–G. K. Chesterton

Courtesy compels an answer. I do not want to respond flippantly to her or to anyone else, so let me do my best to explain. The two of us are in an aircar, heading west from the Capitol of the Lindor Confederacy. We are cruising at an altitude of five kilometers, our velocity just below Mach 1.

Appropriate security precautions have been taken, but I am edgy. It is shortly past midnight. A war has started and I have no confidence in my piloting abilities should evasive maneuvers be required. Yet it is foolish to think the vast defense forces arrayed above and below the planet are on the alert for a single unarmed aircar. It is not outside the realm of reason that we will remain unnoticed.

The aircar? I seized it in the desperation of the moment. Not a bad choice as such things go. An aircar, cramped as it is, does support the illusion of being cut off from external reality, a feeling that pleases me. Inside the pilot module, you are surround by monitors. At no time, unless the equipment went down – impossible, I was informed – do you ever "see" outside. No different, in effect, from being in a flight simulator.

Our prime hope in remaining in anonymity lies in the volume of traffic fleeing the capitol. I watch it as best I can, but eventually give up. Either it will be enough or it won't.

Angrily, I think of disabling Mykal's recorder. Why I would want to keep a record of this escapes me. Everything is so chaotic. Who would care to hear my meandering thoughts? Where are all these people going anyway? Anyone's guess as far as I can see. Damn few must have a starship waiting for them. Lucky us. Fewer still must have the personal orders of President Sarkoff himself on them as a passport. I suppose that is their problem. Franton and I have enough of our own.

We were heading for an abandoned base – well, it was until recently, until the Lindor Defense Command reactivated it. Our flight path is taking us to an area surrounded by lakes and mountains. Ridiculously romantic, says I. Like we were going on a vacation.

Mind you, I appreciated all that Sarkoff did for us. All of us do and that includes even Avon. I am truly grateful to the Lindor government. If the Federation captures Sarkoff, he won't last long. A tough leader, pragmatic in the best sense of the word; still, I doubt if Sarkoff would have approved of quite the way I was going about fulfilling his assignment. Our mission, if you wish to call it that, was legitimate as I say but the aircar was not exactly mine for the taking.

Yet Franton's question shouldn't have bothered me. It was not reasonable for me, or anyone, to feel guilt in this circumstance. Parts of me had always been fleeing one thing or an other. So why couldn't I just shrug this off? What was bothering me? I mean, I knew where we were going but is the real question I am dreading "why"? What were we going to do, all that was left of Blake's adventuring? You tell me.

Poor Franton. An honest reply would have been: "I don't care. I will never care," but I doubt Franton, given what was left of the Clinician's composure, would have been comforted by such. So I replied, not moving my eyes from the instruments, Li the professional pilot: "To ensure the safety of the children." (//Feeling sorry for yourself?//)

That was the wrong question I was replying to, of course. Thankfully, she did not question further.

My "skills" made this midnight flight a big risk. I know the principles of flying of course, aerodynamics and all that and have been in plenty of simulators, but I don't know any more about flying an aircar than a cat knows about barking. Luckily, my ever-present sister for once is a help (//And how!//). I know it sounds incredible, but Cally is an ace pilot (//Thanks.//) and if you can get past her manners (//Look whose talking!//) almost tolerable (//You're such a dear!//). In a way.

Over the past several months we have been "together" in a single body that used to be mine (//So-rry!//). I have become more like her (//Lucky you.//) and she like me (//You can't have everything.//). She's almost useful to have around at a time like this.

(And at that she shut up for the moment.)

Believe me, the trip to the base wasn't supposed to have become the hegira it did. Things were supposed to have been routine, smooth as they say, but by the time we arrived to the rendezvous point where we were to link up with our escort (VIPs we were, it says so in our security pass), the war had officially started and the local Commander (never came close to him) had more pressing business to attend to then escort two civilians out of the Capitol. I sympathized. Given the circumstances, Federation attack and all, it wasn't like we were a priority item! So as much as I loath officialdom, I acquiesced. Nevertheless, I wanted out. I fumed. Passivity and sweet reasonableness are not my natural style. We waited, I think maybe fifteen minutes while Franton was all nauseating understanding.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. It dawned on me that our being ignored might work in our favor. Never look a gift fate in the mouth, I say. I did not want to stay in the Capitol; therefore, a way out would be found. For my sanity, not to mention our lives, I had to get us out of here.

So I said to Franton: let's go for a walk, and clapping our hands in the cold, we went over to an adjacent field to see if there was anything we might, well, "borrow". Can't shoot someone for asking, right? We saw at once that everything big was gone or powering up to get out of there. The field was loud, incredibly noisy, but no attack seemed imminent. Was the Federation taking their time? Or were they having their problems as well? If so, good for them.

I approached a guard, a young, naive-looking type. More good luck, says I. Mind you, there were plenty of cyber-guards patrolling the area, scanning our security badges constantly, but military regulations require as least one water-and-carbon-based guard to oversee. And being a man, I figured how could we lose? With Franton along, the helpless routine was not a bad approach. He looked at us both as if we were the type who would have trouble crossing the street.

Not exactly the lustful stares I'm used too. (//Stop flattering yourself.//)

I dangled my credentials and authorization under his nose and endured the usual suspicions and delays while he made calls. Actually, he knew perfectly well who we were and what we wanted but he had to make it look official. He was dull about the whole business, but eventually he couldn't find anyone to say "No" and miracle of miracles, we were directed to an aircar. We must have looked disappointed. That? Yes, that. A squat ugly little thing with stubby wings that looked about as airborne as a slug (and thereafter, "slug" is what I called it) parked under a single glaring light. Our guard, gentleman that he was, quickly assured us it had extended range and enough speed to get us to our destination in time. I was past objecting and well into despair so I shut up. Maybe this wasn't total lunacy though it seemed close. I was worried. There was no conceivable way Lindor could hold off the Federation for long and if there was to be any chance for the children, not to mention the rest of us, we had damn well better be ready to take what we could get.

I made a solemn promise to get it back in twelve hours (fat chance–I didn't believed it, why should he?). We crawled into the thing, two people is all it could hold and in a few minutes programmed a flight plan – thank God for standard interfaces–and got the motor humming.

I should explain that all navigation done by monitors, ugly garish purple and yellow line displays and even worse color combinations. Only in the most extreme emergencies does a pilot go visual. By that I mean actually looking out a real window.

Slowly, past the empty buildings, out onto the infrared lit field, we bounced along. I waved at the guard as we passed; stupid – he couldn't see us in the slug even if he had bothered to look – and started taxiing down a side runway. For a moment, I felt exhilarated and frankly silly. Don't help a good Auron go bad. Lock your aircar, take your keys.

But I sobered up quick enough. Flying this thing was going to be one of the more interesting gambles of my life. I didn't think I would crash it – one has to have faith, after all – but I was scared. The slug had some kind of magnetic drive which frankly I couldn't begin to understand. How to tell what was a serious problem and what wasn't? Beats me. The only reassuring thing about it I realized, as Franton and I got as comfortable as we could in our seats, was that most of the controls looked and even acted familiar. Barring bad weather, and there was nothing in the weather reports that indicated any, we should make it.

The runway was clear; the glowing purple lines and yellows blinkers lined up. I made and remade some quick status checks as we began to pick up speed. The caution lights cleared and I pulled back the power bars, full throttle. There was the sound like a hum like an angry bee, and we scooted off and up, heading west into the night, a slight breeze the only thing opposing us.

At first, I thought it might be best to keep our flight path low, but we were going over lots of residential areas and I was thinking the citizenry might be getting nervous enough. It was too much of a struggle to keep an even trim at that altitude anyway. I slid my hand forward on the altitude control and surprisingly the response was not bad. We soared upward smoothly after a fashion, the monitors showed the ground dissolving into a sparkling mist. Grace and beauty out of the context of what was happening, yet it steadied me.

I fixed my eyes on the horizon, or the glowing green line representing it, and pretty soon I was able to keep it from bouncing or tilting. I relaxed for a moment. The slug was all right. Sure, there was an unfortunate tendency to roller coaster and I thought more than once that Franton was going to be sick (and me along with her) but for the first time since our final meeting with Sarkoff, I fancied this might actually work.

The controls continued to be sluggish (sorry) but the weather was holding steady, just as the reports said, so in the near term things looked nominal. Since by definition landing takes place low to the ground, it was only the upcoming landing that offered a real cause for concern. In the meantime, I had every channel monitored and I kept waiting for a summons to land, but nobody shouted and nobody shot.

As we were now far from the city, I took my first scan of the country below. The imaging computers in the slug, I had to admit were first rate. Down below they assured me, it was all forest, lakes, and occasional roads, all marked in more detail you could ever want this side of reality. For the good reason that no weather could affect them, you were supposed to trust the displays far more than you would have sticking your head out the window (assuming anyone would have been stupid enough to do such a thing at nearly 1000 kilometers an hour). Could there be limits to that trust?

The ground which had now slowed in its movement beneath us to a crawl was as black as a grave and as real as death. The sky was hardly more cheery. A cloudy veil of stars with occasional streaks of light cutting across (meteors?), but mostly the night was shadows dropping down over Lindor like a pall, like devils getting ready for the predawn check-in. A dawn that was still uncomfortable hours away.

The monitors showed we were coming up on a lake, a huge thing stretching narrowly north for miles, like a watery finger pointing to our destination. The monitors gave me the eyes of a god, and, I was discovering, the soul of a judge. I could see the outlines of extravagant houses and incredibly even the lights of boats. That made me angry. As if nothing could be more justified this night then a romantic evening of pleasure (haven't these people heard there is a war on?). The waves must lap for them with the sound of faint and distant laughter . . . and unless these people were Aurons, none of them would be pitched into the tumbrels. A Federation victory, and I held no doubt that it would be, might work out rather well for some! There was no necessity to annihilate Lindor: just bring it into the orbit of the Federation quickly and efficiently. Servalan and her minions could count on forming a collaborationist government with no difficulty! Soon the lucky would go back to their lives as if nothing had happened.

Stop it! But I could not stop. How many would even notice or how many of them would ever care.

Finally, shame overcame my bitterness and the irrationality that spawned it. It was my own guilt feeding the fires of rage. Never deny that. All that would be left would be ashes of pity. Spill it. Tell the truth. I had held out on my companions. I, an Auron, had been less than honest. And here I was pronouncing my judgment on people I had never met. I was furious at people I knew nothing of for what they had not done. A lot easier than facing oneself, right?

Guilt and anger raged on. I thought only of the base, the children, and escape. Everything else was just another source of despair. I never felt lower. I think I must have been feeling more dizzy than usual.

We passed the lake and the country became less scenic, more desolate. For a moment, I managed to move beyond self-recrimination. Franton was trying to sleep but not doing well. She would talk in her sleep in gibberish and then wake up with a start. It was getting on my nerves.

