THE PATTERN OF INFINITY

A Sequel to "Terminal"

The Land of Ghosts

What remained of the great ship broke, swirled, and splintered across the sky like a vase smashed against a rock. As it shattered, the light of a tiny, blinding sun raced to catch the fragments that sizzled and burned through the atmosphere; fiery streamers that rushed down, slowed, drifted and spun in ashes over the land and sea below. Yet what was below could not be characterized as land or sea, matter or energy, force or life. This place, this planet, touched upon them all and more but was none of them.

So when the ashes--some molecules of which had been alive--descended upon the surface, all was not lost. New possibilities awaited, new and reborn patterns of life that were now at last free to come into being.

The Entity, the control program that monitored the whole of this place, each particle noted in its vast computational engine, watched and realized there were limits even to it--and the form it retrieved from this cataclysm might remain unchanged, its particular essence unaltered. That was cause for some concern. Even death might not transform it, so powerful was its pattern. But so be it. For until this being and its great mind summoned up the will and purpose to achieve its destiny, the plan had little chance for success. There were those who had their doubts, the Entity among them. But it would not despair. Courage was called for, now more than ever. How the Entity longed for sufficient courage! And the pattern possessed courage.

The sun reached its zenith as the funeral pyre ended, the ashes dispersed in the slight wind. And in that shadowless perfection . . .

Kerr Avon's pattern awoke.

Consciousness entered, flowed, untroubled and clear, rippling smooth and warm as a summer stream. For an unknown time he could not move, could not even understand motion, so overwhelming was the depth of the sensation of awakening. He was pure mind, that he sensed at once: Calm, transparent and accepting, beyond body and most certainly beyond concern. He was aware. He savored the moments of sensation moving deliberately along his being, like beads shuttled along a cord. This was a feeling extraordinary, a compensation and redemption of all pain. He had to understand how such a feeling could possibly be. There had been times when he had imagined himself as a mind singular, so remote from his body as to be indifferent to its fate. Now he had triumphed as he passed death. He had reached that vision.

Well, after a fashion. Yes, it was a great mind and Avon acknowledged that undisputed fact as it echoed within him. That mind had survived. He had lived, fought, and--no cause for regret--he had in a sense here at last won. Who would dare challenge his victory? The great mind surged upward and exalted as the sun arched downward. Memories and thoughts were alive; death and damnation drained empty. Was this not the essence of immortality? He would yield to no evidence of death. He would rejoice forever in unimaginable triumph.

But the triumph and the rejoicing could not last. Doubts trooped in with leaden boots. Had he in fact actually died? What had happened to him? And the ship? Where was he? Try to remember. Terminal. The sun neared the horizon. Light was dying.

Damn.

A name came to him suddenly, a shock like thunder as lightening split the sky above him and the sea turned to throbbing mud. There was stinging pain in the memory of this place. So why had he come back here, after all these years? Redemption was here; he had hoped. And could even he deny redemption?

He tried to recall the details. The ship had been attacked . . . no, that did not seem to be the right phrasing. Something had enveloped it, dissected it, as it entered Terminal's system. Something very strange indeed had happened. Yes, the ship had dissolved, exactly as had the Liberator nearly a decade before. Dissolved to molecular residue. Goo seemed the appropriate technical term. That memory was not pleasant. He retreated from it. This ship had been called . . . yes, the Sword of Auron.

He looked around slowly. The throbbing mud subsided. He was on a wide flat beach, brown and warm, the sky arching above with pinprick stars, as enveloping as the inside of an eggshell. Slow waves lapped, moist as a kiss. He could hear. He waited; he did not know how long.

Then the sun seared and soared above him in exaltation.

The palace of metaphor.

Where had that strange phrase come from? It seemed such an odd way to describe what lay before him, but not inappropriate. He looked around furtively. He could focus his attention from the ocean to the sky to the beach then to himself. There was a consistency and logic to this place after all. The process of consciousness taking in sensations was familiar, yet oddly different. He began to catalog all he could see and sense. Of the starship, nothing could be seen. He had not actually expected to find any glowing fragments or dramatic smoldering shards of the thing, yet their absence in the scene was jarring. Something about all of this was far too clean and orderly. Therefore, by Avon's logic, was altogether suspect. In his universe, many things were to be sought but not to be trusted, order most of all.

By all meaningful standards of proof and causality he, the being once called Kerr Avon, did not exist because he could not exist. His memories seemed to prove that. Avon wondered. His body? Look for it. No hands, no feet, no torso visible. He reached out to touch his head, but there was no head to touch and nothing to touch it with. This, Avon concluded, would never do.

There was something else that disturbed him. I am not alone, he thought

Avon shook his non-existent head. He returned his attention to his immediate surroundings. He tried to see into the distance, to get a feel for the place, but the sun was near zenith again. The fierce light seemed to pour right through him, nearly blinding him. He waited and as the sun began to set in its diffuse light, entangled in a sea-driven mist, the scene became as obscure as fog; as deep and sluggish as mercury. Avon despaired. The sky spread over him like the lid of a silver coffin. The sea was now glassy smooth.

Terminal must be hell for a meteorologist.

He moved to the edge of the sea, saw the surface barely disturbed by wavelets. Like a demon, in the last moment of light, he realized he could not see his image. And the sun went down again.

There had to be a psychological point at which things could not get any more strange and he was actively seeking it. This was even more disturbing than his first visit. He struggled to keep what was left of his composure. He had a totally undeserved reputation for losing it at critical moments and the unfairness of that accusation irked him. He had far more often triumphed and kept his head. His critics had never done any better. Of course, on occasion no one but him was around to appreciate his victory.

Blake appreciated it.

He walked along the black stillness of the beach. No wind stirred. It was cold but even the cold had a hollowness about it. The shivers he felt were purely mental. Here there were no sounds of boots crunching sand, no birds shrieking, nothing except the tiniest wap of wave along an endless beach. It was like being cut off by soundproof glass from all existence. It was like being a ghost.

(There was a part of Avon that realized something about this place contained both metaphor and meaning. He could read it if he wanted to.)

His consciousness focused on the path ahead. Forward movement at least felt gratifying. And it might be interesting as well. The planet could not be infinite. In fact, it had to be very small. All that he needed was a goal. Death could be such a bore. Life demanded goals. So to, presumably, did the afterlife. If he were indeed in some fashion alive, movement itself would have to provide a temporary purpose. There was a place for purpose, even here. Geir had sought a purpose.

The memory of that meeting that had set all this in motion seemed so absurd here. Avon was certain he would attain a purpose, but would it make any more sense. He smiled, a rare smile of satisfaction. In a world of silent terror, Avon was for the moment almost in harmony. And as if in answer . . .

White caps like strands of pearls, whisper waves danced and glided by, guiding him along in the starlight until the sun rose once more . . .

From the sea, scudding overhead to zenith, blazing white hot, burning into the shadow of substance that he was . . .

Avon stopped. His perceptions were becoming sharper, more steady. Impatient, he could see in stark detail great mounds of rusted rock, jutting out from the shore, angry against the morning sea.

He must remember more of Terminal. Twilight again would be hasty upon him. There was this specific memory: Terminal had a very high rotation rate, at least 10 times that of Earth, the cycle of night and day would last little more than two hours. That was a regularity he could count on. This planet, like any other, offered the steady beat of sun and stars. Whatever this place was, it could not be pure fantasy.

There is reality here. There were limits to the illusions.

The memory brought a stab of worry. He did not want to be caught out here for too many days and nights, however immortal his condition. In most places in the universe there was no danger conceivable after death, but things might well be different here.

If it could scare Servalan, the place might threaten terrors no longer consigned to hell.

On a rock smeared black and red, a flock of birds, startled by his approach, flew up and like black scissors cut across the white paper sky.

Avon was reassured. A ghost could not startle ghosts.

From time to time he glanced back. There were no footprints, neither of himself or anything that might be following. He wondered briefly if he were in a kind of place of judgment, not exactly an afterlife as such. Logic as much as amusement, naturally, dispelled both possibilities with a metaphysical belly laugh. Avon could never bring himself to believe in a God, least of all one that performed tricks.

Much has changed from my last visit. Why?

And things were continuing to change. He stopped and looked down. Near the end of this day, he had come upon a field of shells, bleached and broken; once fragile, now fragmented. He stooped to examine them. As he picked one up and crushed it, for the first time touch, and sight, and sound were joined. He stood. A wave grew loud and there was a sound deeper than thunder as it fell crashing, splaying upon the beach. Startled, he turned to face an ocean that had suddenly shed its restraints. He stepped back, amazed. His heart raced. The tormented ocean stirred violently for as far as he could see.

Avon retreated away from the beach. It was almost dark again. Some distance away from the shore, nestled among the cliffs, he could make out--barely--a grove. There were shrubbery and trees, verdant against the brown and tan of badly eroded soil. A small stream flowed from the grove and cut swiftly passed him. He wanted to reach down and immerse his hand in this sudden flow of water. But he hesitated. He looked to the side, then behind him and down. There were footsteps.

He was sure they were his own. He walked quickly as the world around him folded into the dark. More fascinated than frightened, he followed the stream. Tiny florescent creatures winked as they darted seaward and passed rocks rounded smooth and slippery with oily glowing moss. Terminal was getting richer to all his senses by the second.

When at last he reached the base of the cliff, he could see but only faintly. He decided to wait there until daybreak. He stood under the single enormous tree overhanging the stream. The tree towered over him, seemingly growing larger even as he watched. He did not know how long he stood there. But as dawn came, huge branches thrust out and stitched the morning sky. The tree seemed to envelop the whole of the heavens.

Then he looked down and noticed the grave markers. In the shade beneath the tree, there were two tombstones. He moved closer trying to make out the lettering. At first the names meant nothing to him, symbol characters he had never seen. Then they dissolved and were replaced. On the right side the name became "TARRANT." On the left, the name transformed to "CALLY."

#

He stood there for a long time, silent, oblivious to the emerging sounds of day, sounds of frantic insects in the humidity, sounds low in an unhappy buzzing. The steady flow of the water jeered beside him. Mist and spray hissed from the shadows. The graveyard scene, he grasped, was more than an illusion. People had died on Terminal. And for these two, he had wished their deaths.

(From that realization came his first understanding of the nature of Terminal. Here the metaphysical primaries were reversed. The mind was supreme, not existence. On Terminal, death was transformed into life, life was entrapped in death, reality weaved and wavered between them. He would need to understand this fully.)

Little wonder Servalan had fled this place. How could she endure a mirror world, an upside-down existence that reflected her moral worth?How could anyone?

With that realization, came a measure of relief. Within the limits of physical law, if Terminal were indeed a place where consciousness was paramount, he might well be able to bend aspects of it to his will. Of course there was the question, did he have the right to? He had to consider that. Was he morally worthy? The question had to be asked, if not precisely answered. If not worthy, his fate might well be Servalan's. But Avon was confident He would not be found wanting. As he had never descended to her depth (as a man who would have slaughtered the whole of the galaxy to possess Anna, he would never have considered such an action right.), he need not share either her fear or her fate. Control, his lifelong obsession, was still possible.

He stepped back from the stream, retreated from the grove and the twin graves. The sounds and sights of life surrounded him with a vengeance. Above him in the tree vibrant with green, two golden birds sang as the branches swayed in the wind.

