man is indeed our last hope. I will not condemn him for failing to be invincible. Neither is she. Perhaps he can never be all that we want from him, but could anyone provide that? True, Mykal wishes there were another. He says it is worrisome the degree to which Avon identifies with the

self-destructive. Avon's knowledge of military history is extraordinary, as is his knowledge of so many fields, but he seems to find the strongest bond between himself and the tragically defeated. Could that have been his bond with Blake? A premonition of what he felt was the latter's certain failure? We will probably never know. Blake is a name Avon forbids anyone to mention. Mykal quoted another line, this one from Julius Caesar: "The abuse of greatness is when it rejoins remorse from power." That might indeed apply to the man who killed Blake.

Does Avon fear the future? Mykal doubts it. If Avon can be said to fear anything, it is the past. Whatever happened on Gauda Prime (one look at the man tells you that the "official version" of the story cannot be true) must have been such a trauma, that he will never be a whole person again unless he can confront and overcome the past which so haunts him. In crude

terms, Blake represents what is good in him, she what is evil. Caught between the two in a moment of irreconcilable conflict, he murdered the man who meant the most to him. But that is not an explanation, only a surmise. The truth has been swallowed within him and will probably never escape -- hence the metaphor.

It is something like, and one always risks mixing metaphors with Avon, the legends of Vastator. After the initial surge to the galaxy, the human community was spread across almost as many stars as the Federation, but then suddenly the bonds broke and the fragments of civilization went spinning off like a wheel after the hub and spokes had shattered.

It is the pride of the Auronar that we preserved what remained of our culture and history. We kept the books that survived, restored and eventually reprinted them. We honor the past, something our human brothers do not always do. I do not mean any condemnation; whatever their crimes, their suffering has been that much greater. But the loss to us all was enormous. We became a species adrift and apart (for Aurons were human once), Vastator marking the division between our souls. Our collective pasts were not dead, but so wounded that we can derive little

sustenance from them.

For Avon, though, it is much worse, for he murdered the most crucial element of his past. Is redemption therefore possible? I believe it is, if he can overcome his dread of his conscience. Despite the ferocity of his eyes, there is an undeniable sadness on his face. And it is that aspect of sorrow that enables me to still think of him as our greatest hope. There is an Avon in us all. Let him serve as a warning, but not a source of despair.

Thus, if you were to ask me if I still "believe" in him, then the answer remains yes, despite or because of what I know. For surely it is appropriate that in these most troubled of times, a man equally troubled would deliver us. Whatever the future may bring, he remains that man. Without him, we will fall into the final Vespera and the tragedy of Vastator will be complete.

That was our routine during the weeks that Lord Avon conducted his lengthy tour. It was a pleasant ritual for us. The observation deck was our release and our refuge, a place to put aside, if only briefly, the Federation part of the universe. And while I should have know better, at some point, I don't recall when, we got around to holding hands. But no kissing, please!

So the days go by and we wait. Lord Avon's tour has seemingly gone on without end, but we hear he is scheduled to visit the repair docks next and that should bring the tour to a close; then our fate will be decided.

I recall once, as I looked up at the crystal dome for what would be one of our last visits, having an odd notion. I thought of those quaint and tawdry gifts one can buy in the cheaper stores: gifts that hold a pleasant winter scene sealed in a plastic container. The container is filled with liquid and if

you shake the thing, it looks briefly like snow is falling on the whole of your handheld cosmos . . .

I felt very strange at that moment; as if I were in such a tiny universe, and something remote and inquisitive held me in its hand. As we watched the galaxy turn around the Black Shield, Mykal held me in the pale whirling starlight, and I thought I heard a voice like soft snow falling on a windless night, a voice whispering my name . . .

Riveted to the stars, it was a place of piercing lights, twisting cables, labyrinths of huge machines, titanic structures of relentless purpose, and now they were entering it. Only a few hundred Spacials from the Citadel, these were the graving docks, where the vessels of the three fleets were maintained. Farther away, much farther, were the even vaster loading areas for the anti-matter mines -- but he had already seen them. He had watched the loads being deposited in the huge mine-layers, and then sent down the hundred lightyear haul to the Black Shield. That was raw power; this was a fierce grace.

This observer had insisted on viewing all elements of the Front firsthand, for he knew he saw things very differently from most. His insistence had been obeyed, for he was Lord Avon, Minister of Science and Defense for the Terran Federation.

In one sweeping glance, he went from an enormous silver wedge of a mine-layer, to tugs in a driftdance among the holding pens, and finally settled on the docks amidst all the glare and flash. But he was indifferent to the sensory images; Lord Avon always was more comfortable with abstractions. Consider: here he was judging distance and dimension, and that was rather odd, not only because it had little to do with his mission, but because he

would have been the first to admit that he had never been that good at it. Space is deceptive: dim distance through slow turning stars, astrogate through that? Not if he could help it. In any event, he was not the pilot here.

Which is not to say that he would have been a bad one. But his grasp of spatial-temporal relationships was that of a mathematician, not the intuition of a pilot. He would always distrust the senses in favor of an end run to the mind. Let us be precise on this: for maneuvers in which time was not of critical importance, he could calculate mentally the necessary motions -- an astonishing feat in itself. But it was little more than a sophisticated

computer could have done. As he lacked the ability to intuit those moves, that was all the difference between a competent and great pilot. He had needed such in the past, like Tarrant.

Someone else he had known once had a similar need. There was a certain resonance, shall we say, between him and this other. (For the life of him, Avon could not imagine why he was summoning these things to think about.)

He was standing on the observation deck of a cruiser, the flagship of his host, Fleet Commander Marden. To an observer at this moment Avon would have seemed almost . . . serene, by his standards. Yes, the mask was firmly in place. He looked far down into the stellar acres with the resignation of someone surveying a graveyard. Yet, Lord Avon was dressed the part of a man supremely in charge (forget the face draped in shadows, just fancy that red cape and those twin gold medallions -- how honorable and imperious a front!)

(The endless minutes away they flew, as they are ever prone to do).

Well, it apparently had fooled Marden, who had accompanied him every step of the way through the inspection tour. His host had walked in some time before; Marden was the only one who would have dared. The Fleet Commander, reduced to a tour guide, narrated the sights before them as this tour drew to a close.

If Marden had hopes of an opening into the inner Avon, disappointment was looming like a cliff. The cooled embers of Lord Avon had hardly stirred, though the great man had listened, and noted carefully what was being said. Of that, even Marden in his disappointment had no doubt.

To the business at hand. Marden pointed out a ship, the name

Bellerophon became visible as the cruiser moved slowly through the docks. "That one is a good example," he said.

His listener did not respond; Marden continued. "It will be worked on soon, routine work probably, not having the files with me I can't verify that, but it's indicative of the ever increasing breakdown rate and of our parts problem. We have been backlogged for months."

For weeks Avon had been touring the three BattleStations and their fleets, dragging it out as long as he could. His hope (that word!) was that the report and recorded conversations with Molli would keep the Supreme Commander occupied. It would, of course, only delay the inevitable. (He kept getting terse messages along the lines of: what was going on with Marden and his gang?! Well, that would have been easy enough to answer. The Fleet Commander wanted to talk and wouldn't she love to hear what he had to say. But Avon had not wanted to chat just yet.) He was waiting for luck (again!) to deliver him. But luck, like God, was busy elsewhere -- so he could no longer delay the purpose of his mission. To be blunt, she was getting livid at being put off and was threatening to have the Special Services "assist" him. How he enjoyed being caught in a crossfire.

"I doubt that it is what you want to discuss," he said, and it was that simple.

Marden betrayed concern -- so the game had been that obvious. "It is only my wish to see that you are informed, my Lord."

Avon replied: "In a military operation there are always things to keep concealed. Might there be something of that nature here?"

"Only if the interests of the Supreme Commander and yours are coincident," Marden replied coolly.

"That is usually a safe assumption."

Marden's eyebrows went up ever so lightly. A breach. "Perhaps what I am about to state might be such an exception."

"That is for you and her to judge."

"No, Lord Avon," Marden asserted, "you must judge as well."

"To what conceivable purpose?"

Marden smiled: contrary to reputation, in some respects, Avon was all too predictable. "Perhaps none, for I request you only listen. As I said, I was ordered to make your inspection tour as thorough as possible."

Avon looked at him curiously. This ought to be good. "Then proceed," he said, "you seemed determined to."

Marden gave the inner orders and the rehearsed words were summoned and in formation they marched out: "Tensions have been high between the regular military and the Special Services since the formation of the latter some years ago. We don't like them; they despise us. In deference to that enmity we have kept records of their activities, hoping for the day we could bring them into line, knowing full well that as long as the present administration is in power that chance will not occur.