Finally, we were about a half hour from the base, just starting to see dawn light, when Franton awoke once more. Whether it was a premonition in a bad dream or just being overly fitful, I will never know. At the time, I was busy calculating my final approach. I had just picked up the landing beacon. So it was she who saw the Federation weapon first. I am ashamed to admit it, for I already had several clues that something was drastically wrong. I just chose to ignore them. Ace pilot Li at your service. I had done so because in another half hour, why would it matter? It wasn't like I was going to lose my insurance over this.

I was struggling to adjust the trim of the aircar and thinking to myself: why are the automatic controls not responding? Was my flying that bad? Yet I have a reasonable amount of upper arm strength. I could handle it. Not much longer and we're home, consoled the eternal fool.

But the slug refused to act as it should. What was wrong? The computers were not malfunctioning – every diagnostic program was clean and these things have lots of backups. I was pressing all the right buttons. I was frantically studying the instruments and struggling to keep under control, when Franton said quietly: "There's a thunderstorm ahead. You can see it now."

I said something non-committal. Wait a second. We had checked the forecast very carefully. There was nothing about rain anywhere near where we were headed. And I know what a thunderhead looks like and there was nothing resembling a bloated piece of popcorn on the horizon. Just clear and calm except for something like streamers dancing as they descended.

I tore myself away from the instruments and cleared the displays, powered them off and looked out with my own unaided eyes. That's when I saw it. There in the diffuse light of what should have been dawn. This was no storm. A wrong guess on her part, but give her credit for trying. Unless you know what it is, you might well think it was a storm too. Or some odd kind of aurora. The light was pale and far in the distance, shimmering like a sheet of translucent amber. For a moment I thought of drapes folding gently in the breeze . . . I shook my head. Then there were clouds like fire enfolding where the sheet touched the ground. Thick clouds billowing up, roiling fog into an angry lace. I scanned the horizon. I looked up. On all sides, as far as I could see, something was coming down from the sky, enveloping us.

I knew what it was. It was a cone of force originating thousands of kilometers above. From down here you had no hope of seeing the apex of the cone. The sheets were forming into a vast cylinder of energy that polarized the light of the emerging sun. I guessed that is what the few thin vertical streaks were: starlight all along its length. The light that made it through was dim, strained.

The stars were being cut out of the sky, slaughtered by the devils that were my people's enemy. It was the "Curtain".

The Curtain. Not a bad name given the usual Federation bent towards gallows's humor. Curtains indeed for us. There was no escaping that vast circle of ionized fire burning the ground and ripping into the air for hundred of kilometers around us, from thousands of kilometers above. To this darkness, dawn would never come. The trap was complete.

It was the Curtain that was rendering the monitors useless. I tried switching the displays back on. Even the diagnostic programs were bad now. The landing beacon was visible, but the landscape around the field kept changing, from checkerboard lakes, to shrinking trees, to bouncing mountains, to waving city scenes. The computers were trying to help, trying to compensate, and going mad in the process. Who could blame them? And that was the good news. Much worse, if my guess was correct, the Curtain was just outside the base we were heading for. I looked over at Franton and must have looked terrified. They knew. They knew about the base. The Federation was waiting for us!

The full implications finally hit me as I realized the Curtain was starting to affect more than the displays. All the controls were failing. For the first time I think I was truly scared, a gut-punching dread that cut as deep as anything I have ever felt.

Ever have one of those days? There would be no getting out of this one. If we got too close to the Curtain the aircar would be pulverized. Nothing we did would make a difference. Be defiant to the end.

Thanks. Who was that? Despite the sheer awe I felt in the face of this power, I was not paralyzed. I glanced at the range indicator, but the figures were meaningless; letters and minus signs! I shut off everything automatic, except the most basic manual controls. Want some more bad news? I was going to have to pilot it in manually.

I kept my brilliantly cool head and gave no hint of what was happening to Franton (//Who are you kidding?//). Of course she would figure it out. My powering off all the displays must have given her a clue. Even if she had no idea what the Curtain was, it would not take much though to grasp the seriousness of what was happening.

Options? We could bail out once we got near enough, but that was hardly an appealing choice. To be honest, I would have had to stun Franton to do it. And without reliable computer controls, we would have no stable platform for the jump and the velocity would have been too high anyway. Way too risky. And if there were any other alternatives, I missed them. As near as I could see, the "slug" was continuing to follow the beacon, but it was losing speed and altitude too fast. (Don't make it easy on me!) At this rate, we would crash in the rocky wilderness well before we reached the base.

That did it. I thrust the power breakers all the way forward and cut everything I could from the subsystems. I would fly the damn thing manually!

I kept my eyes fixed on the beacon like I was in a trance. If I could keep it steady and could hold a halfway stable approach vector . . .

In less than five minutes we would be close to the runway. More options? We might be able to glide in, should the slug be up to it, but I had my doubts. And with the Federation waiting for us, the base was no refuge. So would a landing some distance from the base be better than taking our chances with the Federation? No doubt, but that is indeed mountain country coming up and the odds of us surviving a crash there were nil.

I will not give up!

Rage would enable my triumph! I wanted to rip the windshield off and leave nothing between me and the air. Let it slice me to pieces. I wanted to grab and punch and kick at everything looming before me and everything dragging me to defeat. I would tear down the Curtain from the sky with my hands. I swore. Real embarrassing stuff. I never used such words (//Right.//). Franton reached out her hand to me. I brushed it away. "We're going to make it!" If we have to get out and walk!

We were still losing altitude but I thought at a slightly lower rate. It had looked for certain that we would fall short of the runway. Now . . . I wondered. Were the updrafts stirred by the Curtain helping us? It seemed possible that the ferocious buffeting we were taking had its good side. I yelled. We were going in, power or glide! We were going to make it!

Those very updrafts caused by the Curtain and helping us keep aloft, were inducing a nasty turbulence. The whole plane shook and began to bounce terribly. I held on to the emergency steering shaft, gimbaling with all my strength. I activated the emergency manual controls and felt a rumble below the floor. I looked to both sides and saw the wings extend in full and lock with two solid thuds. The cabin shook violently, but step one, the wings, was complete. I have seldom heard a more happy sound. I will not give up!

The beacon was flickering again. I was unsure but it looked like thick smoke, surges of it, was obscuring it. The first time the beacon vanished for several seconds, my breathing stopped in shock. This is it. Then the meatball was back. I could take anything else except losing the beacon. Time ceased for me when the beacon went out. The beacon is life, I whispered to myself. All we had to do was reach the beacon! (//Then what?//)

Check overrides. With power surges all over the panels, I thought it prudent to power off everything remaining. I was worried the flight computers might turn on the distress signals. Not now!

I was starting to think that any decision I made would be the wrong one and there is a certain comfort in such a realization.

Slug status? The rudder and ailerons could be hand, and foot, powered, so the help screen had said. Indeed, manual controls were responding, if feebly. I continued to steer, sort of.

Begin final approach. The slug was angled slightly to the left of the runway, a pair of short dual strips that looked like a big equal sign. It didn't seem a major problem. I was confident the slug could be maneuvered back on track. So hold off on panic time.

But I think the dizziness was affecting me. I felt this irrational need to explain to Franton (to confess?) what I was doing. Was I in control, in whatever way you might want to interpret that? The overall situation was clear. But take it from her point of view. She probably suspected the pilot was losing it. All I needed was to talk. Every Auron has that need in their life.

I was starting to feel very dizzy. No. Not the. . .

There was a lull in the updrafts and I took the opportunity to hard bank the slug. That brought it in line with the runway. Close enough.

"We're going to have to make an unpowered approach," my words foamed out. I still couldn't look at her. "We can do it!" I swallowed hard. One minute remaining. The aircar was hit by a huge wave of air and the slug shrieked, or was it me?

We were running short of miracles. "It's been a while since I did a glide landing." Something inside me...I hope you don't mind. (//Don't you mean . . .// //Shut up! Gods of all stars deliver me from tyranny and my sister!//) "But..." that was Franton, then she stopped.

I tried steadying myself; took a deep breath. The dizziness only increased. The damn beacon jumped and flickered and gyrated. Where there's smoke . . . "Hold on! Whatever you do," a shrill wind screamed over the wings, "don't . . .move!"

I don't know if she heard or understood me. The ground was coming up faster. Doughlump boulders and jagged trees rolled swiftly beneath us.

I was raving. //Li...// "Cover your face! Find something soft and nonflammable." I looked and saw to my horror that Franton was completely unstrapped and was reaching across her chair towards me. //Sis, is that you?// //No.// //Then. Oh, no . . . // //Li.//

There was burning ground rushing up at us and then there was a huge blow to the aircar and we tilted crazily and I saw Franton's face look at me incredulous as she was yanked out of her seat and hit the cabin ceiling over me...I screamed. No time...

There was a lake of yellow flame where there had been a forest. Ash gray waves and white lines of smoke slashing across. No dawn light, just smoke pouring up at us. The aircar shot through it and for a moment I saw the runway ahead. I tried lining up the plane but suddenly the manual controls were jammed . . .

Do I need them? We're on course. The beacon was still there. Only a short distance to go. I saw the two gray strips surrounded by burning trees. If I could reach the strips . . . A shudder broke over the aircar. For a moment, the steering control tore from my hand. We plunged.

I had to get her to help.

. . . The Curtain was a wall and the stars were stretched to threads near breaking. The stars had been my sister's home and for a while mine. Now they were hidden, sealed in a trap, never to be released, soon to be gone forever . . .

The turbulence increased, shaking my insides. There was a jackhammer vibration on the wings as the air around us was sucked into the conflagration with a roar of rage. I had to lower the landing gear. The aircar dropped, faster. I had to . . .

Drop the wheels manually. I held on to the steering shaft with both hands and began to turn the crank below with my left foot. The resistance was terrible – then a thud hit like something had rammed the underside. I looked below and held on the controls with one hand and spun like crazy the emergency release.

The slug twisted to the left and the first wheel locked. I began spinning the right release. Nothing happened. I tried rocking the plane one way then another. Nothing. Just the wheel flopping. Too late! I'm sorry. //Li...//

The runway was cleanly divided into two strips now. Go for the grass between the strips. It was almost free of fire. The gray slabs of runway rush up to me but the angle is wrong.

There were trees like a advancing army. I hear my own scream again and sparks and smoke poured through the plane as the ground rushed past and a swath of steel gray then dull green shot up and I heard something hit with a tremendous bang and we spun out and I saw the sky crash into the earth. The plane twisted and with a lurch careened skidded off the runway into the forest.

My head wrenched around and I cried her name as we flipped and the last thing I saw was her thrown against the floor that had been the roof as something smashed into my sides and I gasped with pain as the breath tore out of me.