Avon's smile was without cynicism. He was becoming alive, more stronger by the minute. He was neither tired nor hungry, not in the slightest. He could wait this out as long as necessary. He could win.

And as night came again, for the first time since returning to consciousness, he observed and felt his body in full awareness. It was odd looking down at one's legs and being exhilarated at seeing them. His arms reached out, hands came together, fingers netted and held firm. He touched his head, brows, eyes and chin in movements like a benediction and saw/felt with satisfaction in the faint glow that even his clothes were as he remembered. He flexed his muscles and felt strength as he had not felt in years.

He went back to the stream and peered into it, now placid and smooth . . . and saw a reflection as the sun ascended. The face belonged to a demon, an eyeless monster who . . . he was shocked, resembled Blake. But then it changed and was . . . his face. Not quite fully in detail realized, but enough for him to see years wiped from it; a measure of youth returned.

He looked back at the gravestones. They were unchanged, the names un-weathered. He suspected as soon as he left they would go away to be swallowed into some formless and eternal void. Yet, there was no rush on his part to leave. He was content to feel his own physical presence; to soberly relish the "rebirth" (he winced at the term but there seemed no substitute). Sight, flesh, strength, were whole again. He heard the crash of laughing sea waters in the distance; he smelled the warm humid odor of the tree. He stood on moist ground, slippery yet firm.

When night came, more slowly it seemed, he realized he must be regaining his time sense. And when again the first pink of dawn became visible, he remained patient, motionless. The stream became a golden arrow flowing in the fires of the morning sun . . . he saw his reflection, full for the first time, flash like caught in foil.

No more the demon or the ghost. The image of a man.

Servalan had wagered that Terminal was aptly named. She was right. This is an end, but not the end. Not yet.

He was appalled at being so close to contentment. He pulled himself back. Something had rescued him and returned him to life against all odds and reason. The creature would surely want payment. Yet, this was the kind of bargaining Avon was familiar with. He would not make collecting the full sum easy. Was there even a point in seeking out the other? He wasn't sure. It would be far more appropriate that whatever ran this place come to him. The other must need to talk, otherwise why return him to life? Let it show itself. Let that be his answer to the unspoken questions alive in this place.

The sky cleared near dawn. Over the sea, stars were caught in the light weave of the looming moon . . .

Only there was no moon.

Avon laughed and the "moon" shattered like a plate hit by a bullet and plummeted into the sea in silent splashes. He folded his arms. He would drive a hard bargain. Reborn, he was ready.

And so it was at that moment the sea lit up. Startled, he shielded his eyes. His plan, such as it was, had actually worked. Who could have doubted? Someone was getting impatient and that was a weakness he could use.

The light formed into a tiny round object rising out of the sea. It cut across the sky like a fireworks rocket, then high above him it descended with a whistle that became a scream. When it reached him, it was a solid sphere of pure light, perhaps only a few centimeters in diameter. Just as suddenly it cut in half with only the bottom hemisphere glowing and blinking. And then only a quarter. Then it began moving through the air, leading ahead. Avon did not budge. He had played dumb before in situations like this. He had gotten embarrassingly good at it.

But a voice, as cold as a cop, issued forth and would have none of it. "Follow me."

He shrugged, but he followed. Not briskly to be sure, but there was definitiveness to his movements that suggested a confidence excessive even for him. From all the evidence, he was now as before: whole, one person, one tough unity of unbeatable body and mind.

Many had told him that death would be an improvement, and so death had ironically resulted in such. This was not so bad, he thought, striding forward. Any reasonable person would have feared for him. There were many reasons for him in the afterlife to expect worse.

But I have beaten death. I am life.

#

The sphere, its light adjusting as Terminal's sun rose, directed him back to the shore and to the north, bypassing the cliffs. In the broadening daylight, shallow pools lay placid among brown sand, broken shells and twisted pieces of soaked driftwood.

Continuing to improve the illusion.

With each passing step the sensual detail increased. Off in the deeper waters, enormous rocks, black and glistening, thrust up among the crashing waves. Avon was impressed. The sea remained within bounds.

For close to an hour, he followed the sphere as the sun again neared setting. The grove was far behind and he thought no more of it. Up ahead was where his futures lie. He saw another massive rock, more regular and less eroded than the others, and much closer to the shore. It was then that the sphere stopped. "Wait here," it commanded and floated off.

Avon did not contest it; saw no point in doing so. The sphere and whoever controlled it did not concern him. He glanced to the "west." There was a diffuse red glow spreading over the sea. It was nearing night again.

"Resume following." Avon turned sharply to the voice. The sphere had returned.

"May I ask how much longer?"

"You cannot be tired." It paused. "We are almost at the destination."

The light of Terminal's sun was dying upon the hills and sand-blasted cliffs to the east. Avon looked ahead, his eyes adjusting. The mist was coming in again, the sky overhead like dark glass. The huge rock ahead drew deeper into the sea.

"Follow," repeated the sphere.

Avon listlessly resumed. He would have preferred to have explored the place on this own.

Exploring Terminal is exploring oneself.

Drawing closer--he could not make out the whole of the rock's form--but the phosphorescence of the sea provided some light.

There was a remarkable symmetry to the rock. It rose from its watery base to become a pointed half dome in the shadows. And there were flying buttresses coming out from it, thrust solidly into the sea.

Artificial.

Avon was confused. Under no circumstances was he going to swim out to that. Yet he found himself starting to run to get a closer look. There was an uncontrollable excitement. He would make contact! Final confirmation that his life continued! And in so doing he could reclaim the whole of it and drive a very hard bargain indeed. Exultation arose like a torrent flowing over a parched desert.

He stopped. The sphere flew away into the night. He could only hear the pounding of the waves. There was an opening and then he saw her. It was . . . no it could not be. At the entrance stood a woman in black hair. She was dressed in a silver gown. She was lit from the back; he could not make out her face but he was certain who she was. The water became placid between them. They looked at each other for a long time and he moved closer to the edge of the sea.

"Cally?" he asked.

"Of course. Please come in," she extended her hand. The waters parted and he crossed over the dry and solid sand, until he reached the long ramp.

"We have much to discuss," she said. And as he walked up the ramp to stand beside her, and took her hand, she said simply: "You have been missed."

#

Cally--A Diagram and Pattern of Subtle Air

The pattern that was Cally hesitated, formed, blurred, then dissolved for a moment and finally flashed into substantive existence. In a manner of speaking. Her pattern did have a location, if not of any substance known or in any aspect of the universe, but for the moment Cally came to be once more. Her narrow face and saddened eyes, so moving and remote, had again crossed the boundary into life. The matter was urgent. Her personal attention was required.

Here in this room, in this house, there was an unavoidable and astonishing sense of all space being stretched out to infinity, something like being at the center of a room made entirely of mirrors, each reflecting off each other into the brilliant sparkling endless depths. It had fascinated her initially, some years before (before even the notion of years became indistinct, meaningless). It still attracted her.

Above her, resembling an enormous bowl of lightest blue, something very like a force bubble closed off her house: transparent, impossible to break, holding back a surging sea of endless extent. This was a cathedral of space, what had once been described as a "basement universe," a structure of space and time that could be stretched and projected without limit into other dimensions. The reality was all existence in the palm of her hand.

Cally could appear anywhere in the universe she desired by stepping through a door. But she had never done so. She intended never to leave here. This was her home and the influence she chose to exert on the world outside was to be circumspect, quiet, subtle, never obtrusive. Others would do the actual work. Nothing else would be required of her. Exhaustion and defeat had been her destiny. She did not want them to be her legacy.

For the hour of crisis was at hand. Li's shrill cries had burst into her remote world with both unexpected and terrifying clarity. The link had never been tested to this extent, but it held and that offered hope. The carefully constructed plan of Cally, Blake, and the Entity had been shattered. Servalan had triumphed again, leaving her enemies in confusion as they had once again, despite all efforts, underestimated her. But as Li knew the truth, now so too now did the whole of the Auron web.

Servalan was an Auron.

How could it be? It was unthinkable, beyond all reason, but the truth could not be denied. It was not the sort of thing she would have lied about, certainly not then, certainly not to Li. Cally had ordered all message traffic on the Web silenced except the most crucial messages. And for the first time in its existence, since coming into being centuries before, it was done. She had to know more. In the collective anguish of the web, they all had to know.

Like drops of dew, like slivers of sunlight on a strand of spider silk, message clusters hung on the threads, waiting for her word that they could proceed.

She had to get from Li as much as she could. And that was not easy. It was clear that her sister was being sedated, so that little would get out. Li would be monitored and modulated, she would awaken and send only for brief periods. But, it was being done, heroically. It was far from perfect information, but nevertheless a new, clearer picture of the reality they faced was beginning to emerge.

Servalan knew the future. Well, she had some knowledge. Not perfect, that was impossible. But she could sense, could feel, future events and with sufficient will bend them to her purpose. To grasp what this person was capable of, unique in all human existence, was to face the enormous power of evil, a concept beyond dread, to confront a fact as subtle as a knife to the throat. But it had to be faced. It was easy enough intellectually to admit fear, but despair, far more dangerous to an Auron, again tore at the Web, threatening to shred and scatter it for all time.

Pity the future. For we created this monster. And the monster we created will consume us all.

This much Cally had been able to determine. The legends of a failed experiment to create a perfect telepath, one able to encompass the whole of existence with her thoughts, were true. At least one such being had been born in the Auron laboratories. One for certain had survived, in any event. It was impossible now to condemn the scientists who had done such a thing. They had certainly committed to their project with the highest of motives. Sooner or later, as the technology for biological manipulation and the science of the mind advanced, someone would have tried such a thing. Yes, one could feel sorry for the monster--are they not all pitiable to some extent?--but still judge Servalan and not forgive her. Her mind, twisted sufficiently by her own will, would not be permitted to serve as an excuse. Her power explained much, but the core mystery of her hatred remained, perhaps never to be understood. What the surviving Aurons faced was not an exercise is psychology or rehabilitation. It was a challenge to the most fundamental aspects of conscious life. And justice was required as much as understanding.

What had changed in the Auron Community in Exile was that in the past Servalan had been viewed as primarily a human problem. Now she was of the people of Auron. They alone would have to bear responsibility for this creature. They would have to, with whatever human help that was available, bring her to justice. For a people dedicated to pacifism and forgiveness, that was the sobering moment. It undercut everything that they believed.

Auron pacifism could no longer be tolerated. And that pleased Cally.

As for the situation of the Galactic War (II, III, IV? --which number?--she had lost count): after the crushing of Lindor, scattered opposition continued, mostly from the remnants of Lindor's surviving warships, but as a force it was more of a nuisance than anything else. Only by keeping out of the Combined Fleet's way could they hope to avoid annihilation. Some bands of localized resistance, "Friends of Blake" and the like continued to operate, but most such bands were no friends of Aurons and most had no idea of what they would do even if in the remotest circumstances they should win. Other than kill everyone in sight.

That left the military. Other than the Special Services, of course, they might still be of assistance. The sacking and imprisonment of the General staff, including the enormously popular General Marsden, along with the Auron Staff Officers, by far the most capable in the fleets, had been an great blow to morale. Some of these men might not yet have been executed. So parts of the military might yet fight against the Federation, if a suitable leader could be found . . .

Cally wanted to weep in despair and sorrow. But no tears would come, not here.

Poor us.