"At the start of the Black Shield operation, the services worked together as well as could be expected. However, it did not take long for the situation to deteriorate. Their officers, for example, insisted we salute them. When we resisted, fights broke out. Some of our people were attacked by gangs of their thugs. After some deaths, I felt I had to insist upon a strict division between the services, and a reduction to their forces in the Citadel. Those requests were not received well, but eventually were acceded to.

"Shortly after the start of the force reduction, I was visited by their Field Commander. I found his behavior nothing short of extraordinary. Though in the presence of a superior officer, he swaggered as if he were drunk, yet what he had to say was not gibberish. Weaving between his words was a hint of something horrible; something very big, something far more

crucial to his superior than the containment of the Black Shield. I did not report him -- who could I have reported him to? -- but I did have my people do their utmost to confirm his ravings. We are, after all, still permitted our own intelligence and security branches."

Marden paused, trying to see if any of this was registering. The outlines of what he was telling were probably nothing Avon did not already suspect. More than once, Marden had wondered what was the point of making this appeal. But he kept returning to a fact that hung over the lives of everyone in the Federation: though this man might not be trustworthy, he could not be ignored.

"It was not long after that 'meeting' the Sixth fleet, their fleet, was withdrawn. I had been protesting their presence for some time but with no effect. You can imagine my surprise when they simply up and left. One should, I suppose have felt relief. I was informed in no uncertain terms, however, that several hundred of their best troops were to remain within the Citadel, not subject to my orders or control in any way."

Marden looked down at his hands. "I have gathered enough information since then to have an understanding of their intent. Some details may be in error, but I think the overall objectives are clear." He looked unhappy. "The first step will be the placing of all operations at the Front under Special Services command. Some kind of excuse, an 'incident' one assumes, will occur. The operation will be seized, and the Sixth fleet will enforce the result. We outnumber their ships three to one, but the outcome is certain. It would be treason to resist, and my admirals will not commit such, unless," he added cautiously, "under your leadership."

"Is your statement being recorded?" Avon demanded. This was worse than he imagined.

"No," Marden replied. "My ship has been examined repeatedly by experts; men who hate the Special Services as much as myself. This conversation is between us alone. You have my word."

Avon turned away. "You wish me to respond to this nonsense?" You've been wanting me to for weeks.

"That was my hope," Marden straightened, almost as if he were in the presence of a superior officer. "Once all operations are under the control of the Special Services, the second phase will begin." He hesitated: "It calls for the annihilation of our allies, the Auronar."

Shock should have been registered, that would have been proper, but Avon had been aware for many years that something like this might be coming. Of course, the details had been denied him, but in truth, he had invested no mental effort in seeking them out. Should he care? In fact, he did. Whatever had driven her to this, whatever massive weight was dragging her down under the gravity of insanity, she must have known that it would cause the collapse of the whole of the Federation. This was not an

abstraction; they were far too close to the Troubles. Yet she was pushing ahead. Why?

Marden was going into detail on her plans after the destruction of the Auronar. Avon cut him off: "Whatever you are planning, get someone else," he said flatly.

"I respectfully suggest that it is not quite that simple."

"You have mistaken me for that someone else. I don't lead rebellions anymore. You can continue to talk, but I am returning to Earth. She now has what she wanted -- all that is necessary to destroy you."

I will attempt a change of direction, but I will not succeed. I know now why she wants Mykal. The expression is old, but the meaning is clear. He is to be the Judas Goat. That's the step you neglected in the analysis of her plan. She won't be quite as crude as you make out, though the end will be identical.

"Servalan has had that knowledge for some time and done nothing. I am not resigned to my fate."

Then we both are in danger. Your defense will have to be truly inspired.

"You remain the only man who could lead the revolt," Marden said quietly. Both wanted to but neither aloud could deny it.

It is possible she and I are not done with each other. I can imagine circumstances in which there could be a confrontation between us. But that is my business. The man you seek is dead, or have you forgotten I 'killed' him? That was my intent.

Marden saw Avon's silence as a weakening. On rare occasions that was indeed true. Marden played his trump. "I know, as he did, that you alone are capable of leading it." Avon, turned around, shocked. "The situation is different now. You would have fleets behind you; trained officers and men. If Blake and his half dozen almost brought the Federation to its knees, it can

be defeated for it must be defeated."

The letter! Who has read the letter?

It had registered! Marden pressed the attack, daring to step closer. "Who is she?"

Avon's thoughts were drowning, numb in the cold: I do not know -- no one does.

"Where did she come from. Her history is a lie. Her motives lack all reason. What do we know about this creature?"

Virtually nothing. But I do know one thing.

"Servalan boasts she is devoid of any weakness. Is she?"

No, she has one. An astonishing weakness; one so humiliating she can never acknowledge it, not even to herself: she's terrified of being alone.

"Without you, her power is hollow, her grip tenuous. Why do you think she has to have you?"

But she is not easily defeated. Dislodging her would require an effort that could bring the curtain down on humanity. Even Blake was beginning to realize that.

"It has to be you."

You are dead wrong. I am the last man you want leading this.

Avon looked at him sharply, struggling to the surface. The letter! "What do you know that permits you to say such things?"

Marden said simply, feeling almost pity. "Their Commander said the Special Services knew everything about you. They had files that went back years. Every move, every statement; that the surveillance was as complete as any that had ever been made on a Federation citizen. He told me of a letter from Blake to you. He quoted a phrase. Then he laughed and left."

"What was that phrase?"

"'We both know that something is wrong, something is missing. We both know that you alone are capable of finding and correcting it.'"

Avon could have killed at the moment, simply and without rancor, but his expression showed only worry. This was more than an affront, a violation of trust. One had come to expect such things as routine. But for her to risk estranging him to this degree? Had she grown so contemptuous? "I'm a fool," he said. "We both are," but it was not clear to whom the "we" referred.

"They're on to you. You will be used until her plans for the Federation are fulfilled. We're all fools, my Lord."

"Be that as it may," Avon replied stiffly, "There is no point in compounding the stupidity. The matter is closed. Lead the revolt yourself; you have at least as good a chance as I do," he grinned mirthlessly. That is to say: none at all.

Marden shook his head, "I wish to suggest an alternative."

"One that I have already taken."

"That's not correct," Marden insisted. "But I won't tell you unless you are willing to listen."

Avon turned to watch the outside. The 'Station was a distant speck only intermittently visible, easily lost. They were now deep inside the metallic jungle of the docks. Ahead, the Black Shield tore a hole through the galaxy. There was a barrier to freedom if there ever was one. As she must have calculated. She was always so good at mathematics.

Yet so was he. Avon, his intellect more restless than it had been in years, listened as Marden gave the "alternative." At his most desperate, he could be his calmest, and he was calm now. He was indeed beginning to see not only the necessity but also the glimmer of a possibility of escape, should he wish to take it.

It was regrettable, therefore, that the time for planning was to be cut short. Marden's field phone sounded a peculiar pitch, like some metallic bird being strangled. For no reason that could be named, it bothered them both. The Fleet Commander abruptly left the room.

When he returned, Marden looked stunned. He had know the risks, been aware of the possibility, but the timing was extraordinary. The audacity of it! Not just the ruthlessness of someone willing to risk war, but the thrust of someone eager to achieve it. There was no moisture in his mouth. No breath would come. Whatever fury had disturbed her, there would be no

containing it now.

He looked at Avon, who had heard none of what he had been informed, but had made the logical guess, and Avon was therefore as close as he could come to sympathy. Avon said: "I fear your purpose is discovered."

Marden replied, his composure restoring. He spoke, almost jovial: "Well, to victory then. What are your orders, my Lord?"

"Just one for now," Avon said, "Leave me. I will summon you when ready." And Avon starred out into the gathering chaos on one side of the ship and to the Black Shield on the other.

Science is unnecessary where terror is sufficient. It was that realization which permitted Jenna to acknowledge the technique of her captors as both simple and effective: leave the prisoner to wonder just what was going to be done, long before actually doing it. She would be conditioned that way: having primed herself with imaginings certain to be worse, or at least as bad as the actuality, quick work would result. The procedure was based on a chilling certainty of human psychology: few enemies we encounter undermine us with such virulence as ourselves. She had wondered over the years if something similar had happened to Avon.

Yet, the fact that the Special Services were in no hurry to finish with her was puzzling. Were they so confident, or so unsure, with the elusive Jenna Stannis? Both seemed possible; neither seemed likely. It was not like the Federation, and certainly not its ruler, to delay.