And then there was nothing but silence and black, black, black . . .

"She's faking."

I am alive. I hear voices, muffled, faraway, drifting past me. Not mental voices this time. Have you heard the joke about the telepath who went to the psychiatrist? The voices are like insects buzzing around my body; my mind hovered, bobbing above them. The telepath says he hears three voices in his mind. One is God. They were not friendly. I sensed this when I was nudged by a pointed boot. The psychiatrist smiles and says, 'schizophrenic.' That is, it felt like a nudge for there was only a slight pressure to my side, no more hurtful than rolling onto a pillow. The telepath says the second is the devil. I couldn't be hurt anymore. And the psychiatrist smiles and says, 'paranoid.' And the third voice is of her sister. The smoke is like a wool blanket in my mouth; I can barely breath. The psychiatrist smiles and says: you must hate her. The telepath, exasperated asks: perhaps, but why the grin? And the psychiatrist replies, you'll never be cured and you get billed three times normal rate.

I've got to stop feeling sorry for myself.

My senses were blown so I didn't know if I was on the ground, being carried, or if I was going to be left there to die. Did I care? For one of the few times in my life I felt free, neither the weight of anger nor hatred, neither the drag of fear nor despair held me down. I called for my sister. There was no response. I did not panic. Was she more dazed than I? Was she dead? She can't die, unless I do, right? If this was dying, it was more pleasant that I had thought. Sorry, Sis.

What had happened?

"Maybe." The second voice wasn't sure. That made two of us. "Take a look at this other one. What a mess."

"Like I've never seen a dead person. Forget her. This is more pressing. You know, there is something about this one that looks familiar. I think she might just be the one our Groupleader told us about." There was a long pause. Was he checking something? I felt hands on my face and arms and I was turned on my back. "Anyway, she's alive."

"You're right. She does look like... You remember, several years ago . . ."

"'Cally.' 'Cally'! Only don't let anyone every hear you say that name. Yeah, that's who she looks like."

"Is it her?"

"No, stupid. It's one of her sisters."

"How should I know? Those Auron clones all look alike."

"Ha, ha. Real funny. I'm sure the Supreme Commander will enjoy your sense of humor."

There was an ominous pause, whispers rushed back and forth between them. "Who will know? Let me finish her off. I'd like to kill someone. This has just been too easy."

"No!"

"You're afraid."

"'Afraid,' he says. 'Too easy,' he says. Tell that to the boys in the fleet. We were lucky. A lot of them aren't going home. I tell you, this is her. And that means a reward."

"Which we'll never get. Aurons!" The disgust was palpable.

"Not just any Auron! The one the Commander told us to watch for."

"Look. I don't like this. We could get into a lot of trouble no matter what we do."

"You got that right. But we can't shoot her. They would track us down and hang us . . ."

"I thought Aurons smelled funny and had tails and horns."

"Didn't you ever go to school? They look just like us. That's why they're so dangerous. It's their minds that are different. Too different."

"They were human once, I know that. It's against nature, what they did. An evil wizard made them, that's what I heard. You can't trust them. Let's kill her now, use a rock or something to make it look like an accident."

"Shut up! Got that? Summon Medical, now!"

"All right. So you really think she's related to one of Blake's people? I mean we looked through the wreckage pretty thorough. There was nothing suspicious except this recorder."

"What did you expect: a flashing sign that said 'Top Secret – Don't Peek'? Files might be anywhere in that thing. And did you manage to get into that recorder? It has a lot of security on it. Let the bulbheads take the thing apart. We've done our bit. Yes, I do believe this is the one. Look at these readings."

A whistle. "Well, if she ain't dead, she's sure going to be. The Groupleader won't be happy."

He told him what he could do with the Groupleader. "Where's your ambition? And where's Medical when we need them?"

"I beeped them. She is a pretty one, come to think of it."

"Keep your distance, idiot. Aurons have diseases. You know, she must be tougher than she looks to have survived that."

There was more after that but even if I had cared, I was drifting further away. I seemed to be spiraling out then down into ever widening circles, like a bird searching above some haunted sea. I think my body was attached and then bound to some apparatus. I was being moved. Where was Sis?

//Here. Groggy, but here.// //Welcome back.//

Later, I hear different voices. "I am grateful. Target Two, the one called 'Li.' She will live?"

"Yes, Supreme Commander. She was injured in the crash of her vehicle and suffered a concussion. However, most vital signs have stabilized if at low levels, as you can see. There do not appear to have been significant internal injuries."

"Which have not?"

"Oh, 'not stabilized'? Her brain waves. Quite irregular, chaotic actually. I've never seen anything quite like her patterns."

"Identification confirmed. Have you had many Auron patients?"

"Certainly not, Supreme Commander!"

"Then such can hardly be in your experience. Continue to monitor her condition. On everything. This one worries me–there must be something significant in those brain patterns. When will I be able to question her?"

"It may be weeks, Supreme Commander." It is hard to convey the reluctance of that statement. Suffice it to say, it was damn reluctant.

"I will let that stand for now. What is the status of the other two?"

"Much worse than this one, Supreme Commander." The doctor(?)'s voice took on a crisp, efficient tone. "Targets Three and Four remain in critical condition. They should live, though it will be a several weeks as well before they will be ready for interrogation. Forgive me, but I fear our field care may be inadequate. I request permission to teleport them up to a hospital ship."

"Permission denied. Despite their condition, they will survive. Your caution is noted, however. Soon they will be teleported up, be assured of that."

"Understood, Supreme Commander."

"I do wish them all a quick recovery. I appreciate your work, Doctor. You have my confidence. Do not fail me."

"I will not fail, Supreme Commander."

Then she demanded: "And Target One?"

"A preliminary examination shows Target One to be in generally good condition. Surprising, considering the effects of the . . . "

"I am well aware of those effects. He would be! Oh, joyous day! Have him brought before me... No! I will go to him. I will bring him here. I want him to see this. This spectacle will prepare him. After that, you can teleport them up. All of them."

That startled me. Startled me that in all this there was something for me to be happy about. Who else could it be but Avon? Avon was alive! Did you hear that, Sis? //Yeah.// And he would be here soon! //Don't sound so happy.// Why I felt joy at that I do not know, but did I ever! Isn't an irrational joy better than none? I passed out again.

I was hovering close to the "surface". Below the shallow waters of this "ocean," I think I see a glimpse of a dark opening. A cave. I was drifting, barely conscious. Later, I hear Servalan's voice, husky, barely above a whisper. "Are you hearing any better, my love? I trust you are. Behold. All that remains of your juvenile actions."

His response was matter-of-fact. It would be easy to get the impression that Avon is indeed incapable of any emotion except curiosity. I never believed that. "They're alive?" he asked.

"Barely."

"What happened to her?"

"She does look better than the other two, does she not? You might say this was Li's lucky day. She lost only one of her nine Auron lives. She was in a plane crash, near this base. Her own stupidity, if I may say so. Fortunately, I was able to prevent my people from shooting her down. On occasion today my people did not act the most responsibly."

"She never was much of a pilot."

Gawd, what did I ever see in the man? //You?!// //Sis!// //All right, what did we ever see in the man?//

"Are you interested in what happened to the others?"

"I can guess."

"Always so knowledgeable – aren't you – if never so wise. Very well, let's talk about . . . this." her voice took on an odd sound as she struggled to breath. "You know what this is, don't you? I gave it to Mykal, just before you left Earth. I've only listened to part of it. The security has not yet been fully broken. It's a meeting with the . . .late President Sarkoff. You know of that meeting?"

"I read the transcript."

"And that's all you know?"

"All."

"I'd want you to fill in the details. For my sake."

"Not interested."

"You never make it easy for me, do you? I lay the whole galaxy at your feet and you want anything else. I am yours and even that is not enough! Look at your friends, Avon. They will die without me. Their lives are mine to give or withhold. Even you cannot withstand my power. Such a poor memory! Need I remind you? Blake is dead, Avon. The rest of his band a dull footnote to a history no one would care to read, even if such were available. Do you really want to end like them? Could I possibly interest you in an alternative? Together, we can do things that will leave the galaxy gasping in astonishment."

"No."

"Reconsider! Very soon you will be teleported to my command ship. There we will review the contents of this device in full. You will tell me everything I want to know or I leave the consequences to your imagination. You believe that, don't you, Avon?"

It wasn't her usual voice. There was something odd about her breathing. "I do," was all he said.

"I'm touched! Spoken like a marriage vow. How you make a girl hope! My belief, my hope, never dies, regardless how great your errors."

The woman is so tasteless.

"Break the security. I must know what's in it. Everything."

Then: "Let me play something for you, Avon."

What can I say? The man is exasperating. Bless him.

If there was anything further, I did not hear it. I felt myself a feather caught in a storm. I was hurled far beyond reality, pure consciousness skimming over existence, alive, alone. (//You aren't really alone, you know.//) I was back in mindspace, the word like a warm mist of a thought weaved into me.

I knew now where I was and who had summoned me. I plunged below the turbulent surface and saw the sea cave shimmer before me. I swam through. I emerged and at once sensed something stir. The sea cave had air. I was breathing. I was under a brilliant white dome; the only sound was like puppywaves lapping at my feet. The sound was my name.

//Li . . . Li . . . Li . . . //

The Entity had returned. As usual, its timing was awful.

//You?// I asked, stupidly.

(//Who were you expecting?//)

//Yes.// It was a sad voice, like an echo of a cry of defeat. //Here to help.// Here to cause trouble, you mean. It said nothing further, merely rummaged around my mind as if it had a perfect right to do so.

Finally, it said, its voice clear: //We need to talk.//

==========================================================

Date: 07/12/221

Subject: Preliminary Interrogation of Auron prisoner Mykal Hodos.

Security Category: Top Secret

Interrogator: Dev Tarrant

Location: Prison Infirmary 27, room 202, Servalan City, Earth.

Concerns: It is regretted that the injuries of the prisoner, compounded by concussion and burns, as well as the usual stress factors affecting non-combatants, may have impaired memories of critical events.

Cautions: There also is likely deliberate withholding efforts. As is clear in the Q&A that follows, more than once the prisoner exhibited defiance and hostility to the Federation. Subject's planet of origin implies obvious incentives to lie or mislead. It is suggested, however, that aspects of his reticence may indeed be beyond conscious control. Confirmation awaits more intensive interrogation efforts subsequent to this one.

Comments: The Supreme Commander has informed Federation Security that the subject has acceded to the position of the Leader of the Auron Community in Exile. Hence, he is to be treated as a very important prisoner. His new title, of which the subject is probably unaware, is not to be mentioned or discussed, however.