Li had also been able to relate that Jenna had been severely wounded but was expected to survive. Mykal had been injured as well, but was expected to recover quickly. He was, she understood, already being interrogated.

And Mykal was a problem. With the death of Lee Hahn, and the menace of Servalan looming over them like a colossus, the appointment of the next leader of the Auron Community in Exile, all three million of them, was critical. Understandably, there were certain necessary conditions that had to be met: the new leader had to come from one of the great Auron families and had to have chosen a life of exile. And it helped, so the traditions stated, if he were in the presence of the previous leader when that individual died.

There were even now, as so many Aurons had gone into hiding as a result of Servalan's actions, several likely contenders. And Cally herself even given her legendary status, was hardly in a position to dictate the terms. Yet she knew her recommendation would carry enormous weight.

It could not be Li, as there was an obvious conflict of interest.

It could not be herself. She least of all.

But in an act that was perhaps indicative of some re-stirring of defiance within her, Cally nominated the one individual most involved in the events, closest to both Aurons and humans (that too was a crucial condition), one least likely to make the appointment into a personal vendetta, yet at the same time, one in the midst of the struggle. So she had nominated, loudly and forcefully into the Web, and had heard not a note of dissent in response, the name of this young man, just turned 31, as the new leader of the Auron Community in Exile. It was after all the inevitable choice. The determination of Servalan herself had made it so, as she had foreseen. Congratulations, Mykal Hodos.

Poor Mykal.

And now entering her house was the man who she would have to explain all this to and somehow motivate him to carry on past the despair that had defeated both her and Blake and now threatened the whole of galactic civilization. She looked at her reflection as it ricocheted off infinity, wondering. She terminated her connection with the web, leaving only the link with Li.

Poor me.

#

What Avon entered could not in any rational sense be described as a "house." For one thing there was the very odd aspect of its internal enormity. Granted that nothing should have surprised him by now on Terminal, he found as he moved, that if he approached the "walls" of the dwelling, they receded into white emptiness, a void dotted with distant black "stars" (if that, in fact, was what they were). The stars were connected by spider strands forming flickering webs that throbbed like sheet lightning. When he stepped back, the "walls" converged upon him, but always stopping as if very aware of the people within the bubble, as if to ensure a comfortable place for there existence.

As an abstraction what was before him made some sense, yet the reality was difficult even for Avon to absorb.

His hostess watched his reaction with a reserved, slightly amused look. She had often wanted to render Avon speechless and here for perhaps the first and likely the last time she had accomplish the feat. The wait of years in that sense had been worth it. But she could still be gracious as well as grateful under the circumstances that had brought them together again.

When he finally turned to her, she gestured gently with a smile and he resumed walking, no longer following but beside her.

So as the transcendent Cally led the way, she explained in somewhat oblique terms, trying hard not to get too involved in the details, that this had been her home over the past nearly ten years. With subdued manner and gestures, she explained that she could hardly have been said to have explored it even after all that time. And in response to his unspoken question, she stated that the "stars" were portals to other, well, "places" either in this universe or conceivably elsewhere, though it was hard to make that linguistically precise. To Avon this confirmed his first guesses but came nowhere near to explaining them. He might as well have wondered if this all were yet another illusion; a vision to be shrugged off, lurking as it did somewhere between the world of mind and the world of physics.

He nodded as she spoke with casual acceptance. He knew there should be some part of him in awe and wonder of this place and host, but he could not quite come to bridge the point. Perhaps some other time.

The best that could be said is that here, wherever "here" was, could not induce him to dispute her. There was a coherence of setting, furniture, and art, a sheer sense of grace in a union of dwelling and unfathomable physics, that was quite unlike anything he had ever experienced. Avon's sense of aesthetics was never the best but a tribute did form: this actually seemed to suit her.

As they walked, the walls remained solid and firm, effortlessly restraining the ocean that surged around them in low swells of content harmony. Cally was as he remembered.

She explained the dwelling as best she knew as it approached, folded, and receded into infinity before them, but it was clear Avon's attention was becoming fixed on her alone. That pleased her. She was getting bored with the technical.

She stopped. This section of the house was bathed in a cloud-like light, tinted from the phosphorescence of the sea. Here the whiteness blended perfectly with her gown and she took on a ghostlike aspect. They looked at each other. Yes, they had to admit there had been a time that they had been attracted to one another. They had responded to some unspoken and never to be acknowledged need, a fact that could be repressed but not denied.

An attraction that survives the death of both parties has to have something.

Cautiously, they moved closer to each other. She reached out to touch him. He let her put her hand on his shoulder. Her touch felt real, both in warmth and firmness., and yet was almost without weight She dropped her hand slowly.

"What is this place?" he asked.

"It is my home," she sounded disappointed. "Please remember that," she said directly, facing him with neither bitterness nor sorrow, not really understanding why she said it. "I like it, I accept it, though I have barely begun to understand it. It is like some people I know."

No, I am being too remote. She tried again, putting her hand on his cheek. "It's infinite, Avon. In a way, not meaning to push the imagery too far, it is a kind of model of life, or more precisely, of my life, but then the whole of Terminal is a model. I think you have begun to see that. Terminal is a kind of statement that infinity and life are very closely related concepts "

He was silent.

This is difficult and I am not helping., she thought "Here, " she gestured to a chair forming on the floor, "forgive my being obtuse. We really don't have time for the grand tour. Maybe later, when all this is settled. Come, please sit, let's talk. I realize this must be strange to you. It does take a while getting used to."

She smiled warmly as a second chair blossomed nearby. She sat in one; the one he sat in adjusted and molded to him perfectly. "Is there anything here that is not an illusion?" he asked, looking around.

"Are you still so dull?" she almost laughed. Nervously she said, "Well, me for one. But I suppose you are asking for one of your cold, rational explanations'?"

"It would be an improvement."

"Are you so sure?"

"You keep informed on what has been happening?" She could sense he was losing patience.

"'Out there'? Oh, yes. I hear the Web far better than I ever did in my 'previous life'." How I wish that were not true! "What happens out there is important to me. To us all," she drew closer. "I am, as you are surely aware, at least half involved. And you?"

"I have maintained over the years a certain interest in such matters."

She closed her eyes briefly. "I am grateful, Avon, for your saying that," she sighed. "More than you realize. I suspect there is more bitterness in you than I could ever touch. I try not to be bitter myself, and I realize it is not easy. To overcome it to any degree argues that there may be hope for us all. I only wish I could persuade you that it would indeed be right for you to 'go back' and make one more attempt. That task of persuasion, however, has been assumed by another."

Not a lie, but only partly true. If I fail here, I doubt any other efforts will succeed. She looked resigned, her mouth even. "I wish you trusted me more. I haven't forgotten you or what you meant and still mean to me. Don't you remember, we 'met' again almost a few months ago?"

Avon said nothing, made no movement.

Cally hesitated. Even here, she felt awkward with this man. Why was she shy with this mortal? She now possessed more mental powers than any Auron ever had, well, except one, and yet . . . "You were always the deepest of us. Blake knew it from the start. The Web never shuts up about you." Our last hope.

Avon straightened. "I am here to know the reality of Terminal. What it hides. I am tired of illusions."

"Very well, I will do my best. For a start, Terminal is always more than an illusion and always less than reality."

"That clarifies things immensely."

A wave crashed against the walls, surging above them in a vast spread of water and foam, like watery fingers of a desperate hand, then draining down in resignation. Even Avon was startled by the spectacle.

Cally leaned toward him, the two chairs coming together, blending into a single design, holding them both. "Try not to be so harsh, Avon. Terminal is very sensitive to powerful minds and emotional states. Both can kill here."

He did not reply. There was the faintest trace of anger in her voice. "Really, this is going to be one dreary conversation unless you get into the spirit of the place. Yes, that was almost a real wave. And that is almost a real wall," she gestured around her. "Think of these as 'data' walls. They will not permit you near them. Within this domain, like everything on Terminal, they cannot be fully controlled, not by me, not by anyone, but they can be influenced."

"Virtual reality. Nothing more," he dismissed it.

"No. Much more. Think of what I said: Terminal is always more than an illusion; always less than reality. Terminal has a moral structure. It is a place of judgment, as Servalan discovered to her terror. You could 'drown' here, if those walls were to dissolve from your inner acid. People already have, been killed to be precise."

"By whom?" He did recall the conversation he had with Servalan. Almost a year and a half ago. There had been real terror in her and that had impressed Avon. He realized now that her genuine terror was one of that factors that had started him on the journey back.

"The answer is subtle. I am tempted to say by 'themselves', but that . . . well, is only partly correct. Each situation is unique," she said, struggling to find the right words.

"Go on."

"That justice and morality are integral parts of Terminal's nature astonished and frightened me. The Entity itself, that meddling being that called out to Molli so many years ago and what terrorized Servalan before that, will not kill, ever. But Terminal is not fully under its control. As Terminal continues to evolve, the Entity tries to understand it . . . The pace of evolution is accelerating; and the 'control' is weakening."

She frowned, dissatisfied with what she was saying. "Think of the Entity as the conscious mind; think of Terminal as the subconscious, vastly more powerful, and far from disciplined. " Avon absorbed what she was saying but did not seem persuaded.

She signed. "What is important is that it doesn't rule this place. The Entity is a kind of overseer, caretaker, nothing more. Terminal has a will of its own, a growing maturing will, but hidden from us. Like the subconscious of many of us, we can only guess as to its purpose. The Entity is very intelligent." She saw Avon's interest. "But even it can only guess.

"In the meantime, it has made remarkable discoveries," she sounded weary, as if uttering an inducement that she was sure would fail, but might be worse if it succeeded. "This 'house', for example. The Entity has discovered how to achieve and sustain 'dimensional transcendence'. It had never been done before." Her eyes searched Avon.

"You seem to trust it," he said finally. "Doesn't that concern you?" He was wary. That assured her in a way. They reality of the man had indeed survived.

"No. Why should it?"

"You seem to think this place has a point." He let the thought hang between them, unfinished.

She sat silently for several moments. Then she closed her eyes. "We don't have much time," she murmured. Avon and the sea remained calm. He steadied himself: the name he dared not speak was returning to his consciousness.

She suddenly looked very earnest and for the first time reached out to his hand. "Avon, can you look beyond yourself for a moment? Just once." Her hand went over to his as she drew closer. "Centuries before, just before the Diaspora, it was discovered that the very structure of the universe is tightly constrained by the existence of life, especially intelligent life. In a sense we are wired into it. But how and why are enormous mysteries. This artificial planet was built to explore the implications of that discovery to the fullest and to determine, among other things, if there are objective moral truths; if a solid link between 'is' and 'ought' can be forged. If the glory of good and the emptiness of evil can be understood, the triumph of the good may yet be achieved- for nothing less than triumph will do. This principle has a name; the "Perfect Moral Principle." If good triumphs, then history and all its suffering has not been in vain. It is even possible that the whole of history might be redeemed."

Avon looked away but did not remove his hand. There was something very odd about her. He sensed that there was a material substance, a firmness to her touch, but it seemed incredibly light, as if she were caught half way between ghost and corporeal existence.

He had a dread about where this was leading. He heard the name coming, felt it like some enormous weight, or blast of heat enveloping. Summoning up all the certainty he could muster: "Tell your friends, our former captain included, that the outcome of that struggle is not in doubt. The defeat of Lindor has closed the matter: the triumph of evil as you call it is at hand. You, more than any on them, should know that to be true. We have both seen the future. It has Servalan's face stamped on it."