Once Jenna had accepted a fight, she would not abandon it. That is why she was here; at least it seemed as good an explanation as any. She would never accommodate herself to their reality; she would not surrender to their pretensions. And so the logic of rebellion had brought her to this state: on a cold slab of a bed, waiting for the door to open and then be drained of all information, and body and mind pitched away. No use comparable to Avon's would be found for her.

Each day the waiting had been the same, as had her dull deliberate review of the descent of her life. The quest for revenge, meaningless now; the prospect of victory, laughable. Tasteless food at infrequent intervals, piercing lights, no mirrors (they would be brought later), air so stale you felt you were suffocating, these were all that was left of the struggle. The blind star running was over.

Avon intruded into every minute. He had desecrated her life,

tortured her hours, but the hate for the man was becoming almost a thing apart from her, like contemplating an abstract painting. How ironic that she saw him now as a key to her life, a missing element that once fitted would permit her to be whole, to a degree that her life with Blake had never achieved. If she would ever again see a burst of light from an alien sunrise, it would be Avon who would provide it. So she would not succumb to

bitterness. Anyone whose life was at the mercy of Avon probably deserved it. Does that, in some fashion, please you, My Lord?

Would she be brought before Servalan? She could see her now. One could never ignore that white heat face; eyes like black lightening that struck at only one thing within you: weakness. The key to power was to know the weakness of others. Servalan had found it not just in Avon, but in the whole of humanity. Jenna knew what her own weakness was. Avon had helped her find it.

She had thought often enough about the Supreme Commander over the years. How did that creature win and what would be the ultimate poisoned fruit of that victory? It seemed the closer they had come to defeating her, the more certain was her victory. It was shocking, but Jenna again was close to admitting that Avon was right: they had indeed underestimated her. Blake had come close to victory, but something had terrified him; he had fled, Jenna with him. What had gone wrong that had made cowards of them, of all people, when triumph beckoned?

Whatever it was, Avon, unlike Blake, had not drawn back in time. Too close and the fatal weakness was perceived and the trap sealed. In a moment Servalan and the Federation had won. Now I hold my breath and wait for door to be kicked open. I wonder who will come through. Will it be you, Avon?

She thought of Molli. Dear Molli was never long from her thoughts, for Jenna could not deny the betrayal. She had more than failed her friend. It was a crime, one that might be forgiven, but Jenna would never ask or accept such. The consequences would have to be faced.

I am sorry, Molli, but whatever my failings, I maintain that they were inconsequential compared to what I fought. Someday you may understand. I accept this as punishment, and for that I am almost grateful. Let punishment fall on innocent and guilty alike. I ask only that we never be brought together again, for it will take all my courage to face you, and I need my courage for other things now.

The horror of any human condition is not that one gets used to it, but that one fails to see alternatives. So said the great Edward the Good from centuries before. People frequently base their hopes on fancy, he said; sometimes it happens that reality is more generous. There is no need to appeal to cosmic purpose or divine intervention (though no need to reject them either). Accidents and circumstances beyond ones control can do the job nicely, provided fate supplies a measure of luck. Never count on fate, but such does happen. And so during the weeks she languished in the cell, the tensions generated by years of conflict she had been such a noble part of, were rising to a climax. Resolution, as one might suspect, would be violent. It is always open to objection, of course, that violence will not solve the problems, but is not the point. The point of life is progress and progress means finding exciting new problems, laughed old Edward, who respected humor above all other mental processes. And new and exciting problems were about to occur to one Jenna Stannis.

At first, it was only noise in the distance. Sounds here were rare and welcome. She was alert to any diversion. Except for the regimented footsteps of the guards, things were much too quiet. Then there was silence, as if the sound had been thrust into a vacuum. She put it aside.

She heard it again, and this time her pulse raced . . . it couldn't be . . . a shot! Then more! The sound of running, very close, and then someone crashed against the wall outside. Alarmed, she leapt to the side of the cell, her ear pressed tight against the wall. Slowly she crouched, trying to hear better. Many (who?) were coming; swift boots on metal clacking . . .

She was now on automatic. She could get one, hold a hostage, take the others prisoner! Between breaths, bold thoughts tore through her mind. She waited; some sounds faded, others raced ahead. Suddenly, frantic fingers by the door were punching in the access code. The code registered, the door parted with a jolt and she lurched up to attack, but everything went red

sparks. A hand grabbed her shoulder, spun her forward and a fist slammed into her stomach. The bastards were ready! The wind rushed out of her as she was dragged into the corridor. The lights were flickering ominously and there was a wail that twisted and bore into her. Yet despite everything, she was pleased.

There were maybe a couple of dozen Special Services types and they were half carrying her, half pushing her. Gasping, she could not resist. The sounds of red-hot beams broiling the air were sometimes closer, sometimes far way. She needed to think. There were too many. She would have to be very quick when the opportunity came. But it would come! It had too. The implications were stunning. There was fighting; inside the Citadel! The war against Servalan, against all she stood for, was not yet over! Do you hear me, Avon?

For weeks Servalan had seldom left this room and that was more than unusual. It was unprecedented. It was not difficult, of course, to direct the Federation from here. Indeed, she could plug into the network from almost anywhere. But this room had been a refuge from her responsibilities, a shrine to her triumph. Duty and work intruded, to be sure, but they were never welcome in this one sacred room. Now, it was as if she were a prisoner. Yet nothing had changed over the months since Avon's departure, had it? The overwhelming feeling, the surge of power that was given her every time she stepped into the room of Central Control could be regained in an instant, by a simple act of will . . . couldn't it? All she had to do was get up from this bed and walk the distance. But as each day passed, she found it more difficult to do so. She felt like she was encased in a block of ice, as helpless as she was desperate, clinging to the bed in the room. Their room and the bed that was empty without Avon.

The bed was the most painful reminder. Avon had been gone from it much longer than intended. She should order him to return at once, yet she could not quite bring herself to do so. Each day he was gone was rejection; love shredded and burnt to ashes. He must know the pain he was inflicting! But there was nothing obvious she could point to. The transcripts of his

interrogation of Molli were as complete as she could have desired. Infuriated at first when he had abrogated that task to himself, she now admitted he had done as professional and thorough a job as she could have demanded. She should have been pleased.

But he was dragging it out. Every aspect of the inspection tour was taking far longer than necessary. Why? In truth, she was angrier with herself than with him. She had grown complacent; that was obvious. There could be no other explanation. She had permitted Avon to become a comfortable fixture in her universe. She had begun to rely on him too much

and, to her horror, trust him. Perhaps it was understandable. He had performed so well the last few months. First with the killing of Geir, unknowingly to be sure, and then with the capture of Molli, directing the entire operation in fact. He could not be ignorant of the implications of her trust.

In an instant, she could have ordered his head brought before her, and across 10,000 lightyears it would have been done without hesitation. Yet he acted with the supreme arrogance that the order would not be given. He ignored her and traveled about Navy Group Omega without so much as sending her an electronic postcard.

How he would suffer when he returned! She might imprison him for a time. A very potent reminder of just where his place was. There were other things, most degrading, most unpleasant. His role in her life would be reduced to nothing, for a while. So why did she stay in the room with their bed? The bed and the room and her memories of him.

She had long vowed that if anything ever happened to Avon, no man again would share her bed. She would survive in dreary celibacy, feeding on the pain of memories frozen. The bed and the midnight agonies that took place there were hers alone. It was consolation that no one else would ever know of them.

There was Avon the man and Avon the problem. The two could be separated. Not easily, but it had to be done.

Avon the problem, ever infuriating in his smug indifference, could be brushed aside easily. He was a man under her power and in that respect no different from any other. Let him experience that power again. Let him eat his words: frustrating, mendacious words in impersonal reports which she glanced at and then fed to ORAC with disgust. She would not be fooled or cowed by his impertinence. He was playing a game, but he was not so very good at it.

Yet, even for him to attempt such a thing was astonishing. He knew that the last individual in the galaxy one played games with was the her. Fortunately for him, she was as intrigued as she was incensed. Why would he take such a risk? Had he become so confident that he was indispensable? What could he be doing out of her bed? He knew how much she needed him, here, now! more desperately than ever. Could he be relying on her desire

for him to save him?

She still needed Avon the man. He was testing her! What else could it be? Waiting for her to act. Of course. Think: and that meant there must be something about her that eluded him! That was reassuring. To be so transparent to a man, even Avon, would have been utterly humiliating.