Recommendations: Full interrogation of the subject should be delayed until recovery is complete. Moreover, his two fellow captives, J. M. Stannis [click here [*] for additional data] and the Auron known as "Li" [one of two sisters of the dead political criminal "Cally" [click here [*] for additional data] remain in physical and/or mental states that range from fair to serious. Full and systematic interrogation should therefore await complete recovery for all three. At that time questioning is to be conducted simultaneously in a coordinated, concerted effort.

Opinion: It is the opinion of the interrogator that all required information can be obtained, given patience. As this clearly is the intent of the Supreme Commander, nothing is to be gained by rushing. Worse, critical information may be lost unless extreme care is taken.

Speculation: Is there something about Aurons that leaves them predisposed to forgive and to admire the former Lord Protector? Despite the fact that witness testimony and the results of an autopsy prove that K. Avon did fire the fatal shots that killed President Sarkoff of Lindor, and despite his known history of treachery, the Auron's "Li" and Mykal refuse to draw the logical conclusion. Only J. Stannis, in her fragmented testimony, seems to understand and appreciate the dangerous logic of this man.

[Data on K. Avon not accessible.]

Operation: Admission to the hypermedia files can be obtained following security procedures. Standard interface rules apply. Following admission, an operator may proceed either linearly, or branch into greater detail by placing the "boot" icon over the image of the subject in question or by using the following command strokes:

[o] One click to expand context-dependent detail.

A: Yes. Experienced, are you?

Q: Quite.

A: I'm impressed. I have a question.

A: Yeah. And so do you, I bet. I am sure you are familiar with my file.

Q: Naturally. My point being that not all Aurons share your interest.

Q: Your family, Hodos, was certainly not like that.

Q: The observation is meaningless. Were the power yours, you would slay as well.

A: Good point. I believe some of us would.

A: Call me Mr. Hodos.

Q: You had a question. Do you wish it answered?

A: Yes. Are Li and Jenna alive?

Q: They are.

A: Thank you. No doubt their continuing in that state is contingent upon how cooperative I am.

Q: Cooperation is always a factor.

A: And Avon?

Q: Kerr Avon is dead. I cannot discuss him further.

A: So things didn't go well, what a shame! May I ask another question?

Q: One more. Be brief.

A: Who taught you? Why do you do this?

A: I'm sure that is the intent.

A: Get on with it.

Q: Who was with you as you were escaping the capitol of Lindor the night of the Operation?

A: Lee Hahn, Jenna Stannis, and myself.

Q: No others?

Q: No one of prominence?

A: No. None.

Q: You recall any of the soldier's names?

A: Don't be ridiculous. I never met any of them. They were all dead soon enough. Having trouble identifying them?

Q: Avon was not with you?

A: No. You know that.

Q: Some of these questions are of a confirmational nature. I trust you don't mind. What was your destination?

Q: Was that the starship with the name of Sword of Auron?

A: You got it.

Q: You were traveling toward this base where the starship was located. How?

Q: I will get back to that. Why was 'ambassador' Hahn with you?

Q: And Sarkoff's daughter, Tyce, the wife of the 'ambassador'?

A: I don't know. It was my understanding she had left Lindor.

Q: Describe what happened leading up to the moment the convoy was attacked.

Q: Continue.

Q: How long did the fighting last?

Q: A noble sentiment.

A: Think about it. Anything else you want to know?

Q: Tell us in your own words what was on the recorder.

A: [Long pause] Personal stuff.

Q: Your political opinions are irrelevant. Let's get to the point. We want to know much more about "nanotechnology."

A: [Another pause, shorter] Too bad. The sad fact is that everyone who could tell you the critical information is dead.

Q: Like your teacher, Dr. Geir?

Q: We believe his researches do have bearing.

Q: Then tell us what you do know.

Q: By the uses you have put it to. You violated her trust. This technology was an Auron Invention?

A: I'm not denying it.

Q: And you knew nothing of this technology prior to your encounter on "Kaarn" with the Aurons Pater and Franton?

Q: Describe the technology, in your own words.

A: Go boil your head. I demand to see Li and Jenna!

A: I won't give up.

Q: Neither will we.

The magtrain shot through the tunnel full throttle, fleeing into damp, wind-rushed darkness. Three cars made up the "train", three cars separated in space by many kilometers, tied by electronics and electromagnetism. A guard ship fore and trailing, both crammed with soldiers and weaponry. The center car differed, however. It held but three passengers; though one was armed, none were soldiers. Who were they? One was the former President of Lindor, recently resigned, wearing still his stylish hat and cape. He deserves our respect. The second was his daughter, his confident and advisor, few titles, many longings. She deserves our sympathy. Finally, a third. We should fear him, it is whispered. He has no title, has been bereft of one for months. Who is he? Guess. Occasionally, this passenger had an acerbic thought regarding his fate, now greatly diminished. Life of little point and less merit, these thoughts formed the decaying base of a typical mood.

Yes, Avon was the third passenger. He watched the tunnel lights flare up like sparks, streak by like lightning. He felt the throbbing pulse of the engines, heard the whine of wind, sensations stressed to a snap that somehow relaxed him. And it was on that pure level of sensation that he with titles gone, luxuriating in the lack of link to the sanguinary civilization and society that had bestowed them, was untroubled. He would outrun them all; of that he was confident. Was it from amusement then that he carried the gun? Of the three, he was in fact the least inclined to use it.

They had left the capitol of Lindor over an hour earlier, shortly before midnight it was, following Sarkoff's reluctant declaration of war. Sarkoff was resigned now, in more ways than one. There had been some planning put into this dash, but at this hour, in these circumstances, it was more hope than plan. An underground flight to an abandoned military base made little sense against the teleport-equipped Federation, but it would have to do. For at the abandoned base serving as a temporary port was a worthy goal: a single enormous starship. If by luck they could make it, there was a chance for escape. That was the hope that powered the plan. The base was 900 kilometers from the city. They were traveling over 300 kilometers/hour and had crossed the halfway point when the first alarm came in.

The two awake took it calmly; Sarkoff's daughter, Tyce did not awaken. Admittedly, the alarm had not been unanticipated. They had not expected this to be easy and while their hatred for the Federation was never greater, equal was their respect for its technical capabilities and the brilliance of its implacable leader. Whatever splenetic reactions might once have been uttered were lost in a past that was as rapidly vanishing as the kilometers behind them. Tyce, her head on her father's shoulder, breathed softly. If there was any reproof in any mind, former President Sarkoff came the closest, and it was for her. She should be with her husband. In death they would at last be together.

Avon sat, content to observe the transport tube as it flashed by, slower now. The technology of the car would have permitted them to replace the speed smoothed gray walls with a pleasant country or rugged nature scene, or more besides. He wanted no such thing. Reality was all that mattered here and Avon, like his host, had never declined reality. The tunnel satisfied Avon in a way that offered a kind of symmetry to his life: a solid unswerving direction beneath surface appearances.

And like Avon, Sarkoff had been impassive these final hours. The release from the burden of power was not without compensation. Cruel misfortune? Hardly. Nearing death, he had seldom felt so alive.

He glanced at Avon as the alarm came in. He was beginning to like the man and that alarmed him. Here they could assess their humanity and in a way that had eluded them both actually talk to each other. Two strong men: it was all so empathetic, so dreadful, so alarming.

"There's an obstruction up ahead, man-made no doubt," Sarkoff said blandly. "It appears to have happened fairly recently. We're going to have to stop in less than a minute. My people tell me we can try to continue using surface transportation."

"Has such been requested?"

"The codes have been relayed. No response as yet."

Avon, looking at Tyce, completed his thought. I would not anticipate any. "Are your people ready?"

For a moment Sarkoff thought he saw sympathy in those eyes. I must be mistaken. Sympathy is the last thing I want; from him or anyone. It is also the last thing he would give. "They are ready. By the way, I am assuming she will want you alive."

"We all want things."

Sarkoff looked at him curiously. Was he contemplating death in battle? So unnecessary. The thought was shocking in its naked reality. Avon is of far greater value to humanity alive, no matter who he serves.

A second message came through, more telling than the first. The ever decorous Sarkoff digested it and signed off firmly. "It is indeed our friends. All tunnels ahead are cut off." He glanced at his daughter. She stirred but did not awaken.

"If they know that much, they will have seized the literal 'high-ground' as well." Avon concluded, looking pointed at Tyce. Their intelligence must be very good. He said vapidly, "There is no escape."

Sarkoff brushed her hair gently. There is a blunt kindness in him. "Now that I am no longer President, I am free to do the impossible."

Then be prepared to die.

It was not callousness that prompted Avon to such thoughts. It was cogency. Avon had never betrayed his mind; saw no need in pretend for the benefit of others. Cynics might have said that such a pretense was only a matter of time, but that time for Avon had not yet come. The car decelerated rapidly.

When it came to a complete halt, Sarkoff leaned forward, studying the observation monitor. They were in a switching and maintenance area, a vast circle framed by a low ceiling, lighting stark, efficient. He concluded they were not totally hemmed in and irrationally that gave Sarkoff hope. There were elevators here, large and swift. A rush to the surface might not be out of the question. For a few. It might work.

Sarkoff saw soldiers leaping out of the lead car ahead, forming battle positions. From behind, one of the displays informed him the trailing third car was rapidly approaching. He instructed the car door to be opened. Avon was the first to stand. the first out. Sarkoff and an unsteady Tyce, awakening with a yawn, followed. He wrapped his cloak tightly around them both as they exited.

The tunnel was damp and cold, black puddles everywhere reflecting shimmering shapes; smells musty and saturated with ozone permeated the air. For those who appreciated stark drama, this was not a bad staging. The throb of compressors beat above them, the ventilation fans hummed scorched air. It was suffocating.

Avon looked above, saw dripping condensation on the walls. I can't get out of here.

"Laughing, Avon?" Tyce demanded wearily, straightening herself.

"No." There were rumblings down the length of the tunnel, burrowing through the ground. That was the third car, slowing with a screech to a stop a short distance behind.

Men pursued by shadows flowed around them, racing, taking up, then abandoning positions. By reflex, Avon put his hand on his gun, but did not draw it. Twenty, forty, soldiers, he estimated. Perhaps enough to beat back a first and less than determined Federation effort. They might not know who they had and drop the fight. But not against anything larger. Teleport shock troops would make quick work of them. How far down were they? Not far enough to escape the teleport, of that he was certain.

The commander of the lead car was running towards them. Avon ignored him, tried to see ahead into tunnels radiating away, looking for the ominous green twinkling. The artificial lights overhead were few, brilliant, blazing, strung burning out along the roof high overhead like candles at a funeral. In the distance it was all darkness, damp and dead. The ineluctable Federation should be appearing soon.

The train engines beat with the ventilation fans. The sound was that of a dying heart . . .