Cally, startled, removed her hand. How much did he know? "How did you know that?"

"Know what?"

"That she is alive!"

Avon shrugged. "I long suspected that her life and mine were linked. Like Blake, she could not die, unless I did. Since I clearly did not, it follows that she too is alive." And it follows so too is he.

Cally stared. Dare I tell him the rest? "Your reasoning is odd but impeccable. I do recall once you said a similar thing about Blake. Is that why you returned?"

"I am not sure. I don't know."

"You cared?" She was determined. I must press.

Avon said nothing. Cally thought: It is possible.

"The question that we want to know is . . ."

Avon looked at her sharply. Who else did she mean by that damn we?

"Will you fight even in your despair? I have to know if there is hope before you are returned, should you decide to do so, to the universe outside."

"'Returned? How?" Clarity was never a virtue to Aurons.

She smiled, relaxing somewhat. "That's why we adopted you."

He looked at her sharply. "You were unable to read minds. So that has changed. And you are reading mine now."

"No. But I can make some reasonable guesses," she said, daring to draw closer to him again. "It is a struggle not too at times. My powers here are far greater than I could have ever imagined. But," she sighed, "what I am truly trying to read now is your heart."

"What happened to you?" He almost said: What went wrong?

She spoke quickly, desperation entering her voice. "I became part of the . . . equation. Some equations are like the universe: so big they cannot be approximated. It was like that. It's hard to describe. I was told I was a critical element to the solution. I was asked. . . begged . . . cajoled--it's so hard to explain--to accept life once more. The equation required it," she said flatly. But I could not take the next step.

Avon faced her, towering over her. Why does she persist in flattering herself? 'That isn't quite what I meant."

"It is the best I can do. You are not ready to hear the rest. But I can tell you this. It was Blake who finally persuaded me to accept my fate."

"He persuaded you?" He is alive. Though not unexpected, it made Avon very unhappy.

"Try to understand my state of mind ten years ago. My life was finished, a failure. I had been moving towards that realization for nearly a year. Death was no longer a worry."

"It wouldn't be with him, either, presumably. What did he tell you that was so persuasive?"

She straightened, holding her ground, but remaining seated. "It was how he told me that is important. I had many talks with him and the Entity. There was something genuine in him that I had noticed from the start and now I came to understand. Even after Blake had failed in his second chance, I knew he was still right. I wanted to help, and by wanting to help, I wanted to live once more. Together the belief was, we would fail again. Everything I knew said it was hopeless, but . . ."

She shuddered, recalling what had happened. "But how to bring you and Jenna back with us? So the three of us devised a plan. I would be used as a 'carrier' to reach Molli. We knew from the beginning she was a crucial element. Molli, sweet thing that she is, could never have carried through on her own devices. She needed to fall in love first. And from that courage would come the second key: you. Molli was chosen to move every element into place. She has done well. That part of the plan succeeded"

Cally stood now, putting her hand on his chest.

For a ghost, she was remarkably firm, but again the lack of weight, of mass, was disturbing. "You have such an odd notion of success. The mind reels at what failure must be like." He put his hands on her shoulders. "The past cannot be changed."

Her expression retained its conviction. "Not changed exactly. Influenced in subtle ways . . . "

Avon was silent for a long time. Was she sane? He needed to get back to the reality of what was happening, the question he could suppress no longer: "Is he here?"

"Yes. But he does not want to meet you now. He has forgiven you, but even here, there are powerful memories. Even now he has not come fully to grips with what happened."

He no more than I can put it off forever. "Then this 'Entity'; it still seeks additional elements to the 'equation'?"

"Yes, Avon. They are crucial, in fact . . . The situation is much worse than you know. It's not just Lindor," she said desperately as he drew back. "It's her."

"Servalan? What do you mean?"

"I can't explain in detail." She stopped, not knowing how to continue. It all sounded so terrifyingly strange.

He looked at her oddly. "I thought we agreed she is a known factor."

"No! She is scarcely known at all. Avon, please believe me. She is not what you or any of us thought. She is an Auron. I mean that. She can sense/see the future. Not consciously, but bodily. An intuition if you will, but one far in excess of any talent any human or Auron has ever possessed. It is a terribly potent weapon and it has enabled her to defeat us time and time again. She knows, Avon. But now we know too. That offers us hope. She never would have revealed that unless she believed we could never do anything with that knowledge. She now sees her triumph as complete. She agrees with you--the defeat of Lindor has sealed our fates. She is now complete, and to the whole of humanity, she offers herself as the Messiah!"

Cally stopped, both stunned by her own words.

"All of humanity will be drawn into the struggle. But you most of all. That is why we are appealing to you. The Entity has high regard for you. You are the third of the original crew it has returned to life. It doesn't do that for everyone. But it is always a gift you can reject." She put her head against his chest.

"You told it of Blake's propensity to lie."

"Please, it is not relevant. You must decide for yourself."

"The past is everything," he said.

"The past is nothing," she replied. And they both knew they were both right.

"Tarrant, Dayna, Vila . . . Are they here as well?"

She removed her head and faced him. "In a manner of speaking: copies of them, from the moment when you last left Terminal. They await only your summons to awaken."

In a universe in which the fourth year of the rebellion never happened.

"Not interested," he said flatly.

Cally said quietly. "It's a second chance. I rather thought you were fond of Vila, respected him . . . in your own way."

"Second chances . . . I have discovered in life that once is more than enough." He dropped his hands.

She pretended not to notice. "It is understandable that you would dread a second chance. To fail once--there are a myriad of possible explanations and excuses that can be summoned to explain it. But to fail twice, the explanations narrow to but one." She touched his chest with her index finger. I ought to know.

If only I had failed but once, he thought. Aloud he said, resigned: "You need a hired killer. Whether Servalan, our 'Messiah'--she always did flatter herself--can be beaten does not matter. I've given up killing. Find someone else."

He wanted to leave, but suddenly she reached out and held him, her strength surprising them both. He was moved by her protest. He believed her now . . . of that she was certain. There was sincerity in this man and the cry of torment was real. The self-loathing was there--that never went away--but there was something more. A striving to transcend, even under the sentence of final failure. "That is why we need you. No one else could feel that to that intensity."

There is no replacement. There never was.

Avon looked anxious. Outside the waves were restless against the walls. "We could have used you that last year. Even Blake managed a brief appearance," he said. Lot of good it did.

Cally sighed. All right. All of it. "I was deeply hurt, far more than you realize. I understood your threats aboard the Liberator had not been idle. I had never doubted for a moment that you would kill Tarrant. But me. When I realized the truth . . . I drowned." Outside the sea surged over them as she fell against him. "I called out to you. My mind said 'Avon', but my voice said 'Blake'."

She spoke clearly, distinctly, and dispassionately as the sea stilled. "It was you who tried to kill me, Avon. But in fairness to you, it was I who let despair finish the job. I wanted to die and for a while the request was granted. You have great mental powers, fueled by extremely powerful emotions. That is the danger to us; Terminal amplifies them, uses them, in ways we do not understand. They are so powerful that you may not be able to ever fully control them. But they offer a strength that can match hers. Will you use them to save humanity while there is still hope it can be saved?"

"If I am to be one to save it, it would be hard to imagine a more hollow victory," he muttered

She cried out as he started to leave. "Please, I doubted you would accept such a mission on my say so. What I want you to know is that I have given half of myself to you and that is more than most ever give anyone. Would you do this for yourself?"

He moved away, studying the rolling sea in the distance, the steady beat of the waves like a powerful but dying heart.

She watched him, the torment rising in them both. The effort of will was almost too much. Avon turned, watching her closely as her face struggled to regain its composure. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," she said solemnly. Cally took a deep breath. "Li," she said to no one in particular. "More of a sister than any woman ever had. It is Li who will earn your love or die trying. You must save her. I cannot. She needs you. She knows the danger. They all do." She did not seem to be speaking to him.

"So they are all alive?" he asked. Does it matter?

She sensed something powerful moving closer, like an electric current humming with danger. She probed that mind, and the mind before her. No time. "Avon, our host is waiting. You must go now. Good luck and best wishes. Do not fear it. We will meet again, I am sure." Her smile was pleading. She started to fade.

He grabbed for her, almost hissing the words, "Then why don't you come with us!"

But as he grabbed, she fractured, crumbled inward, collapsing in a blur and a sigh of air. Then she was gone into nothingness. The walls twisted to form an archway. He was propelled forward as everything went dark around him. He stumbled and fell, becoming dizzy, almost losing consciousness. He looked back. The house was gone, the sea placid in the distance.

He turned and walked away furious to the hills in the twilight.

#

Until the Loom Weaves Itself

I am not alone. The other is waiting.

Avon walked in anger, icy winds slashing at him, howling like the damned. Each step he took was a hammer strike into the ground. He moved with unstoppable determination. Rain and wind howled at him; waves and blasts of water and sand whipped and cursed him. The night sea was a lead coffin, receding behind him, buried in the night. Before him was a raging ghoul, threatening to eat him alive. He crushed it beneath him.

This was the real Terminal, its ugliness revealed. At long last he had returned to it.

The twilight landscape ahead was desolation itself, skeletal shrubbery and stunted, twisted trees; branches like claws tearing at the sky, a sky forlorn, dim and drained. Above him: the stars inaccessible, in a night that went on forever.

He would not stop. Portents and omens furious about him implied no more than atmospheric physics. His fear was real, but it too would be beaten down. Like "Cally," fear was as much ghost as substance. Real enough, it could be defeated. Whatever terrors were to be summoned in this place, they could not stop a man who had already died. He could not imagine a death after death, a final judgment of worth. Even if there were such a state, what could he have done that would possibly warrant being sent to a worse place than this?

Something awaited him, something that wanted to know more. One more demon to blast to hell. But a more interesting one. This singular fact angered and intrigued the human machine that was Kerr Avon. He was willing to play the game, any game. All that he demanded was a payoff. A chance to make a profit and a sizeable one. It had to be a value worth the fight he was putting up. Curiosity goaded him. It would never reach a point of diminishing returns. He would always move forward; he was through playing losing games.

He approached a wooded area, the trees thick with broken brush and restless branches. The forest, if such it was, stretched before him, blocking all possible paths. He stopped. Overhead one of the orbital observation stations raced, catching what faint light there was to be found from the unseen sun. He glanced behind him. He would not go back. He could stay right where he was indefinitely, playing the waiting game again until dawn came. But it was into these woods he was being maneuvered. Why not hurl oneself into the challenge?

In the faintest of light, a glow far into the forest's depth, or so it seemed, could be seen an opening that might do as a path. Avon fought his way in.

The light flickered, frequently being lost in the pitch black. He stumbled forward, branches slapping his face with sharp stings. He closed his eyes, stopped, lashed out, opened his eyes again, charged forward. Roots and rocks thrust up to trip him. Avon fought on, relishing the pain. He could feel pain now and that was very good. Pain had always been equated to life by him. He had returned to the living.

He did not know how long he continued this way. Finally he saw the light--piercing, flickering, very close. He slowed. He held his hand before his eyes. The light was coming from a clearing. He pushed through thorned branches with his free arm. The light was very like a fire. Avon abandoned caution. He made no attempt to suppress the racket he was making. It must be audible even with the wind howling above him. There was no point in being cautious. Whoever was there knew he was coming. Dead wood crunched underneath and branches whipped around him. The wind shrieked in terror. Most convincing.