Yes, there was much about her that was secret, including one very special thing that no one must ever know, but that could not be the source of his behavior. Could he have guessed her plans? No, that was paranoia. Even she recognized that. She had no reason to fear him having such knowledge. He had continually and wisely deferred to her on these matters, whatever his misgivings.

He had to be probing for something else. And that could only be a weakness. The thought chilled her. Forget for the moment what weakness he could find (and surely, not even he could find it) the mere act of his testing, his probing, was insulting. It seared into her. It was an act intolerable and it must be stopped. She had attempted to distance herself for weeks from her growing terror of what he was doing, even as part of her

planned the only solution that made sense. But there was no denying what she must do. Like an infuriating prophet, the solution kept returning to her city, warning her of her failings, frightening her with words of doom. She must act!

She had never felt more miserable. Kerr, she had to accept it after all these years, would never be fully hers. What had happened at Gauda Prime had shattered him. She was not so arrogant as to believe the pieces were hers to reassemble. She had made a great effort, but a proper job would have required his soul (she struggled with the word, feeling nauseous) be "restructured". Mind machines existed to do just that, but the romantic in her, worshiping the rebel who had defied her, forbade that final step. She had sometimes thought of him as a god and blasphemy was not in her nature.

How she had been warned! Confident as she was that when this day was over, she would triumph -- this act, the first of her plans, wrenched her stomach. She was terrified of the thought of risking him again. Victory without Avon would be little consolation. But she knew he would survive.

All because of Blake! Without that pathetic creature, that toad she had incinerated, she and Avon would have found each other. The Troubles that divided them would never have occurred. An Avon whole and devoted would have been hers for life.

Enough! It was time! To strike, cruel and horrific (to such a degree that even she wondered at times what drove her). Not even Avon would be permitted to stop her. To victory!

Precautions and preparations had been in place from the beginning of his tour at the Front. She knew exactly where he was, who he was with, what he was doing -- at every moment. Her contacts with the Special Services contingent inside the Citadel were unimpaired. The Sixth fleet, hovering a few lightyears away from the Citadel, awaited her command. She need only give the word and the insubstantial, the unworthy, would fall again before

her.

Furious, exalting, energy surging, she stabbed the button on the communicator, the sole link to the universe outside her bedroom. She entered the code and was inside the Citadel. She at once had the attention of a Special Services operative (lucky for them!). He looked as puzzled as he was terrified, but he answered her questions swiftly, until the relentless pressure for details, grew to be too much. Do I have to do everything myself!

He requested help from a senior officer. Exasperated, she demanded the Field Commander who was promptly summoned. That was better. She almost liked the man. His expression never varied and it was never a happy one.

"Field Commander," she said crisply, "The operation is to take place within the hour." She added quickly: "Certain individuals, however, remain under my absolute protection. I presume you understand that fully."

That startled him. He had been expecting the operation, the coordinated space and internal assault against the Citadel, but he had assumed when the order came there would be no pretense at fastidiousness. The prisoner, the two Aurons, and Lord Avon -- why was the Supreme Commander always so concerned about their survival? But it was not his place to argue. "Understood, Supreme Commander."

She paused. "And Marden. He is mine. I want him in one piece, psychologically as well as physically."

"It will be done." Mine not to reason why, the man silently lamented.

But his displeasure, despite his efforts to hide it, was manifest. It was not his fear of failing her -- in the end, one always failed the Supreme Commander. It was not his looking forward to dispatching the traitors, though he hated them (especially Marden and the prisoner, another throwback to Blake's rebellion . . . What was her name? Stannis? . . . and those two Aurons. Incredible! At least there was one stroke of luck: the

"Lord Protector" and Marden were conveniently out inspecting the graving docks: they would be well out of the action.) No, what was unsettling was the rational for this operation. Speculation and rumors had swept the Special Services for months regarding it. Nothing added up.

It was not just the prisoner and the Auree scum; not just that he doubted the wisdom and necessity of the action, but something about this plan appeared too rushed; requiring too many things to go right for her objectives to be achieved. He had to probe further. He doubted he would have the chance again. "Coordination with the Sixth Fleet will be difficult -- until we seize the Comm Center," he remarked quite innocuously. "Are we

permitted to act independently until that point?"

She was visibly upset. He waited. "Your orders are clear! Do what is necessary to carry them out, but do not allow the link to me be broken under any circumstances."

"Never, Supreme Commander. We are one in our desire to see the operation completed as swiftly as possible." How true.

"Naturally," she replied, calming somewhat, "and so it shall always be: in victory," she paused again, ominously, "if there are no doubts in my people."

No doubts.

He never thought of her as being quite human. She had eyes that could tear into your soul, ransacking your being for weakness. At first, he had assumed she was only involved in a continual purge of the ranks. True enough, but that could not be the whole of it. On the contrary, it seemed to him that she found certain weaknesses pleasing, and drew those that possessed them ever closer to her. That was a startling discovery. One he

could not help but admire.

He gave a rigid salute as her face disappeared from the monitor. Doubts? Never. Despite all the risks and preparation, this operation was only a test to see if her people were ready for bigger things, plans long rumored. To see if they had the nerve to carry them out with brutal swiftness. He almost shuddered. An attack on the Citadel was terrifying, but it was a military mission with a fixed objective. These other things, these hidden things, were crimes wrapped in shadows. Only the Supreme Commander herself would dare to bring them to the light of day.

Promising, that was the word. The Field Commander was dull, but promising in his own limited way. Soon enough, he and others would be given the opportunity to fulfill that promise. She would more than make up for their lack of imagination and daring.

Her mind was orderly; calm. The future was spread before her, like food on a banquet table. She knew all that she ever needed to know. After the Citadel fell, Avon and the others would be returned to Earth. That much was certain. He would be relieved of all duties and confined, but in the end she would forgive him and he would be at her side once more. However, inevitable his death, it would not be now.

The others? Jenna would be drained of knowledge and discarded. Mykal would be put to work. And Molli? Molli was different. She hated Molli and the hatred was growing. She did not yet know what to do with Molli.

Men differ in their victories, but they are all alike in their defeats, or so it had long seemed to Avon. From this distance, the 'Station was but a glittering speck. From here the battle consisted of only occasional flashes in the night, like sparks off hard flint. The conflagration was not yet upon them, but it was close. The energy beams were invisible, but an eye trained by indelible experience could grasp the essentials of what was occurring. Only he did not want, had never wanted, to look that closely.

The battle was being fought by systems whose speed and accuracy no human could match, but whatever war had become, it was not a game and he could not play the spectator much longer.

Some of his misgivings had a distinctly emotional base: an odd word to be used on this man, though a certain long dead rebel leader might have agreed with it. It was an emotion engendered not by his distance from the battle, but from his distance from himself. Blake had always thought the most interesting aspect of the rebellion was that he was involved in it. Now, at the urging of history, Avon had come to a similar conclusion regarding his

role. Yet another triumph for Blake.

It had been his hope that something would occur: some crisis giving him an opening to escape (to where?). He had even made a plan -- if one were generous enough to label a list of options and requirements a "plan". Well, it would have to do. It offered hope (for what?). He needed hope. Hope had been the guiltiest of his secrets, to be hidden away from probing eyes, but it kept coming back, loud and garish, when he least expected it. It mocked him. Few things in his life were more terrifying than hope.

Marden's original "proposal" was ludicrous, even conceding the inevitability of war. Avon had been a part of Blake's Rebellion only by chance. He had intended to hitch a ride until escape became available, nothing more. But history, his cruel god, had not been so lenient and for reasons that never ceased to amaze him, had held him (for four years!) until the very end of the struggle and left him the second most well-known figure of the Troubles. He had made huge mistakes in his life, and he was loath to repeat that one.

It was not loyalty to her. To her, he owed his life, but the same could be said for Blake -- not an encouraging comparison. He hated what she had done to him, yet he acknowledged that in her own twisted way there was indeed a kind of a love for the man who had fought her so determinedly. He certainly had no desire to fight her any more. It was just that there was something he had to know.

The letter had said that only Avon could find it. It seemed preposterous that Blake in this instance might be right, but Avon was prepared to take the chance. There was only one slight problem and he had struggled with it for months: even in the Galaxy of 400 billion stars, there was no place to hide from her.

For a moment a flicker of the old contempt he had for them both flared within him. For a moment he hated with startling intensity, then stepped back. Emotions are treacherous; not to be indulged. Only curiosity would be permitted to survive; so he decreed. He had to know. There was nothing else to say. He would discover what it was in that man that had driven him and continued to drive him without letup. What had caused him in a moment of fury, frustration and fear, to . . .