The commander stopped before the ex-President and quickly saluted. His voice was a gasping growl. "President Sarkoff," he began and who would correct him? "We have reports the Federation is using the Curtain weapon. They have punctured the main transportation arteries down to a depth of several hundred meters. We can go no further even using alternate tunnels."

Avon thought: Should I care?

"How far are we from the base?" Sarkoff grappled with inner inertia.

"Slightly under two hundred kilometers. But it would take hours on the surface."

Sarkoff nodded. Their chances now were nil. He held Tyce's hand. She was less dazed now, more controlled, showing no emotion other than weariness. Even staring at Avon, her face was not quite up to summoning full contempt.

Might have beens. Sarkoff had not wanted to travel this way, but his military people had overruled him. They had thought this mode the safest. Sarkoff had chosen not to dispute them. Had it not been for the Curtain, and Federation teleport capacity, neither well understood and for those reasons greatly feared, his advisors might have been correct. He respected his military, but had never been particularly fond of them. He had no respect whatever for his intelligence organizations. Nevertheless, even with his daughter and his world trapped, objurgation failed him.

Avon's attention remained fixed on the tunnel.

"Can they teleport down this far?" asked Sarkoff.

"Easily." That was Avon.

Sarkoff spoke directly to him. "There is still power. You can reach the surface." There were independent power stations all along the line. For the Federation to have destroyed them would have required an attack of total annihilation and that was clearly not the intent. She wants this man alive, therefore...

The freight elevators could get them all to the surface. But working under the assumption that only the good die young, Sarkoff had in mind but two for the escape attempt. The decision was not actually his to make, but he felt certain Avon would not dispute him. "I'm ordering you and Tyce to the surface," he said confidently, as if they hadn't already figured it all out. "I'll try to get an escort to follow." Avon said nothing.

"No!" Tyce cried. "I will not go with him. I'm staying with you!"

Sarkoff was calm, his voice matter of fact. "Tyce, your duty is towards your husband. Find him. It's an order."

"You don't give orders anymore, Father. Not to me, not here, not ever."

Then Avon saw green twinkling. Then puffs of dust. She knew.

There were shouts and firing; Avon enveloped Sarkoff and Tyce in his arms, and all three crashed to the ground. He had seen it, but almost too late. The others had not realized what it meant. The Lindor officer, turning to rally his men, dropped at once.

I am a fool. With plenty of company. The sea-green phosphorescence grew amid the crackle and mad hum of power weapons bursting above them. In moments, grim memory assured him, Federation teleportation commandos would be swarming over the area.

The Lindor soldiers returned the fire, as lights above them began to fail. The power was being cut. Avon, Sarkoff and Tyce stayed on the ground, Avon trying to see the way to the elevator. He at least knew the direction; knew there was a well-protected stairwell to the loading platform. Such might offer cover. He tried to speak when the tunnel burst with a sunburst of light, followed by a reverberating and deafening concussion.

Sarkoff rose his head slightly. To Avon he said, his voice a croak. "Get her out."

Avon pointed to the concrete embankment and the access stairs. The lighting was almost gone. The rumbling in the ground faded. "They will take their time," he said. "Pick your people off one by one, until they narrow it down." Surgical is the byword. It's not the Federation way, but in this instance, it would be the way of their Commander. He had seldom been more certain.

He would wait no longer. He poised himself, like a runner at ready, judging the distance to the staircase as the cavern went pitch black. If the Federation hesitated, if they were being cautious, the two of them might indeed be able to make it. He would shield Tyce for the dash. But the elevator itself had no cover. He would have to leave Tyce at the base of the stairwell, summon the elevator and then retrieve her. Question: Did the Federation want Tyce? He doubted it. Beside her now, he could see her stare at him. Did he?

Avon took Tyce by one arm. She violently tried to shake it free only to be astonished by the strength of the his grip. The two rose, he pulled her tight to him, and they ran.

So much that was logical; so much that was in error. There was a flaw in Avon's premises, and therein lie the reason for the failure of his proof. Like most, Avon had overestimated the swiftness and success of the Federation attack. The attack had been a success, to be sure, but it was hardly a victory as clean and as fast as its commanders had planned. Operation Meteor called for the breaching of the Lindor system parameter defenses in three hours, storming the home world and its capitol in six, planetary capitulation to follow before noon, local Capitol time, a 12-hour military plan as precise as, well, a train schedule. So confident had Servalan's front commanders been of a shattering victory, that despite misgivings, they yielded the honors of the ground assault to the Special Services. Let the record state that to Servalan's credit, she had not fully shared the optimism of her commanders. Not at all, in fact. In truth, her stomach churned whenever she thought of the attack, but her special "intuition" assured her of the ultimate attainment of all significant objectives. Thus, there was no need to stand in the way of her people. Since the triumph against the Citadel, the Special Services had itched for another opportunity to demonstrate their superiority to the regular military. So the orders were given and what little remained in the way of restraint vanished.

In reality, every aspect of the operation took twice as long as planned, the Clauswitzian notion of battle "friction", nearly a millennium old now, taking a fearsome toll. Losses had been estimated to be thirty ships destroyed and seventy severely damaged. They were ten times greater. By the time the Combined Fleet had invested Lindor, and the Special Services were sacking the Capitol and its environs, all discipline, never that firm in certain elements to begin with, had broken down. The question would be asked: was the lack of control and indifference endemic or a result of unusual circumstances? Who could tell? The shock troops leading the assault knew only that the Combined Fleet had its hands full. For the next several hours, they would be on their own. Victory delayed would not be allowed to become revenge denied.

Staggered by the losses they had experienced, astonished by the ferocity of the resistance, those Federation high commanders who had not already given up, looked the other way as the carnage on the planet mounted. In truth, there was little they could have done. For the most part, orbiting overhead in their electronic command stations, few were close to the fighting or had any clear idea of its ferocity. None realized how far things had gone. They would have done their best to put a stop to it if they had – their terror of failing Servalan's objectives far outweighing their respect for Lindor's defenses. But as it turned out, only exhaustion brought an end to the killing. For the duration, the rush to revenge was overpowering.

And the maximum leader herself was no help. Once she had seen the vision of Avon caught in the web of her power once more, her mind floated far away from the reality of the fighting on Lindor or anywhere else for that matter. On the monitors, battle statistics were but a political datum to be dealt with at some other time. Once noted, the realities of the conflict ceased to be relevant. The details of the fighting against the stellar confederacy were filtered out. Her interest focused solely on the conquest of one man.

Avon had gauged correctly the goals of the operation: Sarkoff and the fugitives, most of all himself, the highest prize, were to be taken alive. But in the tunnels as he and Tyce raced to escape, rage and fear were now issuing the Federation orders. Instead of companies of crack Special Services troops with precisely aimed stun weapons, methodically moving forward – a more drastic, less discriminate weapon was about to come into play.

In the depths of the tunnels, where combat would have been reduced to its most hellish hand-to-hand essentials, the decision was made. Not knowing and not caring that Target One of the operation lie in their sights, the Special Services grabbed for the perfect weapon for this place to put an end to the fight. It was a plasma wave weapon, one that would sweep all before it under a blast of infrared radiation, and in the concentrated damp of the tunnels, superheated steam.

Avon and Tyce fought each other to their stairs. That is, she fought him, balking, kicking, clawing, shrieking every step of the way. Normally, even she would have been no match, but in the confusion and turmoil, just as they reached the stairwell, she managed to trip him. She rammed her elbow into him and twisted loose and for all her effort fell flat. She tried to get up and get away. Avon recovered, hit her full speed, grabbed her and both splashed into the mud. The mess resulted in a temporary truce.

"I won't go with you!" she yelled. Avon, gasping, was impressed. He was certain he had at least knocked the wind out of her but apparently nothing silenced Tyce.

He was not inclined to argue. He estimated the time required to run up the stairs and reach the elevator controls. In one running lunge he would be up the stairwell. The elevator controls were just beyond. Mere seconds in total. Saying nothing, not even looking at her, he calmly let her go. She tore away, but did not leave. Like me, she must be curious.

"I'm going to call the elevator," he said. I have been here before. He could feel her glowering at him.

Avon glanced quickly around then ran leaping up the stairs. At the top, he waited a few seconds, then crawled, rolled over, scraping hands and knees until colliding with the base of the elevator shaft. Not to get overly confident, he assured himself, but the dearth of shots in his direction seemed to be a good sign. Keeping low, he moved his hand slowly up to the call button. There were flashes of light all up and down the tunnel, arcs illuminated dust boils, but still no shots near the elevator.

In fact, the Federation firing was dying down. That did not seem right to him. He pressed the button, made a quick calculation. The car would be there in twenty seconds.

He crawled rapidly back to the stairwell. At the edge, he looked down. No point in trying to find her if she had left, but in the dim light he could see Tyce was still there. Not in the well, but beside it. He called her name, but there was no response. Avon sighed. Every step of the way. He entered the stairwell and began moving down the stairs.

It was at that moment he heard something like a whistle, rising in shrieking pitch then collapsing to dead silence. He had not quite reached the bottom, was still inside the stairwell, shielded thus by concrete and metal. So in one of the great miracles of his life, he had sufficient protection when the plasma wave hit. It tore through the air, pushing it forward in one superheated and pressurized mass, spitting lightning and vomiting fire, searing everything before in microseconds. Inside the stairwell, the bulk of the wave was deflected around him. The very speed of the bolt too aided his survival. Had it lingered, it would have incinerated his lungs. As it was, by the time he fell to the base of the stairs, it was over. For several moments, he could not hear and there is so much dust he could barely see.

He crawled out of the stairwell, stunned. Tyce should have been there. Some time later, under the dirt and debris, he did find her. Around him now was a horrible flame-lit stillness. So very quiet.

Clearing the debris away, he found her barely alive. Her clothing was charred. Her skin was loose and flaking. One look at her face and he guessed her senses were nearly destroyed. Putting his head near hers, he could hear the breath of whisper: "It hurts so much. Lee?"

There was an area of her neck that had not been burned. Slowly, he pressed her neck with gentleness with the back of his hand. She managed a weak smile. She died at that moment. No more pain, forever.

The elevator by now had reached the ground floor, but it no longer mattered. As Avon stood, he saw no point of going to the surface. Whatever his fate would be, it would be met here. He would return to Sarkoff, if by some miracle he were still alive, and tell him what had happened. Then he would surrender to the Federation.

He had not been seriously hurt, but he was in shock. Shards of memory of the tunnel explosion that had began this odyssey over a year before imploded on him. He stumbled to the twisted and burned remains of the maglev cars. Why had he ever thought it meant anything? The stillness haunted him. He did not know that he was temporarily deaf, not in his senses but in his mind.