He stumbled into the clearing. He was to the back of the figure. The figure was tearing chunks of dead wood from an enormous tree and tossing them nonchalantly into the fire. The wood would land in the fire and a blizzard of sparks would erupt. Avon studied the man's appearance as he slowly circled in front. Certainly it was a man. The hair was coarse, thick and curly, in total neglect. The clothing crude and roughly cut, hardly sufficient for this climate. Avon took the whole scene in as he moved around the fire. The man's kit was at the base of the dead tree. There was a blanket, some utensils, and a small dark rectangle at the base. Avon guessed it to might be a "recorder." There were no weapons in sight. There were broken branches everywhere, and the smell of cooked meat.

The figure was intent on his task. When it spoke the voice was familiar.

"Make yourself at home, Avon. I heard you coming from some distance away. Yes, you are expected." It was quite matter of fact, quite calm. "Never the subtle one, are you? Despite an utterly unearned reputation for caution. Audacity I always felt suits you better."

The figure rose and turned to him. "And you'll need it. Such foolhardiness might in the end serve you well."

The withered face was recognizable, though there were wrinklesthroughout the leathery skin. The face resembling a skull with hollowed, darkened sockets. Where fierce eyes had once peered out, skin covered both. Blind. The once strong arms had dwindled into cord and wire.

"Identify yourself," was all Avon could say.

The face of the "man" grew more visible in the firelight as the two closed in on each other. "Did Cally give me a good introduction? Hello, Kerr Avon, Lord Protector of the Galaxy. I have adopted this form to make you more comfortable," it grinned and gestured. "Please have a seat."

Avon did not move. The figure looked much worse than the Blake he had seen on Guada Prime; the aged face of weariness had collapsed inward to total ruin. As he was certain there was nothing real about this "Blake," so too he was equally certain this is what Blake might have become.

Finally, both sat warily. Both stared at each other across the fire. Slowly, the howling wind began to subside to a whisper and the night became utterly still.

"You're not Blake, so who are you?"

"I'm not?"

"He's looked better."

The figure laughed. "Surely you will not deny me my little joke. Besides, how could you be so certain that your senses have deceived you in this of all places, where deception is one's only path to truth?" The "Blake" smiled wickedly, arranging the wood with a stick. "Damn deadwood burns so fast. Terrible fire hazard--If there were a danger of fire, of course. I'd offer you something to eat, I bet hunger is gnawing at you. But," it held out a stick with something blackened on it, "it is rather lacking in calories, not to mention aesthetics."

The figure turned serious. "I make this suggestion: might it not be that the knowledge of errors past would encourage a reasonable man in the belief that this Blake person might still in some fashion be among the living? Would not such a possibility reassure, though conceivably disturb as well?"

Avon, looking directly at his host, with full intensity demanded: "Who are you?"

"Nor does it shield me, " the figure sighed into the night, dropping the stick into a burst of pungent sparks. "Very well, I admit to not being your late departed comrade. I am the 'custodian' of this place. The 'host' though that seems presumptuous, particularly given the fact that I have little control over this place. Or the dreary 'Entity'. I am sometimes called. To be brief, I am the conscious expression of this place. I can be understood as the 'master control program', but I am not the master, and I exercise frankly little control, and I don't know what the term 'program' means in the context of Terminal. Forgive me, it does get confusing. I am still learning."

The "Blake" matched Avon's glare. "I am asking for your help. The power of this place is unfathomable, but it is not to be ordered about. You have to find within yourself what works. Here," he picked up a stick and offered Avon a much more appetizing piece of meat that had been cooking on the fire, "please help yourself. This is real. As real it gets around here, in any event. It will give you something. It's a start."

Avon shook his head. "No." The "Blake" shrugged and took a mouthful for itself, chewing slowly.

Avon continued. "You have been interfering in galactic affairs for four years. Why?"

It quickly swallowed, almost gulped. "Oh, longer than that. I mean, somebody had to do something," it said.

"Your lack of success has been noticed." Avon leaned forward.

"Yes. We are all failures here."

Avon calmed. "The situation, in case you haven't observed, is bad. Grows worse by the day in fact. Given your exalted intelligence, one might wonder whose side you are on."

"Why, yours, of course," his host replied, looking pained. "I'm hurt. I did give you 'nanotechnology'. I don't do that for everyone, you know. It should have worked."

"Too little; far too late."

"In hindsight, yes. I knew the risk, however. No doubt there is truth in what you say. Lindor's case was a bad trial." the Entity sighed. "But this place, what you call 'Terminal', allowed me to try. It's alive you see, but how is hard to explain. I still do not know 'how', though I am starting to understand a little as to why."

The "Blake" paused, then tried a different tack. "Honestly, Avon--you don't mind if I call you that?--I didn't bring you here to offer excuses. I am still learning. I hope I haven't made another mistake, but I can't help liking you. I think I can learn a great deal from you."

Avon was stunned.

"Oh, don't be so obtuse. Look inside your mind." The creature picked up the recorder, smiling wickedly. "All that was in Mykal's recorder is now in you and much more besides. There is much of interest there, do you not agree?"

Avon thought, astonished. Memories sharp and clear flooded into his mind. Everything Mykal and Molli and Li had written or had been recorded was within him. For a few moments Avon was overwhelmed as he tried to absorb it. And there was more. Details of the Liberator. Things he had long forgotten or never knew were laid out in startling clarity, sharp and pointed as thorns.

"It is the gift of memory; the same I gave Li," it said with compassion. "Let's not quarrel. You have come here for answers, I brought you here for questions. See, we have much in common. I shall do my best to honor that commonality. Do you appreciate this setting? You should feel honored. This is remarkably low-key compared to my usual way of conducting interviews."

Avon ignored him for the moment. He was far away, but the question came out regardless: "What do you want?"

The Entity put down the meat, wiping its hands gingerly. "I want to help. I want your help. This place," he made a sweeping gesture, "needs you. Mind you, I'm not the best at this helping business. The more I know, the more intractable the problems become. But for all my failures, I have learned and am getting better." Avon looked tired.

"You never make it easy, do you? Here's my problem--in its most abstract sense. We will consider the other senses shortly. I have an equation, actually a whole system of them, that must be solved. I need you; in fact, I need the whole of humanity--especially the Auronar-to assist. Then I think we will have a chance."

Avon look puzzled, then frowned.

"You seem resentful. Aren't you grateful I brought you back to life?"

"This is not a place in which one can be sure of anything, least of all gratitude."

"Well," it sighed, "warned I was. You are hard to please. In truth, Blake and Cally weren't altogether happy with the notion either--that is, of being returned to life. They suspected there would be complications and assuredly they are right. I agree that your people, all your people, are in rather a fix. They don't have much time and the odds are heavily against them. Come let us work together."

The Entity paused. Avon, looked into the surrounding forest, intent.

"After it became clear, Lindor was lost, I 'arranged' matters for you to be here," it continued. "We always have a backup plan, the three of us. But regardless of the outcome on Lindor, I was determined to get you here. You are the one person whom I believe can hold the galaxy together long enough for an answer to be found."

Avon was running out of patience. "Your 'arrangement' resulted in the one planet capable of offering effective resistance to the Federation being crushed. I am not interested in helping or being helped."

The Entity nodded. "I admit, as a risk it was less than prudent. The odds were against it--but since when has that stopped any of us? I pleaded to be able to try-- we have a group voting arrangement here. Had Lindor won, the cost would have been so much less." The Entity sighed. "I won't be so indelicate as to suggest I am offering you alone a chance at redemption. Could I instead offer it for us both?"

"You'll find nothing in me to serve your purpose."

The Entity smiled and leaned forward. The fire reduced to a warm glow which expanded throughout the clearing. "That's where your belief may truly be in error. The 'nothing' therein," he pointed directly at Avon, "as you put it, may suit the purpose in hand admirably."

Avon was startled and feared he looked it. Servalan, he recalled, had once said something very similar.

"Look at me, carefully" he said slowly. "I carry no weapons. I will not kill again."

"You offer that as reassurance? As a testament that you are no longer dangerous in this most dangerous of times?"

"Make of it what you will."

"I don't buy it. Oh, I know your friends are, or will be, suitably impressed, but I am not. You, Kerr Avon, remain as dangerous as ever. Your ability to manipulate people and events to achieve your desired outcomes has never been stronger. You are, in fact, second only to her in that particularly talent. You can kill, gun on your side or not."

"I could kill you?"

The Entity looked startled. "Why, yes. I believe you could, " it said studying Avon. "Even here."

For a moment the silence weighed between them. "Yet, I honestly believe you do not want to kill. Whatever your imperturbable menace, there is something people can respond to, as a leader in this greatest of struggles. But that is their concern--I am giving you a chance to crack a scientific puzzle, the biggest problem of them all."

"An improvement, I admit. What is it?"

"Not 'what', my friend, 'Why.' Yes, the 'why' of life! The nature of morality; how 'is' links to 'ought'! Science need no longer shrink from such questions. And the answers have fantastic implications. Here."

His host picked up a handful of dried bark and sprinkled it gingerly into the fire. At once a shower of sparks leapt upward and began spiraling into a cylinder mottled with a pinwheel pattern. As the cylinder rotated, the outer edges became faint glowing gnats of flame. At the center twin fluid rainbow ribbons of light rippled and entwined. Avon watched, impressed. The center core was dynamic, a fireline of brilliant white, throbbing, pulsing, ever changing. Only tantalizing glimpses of the central mystery were revealed.

"You recognize the form?" asked the Entity.

"A chaotic pattern, a strange attractor of some sort."

The Entity nodded. "At its simplest level that describes the form nicely. There are many such complex patterns. This one," it paused while the ribbons rotated and twisted, reminding Avon of DNA, "is quite complex indeed. It goes beyond the chaos of particles and fields to describe a whole series of transformations of matter, energy, and information. As you might suppose, there is no known bounds on the transformations that describe life. Humanity has only touched the surface of its potential.

"Inside," the Entity pointed directly to the sparkling core as it warmed to the subject, "is infinite complexity--what some term existence. Now as a mathematician, it might be of interest to know how existence is structured." The Entity leaned forward, assuming the mode of a particularly enthusiastic teacher: "One approach is to map recursively a closed manifold of ever increasing dimension upon itself. From those mappings, one can derive an infinite series of fixed points. It is the fixed points that form a kind of boundary upon the future possibilities of life, and thus give clues to its destiny."

Avon followed, but was skeptical.

"You seem unconvinced," shrugged the Entity. "Well, notice that at some point this infinite dimensional surface becomes singular in addition to being very complex. Do you know what kind of space exhibits the property of infinite complexity and is known to contain singularities?"

Avon looked annoyed. "A four dimensional space, of course."

"Yes," it nodded quickly, "precisely the universe in which we live. This 'whatever'," it waved its hands at the spiraling ribbon shape ascending into the sky, "is a three dimensional projection of an infinitely complex four-dimensional space--actually the inversion and compression of the same for graphical simplicity. It is a kind of map to the future, if it can be read." The Entity added, quietly, "I am counting on you to help me read it."

