THE PATTERN OF INFINITY

". . . we are aware of a one-way flow of time only because we are ourselves complex systems interacting with other complex systems. We remember the past and not the future not because there is any fundamental asymmetry in time, but because of the overwhelming disparity between the likely and the unlikely in everything that we are and do and see."
- J. A. Wheeler

It was only near the end they would came to see the truth of the prophecy: that on the day the Scientists joined with the Songmasters, would come the end time when the secrets of all hearts would be revealed.

The Dance of the Bees

This had been a fine day of burning. A good day, one that was wearying but satisfying. Today she had burned a little more of the past, and the light from the fire would reveal a little more of the future. Of that, the great Servalan was certain.

Now returned to her cold room at midnight, from the meetings that had consumed her day, to involvements and decisions that her power could never fully reconcile, she was ready to retire for the evening. It was very late. She dimmed the lights of the room, observing with satisfaction as she did so the transparent box in the corner, twinkling with the lights of its own inner logic. Having it here was more a comfort than anything else. She told herself she truly did not need it. Having the man who had returned to her in this room would have been sufficient proof of that, but confirmation would have to wait. Her mind was content. Only her body remained angry.

Much had been accomplished since--she tried to picture the scene clearly--it had been almost two years, hadn't it?--since Geir's request had been forwarded to her by the Federation ambassador to his world. How terrified she had been at first to receive it, not understanding what drew her to that message and what frightened her. Why had she taken it so personally? Soon however, as what Geir wanted became more clear, she saw beyond her private dreads, and discovered a new opening to complete her destruction of the past. To finish what she had begun with Blake; with Auron . . .

She put on the gown and entered into the covers for the few hours of sleep that she would require. It was her desire this night to dream of both past and future. So much had been burned, so many red fork flames jabbing into the sky, until silence was total. A great accomplishment to be sure, but still the planet and the people survived in her mind, and that continued to disturb. As the lights dimmed further and in the soft perfection of the bed, leaden chains began to drag her down into the deepest of sleep, there came the first of two dreams of the past. Two striking dreams; in the coldness of her room she trembled, eyelids shut like pinchers, falling ever deeper down into dark, tormented night.

It had been a beautiful, sunlit day when she had awakened in her room at the research center. She was just shy of twelve years old. She looked out the window to the garden surrounded by the six buildings, wondering when she would ever be able to escape, but for the moment not being too despondent about it. As with every Auron young person, she dreamed of the worlds beyond. Perhaps the book had guidance for her. She had been given an ancient book on a special day, her sixth birthday, and surprisingly, for she usually despised the gifts they gave her, the book had become vital to her life. She picked it up from the nightstand and watched the sunlight flash off the gold-like foil that covered it. Six years ago; now she was nearly twelve.

She liked this gift, this gift from her prime teacher, and she kept it with her always wondering what he would bring her next. She liked gifts. They brought a temporary solace to whatever pain she was feeling. This particularly book had been a prayer book and the date inside (1662) was a source of both awe and discomfort. The date of over a thousand years (the book must be worth a fortune) before hinted at the reverence that her teachers and guardians held for her. Why? She had no idea. But she was fascinated by the book as the door into the past. The sentiments were quaint, but the very strangeness of the language and the gravity of age compelled and challenged her. Hard as it was to understand, the sheer emotional power of the language gripped her. It was a one more grip she would have to break, but she was moved regardless. Sometimes she fantasized about burning the book, one shredded page at a time as she both cried and danced and sang, but she was unsure she would ever be able to do so.

In adulthood, even at supreme power, she would continue to read it from time to time--except on those nights when Avon was in her room. And on this night, he was not. She would read the words at random, stopping at whatever appealed to her in the way of prophetic language. This night one passage in particular seemed linked to her future and Avon's. She had noted it and reread it every night for weeks since returning to Earth. Not that she believed in any mystical portents of the future, she was far too much of a Scientist for that, but she felt she could infuse the dead words with the power of her knowledge and thus decode them in a way the author's could never have imagined. From the book she decided would come the return message: the one in which her people would send her the day Avon returned.

But until this particular day, it had appeared as if the wait might be longer than anticipated. Inevitable as that event might be, she had resigned herself to the fact that there was no forcing time. So each night, putting on her robe, her shoulders sagged briefly in weariness, she waited and hoped, the confidence within her tiring and draining in a way she intensely disliked. Such was Avon's power; one could never be sure what the man was capable of. Him running about who knows where in the galaxy . . . well, it had been terribly upsetting.

Until this new rebellion was quashed, the things that could cheer her were few number. The knowledge of her rival "Li," imprisoned in a Federation cell on the other side of the planet, was, however, one of them.

The memory of Avon's betrayal was still too painful, his crime against her still too close an event, for it ever to be far from her mind. She hated thinking about it. The sense of him would not leave. In truth, she did love him, an unconditional love that would survive whatever he did. She felt an internal shudder like a sudden chill. The memory of their times together coupled with the very real news of mysterious enemies in the outer worlds were like buzzing flies she had been unable to swat. Somehow Avon was inspiring this threat. But why? And how? While her advisors had discounted the rumors for weeks, there was no question in her mind that the ship finally spotted and photographed was indeed the Liberator, in spirit if perhaps not precisely in substance. The messages that it broadcast following each raid had been compared with the voice prints of the original crew of nearly a decade before and they matched perfectly. It could be an elaborate deception, but her feelings were all against that. But deception was the story she gave as official explanation. How good it was to know the bastard had survived and had come back in life to continue to torment her! He would have to be punished most severely, as soon as she could figure out exactly how he had managed this latest annoyance.