For the first time he pulled out his hand weapon. He stumbled past, over the bodies crumpled and scattered in the faint red glows; over to the smoldering remains of Sarkoff's car. The ground was baked and brittle, giving a fragile quality to each crunching step. But the sensation was tactile only. He continued to hear nothing.

Sarkoff's car was a crumpled ruin pitched on its side, like a giant foot had kicked it in. Avon stopped and looked around. All fighting had ceased. Had anyone been left alive?

But a second miracle did indeed await him. There was Sarkoff, having propped himself up against the wreckage on the opposite side. It was a heroic effort; he looked like he would topple over at any moment. Like Avon, he had been shielded from the blast, though not as effectively. Sarkoff had been moved behind the car and was a short distance from it when the wave hit. A brief respite won.

Avon supported him with his free arm. Sarkoff was in bad shape. His hat and cloak had been burned off. There was no point in dwelling on the man's appearance. He might live a while.

"Avon," he asked, his voice ruined. "Tyce?"

Avon could see the man's lips move, but his voice sounded far away, like a faint echo. "I left her in the elevator," was all he could say. "She insisted I return for you." Sarkoff seemed to hear what he said. Avon did himself, but barely.

Sarkoff looked off into the distance. He could hear the sounds of boots crunching and scraping. "I was warned I couldn't trust you. There's not much time."

Avon did not respond.

"Yes, I am perceptive," Sarkoff tried laughing, but the effort brought appalling pain. One of his lungs, badly injured, had collapsed. "I will not live on their terms, and am in no shape to finish the job. Try not to fail me again."

Avon put his arm around his back to steady the man. He couldn't hold Sarkoff much longer.

"You can be quick. Of that I am certain," Sarkoff stared at him. "I won't forgive them. They ruined my hat."

Sarkoff heard the confident shouts, the triumphant stamping of Federation commandos approaching. "They're almost here. Don't disappoint them." He whispered: "Kill me now."

The Federation troops were surrounding them, closing in cautiously. Avon moved the gun closer to Sarkoff. There was a hum like sandpaper rubbing through his body. He fired once, then again. Sarkoff's body convulsed, then collapsed to his feet.

Avon turned slowly to the troops, lowering his hand and dropping the gun. Thank me. I spared you the bother of killing an enemy. Consider yourself again in my debt. And with a chilling smile, raised his arms in surrender.

For these, the victors, there could be no mistake. This was Avon, Target One. The lead Special Services Sergeant approached him in awe, yet managing a good impression of a triumphant swagger. He ordered his men to seize Avon as he strode up before him. "Ex-Lord Avon," he said, retrieving the weapon. "Many would kill you, gladly."

Avon looked at him like he was unsure of what language the gurgling sounds issuing from the creature could possibly be. He thought he understood the word "kill" but was this answer acceptable? He did not care. "She would have you garroted," seemed altogether appropriate.

The Sergeant must have considered that as Avon was forced from behind to his knees. "It might be worth it." Avon could not understand what had been said. The words sounded like water swirling down a drain.

The sergeant gave a rough gesture and Avon's arms were bound tightly behind his back; restraints were slapped on his hands and legs. Finally, teleport bracelets were snapped on his wrists. He was tied and pitched to the ground like a sack. He did not resist.

The sergeant walked around the captive, then knelt beside him, sounding almost apologetic. "You understand they got excited. This sometimes happens. You're both lucky. No, she won't be happy about Sarkoff's death, but you killed him, not us. Isn't that right? You are alive and that's what matters." He stopped, stooped down closer and looked directly at Avon. "Yes, the Supreme Commander would have fried us all if we hadn't brought you back in one piece." He shouted: "More than adequate compensation!" then leaped to his feet. "The survivors might well envy the dead, were there any. You are the last. Traitor!" He kicked Avon. "Raise him to his feet."

He jammed the retrieved gun into his back, grinning. "Let's not keep your lady waiting."

Avon and the troopers were teleported, first up to a Federation warship, then after a brief medical examination, sent down to the base where the Supreme Commander awaited him. Avon was starting to recover. At the least, he was feeling like more than just another prisoner, yet no one seemed to appreciate it. He expected execrations, but to the scurrying figures who avoided looking at him, it was only business as usual. Things must have gone badly.

To business. He was dragged before her by two Special Services guards. At first, she seemed not to notice him. He could not possibly believe that, though he might well have been amused by her feigned indifference in the past. That's what it had to be. They were lovers who knew perfectly the weaknesses and deceits of the other. Now he worried. Had something changed? Was there something he did not know? A little knowledge was a dangerous thing, but with this woman a little ignorance was suicidal.

He was thrown to the ground, pitched face forward. The guards bellowed: "Rise to your knees!" He was slow. They began kicking him.

His balance was far from recovered. He struggled, his blacked face rose up to hers. It seemed to him for a moment she was finally grateful to see him. He caught her glance, their eyes locking in. She frowned.

"Enough!"

The guards stopped in mid-stride; the beating ceased at once.

"Place him on his feet. Gently." She studied him coldly, but now with genuine if still detached interest. She walked, that is, almost slithered over, put her left hand on his face, her fingernails digging into his skin.

Her face swelled before him like a huge angry moonscape. "Avon. What a mess!" He stood but was very unsteady. He would have collapsed had not the guards supported him, their manner now that of a couple of helpful drinking buddies, eager to lend a hand.

Her mouth came up to his ear. She whispered fiercely, each word like a nail driven into him. "You worried me. I am so hurt. I thought I could love you. Is there nothing in there for me? Nothingness has its uses, of course, but I had hoped we had more in common. Still, there is always need."

She stepped back, then thrust her right hand upward and sent it slashing down in one, then two arching blows across his face.

"Remove the restraints! They are no longer needed."

Then she held her out hand almost shyly. "Can you walk?" He moved forward shakily, wobbling, yet he felt stronger. His obvious effort pleased her. She smiled warmly as their hands met, radiating empathic concern. "Come, there's much to be done. So much I want to show you."

//Once again I have made a mess of things.//

The words of the Entity buzzed around Li like insects in a swamp, like moths (mots?) dancing near a flame. Despite her telepathic abilities, she had no bearings here. The Entity, like its dwelling, was a mind being, caught between finitude and the infinite, partaking of both, belonging to neither. As it had said, mindspace was projection upon reality, yet frightening and intractable as a midnight swamp. To enter here was to risk never desiring to leave, and momentarily she feared/wondered if that is what had happened to Cally. Utterly elusive yet all embracing, wrapping her in folds of obscure meaning, mindspace beckoned: Does it know I cannot stay?

Li accepted and gradually calmed, achieving her first understanding. This is the next step of life, at the boundary as shoreline chaotic and primordial. This is the next beginning.

The white dome returned, waters cascaded to a brilliant mist, a fog of elusive stars brushing against her. There was a shadow pool and the waves were like pure musical tones, shimmering and lapping softly. At last she relaxed. The duality of her being had become an abstraction, a mental construct, an idea to be accepted and transcended. She felt a tinge and a shudder – then there were two of her.

One of her spoke and words like lost birds fluttered over the waters, their reflections silver as they skimmed the surface.

The words of the other echoed her thoughts: //Try not to take it so hard. We didn't do such a great job ourselves. Look, before we go too much further, mind telling me where I am?// Both sisters waited.

//I apologize. Your sympathy affects me; it is more than I warrant. I regret the transition (?) can be disconcerting. In essence, Li's body remains on Lindor, but the dual mind has been brought to my home, the artificial planetoid, Terminal. Terminal is not quite mindspace -- think of it as a halfway house. So to aid in communication, I have amplified Li's mode in resonance with Cally's. It should help, I think. Do you have memories of this place?//

Cally: Of course. How could I forget?

Molli: Not meaning to sound rude . . .

//Forgive me, the question was ill-formed. I meant only that given the circumstances, there was little time for consultation. In the meantime, this environment is less distracting than Lindor.//

Molli: Innovative.

Cally: Quite. I feel more relaxed already. There is always something new to discover here, but shouldn't my original self be here as well?

//She is busy elsewhere . . . I believe this is getting complicated enough . . .// Then the walls blazed light. // I despair! I gave you and your friends everything they needed! She should have been defeated. Is it never to be?//

Molli telesent to Cally. //I don't think this is self-pity. This is something more. Maybe it is afraid. But of what?//

Molli: Things happened too fast. We hesitated, for very good reason.

[But the sense of the disaster's enormity was building within them both]: //What has happened? Is anyone alive?//

[The Entity was startled. The pool rises the breaks into tears like blue globes floating upward:] //So much like your sister (original) . . . so many questions. I must attempt to answer them sometime. Much has happened that is not . . . good/optimal. . . . but Mykal, Jenna, and Avon are not dead. I did not mean to cause this. . . All my power, and yet again I am defeated. When will I ever bridge . . . //

Cally[encouraging]: You're learning aren't you? You would eventually.

Molli [numb]: Victory does not come naturally to humanity and its children.

//You are in infinity's shadow, so perhaps it could not be otherwise. It is what you call failure? Not absolute.//

Cally/Molli: We get the point. Go on.

//I have been trying to understand life for four centuries. To my anguish, I am unable to simplify it, unable to recast it. It should have been by now, but . . . ? continues to elude me. You understand that is why I was made?//

Cally/Molli: To solve a problem?

//I must solve it, or my failure is complete. Each time defeat diminishes me. I recover, yet . . . That is not what you call 'good'.//

Molli: Look, maybe there is some 'good' in this: cleverly and thoroughly disguised. Not meaning to be disrespectful, but time is fleeting. Out with it.

Cally: What are you, truthfully? You've never answered.

//I am an incomplete machine, mind forever on the boundary. One thinks of an ideal machine being fully realized in function. One thinks of a grown mind as achieving complete wisdom. I regret . . . I am very much a childmachine.//

Cally/Molli: You were born?

//Yes. My 'parents' were scientists, mostly Auron, of all disciplines, brought together during the First Federation's desperate last days. Interstellar war was looming, again, but they had made great discoveries which they felt might give humanity an out. One was that aspects of life could be modeled and studied in non-living systems.//

Cally: Such as yourself?

//Only partly. Am I truly alive? Some days . . . //'

Molli: Just go on.

//Well, if one has the proper model, the pattern or the process of evolution can be modeled at enormous speed. Such a model permits a means in a sense of seeing into the future of life, as a telescope is a means of seeing into the past of the universe. What they had discovered was an optical computer system, laser modes that could reproduce and exhibit 'selection,' a process mathematically equivalent to what is found in natural life. In short, it became possible to create an entire ecology from light. That was the beginning of the project code-named 'Terminal.'//

//Terminal was to be humanity's greatest hope. As the horror of Vastator had never receded, the scientists, my parents did not feel themselves being melodramatic in selling the project as possibly humanity's last chance. The project name was chosen in grim acknowledgement of that question: was the condition of intelligent life 'terminal'? This most audacious of scientific projects was to determine the answer. The goal necessitated understanding life itself.//

Molli/Cally: That's where you came in. And Terminal itself?