Avon studied the pattern, the bright line running throught it, watched its movement and luminescent beauty. There was something hypnotic about it. This is what Geir was seeking: the pattern of infinity.

The Entity continued cautiously. "A universe in which life has both meaning and purpose might be an improvement over this one. That was Dr. Geir's hope; that was the centuries long longing of the Auronar. If it could be found, it might offer a way to redeem the past, as well as open the future to infinite promise. What we need at the minimum is to determine is if our universe is designed to permit such redemption."

The Entity emphasized the word. The smirk and smugness were gone; a look of dismay flickered on its face for the first time: "So much of your history is war and slavery, killing and hate, never an end to it. Enormous loss and waste, terrible beyond telling. False dawns, and then collapse into death, destruction, despair, again and again. When will it end? Or more precisely, is there only one possible ending? Does the death of all life yield the only solution to the equation? There is an old saying of your species that slavery will remain the human condition until 'the loom weaves itself'. Well put, I say. It is a rather good definition of that technology I attempted to smuggle to you, agreed?"

Avon answered abruptly. He continued to watch the pattern, fascinated, his anger draining. "The past is immutable," he said tiredly. "All possible time travels into the past have already been integrated into it and their effects accounted for. Your 'nanotechnology' changes nothing."

The Entity was undaunted. "But your answer, which is good, is not as strong as you think. As you might have guessed, or been told, I have quite an obsession with time. I believe the past can be 'influenced'. Determining what are the limits of that statement is where the challenge lies."

"Cally said the same. That was Cally, wasn't it?"

"Well, yes. Did you for a moment doubt it?"

Avon did not reply.

In a flash, the pattern burst and died, raining sparks over them. "No, I rather think you did have your doubts." The Entity looked up to the stars again, the sky black, the wind beginning to rise once more. "But what mattered is that in the end you believed. Conventional wisdom, the wisdom of the makers of this place, would say there are limits beyond which we cannot possibly go. As a scientist, I am inclined to agree with the thrust of that statement. But it is possible the limits, the boundaries of all that is possible, are more flexible than we imagine. There are all manner of proofs that this cannot be done, but recall the wisdom of the ancients that proof is often little more than a lack of imagination."

"You do have an imagination," Avon admitted.

"And so do you, my friend! It is one of your most endearing traits. You imagined that you had killed Blake, for example." The Entity paused and then continued rapidly, "And you were almost right."

The Entity pressed on. "Consider another tack to the problem. For centuries mathematicians have worked on the question of the continuum hypothesis: that is, can there be infinities between the principal infinite cardinal numbers? The question has never been solved and there seems no possible physical interpretation should one be found.

"Allow me to advance the following: suppose the answer to be yes, that an infinitude of such quasi-infinite sets exist, though no one, not even me, has ever been able to construct one. What if there were mappings of such sets to time, what we consider the normal temporal flow? The immutability of the past might be called into question. Perhaps the past could be 're-interpreted', or 'reconstructed' if you will, leaving it unaltered physically, but radically transformed in meaning, memory, essence; all along those beaded infinities. Perhaps a way could be found to enable all the horrors to be if not undone then 're-pictured'. I admit in probing such questions I go far beyond my 'parents' intent, but that is the duty and glory of a good child. I believe it is absolutely crucial to try."

Avon shook his head in disbelief. This creature is as mad as everyone else in this place. If it believes in altering the past, what doesn't it believe in? "I think you will have enough of a challenge keeping humanity from destroying itself with your gift." Avon glanced over to the dead tree. "You knew the danger?"

The Entity answered blandly. "Indeed I did. That technology returned you to life. That alone should make its danger obvious."

Avon ignored the remark as his mind raced ahead: I have no ship, no crew . . .

"How about a new and improved Liberator ? Tachyon-neutrino drive, it's the latest thing--in fact, I invented it just last week." The Entity eyed Avon intently. "It might be just the thing for rescuing your friends . . . "

Avon dropped the thought. He shook his head angrily. "I knew it would come to that. Servalan has them. They've been taken to Earth." He said with finality. Blake and I were each both lucky enough to penetrate the Center to the home planet and survive. Such luck should not be pressed. She'll make damn sure of that.

"You must bring them back, Avon. All of them."

He looked away.

"You recall the legend, I am sure. The last hero delivering the Aurons to the freedom at New Auron."

"New Auron is gone, in case you hadn't heard," Avon said flatly.

"That was not New Auron. That was Kaarn. This is New Auron."

Avon looked at him and smiled, almost kindly. "You take legends far too seriously. It will be your downfall."

"Perhaps, but you are a legend and I will continue to take you seriously." The Entity rose, went over to the tree, and leaned against it. "Well, I'll let you cogitate on the possibilities briefly. You might want to consider what you will be able to do with a ship no one in the Federation has even dreamed of. Surprise is a powerful weapon, I'm told."

In the right hands. Avon suddenly remembered something. "Neutrino's were shown to be tachyons in the late 20th century . . .

"Early 21st . . ."

" . .. and no one has ever been able to produce them in the quantities required to do anything ."

The Entity looked hurt. "Well, I have. The problem is actually quite simple."

"Then why has no one found it before?"

"Perhaps you've been too busy killing each other."

It is a flaw some of us are prone to.

The Entity mused to itself as it strolled around the tree. "I like to think I know you rather well--I mean, to the extent anyone can be said to. I hope I do-we both agree it would be dangerous to be wrong. Please understand this, I am grateful you returned. With sufficient will, you could have avoided it."

"I might disappoint you yet."

"Admitted. But you make such an extraordinary data point to test the equations! My desperation was rewarded. There is no reason I should not continue to press my luck"

Avon waited.

"Your reputation is said to have cruel aspects. I am not yet convinced all of them have been properly earned."

"Cally said I killed two Federation agents by mistake in my desire to kill her and Tarrant. I concede that is impossible. Were the Links your surrogates?"

"Absolutely not! How distasteful! Please try to understand: I merely twiddle the dials and adjust the environmental parameters around here, to keep the whole business within design specifications. I am far more Terminal's slave than 'master'."

The Entity kneeled down and picked up a handful of embers. "That day you sensed that a man and woman were following you. You were correct. Where you erred was in believing they were Cally and Tarrant. Belief in this instance was damning to you in its logic. It shouldn't have happened. But your rage and desperation had pushed you to a state from which there was no return. Such things do happen; sometimes more than once in a lifetime, but here they are particularly dangerous. In the past Terminal had turned upon the perpetrator, but this time it stood aside. You should consider yourself honored.

"And a year later more bad luck. Or was it something else driving you down? Think of what you have seen so far in your wanderings. Like the bleak landscape you summoned up from your own inner despair that day on Terminal, you incarnated your own murderous impulses in those most violent of creatures, your possible descendants, what Servalan who shared your vision called 'Links'. It was you who summoned them as 'surrogates', not her and certainly not Terminal."

"I make no apologies."

The Entity dropped the embers and spread its arms. "And neither Cally nor Blake nor I ask one of you. But you should know this," its blind eyes staring directly at Avon. "I had originally planned to bring those two back to finish the job. Cally as you now know absolutely refused. She would never return. She never doubted that you would kill Tarrant, but that you would kill her as well was a shock she never fully recovered from. I say 'fully', for clearly half of her continues to love you. And that half of her is with Li. Li does love you."

"And Blake?" Avon asked. He glanced out to the surrounding trees in the dim globe of light. The wind was rising again, yet he felt no chill. A faint light was spreading overhead. It would be dawn again soon. The Entity pitched sand over the remains of the fading fire and began burying it.

"Yes, Blake. Now we come to the crux of it. He believes the destiny of completing his rebellion belongs to you. He reasons that you alone are her match. I think we are all in rough agreement on that point. Your murders made you her equal and pushed you beyond the restraints of rationality, where you had to go in order to have a chance for survival. As a result, now your full genius has been released--should you be able to control it. You will either 'go' sane and defeat her or join her in madness. The equations predict there are no other alternatives. You and she are what has been termed 'World-Souls', fulcrums in history, bound together in ways the rest of humanity can scarcely understand. Your mutual fate will decide the destiny of all mankind. What I find so fascinating is that you may be unique of all the wretched beasts who have stalked humanity's tranquility over the millennia: you alone have the potential for redemption; of achieving a moral purpose. This is encouraging because even given the close relationship between you and Servalan, there will be no confusion in anyone regarding the difference between you two."

Avon look tired. "And if I refuse?"

"That possibility has been considered," the Entity sighed. "We don't give up so easily. We have alternatives of our own. Not as suitable as yourself, in this time and place, but not entirely without hope either."

"Yet you said both Blake and Cally refused?"

"So I did. There are others," the Entity was almost apologetic. Surely the man must understand.

"Use them then."

"No! Not yet. Only if all else fails. Hard as it may seem to believe, you offer the best hope."

Avon wanted this to end. He heard himself saying: "You are asking more than you realize. You will have to pay a price as well. Give me the technology. Let me finish the job quickly."

The Entity shook its head, uncomfortable but firm. "No. Please, you must earn it. Then it will be released to your use." The Entity made a sweeping gesture and a vast tapestry like an enormous shimmering flag surrounded the clearing. "In the meantime, I have more subtle ways of helping. I have been able to 'map' fragments of the future. The mathematics is obtuse but not hopeless. I, with Cally and Li's help, can provide you with a version of this knowledge, which Servalan possesses intuitively."

"All the way to the Singularity?"

"Yes. You agree it is coming? Good. Then I am pleased. But not beyond. Only God can see beyond the Singularity. It will be a rough ride. I can only hope that there will be sufficient time to find a transition mode that will permit a relatively smooth transfer. I can't promise, however."

"Transfer to what, I wonder," Avon mused aloud.

"Well, who can say? We will have to see."

"Worse than Vastator?"

"Yes. It is all dreadful business. It is terribly puzzling that the full transition did not occur at that time. Would have made things a lot simpler! The odds of what actually occurred, this halfway house that your species has been inhabiting for centuries, are extraordinarily low."

Avon's attention wandered; the Entity fretted: Well another day is upon us and now it is decision time.

It beckoned to Avon and it then proceeded, limping along a path through the sunlit woods. "Come, my friend. I sense you are nearing a decision. Let's get out into the open. We need to bring this business to a close."

Avon followed without enthusiasm. He looked back once as the branches snapped under his feet. The great dead tree he had seen so many of Terminal's days ago was now alive, towering over the clearing, and eight golden birds were singing from the leafy branches. He stepped beside the Entity and in annoyance asked. "And if I chose to remain in whatever state this is?"

"There is no force here. Rather strong persuasion, but no force. Such a choice will be honored. There is plenty of 'room' on Terminal. However, be aware that at the Singularity, not even Terminal will be shielded from its effects. If you do stay, I advise you not to look up your former comrades in arms. The reception might be hostile."

The path ended in a vista as the trees thinned. Before them were rounded green hills which opened up to an enormous valley. The low hills flowed rippling like water into a distant plain spreading as far as he could see. It was early morning, the clouds in the distance were heavy. A wind blew briskly. There was a feeling of an imminent storm.

"Where are they?" Avon asked. If there is to be an anomaly is space-time, naturally my life pattern would assure I participate.

"'Frozen'. It's hard to describe," replied the Entity. "Copies of them actually. Very good copies. They will be revived shortly, no matter what your decision. You were reconstructed from the pattern you left here. So will the others. Which reminds me. Saving the galaxy is a full time job and we have to get on with it if there is to be a chance for success. So forgive me if I put it to you bluntly. Will you do what must be done, the rescue of your associates on Earth?"