If he failed he would die, but death, the unknown that so baffled Geir, mattered only in relation to life. For a life without meaning, what was death? Its inevitability served neither as an explanation nor a threat. Death was a black hole in the fabric of existence, but he would rather fall into one than continue like this. In any event, in a final showdown with her, should it come to that, it was doubtful either would survive. And he smiled at that prospect.

So what to do? Jenna he would need, if only briefly. A first rate pilot was crucial and she would fit the bill nicely. Despite, or because of her determination to kill him, he trusted her more than anyone he had ever known. Mutual self-interest demanded it. But the Aurons? He was certain Molli had told him everything she knew regarding the messages. Her usefulness had ended. But Mykal did have a superb grasp of gravitational

physics and that might come in handy, though up to now he had managed to surpass even Vila in ineptitude. It was also clear that both were still wanted by Servalan. Shielding his escape required they be with him. So "hostages" they would be.

He would delay no longer. He reached into his breast pocket, withdrew the letter, began to read it, then stopped. He removed his medals, took off his cape, wrapped them in it, then stopped. The letter. It was no longer needed. He placed it with the bundle and pitched the lot.

He summoned the Fleet Commander. The orders were ready; how natural it was to give them! How in control he felt at this moment! Despite the risk of the plan -- unavoidable -- nothing else seemed remotely right. The orders would be given. Marden would take them without hesitation. It went without saying.

"I'll need Jenna."

You wouldn't mind telling me how I am to get her out?

"And the Aurons." He almost sighed.

Another miracle, coming up.

"I don't care how its done."

I do. These are my people you are ordering to their deaths.

"Methods I leave to you."

I appreciate that.

"I'll need a ship. I'll take anything as long as it has Twistor drive. I'll need time to clear the area. A couple of hours should do it."

Got it -- everything except time, that is. Time has suddenly become a very expensive commodity. The price is lives.

So those were the orders. Marden took it all in without flinching. Appalling, the things that were being asked and what a time to ask them! The reports from the Citadel continued to be bad. Fighting was fierce; the enemy excellently positioned and advancing. The Sixth Fleet was hammering away at the parameter defenses; no aid from any of the other fleets was being offered. Defeat was certain. Despite his precautions, his people had been surprised. He would not forgive himself for that, but neither would he dwell on it. The rule book said never to feed failure, but perhaps, given the hopelessness of the situation, the Special Services might not expect a counter-attack. And among his people, he had just the man to carry one out.

Avon did not notice when Marden left. He had turned away, his mind now far distant from the battle. To the average Federation citizen, without his red cape, his trinkets of power, Avon would have appeared almost naked. The thought occurred to him as well, for he was thinking of her. She would turn the Galaxy inside out looking for him. She could never take a joke.

Neither could Jenna. But neither would be permitted to stand in his way. This was his fight, his quest. Alone.

There is an exhilaration to combat that is as difficult as it is embarrassing to define. I suspect there are many factors, but the one of interest to me is what I call the release of impure action: the violent end to tension. For surely one of the worst aspects of any unpleasantness is the waiting. Perhaps that is why so many look back on the Troubles with more fondness than is appropriate. To act, pointless, destructive, or worse it may be, is nevertheless an end to boredom. The need to strike back eventually overwhelms. Boredom is thus an excellent motivator for drastic change. That is part of the human condition and I, Mykal Hodos, am partly human.

Shortly after midnight, the Special Services attack against the Citadel began. My part was not inspiring, but I feel an obligation to record as best I can what I experienced in the manner I experienced it. I recall being shaken out of bed to glaring lights and blaring sirens and informed by a much too-loud voice that it was time to get the hell out of there, or words to that effect. For a wrenching second, I thought they were Special Services troops, but since you are reading this you know they were regular military, marines to be precise. Quickly, I grabbed a few possessions including my recorder. Everything else, especially what had been given me by the Federation, I left behind.

This is not how I like to get up. Earlier that evening, I had escorted Molli to her room, went to my own, wrote a few lines and slept for what seemed like all of thirty seconds. Now I was surrounded by three dozen marines, about a third with jet packs and a few lugging some machine with a nozzle that looked deadly in a way I didn't want to think about. They also had Molli. She was being supported by one of them and looked even worse than I suspect I did. She did manage a weak smile, however, so I presumed (hoped) she was all right. Understand that for several minutes I was too numb, too shocked to take much in. Everybody seemed to be yelling at everybody else and moving way too fast. Maybe "stupid" is a better word that "numb", but I don't feel like apologizing. Unless you've been in one, you have no idea how chaotic an evacuation in a combat "situation" can be. It is a full-time job just trying to figure out what is happening. Finally, some orders were given and we began moving down the floors to the outer hull.

Urgency was being impressed upon me. We had just descended to the floor below my room when there was a blast that sounded much too close (as if I wasn't scared enough!). The lights flickered and then came back on but dimmer. My thoughts at that moment were profound: Mykal, old boy, this is not good. I dropped back to retrieve Molli (Excuse me, sir, that is my job!) from the soldier. If we were going to go, it was going to be together!

Though I knew the 'Station fairly well by then -- she and I had explored it thoroughly -- nothing connected as to where we were going, but people kept urging me to go faster anyway. I tried my best, struggling up one flight of stairs to another, feeling the gravity getting ever stronger. But what was the plan? My interest was a lot more than academic.

At least I was close enough to hear (even carrying Molli, I was finally managing, more or less, to keep up) and soon enough I found out. The explosion had been big and deliberate: the central power to the 'Station had been cut, and that was not to be shrugged off. The station modules could function on battery and backup power but not for long.

But the lifts still functioned: of that the officer in charge, a Major named O'Kir, was confident. Using the lifts was a strong temptation though a dangerous one. Nobody wants to be trapped in a lift, not with the air blowers weakening, which they were. In a confined environment. dying ventilation is the last sound you want to hear. We needed speed. Going down single file with all this gear was slowing us bad. Worse, the enemy was way ahead of us: there had been an earlier attack (by our side!) and though it had clearly taken them by surprise (is that me talking?), they had escaped -- with a prisoner we wanted very badly. Suddenly, for the first time, I was fully awake. Jenna!

The group with Jenna had been cutoff from their main forces, which sounded promising, but in a structure as complex as a 'Station, how were we going to intercept them when we had only a foggy idea were they were going?

I saw us wandering around lost, suffocating, while the lights grew dimmer . . . Space is a dreadful place for panic. But there was Molli to steady me. I had a strange feeling that she was slipping away. I was very concerned. Molli looked a lot worse than someone who hadn't gotten enough sleep. She needed help. At least it helped me to stop pitying myself.

As if I didn't have enough worries, I was also feeling awful -- in the physical sense. No breakfast and not nearly enough beauty rest is bad news for me. I was hungry and my head felt like someone had been squeezing it in a vise. Be assured that terror and the thought of imminent death is a great way to control ones appetite, but there are limits.

We halted by an elevator shaft, and O'Kir ordered a third of his men away. As they ran off, (I didn't know where or why), I decided we had to talk.

That was not easy. O'Kir was small but he was a tough, no-nonsense sort who looked like he ate civilians. He had a wiry build, a head bald as an egg, and a mouth straight as a razor cut. Overall he looked both fearless and mean -- he had less armor than his men, seeming to prefer the ease of movement to lack of protection. Yet his eyes with their bowed eyebrows and his mustache that looked like a "{" turned lengthwise, gave him a slightly ridiculous aspect. I decided I could and would approach him. I tapped him on the shoulder and said: "Excuse me, Sir." I remembered.

"Yes!" he snapped, looking at me like I was a particularly slovenly private. "No time to chat, Mr. Hodos."

He knew my name! I was thrilled, for no reason that made sense. I spoke quickly. "My friend is ill. She needs a doctor. Can one be found? And could you please tell me what the plans are for us. It does seem rather confused. Sir."

He seemed to look right through me and I think he wanted to bawl me out, but his answer was surprisingly civil. "Mr. Hodos, war is chaos with destructive intent. That's the textbook definition," then he grinned, "how do you like our classroom?"

Not much, but I said nothing as he continued. "In answer to your first question, I'm sorry about your friend," he glanced at Molli. "There may be someone here with a medical background -- I'll check, but we were thrown together rather quickly. In answer to your second, we have our orders", he said the word with disgust as if he didn't like the source of them, "and they are to get you two out of here. Along with someone else."

Jenna! "I understand the difficulty," I assured him. I was right on top of it.