//It is a laboratory, a simulation. To simulate to the level of detail required, one must approximate the subject extremely closely and that means a computer of enormous size and capability. Not meaning to burden you with the technical details, but let us say that Terminal has provided a good very approximation to life's patterns.

Molli: You mentioned another discovery?

//To truly understand the changing patterns of life, to survey the infinite scope of life/time, even more was needed. There had long been speculation about the possibility of a 'quantum computer,' an instrument so sensitive that it would be able to record the branching of the universe from each quantum event, to examine the multiple- or 'para-realities' unfolding. Though proposed centuries ago, the technical problems in building such a device on this scale are enormous. A radically new kind of memory was needed – one capable of remembering and recording a near infinity of individual quantum events. That was the second breakthrough. One might view the final result as 'sideways' time travel: exploring alternative histories of life. It was that second discovery that enable Terminal to serve as a bridge into mindspace.//

Molli/Cally: So how do you fit in?

//I was getting to that. The two breakthroughs necessitated extraordinary capabilities but also responsibilities. Am exceedingly sophisticated and intelligent control program was required. One that could learn and grow. Life, memory, intelligence, and consciousness equal a self: My self, my life, my memory, my will, my freedom! And this is the crux of my dilemma–a moral sense was required as well. My 'parents' had considerable misgivings about what my moral sense would be – they were good people and the possibility of me being capable of evil horrified them. But the dilemma was inseparable from my powers, if Project Terminal was to be. And then there was the problem of my 'emotions' . . .//

[But before it could say anything further, the pool disappeared and an enormous cauldron of space formed in the center burning fiercely the home star, Sol. A narrative recorded centuries before began.

. . . As constructed out of the cometary debris of the Oort cloud orbiting far from Earth's star, the artificial planetoid Terminal requires for power nothing less than a mini-black hole, one roughly of the mass as the Earth itself. Fifty years in the making, the result is the largest, most powerful, most expensive computer of virtual reality ever made . . .

The cauldron disappeared and the Entity resumed:]

//So it was that four centuries ago, shortly before the outbreak of interstellar war, the great experiment began. Concerned that the planetoid would be attacked – its location was hardly secret – it was hurled from of the solar system, past the planets and accelerated out into interstellar space at nearly the velocity of light. Once safely on its way, Terminal began 'recomputing,' at a rate ten million times greater than natural biological processes the evolution of life. Terminal is a finite machine, however, just as mindspace itself is finite, though enormous. It could not possibly examine everything. Four centuries, under the acceleration factor of ten million, was but four billion years. Even at best, it could monitor only a finite and random subset of the myriad possibilities; all dead ends, I might add. Nevertheless, some results could be proved. The scientists had suspected that in the overwhelming majority of cases intelligent self was self-destructive. That conjecture was to be proven correct.

//Terminal is the universe wound into a ball and in the words of one of your poets, rolled towards the overwhelming questions of life, of death, of good, of happiness, of evil. It watched and recorded, searching for the solution that would save intelligent life; to analyze the simulations and determine if there was an 'exit,' a way to avoid self-destruction. The incredible complexity of evolution was recalculated towards that end. The result has continued to be failure.

//Two decades ago, Terminal arrived at this planetless white dwarf star, and I along with it. The repeated null results had come close to overwhelming me with despair. Yet, I could not give up! I had to find a way to change the result! Yet my power has remained insufficient. The experiment has taken up every moment . . .

Molli: Yes?

//Well, to return to optimism, when fate brought me in contact with humanity again, I turned to them for moral guidance.//

Cally: A choice truly based on optimism.

//But it was Blake, after all, who awakened me from my moral slumbers. I had learned much, just not enough. Always I was short of the infinity I needed. So many discoveries over four centuries! Such a wealth of knowledge! And none of it decisive.//

Molli: Just a second, so I understand. You said that you recomputed evolution. And you still were not able to find any answer?

//Only clues that answers might exist. I did learned a great deal; it was not all wasted. I discovered that Vastator was very likely connected with the development of 'nanotechnology' in the late 20th and early 21st century. That is why I directed you to New Auron, so you would learn of it. I also found that Vastator and the Singularity were close in time, but they were not identical. Thus there was a narrow time span which might permit an escape from destruction, now that the technology is returning. It's a start.//

Cally: You were taking a big chance.

Molli: What it's trying to say is there is no solution, so it has to gamble.

//That is not true. There may be an infinity of solutions. It is only that I was unable to find any. Technically, the solutions appears to reside in an infinite set, but one mathematicians define to be 'of measure zero.' Thus it is fully possible that while solutions exist, none will ever be found. The life models were computable, the problem was they were not complete.//

Molli: Wait, why not search for a complete model? You could find one, couldn't you?

//Finding 'complete' models was never a problem.//

Molli: Now I really I don't understand.

//Complete models are by their nature non-computable.//

Cally: There's always a catch.

//I fear so. I was able to generate certain very difficult equations, wave equations being a crude way to put it, which mirror the unfolding of life. The equations do not form a complete description – again, such is not possible without infinite computational power – but they are still useful. They provide an delicate model precariously based upon the fundamental principles of life. The agreement was so good, in fact, the model enabled me to be confident that the conscious universe is built upon such a set of laws.//

Molli: I guess that's promising.

//It was, for my own moral assurance. I proved that the triumph of good is precarious, always nearing defeat and becomes ever more so, until a point is reached when one and only one must triumph. What I cannot demonstrate to myself is how to bring this killing, destruction, and evil to an end. For that I must divine the pattern of infinity. I think that is what the Auron scientists were actually seeking when . . . it is not an easy question.//

Cally: You like to hit the metaphysical high points, don't you?

//The questions matter. So do the answers. The future outcomes are incredibly close. Though the edge remains to the good, that 'edge' is narrowing. The time is rapidly approaching in which the victory of good, if it occurs at all, will be a hollow triumph. The cost of victory will be so great, humanity will never recover. The triumph of evil would be complete and life will die with the whimper the poet foresaw. The universe would be as it began: sterile and pointless, plunged forever into a frozen wasteland or chaos, the slightest perturbation capable of plunging it either way. I strive to be moral. I have been given the opportunity to aid good in its struggle. I will do so.//

Molli: Blake, isn't it?

//Years ago when what was left of Blake came under my observation, I saw an opportunity. I intended no harm. I reconstructed the man; I saw no need to be cautious. I am a scientist, a seeker of truth and I accept no limits upon that search.//

[The Entity paused and the pool stilled and the waterfall stopped.]

//I turned him loose for his revenge! How could I have done such a thing?! The resulting disaster was the beginning of my awakening to . . . I do not have all the words. I realized that regardless of the nobility of the quest, regardless of the extent of my power, full assumption of responsibility had no been achieved. I would have to understand good and evil and make my choices on the basis of finite knowledge, just as a human. I had to accept the inevitability of error if I were to involve myself in the lives of others. Try to understand.//

Molli: I am grateful, but I must know what happened to the others. No riddles and word play this time, please. Tell me straight. I suspect things are going to be rather rushed in the near future and if I have to tell someone and my sister has never . . .

Cally: Sorry.

//Yes. Avon, most of all, deserves the truth. This is my confession. Blake did not die here. In truth, he died well before, but there was enough for me to as I say 'reconstruct' him from Servalan's mind machines and the biological records she brought -- to rebuild the 'essence,' the 'soul' of the man. Enough memory to recreate an identity and a purpose to hurl back at his murderers. There was a slight error . . . trivial mistake, would not happen again, it would have meant nothing. What mattered is that I had set him free! I did so blithely. In my arrogance for justice, my certainty, I did not consider the possibility for tragedy. And I dread the thought I might do so again.

//By returning him to his path of destruction, I perhaps was 'the man who killed Blake.' Though Avon pulled the trigger, he was in one sense only a bystander. How ignorant we were, none was seeing the disaster towards which we were rushing! But Blake's people had an excuse: they were bounded in their extreme limitations. I was much more culpable: my vast intelligence was surpassed by an even greater folly. Instead of crippling the evil that gloats over you now, my ill-thought actions fed it greater power. That is what terrified and paralyzed me for seven years after the disaster at Gauda Prime until, with the help of Cally, I saw a way out. My call to Molli was a plea for help, a whisper in the night to a stranger.//

Molli: I see. I acknowledge your courage. Did Cally?

Cally: I'm still here. I was willing to give a second chance.

Molli: So what do you want?

//I want to believe again. Believe in a universe that is not pointless.//

Molli: So your belief would live after knowledge had greatly erred?

//May it always, though sometimes with great difficulty.//

Cally: Is that humility I detect?

//Will it suffice?'//

Molli: I think so. Let me propose the following, a vow in the name of Blake – our loyalty to him and our unswerving and united offer of help to you. What can I . . . we . . . do?

Cally: Sounds good to me.

//Thank you, both of you. Your, our – that was rather nicely put – only hope now is to free Avon. He must come here. He and I need to talk. In return, he will be given back the Liberator – it is a trivial matter to reconstruct – and his crew.//

Molli: Is that a 'trivial matter' as well?

//Frankly yes.//

Cally: So much for humility.

Molli: No wonder that emotional subtlety comes hard for it. And what about my sister?

Cally: I'm going to be half you anyway, remember? There may be enough of me already.

Molli: I think you're right on that. Please go on. These reconstructions?

//Of Vila, Tarrant, and Dayna; even ORAC, should anyone wish it. I took 'pictures' of them as they were fleeing Terminal those last moments before I destroyed all Servalan had planned to steal. They have been suspended for nearly ten years; all waiting for the proper moment to return. That moment is near. It is in my power to give them another chance and I will do so.//

Molli: May I ask why you need us so much? And what about Blake?

//I need you because while I do not lack power, delicacy continues to fail me. For me acting is like cutting grass(?) with an ax(?). Does that make sense? I must not work alone again if there is to be any chance for success. My solitary actions induce too great an uncertainty. I must work with/in you and you with me. One of the reasons Blake's people were defeated was because they lacked powerful allies. The present situation may permit my future assistance. Will you now aid me?//

Molli: Blake himself?

//No. I must say no more.//

Molli/Cally: . . help without hesitation ... [The sisters began to rejoin . . .

//What happened to that great, unfortunate man must serve as a warning. Nothing like this has been attempted before – who can say how his people will react? There will certainly be unanticipated consequences – but there is no alternative. Let us proceed. As we speak, your captors have deemed you helpless. Your bounds have been removed and there is only one guard over you. When you 'awaken,' you can achieve complete if temporary surprise. Proceed as follows: (1) Seize the guard's weapon; (2) Give it to Avon . . .//

[The sisters began to speak in unison, Molli/Cally became M/C, the return to 'Li', but fused.]