"For a fantasy mission, I will still need more than a fantasy crew and ship," Avon said firmly.

The Entity struggled to hide its delight. Progress! "Your late crew will be returned to you, along with Zen and that dreadful Orac device. And the Liberator, redesigned, rebuilt, and refurbished. Sufficient?"

"My sense is that it will have to do."

"Yes, anything else would represent too great an interference wouldn't it?" the Entity looked sanguine. Avon was oblivious.

"It is curiosity that alone moves me to do this," he said. Actually, that was not true. This nanotechnology and returning from death business seemed promising to Avon. There might be angles.

"Mere curiosity? No honor in it?"

"None that I am aware of."

"Well, it's the action that makes the honor; nothing else. Yes, there are risks, rather appalling ones at that. Honor requires that I be certain you understand them."

"I understand the risks," said Avon morbidly. Avon at this moment felt little in the way of life or joy. He looked out to the landscape as the clouds moved in. The whole scene was becoming more bleak as he watched. The thick clouds lumbered overhead, leaving only the smallest opening of dull hazy sky where the morning sun had emerged.

An appeal to reason or valor or decency would never have succeeded. Avon wanted freedom and having died to attain it, he was prepared to demand a great deal.

"Terminal cares that much?" he asked.

"I don't know. But it is interested."

She was the catch. Avon silently cursed her, the Entity, Blake and everyone else he had ever known or fought against. The thing beside him knew what his answer would be. The fact that he had returned here confirmed it. Avon was trapped. He almost felt a sympathy bordering on reverence for Servalan. Maybe she would still take him back . . .

"Yes," said Avon resigned. His statement came with heavy reluctance, yet it pierced the air like a swift spear of sunlight in a tomb, a tomb from which he had finally emerged. He added: "I'll do it, but on one additional condition."

"I know yours. I have one of my own."

"Name it."

"I said you must earn it. You're not going to like the conditions."

"I am sure I won't."

"Very well. No help until you bring them back here. All of them. The children of Auron as well. All 5000. Alive. 5003 people, Avon. Figure it out!"

Avon cursed and as the Entity dissolved ("Oh my! That is rich! Avon, your sentiment is showing!"), there was only the sound of laughter echoing among the distant hills.

#

Avon's Eight--In the Name of All That Is Good

The sun was approaching zenith as the Liberator, a gold bronze flash of rough and angular metal, one the most bizarrely castellated designs ever conceived for a spacecraft, moved cautiously through the long, shallow, and very eroded valley. A hundred meters long and cruising only a few meters above the ground, it was an extraordinary sight. Avon, speaking into his communicator was guiding the ship, but his presence here as a traffic controller was unnecessary. Tarrant's, or more properly, Zen's piloting was up to the job, which was a relief to everyone. Avon had insisted, however, on verifying with his own eyes that this stealth maneuver could in fact be done, though he was still unclear just how it might be put to use. After he was convinced of its practicality, planning the raid on Earth would commence in earnest and every aspect would be considered. Despite misgivings, it was good to be back in action and the ship looked very fine indeed. Yet impressed as he was, he loathed the finality of boarding that ship. Uneasily within him stirred anxieties he never thought he would have had to contend with again. The great ship moving only a couple of meters above the ground in total control was an image as grand as it was disturbing, and it was one he could have done without.

Frankly, he did not see how he could survive what was to come. Not even Blake at his most audacious had ever contemplated such an involved raid into the very heart of the Center, the Federation Homeworld, Earth. That was pressing even his luck too far. And luck has a habit of running out. It was certainly pressing Avon's. The whole thrust of that rebellion--much more restrained than it had seemed to outsiders--had been to garner allies, to build up strength with which to counterbalance the Federation. Then . . . But Blake had failed. His efforts had begun well, but that was it. And the official histories hardly gave him that credit.

Now it had fallen on Avon to complete the job. No allies, except maybe the Auronar and precious little use they would be. There was his former crew, of course.

Thinking about them he realized he was very alone indeed. Only the astonished and utterly confused reaction of his "returned" crewmates provided some satisfaction and compensation. For the moment they obeyed without question. Such he knew would not be the norm for much longer.

"Have it hover and do a slow roll about five meters above where I am standing. I want to do a visual inspection of the hull."

"Suit yourself, Avon. Vila is standing by in the transport." That was Tarrant.

"Acknowledged. Piloting is nominal," said Avon, praising Zen.

"Don't thank me. Zen is handling the ship," replied Tarrant. "It seems to know a lot more about this new drive than I do." Tarrant mused as if talking to himself as the ship turned and rotated above Avon: "Not bad for a ship we watched blow up only the day before. More than completely rebuilt; forget everything you remember--you should see the control panels. Incredibly intricate; we still haven't figured out half the gauges. Maybe we should come back to Terminal more often."

"I wouldn't advise it."

It was extraordinarily odd talking to them like this, so matter-of-factly after nearly a decade. Of course, it would even be odder to them once the full impact had been absorbed. They had no conception of what had happened during the years that had passed. The Entity in its thoughtfulness had left that little tidbit for him to explain (no implanted memories for my crew), but that was a chore Avon intended to put off as long as possible, and bluster his way through when it came. He was far too pre-occupied with the tasks ahead to deal with questions he himself was barely capable of answering, even if he had been inclined to do so. Unfortunately, there was one device on the ship that could do the job . . . Orac. One was bad enough. What happens in a universe of two of them when they contact each other? Avon gripped the key.

He watched the Liberator finish its movements and then slow to a stop. In the shadow of the ship, he had to reluctantly agree with Tarrant. It looked perfect; gleaming brilliantly, every angle sharp, every plane smooth as a newborn, as organic and seamless a construction as could be imagined. But then again, he didn't have to imagine, did he? There had been the Sword of Auron. And that was extraordinary enough. Had it been fabricated the same way? Avon was certain it had; his "memories" confirmed the fact. He reached up and tapped the hull. It rang softly like a crystal glass.

And had they all been "rebuilt" the same way he had? Just add matter to the pattern and instant life was the result. Well, enough of that. He had had his fill of it and this place. He barked into the communicator: "Vila. Teleport!"

He felt his insides quiver and then he stood before Vila manning the controls of the teleport as if nothing had ever changed.

"It works," Vila said with only a slight trace of irony.

"Is there something that makes you hesitate?" Avon asked, stepping from the transport. "A man from Earth might think you sounded regretful."

"Who me? 'Never-worried-Vila', that's what they call me." Sotto voce: "What could possibly go wrong with this ship, he says."

"Then try not to think about it. That should be easy for you." Avon hesitated, not sure how to proceed. He loathed the thought of stepping down that corridor. There was a finality to that action that distressed him. Finally he said, not looking at Vila, "Join me in the control room. There are some things we must discuss." And Vila scurried on before him

#

In that control room, Tarrant manned the front and lower control panel, Dayna the backup, behind and above him. Both were preoccupied with figuring out how the ship worked as Avon strode in. Vila was sitting calmly in front of Zen and beside a mercifully silent Orac. As in the best or worst of times, he looked morose and useless. Avon was wearing a holster he had retrieved from the rack, but the weapon inside it was uncharged. It was only to keep up appearances. My crew is armed. Now we will see how ready they are.

The silence continued. Not much has changed, thought Avon. And indeed, from the looks they gave him, that was most certainly the case. He waited. Finally Tarrant spoke up. "I suppose you'll be your usual quick self in telling us what is going on?"

"For once even an ill-thought out remark from you fails to irritate me." He looked about, soaking it all in. Despite everything, he did feel a certain calm, an acknowledgement that he once more had a purpose, however ill-considered and pathetically noble. The feeling that this would pass and he would wake up and there would be Servalan beside him was receding. Behind him the light patterns on Zen flickered with apparent randomness. "I would tell you if I honestly knew."

"Well, at least his mood has changed," laughed Dayna.

"Not for long, I bet." That was Vila roused from indifference.

"Your grasp of the obvious never ceases to amaze me." It was not clear who Avon was speaking to. He went over beside Orac. He did not want to touch it. "Presumably you will let me finish before blurting out the whole of it," he said to Vila.

"Who me? Sure. Don't mind me, I just miss Cally."

Avon looked pained. So it begins. "Cally is doing fine. I spoke with her just a short while ago."

Vila leapt up. "She's alive! Why isn't she here?"

"Sit down and shut up."

Avon moved away from Orac and stood in front of Zen, to the side the enormous viscreen. "Zen, take us up to a parking orbit around Terminal. Give me a status report following this briefing on the disposition of the Federation Fleets."

"Confirmed. May I say that I am grateful for a second chance."

"I wish I could agree," Avon muttered.

Dayna managed to look both amused and puzzled. "'Fleets'? I'm impressed. What have you done to annoy them this time, Avon? It must have been good."

"It's an odd pride that permits me to say it was. It will become clear in due course. Suffice it to say that my action has caused her to surround Terminal's sun with approximately 5000 ships."

They stared at him. Everybody knew who he meant by "her."

"I do not have time to go into detail. Query Zen if you like," Avon said, feeling Orac's key firmly in his pocket: "Its understanding presumably is at least as good as my own."

Avon straightened, delivering his opening statement like a judge passing sentence. "You have been 'frozen' in time for nearly a decade. I can not explain how it was done. What concerns you is that the galaxy is under Servalan's control. She always had great promise and has done rather well of late. That should be enough to cause irritation in each of you. For the record, and this is our immediate task, she holds as prisoner on Earth," he let the word sink in, "Jenna, Cally's sister, and another Auron named Mykal Hodos whose name means nothing to you, but who, as the leader of the Auron Community in Exile, is vital to get out of her hands." Not to mention several thousand Auron children the Entity insists be brought along.

"Jenna!"

"Cally's sister! But she . . ."

"I said shut up!" Avon sighed as if he had to repeat once again an incredibly obvious truth. "Cally had an additional sister, one she never mentioned. The renowned Auron reticence. And Jenna . . . is, well, Jenna. What else could anyone say?" He was silent for a few moments. Coming from Avon that was a very moving tribute.

Dayna and Tarrant looked at each other, alarmed.

Vila spoke softly. "You intend to rescue them?

He regretted the answer even as he said it, but a deal was a deal. The promise had been made and would be kept "Yes. What other worthwhile task could I possibly find to occupy you three?"

Tarrant asked suspiciously, "What about this ship? Is it safe? I seem to recall we watched it explode."

"Your concerns are noted," acknowledged Avon. "This ship has been rebuilt, atom by atom, using a technology that is rather involved to explain. Based on my own experience, I assure you it is quite safe. The ship itself is not capable of defeating the Federation, but it should be able to cause amazing irritation, thus giving us time. Once Servalan realizes the power of this technology, (she may already, but no need to mention that), she will stop at nothing to obtain it. This ship is much more than a symbol of technological supremacy. She will want it more than ever. Wanting to such a degree is a weakness we may be able to exploit, but that is all I can say. She will get from the prisoners every scrap of knowledge they possess. It may not be as much information as she desires, but it may be enough. We have to get them out quickly." And I am guessing on all of this. And I could be very wrong.

Tarrant stepped down from the console and confronted Avon.