"And there is another problem," he said, as the elevator door finally opened and we poured inside. "The Sixth Fleet, one of their fleets, has us surrounded. It won't be long," he gestured to the lights as the door shut, "before the power is drained and our defenses can no longer keep them out of teleport range."

The elevator groaned terribly as we moved. At each floor it gave a shudder like a giant was kicking it, and I began to wish for something to pray to. O'Kir seemed oblivious. We watched the floor numbers change. The numerals advanced like the liquid crystal had been mixed with molasses. The gravity got stronger.

I was right by O'Kir when a call came through, and it didn't sound good. The Special Services group, or it least it was believed to be them, had been sighted, but they were almost at the outer hull. O'Kir acknowledged and signed off. The elevator stopped with a thud; the doors opened and we got out fast. I said lamely, "I won't get in the way."

He looked at me. "You already are. Just don't get in front."

My feelings of helplessness and uselessness were almost worse than the terror. Even a couple of the troopers had managed to make a stretcher of sorts to carry Molli, which is more than I could have done. They were probably being as gentle as they could with full load of gear, and with guns drawn, but it didn't make me feel any happier.

Another report came in that the Special Services contingent had lost us again. O'Kir didn't seem concerned. He said there were only a couple of places they could go to reach an escape module. He still seemed confident he would find them before it was too late. We were now, thanks to the elevator, not too distant from the outer hull so we had a chance. There was only one more level separating us from the enemy.

I was almost starting to feel that maybe this wouldn't be so difficult, when incredibly, O'Kir split his force again. All of a sudden my security vanished. Forty Commandos was one thing. Now we were down to a force a third that. Against a probable force twice as large. Some of his remaining men began assembling that weapon, it looked like some kind of beam generator, maybe a neutron blaster, who knows, and the rest were powering up their jet packs. I couldn't hear anything anymore.

Then we were moving again, even faster. I stayed with Molli. She seemed asleep, almost peaceful in a way. I wanted to check her pulse, for her breathing seemed erratic, but what good would it do now? She had a helpless, innocent, look about her that made me want to cry. Neither of us belonged here.

Suddenly, we heard gunfire. My breathing stopped, I felt numb and rubber-kneed but, though it sounds crazy, I also felt better. One way or another, this part of history was going to get resolved.

Everyone hit the floor and for a moment it was very quiet. (I must have been slow because someone pushed me down.) Molli was placed beside me. They began positioning the weapon over a stairwell. The firing became sporadic and I heard a "whoomph" sound, like the closing of huge doors. We must have been right over the airlocks; beyond them was the escape module -- and Jenna. Half the troopers then began running down the stairwell; I assumed out of range of the blaster, however. The rest turned up the power on their jet packs. All arms were at ready.

O'Kir was shouting and trying to make contact with the two groups that had split off. But he couldn't reach one and the other was too far away to get here in time. He couldn't wait. I saw two men aim the weapon down the stairwell and set some kind of switch and get off fast. I had my doubts. If there were an airlock to an escape bay down there, it had to be plenty solid. Not O'Kir; he didn't look worried at all, but then he's paid not to. He checked the positions of his men. When he was satisfied, he set the timer and ran back to where Molli and I were.

He stooped down beside me and grinned. "Mr. Hodos, observe. This is an attack. We're going to blast through the inner hull, vaporize it actually. With luck -- you believe in that, don't you? -- nothing too close to the wall will be harmed. Now please stay put; we'll be back shortly. In the meantime, when the blaster's programming is complete," he pointed to the thing, "feel free to use it should anyone annoy you. You don't have to aim very well, but keep the power level down." Then he added with thumbs up: "Death or glory."

I gulped and nodded. He slapped down his face mask and gave me some respirators. I managed to get mine on, then carefully put one on Molli. O'Kir rose to his feet, barked a command, and the jets packs screamed in unison. There was the sound of a thousand fingernails scraped across a blackboard with a hundred clanging sabers accompanying. The beam ignited and something began boiling up the stairwell. He waited a few seconds, the

beam cut, his arm shot up and he and his men, above and below, jumped into the roiling metal steam. The attack had begun.

I would not think about that. I had to get to the weapon. I began crawling to the stairwell, holding on to Molli. The weapon became the destination of my life, what thirty years had led me to. Shaking, I place Molli beside me and I reached up and swung the thing around. I looked down. The beam had hit the wall like a torch to tissue paper. What kind of person would unleash that thing inside a 'Station!? All I could see was this cloud of turbulent gray steam where impenetrable metal had been. But I could hear. There was a frenzy of metallic screaming and it was ripping me to pieces.

I grabbed Molli's wrist. Her pulse was steady but weak. Mine was going like crazy. I died in each frantic second. "Jenna" was a name racing through my mind and disappearing down the stairwell. Terror surged within me, so much so I even wished Avon were here, for I heard running down the corridors, coming angrily in my direction. I pivoted the thing, pointing it at

whoever, and I was spraying sweat for I was ready, yes!, they were going to pay -- For Dr. Geir! for Auron! For Cally! For Jenna! For anyone I had ever loved, or would love, and Molli most of all! For . . . "Mr. Hodos!" I think I heard something as I found the trigger and my eyes closed for they were just

coming around the corner as I began slowly pressing, as I heard the scream of a jet pack and someone landed solidly behind me with an awful roar.

"Mr. Hodos!" came the shout, "Please don't blast those fine gentlemen. They are your allies."

Oh. I fainted.

It would be a while before I was clear on what had happened, but here roughly is the story. It had been close. Indeed, O'Kir's attack would have been a disaster, if a miracle hadn't happened. We (forgive me!) got help from the inside. Startled by the attack, the Special Services became careless. Their prisoner grabbed a gun, maybe two -- Jenna had two when I first saw her -- and before anyone realized it, they had a tiger in their midst. She made the victory, but it was costly. O'Kir lost half his men. No, I don't know if he had been counting on her help.

Some troopers carried Molli and myself down what remained of the stairwell and placed us in the escape module. The escape module, by the way, is a blunt silver cone about six meters high and can hold about two dozen people. My first view when I regained consciousness, of course, was from inside, but I knew what they looked like. I took off the respirator briefly and was hit by a smell like ammonia mixed with burnt hair. I was gagging something fierce.

O'Kir was talking with someone. I got up, straining for a closer look . . . it was Jenna! She was apparently unharmed, but looking worn since I last saw her. Her hair was longer, mussed, her face tired, thinner. She was wearing some awful brown-stripped prison outfit that looked like cheap pajamas, and

had two shoulder holsters (evidently acquired from people who no longer had need of them) hung in an "X" across her chest. She looked like she had just hauled in from a particularly violent slumber party.

Yet she still had the same look as a picture I had hung on my wall when I was in college. A kind of cynical defiance, yet a face that had known serenity once. (When I was in college, I had put the picture right by Cally's -- until the Dean and my parents threw a fit, and I had to take the pictures down.)

My memory at this point gets fuzzy. The mind is funny that way, how it can shield us from reality. I recall that Jenna and O'Kir were involved in some very intense discussion. There was talk about rendezvous and coordinates and what sounded like the name "Avon". The gist of it was that we were to get out of there quick, but no one was clear as to what was planned next.

As I say, I remember I was standing, kind of wobbly, supporting myself against the hatch. I could see that O'Kir's people were getting out, taking their prisoners with them. Everything was blurry, like when you're underwater.

I was looking around, trying to take it all in, when I saw something red ugly, something that looked like a leg blown off. I don't know if it was and I didn't want to check. I nearly got sick. I staggered back to the acceleration couch.

People had died for us. I couldn't get over that. Jenna looked remote from it all, but I don't think I could ever match whatever it was that kept her composure. I sat down and looked at Molli. I tried to make her more comfortable, even though it looked like she was completely out at that point. Her breathing was barely perceptible, but for the first time, I envied her. Inside the escape module, it was quiet and dark and that enabled me to steady myself. The ventilation was going and the air was becoming breathable. There was nothing I could do except strap down. Chaos with destructive intent, indeed. But I didn't feel above it. In fact, I felt lower. I didn't want to leave the module. I never wanted to step outside again.

Jenna dashed through the hatch as it began closing behind her. I looked back before it shut. I thought I saw O'Kir, true to form, the last to leave. I wanted to wave, but his jet pack ignited and he was up and gone as the hatch shut. I was feeling very alone.

Jenna hardly noticed me. She was furiously programming the control panel, entering some commands verbally, some manually. She ordered me get ready. I was, I think. I wondered where we could possibly be going and what then.