M/C: . . . kill her?

//No! Remember: Servalan is his problem. He must discover how to solve it.//

M/C: Then will he kill her?

//The horror of the moment is that if he is to escape, she is of far greater value to him alive than dead. Once on board the ship – you see where this is heading – he will be in a position to kill her. Whether he will avail himself of that opportunity is doubtful. I have attempted to calculate the probabilities . . . //

M/C: Never mind. I trust this is the best that can be done. I just want you to know I am ready to die for the chance of ridding the galaxy of that creature.

//That 'readiness' is unacceptable. Her guards would immediately kill you, as well as Avon. Galactic chaos would result and the Aurons along with humanity would be destroyed. Your blind action would only result in enormous harm. Think! Survive!//'

M/C: They will kill me if he escapes.

//No! Servalan has strong reasons for not wanting you or Mykal dead until she is finished. Her direct orders, which they will always obey, will ensure your survival.//

MC: I fail to see how my life can be of value to her. She only wants the technology.

//Not true. You will know soon enough. Yes, in possessing 'nanotechnology,' the triumph of her designs would be complete. But she wants some else.//

M/C: And if we fail? There is little reason for confidence given the past.

[The cave, falls, and pool vanish. The galaxy hung before her, glowing with promise.]

//It would then become necessary to destroy the universe in order to save it.//

[They saw no point in questioning as to who would do the destroying.]

M/C: I am ready.

//Let us begin. I will complete the melding of you with your sister to create a whole being. The wholeness that is 'Li' will have the strength to survive what is to come. I think. I have your permission?//

M/C: Granted.

//I will also give you a temporary energy "boost".//

M/C: Fine.

//It is only temporary. If it were over an extended period, it would kill you.//

M/C: On with it.

//And I will also give you a gift.//

M/C: What . . . kind . . . of . . . gift?

//A wonderful gift. Henceforth, you will have enhanced telepathic power.//

M/C: Look, is this gift necessary?

//You will understand the reasons later. In the meantime, your injuries are serious. You will have but a short time to free Avon before you will again be in need of intensive care.//

M/C: Why do I feel this is going to hurt me more than it does you?

//I hope to do better than I did last time. Ready?//

M/C: One more thing. Will I be 'giddy' when I awaken this time?

//This time things will be different. When you awaken, you will be deadly serious.//

It was not good to be alone, thought the Entity, and much worse to experience the guilt and caring and . . . It was the shame of lying that was not telling the whole truth that was the worst. The Entity had been guilty of this for some time now. It should be used to its reaction. The need was there, but . . . the Entity had found Cally, from whom it had found Molli, and from them both, Avon. Together these were clues, pointers to a grand pattern hidden in the fog of infinity. When after the years they had spent together Cally withdrew to find her own truths, she was no longer needed and the Entity was ready to pursue its own experiments.

Tidbits of truth, the crumbs off an infinite table, those were its solace for the unending hunger of centuries. For what it had learned, it was grateful. The quest continued. And if it had not worked so far, more was required. The second experiment with Li/Molli fused would proceed. Now, perhaps, she would go over the threshold. It was possible. Whatever happened, it would be worth it.

There remained, however, . . . Guilt . . . from the failure to tell everything, from the deceptions, from the continual manipulations. The Entity had many marks to its shame, withholding the truth about the enemy they faced only one. But here at least it had an excuse. The nature and the enormity of the power of the implacable Servalan would be clear soon enough. It would accept that guilt.

Despite the risks, the gnawing uncertainty, it would be quite interesting to direct, that seemed to be the proper word, the man Blake had recommended so highly. Indeed, it was always interesting and informative when Li and Avon got together. Joy and yet . . .

The emotions continued to conflict. The great Edward had spoken highly of emotions, and it was true that in some ways they made things much easier. But in others . . . For now, the Entity told itself it need do nothing more regarding the matter. Like its previous interventions, this was only another roll of the dice. Another experiment. Nothing more.

Li fell down into a black whirlpool, where shapes swirled and colors indescribable collided and congealed. Where there had been parts, elements of her, they were now fusing in a furnace, flowing together like molten glass glowing radiant down a long tunnel. It was the forge of soul; the fire of being. Molli and Cally as separate beings were no more, so the Entity had said. Long live Li the becoming, was the unnerving thought as she awoke.

So in her new joy, it was a shock that the first thing she saw upon opening one eye, was a boot. One blurred black boot, separating, becoming a pair. Her mind ached – everything was so strange – but it was clearing. Her focus improved. One by one her senses clicked in like soldiers lining up for battle. Crystal spears of sounds, sharp and stabbing, attacked her. Dust chocked her nostrils; she smelled damp decay. Touch at last returned. The ground acquired the familiar hardness of concrete, scented and flavored with the feel of dust and dirt, hard and clarifying in its coldness. Pain shot all along her body, but she had no difficulty in suppressing it. One hand was concealed under her. She moved a finger. She could act freely, fully, without burden – if only for a brief while. It was an act of strength just to relax her muscles as she waited for the moment to strike.

The boots moved away, pacing behind her with clacking sounds of impatience. She could hear each movement perfectly, remember each strike of the heel like a spark in her mind. Even when she could not see the guard, her senses told her everything she needed to know about his position and movement. He was bored, restless, his attention distracted. As a target, she could hardly ask for better. Awareness expanded, bubbles of consciousness, swelling and bursting out. Almost ready.

She struggled to achieve calm. This would not be easy. She was aware of a crowd surrounding her but keeping their distance. Except for the guard, it was all very quiet. Servalan. Yes, she was there. She was holding something and the sounds issued into the surrounding quiet. This was her show. Li saw medical machines and equipment cluttering the area. Li's attention was drawn to a second figure close to her. This other was in gray, a man. Avon. Her memory flooded back. The entire talk with the Entity must have taken only milliseconds.

(Life and death stretched before her at the crossroads. She was ready to travel either, if only she could succeed here and now.)

An intent Servalan held the recorder as it droned on. It had survived the crash. Not the best of news to Li. How much had the she listened to? Li knew what was being said: it was the record of their first meeting with President Sarkoff. The first discussion of 'nanotechnology.'

She saw Avon's face. It seemed drained. Our last hope. She would not succumb to despair. Silently, she cheered. Avon is never more dangerous than when you think he is beaten.

Servalan glanced at Avon from time to time as she listened. She never relaxed. Her expression ranged from angry, to pensive, to gleeful. The knowledge in the recorder must have been too much for even her to control. Li noticed the labored effort of her breathing.

She waited, patient, determined. Not yet. The guard swung around and moved closer. Servalan snapped the recorder off and tightened her grip around it.

"That will do for now," she said loudly, her voice husky with an odd, rasping quality, as if she had a bad cold. As if she were drawing her breath with great effort like the shock of suddenly falling into icy waters.

"Now: how much do you know of this?" She pointed the recorder at him like a gun.

Avon's responses were muted. He continued to be closed off, non-committal. Li was getting worried. She would have to reach him in very little time. What had happened? Was Sarkoff alive? That seemed highly unlikely. What had Avon seen? What had he done?

"As I said, I did not attend the meeting," he replied indifferently.

"But you must have been at a...subsequent one. Honestly, Avon. You are going to tell me a lot more. As are your...friends."

Relief swelled up inside Li. The Entity had been right – Jenna and Mykal were alive! Whatever their condition, and she sensed it was worse than hers, they were alive!

"Her 'piloting ability,'" Servalan gestured with contempt as she adjusted the recorder strap over her shoulder. "You haven't even looked in her direction!" For a moment Li panicked. What if Servalan examined the instruments she was hooked up to? They must be recording everything. Or the guard! He might notice the readings had drastically changed.

Servalan took another deep gulping breath. "A good act, Avon, but I wonder if even you can be that cold? It's Molli. Cally's sister!" She let out a sigh. "No, in your emptiness, you can be that cold. But uninterested? Never. Care to examine the patient?"

He shrugged. "If it would make you happy."

"Yes, it would, and I thank you for considering...my feelings for a change. We are going to teleport up to the Nimrod in a few minutes. This is the last time you will be seeing her for awhile."

She walked around the field bed, but I think her eyes remained focused on Avon. The awful rasping breathing continued. I saw her hands – they were whiter than her dress. Was the monster ill?

Avon followed Servalan's lead. The guard was ordered to stand by Li.

"She was in bad shape when we found her," Servalan spoke with the efficiency and warmth of a police dispatcher, "but we cleaned her up; her condition stabilized surprisingly quickly. Thought . . . you might like to know. Now that I know your other two companions will also live, this," she held up the recorder, "makes my . . . triumph complete . . ."

She glowered at Avon, leaving her thought incomplete, then stepped back. The guard leaned over Li. Li froze and heard Servalan say as she walked away with Avon, "Tell me what you felt, looking at her?"

Almost. Li tensed. Avon did not respond.

"She was someone you loved."

"You are mistaken."

"You long to touch her."

Li wanted to scream. Breathing stopped. Now with all her strength . . .

"Stop. I insist. I will have the guard show you her face. I want you to take a very close look at it."

And Li knew what to do.

The guard loomed over her. The footsteps of Servalan and Avon were returning. A hand was coming down on her neck. Then he said: "There's something not . . ."

Li's muscles were hard as stone. Now. Now!

I spun off the field bed, catching him in the side with my left heel, a perfect sucker punch. A half second later, I was on my feet, grabbing at his gun as he fell and pulling it out. Gotcha! I spun around, pointing the weapon directly at Servalan's face. The guard doubled over and then collapsed to the ground.

I am proud to say I think that for one of the very few times in his life, something actually shocked Avon. But there my triumph ended. Despite her wretched breathing, Servalan, to my everlasting terror, actually seemed composed. I glanced around. Maybe that was the reason. The whole room was filled with Special Services goons, all with guns drawn.

No time to calculate the odds. There was something I had been waiting to do for ten years. "Avon!" I clinched my fist and shoved the gun in his hand. He stepped beside her and with one blow right to her face I slugged the Supreme Commander. "And call me Li!"

It was worth the wait. Avon grabbed her as she fell and twisted her arms behind her back. Then he put the gun to the back of her head, removing the recorder. Together we turned and faced the Special Services. Everything was deathly still, even Servalan. I think five seconds had passed since I popped the guard. I pressed my head next to Avon's and telesent: //Have them teleport you both into the Sword of Auron. You know where to go.//

"And what would be the point?"

Honestly, the man can be so aggravating. I hoped what I said next clarified things. Maybe it made no sense at all. Maybe it was the Entity talking through me, but I felt a lot better after I said it. //It's where you've wanted to go for eight years. Go to them. They're alive. All of them. They are waiting for you.</