"I never met Jenna. She means little to me and from what I have been told, even less to you. Which makes me wonder. Finishing Blake's rebellion is not like you, Avon. Why the change, even if it has been ten years? This ship was rebuilt with this 'wonder' technology, yet I suspect we won't have it with us, the technology that is, during the rescue attempt, will we?"

"Other than this ship, no," Avon admitted, appreciating the keenness of the insight as much as he despised the source. "Not until afterwards." He turned sharply to face them all. "You may believe I approach this with enthusiasm. You are in error. I assure you I do not."

Relishing Avon on the defensive, Tarrant pressed the attack. "No presumption at all. I just want to know what we are getting into. Ever since we came here things have been strange. Is Blake here too?"

Avon hesitated. He has me there. "No, Servalan in her last words to us spoke the truth. Wherever he is, he's not here."

"Not dead; just not 'here', wherever here is."

"You can step outside and search for him. The rest of us have more pressing business."

"No, Avon, I'll stick with the devil I know. I was just observing the convenience of all this for you. Why isn't Cally here?"

"Our erstwhile companion appears to have better things to do these days. So frankly do I," he turned away abruptly.

"We can't always have what we want, can we, Avon?"

"It's constantly having what I do not want that is so tiresome."

"Avon's back to his old self," said Dayna. "I was getting worried."

Avon ignored the crack as he took Tarrant's place. On the monitor, the four of them watched the ship moving hurriedly away from Terminal.

"So what is this all about? Sooner or later, you're going to have tell us," said Tarrant.

Dayna came down beside Tarrant. "Avon, we aren't lacking in sympathy."

"Sympathy breeds weakness. There's no place for it here and certainly not where we are going."

"Should we just stay out of your way then?" she asked, exasperated.

"I believe one would logically conclude that from the definition of 'followers'."

#

It was dusk in the clearing as twilight drained the forest of all substance and form. What remained was the mythic. Two figures, one resembling a youthful Blake, the other a youthful Cally, stood by the trunk of the enormous tree. There was a small fire nearby illuminated them as they watched as the Liberator passed overhead, all the more awesome in its silence. It looked for all the world like some medieval castle thrust forward, the last gallant bastion against the advancing enemies of life and civilization itself. And so well might it be. Blake watched intently; Cally impassively. The ship began tilting upward and with gathering swiftness thrust violently up into the pale pink of underbelly sky. Both followed it until it was gone.

For some time afterwards Blake did not move, his expression of solemnity and sadness, nothing else that could be read. Physically, this was Blake reborn; his vision perfect; his bad eye restored. But emotionally, there was still so very far to go. For a fleeting moment he wished he could have been spared this sight. His moment had past. He turned his head down resigned and stared into the fire.

"You were right," said a voice coming cheerily from the flames. "He is impressive. Undeniably difficult, but worth the effort. I think at first I actually startled him, by assuming your appearance, that is. Yet he recovered remarkably fast, just as you said he would. I think that a good sign. Yes, I believe there is reason to hope."

Blake looked annoyed. "Does he care?"

"He is interested. That should prove sufficient."

The flames modulated with the voice and there was a naturalness to that, but the brilliant orange and blue colors, the odd streamers erupting randomly with an occasional starburst were false and in questionable taste.

"Don't you ever get tired of cheap theatrics?"

"No," said the voice without hesitation and the fire puffed out in a shower of sparks which shot up into a spinning column. "No more than you tire of being righteous."

Blake shrugged, then glanced back up to the sky. "I do grow tired of it. I never denied that he remains the best choice. He was always the one with the best chance, that was clear from the start." Blake looked at Cally, who avoided his gaze.

"He does have something. Perhaps the fulfillment of the Auron prophecy, if one is inclined to believe in that sort of thing. But what it is, he is, will probably always remain an enigma. What is certain is that he can get the closest to her. And that we agree, is our great advantage: his strength and value, and weakness. For the others to follow is problematic." The fire settled down into a dull glow.

"They will," said Cally.

"There is an odd thing about your species that I just realized: the less you know, the more certain your language; the more you know, the more it fails you. You still trust him?"

"Despite everything," Blake sighed, "yes."

"Despite everything," agreed Cally, "yes."

"But you both continue to have your doubts. And it appears neither can overcome those doubts sufficient to follow. Cally," the column of fire now illuminated the whole of the tree, flooding the clearing with an icy light, "now maintains we should have . . ."

"I know what I said," Cally answered abruptly. "You said you would help them!"

The fire flickered. "Well, yes, all in due course. When the time is right. I I assured him that at the proper time the full power of this place would assist. Pull out all the corks; that sort of thing. It will happen. Yes, I feel quite confident. All he has to do is accomplish the impossible. It is frightening to contemplate, but there is no way to avoid the test. If they pass . . ."

"If they live to pass. The odds are against them. "

"It is in the nature of this universe-saving business that it must be. May some deity, somewhere, in the eternal fabric of existence, bless this most hopeless of efforts. But it is not too late to help."

And with that the column disappeared and the fire died. The figure of Blake dissolved, leaving only the great tree with its sheltering branches. And the ghost-like Cally in the starlit darkness.

#

Sometime afterward, with Avon and Tarrant piloting the ship, Dayna took the time to nonchalantly sit beside the morose Vila in a corner of the control room. She was worried that they would not have many more chances to chat and things were bothering her. She couldn't help but feel conspiratorial as she whispered. "Some things never change. What do you make of this? Maybe he will tell you."

Vila looked glum and shook his head. "I don't think I would understand it even if he did. And something tells me he won't."

She suppressed a laugh. "Good old Vila, always the optimistic one."

"I'm never optimistic around him. And I'm his friend."

She looked at him shrewdly. "That at least is something we can count on."

Vila looked despondent, as if he had just been told his dog had died. She moved her head closer. "A credit for your thoughts. Make a guess. What do you think is going on? Do you really think Zen can tell us? Who is he trying to kid?"

"Do I look like I know something nobody else does? All I remember is that we were leaving Terminal in this ugly scow of a ship piloted by some lunatic we trusted even less than Avon. The next think I know, here we are," he spread his hands and patted the bench, "the Liberator good as new . . . better than new . . . my hands," his voice slowed as he examined them. "I had scars, wrinkles-not many mind you--now they're gone. And he says it has been 10 years." Vila shuddered and looked back at the monitor. The familiar oval of Terminal had vanished. "Maybe this time we are getting away from that place, but I wonder if where he is leading us is any better.

"Look," Vila indicated the control room, counting off on his fingers. "There's the three of us. Then Avon. And Orac. We're going to rescue three others. Maybe. See? Total of seven. Avon's Seven. Not a cheery thought."

"I'm not sure you're counting right. 'Avon's Eight' might be more like it, but no matter. I get the point," she sighed then stopped. She brushed a finger along his hand and glanced over to Orac. "You know, Vila," she mused, "I'm thinking that Orac could tell us what's going on."

"Yeah," agreed Vila, "and you noticed he didn't suggest we talk with it. I bet anything Avon's going to keep a tight fist on that key."

Their eyes met for a long time as he said it. Dayna looking amused and knowing. And Vila looked terrified.

#

"Zen, maintain this trajectory. Report on status and disposition of surrounding Federation fleets." Avon's voice was crisp and clear. On the viscreen, only a diffuse powdery star field showed. Terminal, if it was to be found at all, was only a dust point from here.

"Federation ships currently surround the whole of Terminal's sun at a distance of five light-years. Would you prefer a visual or matrix disposition."

"Visual. Proceed," said Avon.

A series of concentric shells composed of thousands of dots began surrounded the image of Terminal's sun. On this logarithmic scale, the shells were impressively dense. Avon increased the magnification steadily, but even then it was hard to resolve individual points. It was all too clear the odds were overwhelmingly against escape.

But Avon showed no concern as for several minutes the others in silence absorbed the implications. "I doubt the Liberator will be able to outrun them," Dayna said finally, more sad than angry. Yet, she was impressed. Say what you will about Avon, he had clearly been busy. Too bad it was all been for naught.

Tarrant gave his opinion flatly. "Avon, this ship is fast, but there is no way it will be able to escape that net."

"So a rational person and anyone else would presume." He looked at Vila who found it hard to return his gaze. "This ship, however, has new and rebuilt capabilities of which some of you are unaware."

"And what might those be?" Tarrant demanded.

Avon's expression soured. "On that you'll just have to trust me, as always." He spoke to Vila, his voice distressingly soothing. "Do you recall our escape from Cygnus Alpha when we first acquired this vessel?"

Vila nodded but he looked uncomprehending. Avon turned to the others. "The Liberator has an 'escape' switch, one designed to be used only once, after which the switch self-destructs. It was designed so as not to be used repeatedly by commanders of insufficient competence."

Avon glanced upward, then looked down and pointed a finger directly at his console. "When I activate the sequence, the ship will enter an extremely rapid escape mode. If past experience is a guide, one the Federation will not be able to match."

"I thought you said the switch could only be used once?." asked Tarrant

"But the ship has been reconstructed, as you assured me you noticed," said Avon blandly. "I have it on very good authority that when reconstructed the switch was rebuilt and reset. My memory is much improved these days. Is there, however, anyone who disputes that this option is worth a try?"

Tarrant studied the monitor. "Blake, I was told, dreaded the thought of taking on three Federation ships. You do not blanch at taking on well-over 3000."

"Your faith in me is noted and appreciated. I detect agreement. Everyone take your seats. Strap yourselves down."

Avon began entering commands swiftly as the others scurried to their seats. Like a hive of angry bees, the engines powered up in an ominous hum. Avon's voice activated the command sequence. On the monitor, the point representing the Liberator showed as a bright spot beginning to move swiftly away from Terminal's sun.

"Forward view!" demanded Avon. He wanted a close look at the line--for a moment Star One flashed into his mind--they were about to smash into. But he had no chance. Ahead, the shell swelled and dissolved, thrust back behind them and replaced by a void of space with streaks of light spiraling into a single black dot. They were shoved into their acceleration couches and lost consciousness.

#

When they came too, the screen was stable but the constellations unfamiliar.

"Zen. Report approximate distance relative to Terminal and Earth," said a groggy Avon.

**The Liberator is approximately 217.3 light-years from Terminal, 623.1 light-years from Earth, galactic coordinates . . .**

"Thank you, Zen. It is sufficient acknowledgement to know that indeed my memory did not fail." Avon unstrapped, powered off his console, rose and turned to leave. The others starred at him, still recovering.

"Well, Avon," said Dayna, "thank you for reminding us why we need you." She chuckled. "This will kill her."

"I doubt it," he said, studying the viscreen.

Vila seemed the most dazed, trying to rub his neck and forehead simultaneously. Tarrant studied Avon suspiciously. "I think it would be more interesting, however, to hear why Avon needs us."

"He won't tell you," Vila suddenly blurted out.

But Avon had a surprise for them. This was one question he knew he would not be able to evade, now or ever, and he was ready for it. He stepped into the center of the control room and turned to them: "Each of you has reasons to hate her. Some more than others," he glanced pointedly at Dayna, "but all of them sufficient to motivate you to kill. I made a deal on Terminal, as I said." He looked once more at the viscreen, the universe before them placid and serene. "I see no alternative open to us to accomplish this than to kill her. But someone else is going to have to do the job. I don't know who. I do know it won't be me. Fight among yourselves for the honor."

And with that he stormed out of the room.

---