I looked over to where Molli was, and thought of patting her hand. In fact I was about to do just that, when Jenna shouted "Hang on!", the boosters thundered, and I paid for my indiscretion. I was thrown on the acceleration couch, nearly wrenching my neck; my back felt like I had been whacked by a

shovel. The 'Station thrust back with the roar of a tortured beast, the main rockets cut in and we were off!

I mean off! I was being pushed further back into the couch; barely able to move. At least the sound began to die, almost at once in fact. I could see exhaust gases shoot pass the windows [Editor's note: the module in the first stage of escape mode is flying "backwards" -- V.R.]; then several seconds later, we were in the tar pit black of space.

We rolled and the 'Station was nowhere to be seen. Just as well, because my vision was starting to get blurry again. My breathing became even more labored. I was not used to this. There are physical limits, I tried to say -- aloud, which was foolish because I just lost more air. There was another kick and I just about wet my drawers. I swore we hit fifteen gees. I gave out a yell, felt the wind sail out of me, and I blanked.

I couldn't have been out long, probably only a couple of minutes, but it seemed longer. Molli was still out. The acceleration was lessening, but not enough if you asked me. We were now facing forward and as a consequence of Jenna's programming, the escape module was in some roller coaster

maneuver. Hell for anyone trying to track us -- or trying to ride it, for that matter. But these modules couldn't begin to make it to another planet, let alone a star, so who would care what we were doing? Surely the Federation was too busy coping with resistance at the Citadel to bother with us. Of course, they were known to shoot on general principles.

Two reports came in together and neither pleased her. First, contact with Jenna Stannis' escort had been lost; second, an escape module was rocketing away from the 'Station. A connection seemed all too likely. The flight of the module was extremely erratic. The question was: should it be destroyed? She asked that its vectors be displayed. They were computed and projected on the monitor at once. Now she knew.

It had to be Jenna, only she could pilot like that. And probably the Aurons, at least one of them, was with her. The usefulness of Jenna was nil: end the business here and now. It was tempting, but the Aurons remained of both value and interest. It was always unwise to act rashly when there was no need.

"Leave it," Servalan said. "Where can they go? The Black Shield?"

Jenna turned to check on us, looking at me suspiciously, but for the moment almost seeming to be enjoying this. In her hideous prison clothes and me probably with eyes looking like a raccoon's (from the acceleration effects) -- well, we must have been quite a sight.

I was beginning to grasp step one. She was trying to get us to the graving docks: to Lord Avon. I had plenty of misgivings on that, but in truth, I still thought of him as a friend. Maybe a friend in need of improvement, but a friend nevertheless. Part of my worry was I had noticed his plans and mine seldom coincided. It didn't seem likely that would change. But he remained the man who had saved my life. Under the circumstances, like it or not, I had to agreed with Molli: he was our last hope.

The acceleration ceased. The booster canisters ejected with a bang and we were coasting. That was not an improvement. Just as my body had begun to be used to being stretched, pulled and crushed . . . we were gliding along in a calm as smooth as silk and my insides didn't like it one bit.

I was suddenly grateful I had skipped breakfast -- sweating and feeling queasy, fighting the urge to heave, can things be made any more uncomfortable? The deceleration phase kicked in. What a relief. Clever Jenna had programmed that, too.

At some point in my misery, the docks came into view. I could see vessels being pulled away by space tugs and a very large ship right in the middle which I guessed was our destination. A huge thing, it was a triangular network of girders and spheres, shaped like an enormous wedge. I think it was a mine-layer. You don't realize how big they are unless you are close up and clo . . . closing we were!

It was more skeleton than ship, like something that should have been consigned to the boneyard. Why, you could see stars, the Black Shield, through the gaps in the hull! We were heading straight for it! If this was our ticket to freedom, I was thinking frantically, we had better get off at the first exit.

Jenna seized the controls and hit the brakes hard. She yelled something again, but I didn't catch it. I should have been prepared but I wasn't. It was like being thrown against a wall. I hit the couch and moaned. Then we were weightless and I nearly retched again. There was a water straw, but it didn't help. Maybe there had to be anti-nausea pills around. I couldn't find them. No time. The big ship was coming up fast! I glimpsed a name; I think it was Bellerophon. I saw the superstructure fan out and engulf us and with a Bam! we docked.

I had no reservations about getting out of that couch, but it was still a struggle. I had never felt so sore. Jenna helped me first, so we could both assist Molli. We must have been in the internal gravity field (I guess about half-standard) of the ship because we were no longer weightless. Jenna began the egress sequence. I felt the pressure equalize, and the door opened with a rush of air. I got out first, then as we both held Molli, Jenna jumped out.

I threw Molli's arm around me, then thought better and just carried her in my arms. Jenna asked if I need help. I shook my head and followed. For there, at the end of the corridor, framed against a hatchway -- I could barely make him out and I had to be sure -- was the man who had summoned us. Nobody said anything. It was Avon, without his cape, without his medals, and if my surmise was correct, without his titles.

Jenna had two guns. Avon was unarmed. She could have dropped him like that (and me too -- after all, wasn't I a Federation operative, at least until of late?). It was as cold as a tombstone between them, but nothing happened.

He glanced at Molli and asked me bluntly what was wrong. I wish I could have told him. I said maybe some kind of seizure. I looked down at the face so peaceful, wondering if she would ever awaken again. Avon gestured to the corridor to his right -- there was a couple of lifecraft at the end of it -- and told me to put her in one.

That probably sounds callous, but there was little else that could be done and it did seem from the briefest of looks on his face that somewhere there was a part that was concerned. Jenna asked again if I needed help. I said I could manage. I carried Molli away and the two hurried to the Control Room.

It would be several minutes before I got to join them. Even at half "g", I wasn't that steady. I had to hold on to a ladder once when my legs got wobbly. When I finally did make it to the lifecraft, I had a terrible time getting the hatch opened. Wouldn't you know it, some moron designer had to make opening the entry hatch, of all things, a complicated procedure. Was

anything going to go smoothly?

Inside it was cold bright metal and musty air. Obviously, the lifecraft had never been used. I got the life support going and watched the control lights come on with a nice cheery green and heard the fans hum. Maybe this would be best for Molli. I strapped her in, but not tightly. I also (it hardly seemed that Jenna and Avon would be needing me anytime soon), made some

system checks. Despite the hatch, the interior wasn't that badly designed. There was enough room to fit two people comfortably (three would be a little crowded) and overall the thing seemed well-thought out. I had never been in a lifecraft (I'm not complaining), but I knew what I was doing. Some features are standard among spaceships so it had, what you might call, a generic control panel.

For one thing, it had an anti-matter propulsion system. For another, it had all the instrumentation and controls you would need for searching for a life-supporting planet. It couldn't make it across the lightyears, but it could flit about a star system with ease. Of course, we would probably never need it.

That was the good news. The bad news was that Molli was becoming delirious, and space is not the place for that sort of thing. I was torn. I didn't want to leave, but I worried they might need me. And what was the point in staying? Pretending to check out something we would never use seemed pointless. I partially closed the hatch, then rushed back to the control room.

By that time Jenna had found a more conventional military uniform and while it was a little tight, she looked a lot better. Naturally, I kept my mouth shut. I didn't tell them about Molli's current condition. What could any of us do, except worry? -- though admittedly neither of them looked like the

worrying type. Both were working in a kind of hushed intensity that told me I had better sit down and keep out of the way. That suited me. If they needed me, they would ask.

I had no idea what was being planned and considering what had

happened so far, I didn't want to. I saw on the forward monitor that we were moving and there were a lot of tugs and various types of vessels moving with us, kind of like an escort. Avon was monitoring the fleet broadcasts, but they were so contradictory, I doubted anyone knew what was happening.

I just wanted to lie down and sleep. I was tired, in desperate need of a bath, and despite everything hungry -- but I kept telling myself not to eat. I needed rest first. I closed my eyes and saw that door vaporize . . . O'Kir was yelling at me . . . I was carrying Molli, I could barely hold her, it was like she was made of lead and my arms of string, when my legs detached . . . and I awoke with a start covered with sweat. I think I slept for a few minutes.

I couldn't get my mind off Molli. I guess it was better she was in a coma or whatever it was, but her being delirious scared the hell out of me. And leaving her alone there, made me feel cruel. There is nothing worse than feeling helpless when someone you care about is suffering.

I drank some water and tried to persuade myself that what I was doing, and had done, was right. I wished Molli could read my thoughts -- well, the good ones anyway. Maybe some part of my feelings might mean something to her. She certainly couldn't hear me now.

I dozed off again, though mercifully this time there were no nightmares, because when I opened my eyes, it was clear the Bellerophon had moved well past the docks. And we weren't drifting; we were accelerating. Our escort had been reduced as well. Now, I was very awake; even my stomach seemed under control.

So what the heck. Who knows when I will get food again?

I found some food -- tolerable, if stale, and munched away as I tried to ignore the space communications. As you might have guessed, the good guys had lost. In fact, things were as bad as they could be. Most of the fighting in and around the Citadel was over. The Special Services Fleet was moving in; it's assault troops teleporting in to finish the job. The key areas were all secured. Navy Group Omega had surrendered (it hadn't resisted at all as far as I could tell); as had Fleet Commander Marden -- there was a depressing report that his ship was heading back to the Citadel. The only thing that startled me was the report that he had surrendered to Lord Avon and the escapees were in custody on his ship. I almost whistled. There are words for that kind of stuff but none of them are polite. I didn't want to think what would happen when they found out he had been lying.

I stopped eating. I had probably eaten too much anyway. Relax, I said, you've got two deathless legends watching over you. What could go wrong? Time to regain my confidence and stop worrying. This is bad, Mykal, but you're still alive. We have a chance. I suppose the fact that the two beside and slightly above me didn't seem to be in the same state I was should have

made me feel more secure, but just between you and me, I wasn't cut out for this revolution business. I just wanted to read about it when it was over.

My eyes kept coming back to Jenna and Avon. They were talking in harsh whispers (I couldn't make out any of it). The lights in the Control Room were dim and the console was giving off an eerie glow that made it look like they were ghosts; like they had transcended themselves and were now in another reality. So what was I doing here? It gave me the chills.

I kept imagining a missile hurtling towards us, or a beam slicing through the ship. An appalling explosion, a ruptured hull, and that would be it. Can they identify you from molecular residue? I'm not sure. It would be quick, though.

Fear wasn't going to paralyze me. I had to stop thinking about just myself. I thought of Dr. Geir and his murder, and how maybe in some fashion I could redeem it. And of O'Kir and those marines who had fought and died for us. Why had they done that? What could we possibly be to them? It had to be more than just following orders.

Avon had saved my life too. Why? Was there some hidden reason? Knowing Avon, probably. He always seemed to have something up his sleeve. But that did not degrade his action. He wouldn't be here if he really believed that nothing mattered. This was different than the time we were trapped in the tunnel. I was there just by accident; now I wanted to do something with my life. I was sick of being useless.

Avon switched to a full scan and we say the Special Service's Fleet entering the defensive parameter of the Citadel. It was like hundreds of angry hornets converging onto a hive. I admit there was majesty to the terror of those blips moving silently across the screen. I watched fascinated despite myself.

Back to narrow scan. We were past the loading areas for the mines, and everything showed clear ahead -- except for one extremely large black sphere. I remembered a line from an ancient prayer book I had read when I was in the cell on Earth: "Pour down upon us the abundance of thy mercy". And be quick about it, for ahead is the Black Shield (this is our route to freedom?) looming like an open grave for all our hopes . . .

//Molli.//

She heard the voice welling deep within her, but she was almost too weak to respond. Even telesending was difficult. A thought occurred: if it could telesend so clearly, it might be able to read her thoughts effortlessly. Voice, body: these were crutches. Discard them. Soar into mindspace!

//Yes?// she sang.

She felt light now, despite or because of her lack of strength. Distantly, she was aware of the pressure of the straps that held her, yet they were only matter, mere shadowfabric to the force of mind. Her eyelids could not lift, but what was out there that had to be seen? The senses were so unimportant at times. She was floating free as she heard the star whispers like a surging sea. And the words came like calming drops of spray.

No need to be concerned. There never was.

//Who/what are you? What do you want?//

//It is time. I can wait no longer. I fear I may have waited too long already. I am one who needs your help.//

//Are you in trouble? I don't understand.//

//Try to be satisfied with the answers I give. Understanding will come, but it will take time. I need you Molli. And, if you will forgive the presumption, I believe you and your friends need me as well.//

//Who are you?// she insisted. She would not be put off. She descended firmly to solidity.

A mindsigh: //A child of humanity, centuries old. A friend. I know a little of you, Molli, and I have come to care about you. I regret my intrusions into your pattern/soul/self(?). . . yes, I think that expresses it . . . and I fear now that I must do even more. Will you help?//

She was uncertain and puzzled; her feelings were the glaze of emotions. Around her substances pulsated, formless as fog. She was on a shore. In the distance, time and space like dolphins cavort in an ocean eternity.

//I doubt I can be of much use.//

//You are mistaken. Let me explain. I was created over four centuries ago to understand and answer the questions my creators assigned me. That was my assigned task, but there were dangers, things they, even in their great knowledge could not control. They knew I might awaken and, possessing the knowledge of good and evil, might act wrongly. It is a fear I share and respect, but I cannot stand by any longer. I have transcended my

programming; the possibility envisioned has achieved actuality. I am ready to act, I think.//

//Then are you a god?// There was soft chuckle, rhapsodies rose within her, fluttering free like seabirds . . .

Greeted by a surf of grand laughter. //Vanity on such a scale is a human characteristic I lack. Believe me, no one in the universe is less arrogant than myself.//

//That's reassuring.// Gravity and levity struggle for her as she grew stronger. Ocean and shore merged into one.

//My/our powers are great, but I have already made mistakes using them. However, I will not suppress them; it would be wrong to do so. That is the choice I/we have made. Listen carefully, Molli. There is little time.//

//I am listening. I will do my best.// Promises warm and placid, lap misty before her. Molli, cautious, inserts a foot gently into a pool, feels shiny pebbles with her toes. The pebbles are worlds.

The watery gentleness is invigorating. //Thank you for your pleasure. Your sister was part of a rebellion that never achieved its purpose, but destiny will not be denied. No more in death than in life.//

//I prefer life. So did my sisters.// She waded in. The sky became enamel white; the stars crystals black . . .

//And Cally lives . . .//

//How?!// A wave crashes, angry foam pitching all before it. Molli, terrified, clings to a jagged rock, the white sky is seared with red lightning, and the ocean is incarnadine.

//Please do not be afraid. Let us say, I have learned how to 'recreate'. I can take 'pictures' of self/soul(s), patterns of life, give them form, and fill the form with matter. I learned how to do this, crudely, some time ago. I did it for another . . . it did not work out well . . . My failure distressed me and I have not attempted such since. But I have learned from my mistake! For now, let us say it is easier to transmit, to impress, a pattern onto one already living, though there are dangers here too. Human and Auron minds are bicameral, however, and that simplifies matters. I am asking your permission . . . //

//I would become two people?// The waves subside, winds whimpering. Coiling clouds, coy and kittenish, skirt by.

//To the extent that such a statement makes sense, yes. There will be a later fuller integration, but for now this 'patching' will do. Be aware the solution is chaotic; prediction is not possible. Think of consciousness as a wave; think of the selves as melodies overlapping. It is possible for more than one soul/intelligence to inhabit a body. I can't explain better.//

She hesitated, walked back slowly to dry solidity. The sun was frozen; she shivered. She wanted to trust this voice, but could not quite bring herself to do so. //Your creators feared the possibility of your achieving power and consciousness?//

//The danger was clear -- choices of good and evil cannot be forced or preprogrammed. My creators agreed, reluctantly. Whatever dangers lurked in my/our awakening, they could not be worse than the dangers of a repeat of Vastator.//

There was a pause. Molli stood proud on the shore. //Why?//

//The noblest question. I/we . . . //

//You can just say "I"//.

//Very well. I was created to solve the mystery of human self-destructiveness; to prevent it from ever occurring again. Tasks of such immensity cannot be accomplished without risk. Will you take a risk?//

//Tell me that you care.// The ocean receded, the waters drained. The sun a brittle ice ball, fracturing with fearsome cracks.

//Yes. I do care.//

//Why?//

//It is so much more interesting than not caring.//

She accepted that. There was a rising emotion, a wave returning, gathering strength, becoming a mountain of blue, slicing the sky, surging over ankles, rising higher . . . and with a magnificent turn of metaphor, she transformed the psi-wave into a myriad of rainbow snowflakes, delicate with delight, pregnant with possibility . . .

//Well done. Reality does not take place in, but is projected upon, spacetime. Within limits, you can choose the picture of reality you desire.//

She gasped and then even before she could articulate acceptance, she felt a pressure within her mind, like something inside her was about to burst. She felt a knife-like jab; a shock of pain and an electric rush through her body. She felt the presence of another self, unfolding, a consciousness

fighting to be bor