Her fleets that had surrounded Terminal were now scattered in various cleanup operations across the galaxy. But before abandoning the encirclement of that odd little world, they had observed something; something traveling at a time-distort velocity that made any thought of interception impossible. In fact her fleets had lost track of it completely. No one had any idea where it had gone, or had paid any further attention to the event--until weeks later, when these irritating attacks began.

It could not be coincidence. It all fit. A clear pattern had formed from the moment he had left her spinning in space. Everything had Avon's name written on it. He was testing, probing, goading her, but she would resist! She had no intention of ever again giving into the man. It would be Avon who would abandon his will and surrender to her!

Other struggles would follow, of course, grim, merciless they would be until the end, but eventually he and the galaxy itself would crumple before her will. The dreams had told her so. It must be.

Convincing her Special Services people of the logic of the strategy she demanded had been difficult. They wanted brutal action, immediate and total, to eradicate the pests. But Servalan had prevailed--as one might well expect--though she was not entirely lacking in sympathy with their attitude. She pointed out that by the actions of the ship those who manned it were clearly seeking to avoid direct confrontation. The ship appeared to have remarkable capabilities, and yet those capabilities were being used sparingly. To respond in overwhelming force would give them far too much credence. The news was certain to spread. Given the speed of the craft sending a large force chasing after it through the galaxy would have an effect on the local planetary populace more comical than terrifying. It would likely result in even more groups emulating the new crew of the "Liberator," such was the wild nature of the outer worlds. The Federation would be playing directly into the hands of whoever these people were and that could not be permitted. Furthermore, and while she was reluctant to state it openly, her conviction was that Avon himself was leading this band. That news would have to be kept under wraps. Out in the open, its effect could be unsettling. So, while she ordered all Federation bases on full alert, it would be to defensive positions only. Under no circumstances were any Federation ships to pursue the craft--until the specific order came from her to do so. Prudence was always in the forefront of her nature. Wait, see what can be learned.

Happily, it turned out she did not have to wait long.

. . . The dream flowed, pulling her down, drowning her in warmth, back to the past . . .

On the day the book was presented, the book that was to signify the symbolic ties with the past that never were to be broken, it was on this day that she would be begin her quest to purge everything from her life that she hated, Auron traditions most of all. For the being who was to become Servalan, it must be remembered that she had no parents, no family as such. She was, and this probably sounds more callous than intended, "assembled" (but this was hardly a unique occurrence).

That is, several donors had contributed to her genetic makeup. Auron scientists created the structure of her being, part of a plan that was to be their boldest of leaps into the unknown. The Songmasters were skeptical, but did not interfere. The general populace knew little and those that did know, later were to suppress the rumors they had heard.

After her birth, comfort and assurance were given by her guardians. So while it was the custom and obligation of her attendants to contribute to the child's sense of worth, for this young girl, in this great event, both the gift and the presentation had to be extraordinary. Over the years the people that raised and tutored her had been chosen carefully for both their empathic skills and sensitivity. And all had seemingly done well.

Inwardly fuming, she realized there was unconditional love from all of them. Only the love was meaningless to her.

. . . She was to be the first of the beings who would achieve transcendence . . .

In the early years of her life, she would, when the visits occurred, watch from concealed places as the Federation agents came to inspect the Research Facilities on Auron. They were in search of concealed military purposes, dark and sinister. They would come grim faced, wearing black uniforms and shiny boots, stamping relentlessly on the hard clean floors. As first she was as scared as any of the Auronar of these rude visitors. She would watch, these Federation people exuded suspicion and paranoia, but could see strength and determination as well. These emotions won her over. She could not help but admire the intruders. And at the end of their inspections, when they would leave shaking their heads with looks of utter bewilderment, she would feel disappointment with them. She wanted there to be wonder weapons and some apotheosis of conflict, but other then veiled threats and frustration, nothing happened, nothing was found. It was clear that the science of the Auron laboratories meant nothing them. Whatever was taking place in these research centers (there were dozens on Auron) could not be viewed as a threat to the growing might of the Federation.

She admired them, pitied them, was disgusted by them. They seemed so poorly led, so lacking in direction, their purpose hopelessly muddled. If only they had leadership guided by true intelligence! The terror and power they could project! Fantasies of the Auronar fleeing before her newly acquired minions filled many a childhood night.

But there seemed little hope it would come to pass. She wondered if she would ever be able to leave Auron; and if she did, what she could do in the human worlds out there. She would have to hide her identity, of course, but how possible might that be? Where was a place for her?

It was from her prime teacher, a kindly man with a troubled mind who walked with a stoop, and who seemed older than even his advanced age, that she began to understand who she was and how she might yet find a place in the cosmos she was determined to rule.

Of course, she knew she was different from early on. Though everyone around her was more than kind, more than caring, the deep and abiding love they projected was suffocating. She could not help but feel repulsed. What was she? The kinder they were, the more alienated she became. She did not show it, because like many young children she was a master psychologist of repression and had learned to subvert and manipulate her emotions. But her teachers and the other children she played with could not help but sense her profound separateness. The adults were always watching her. And in the surface kindness of their eyes she sensed an inner desperation. She was becoming increasingly difficult to control. And control they must.

One day, very near her twelfth birthday, her teacher took her on a walk into the large garden courtyard that was enclosed by the six research buildings. This teacher was a favorite of hers, not so much for his kindness and his courtesy, already these were traits that were irritating to her, but because of the obvious great depth of his knowledge. It was near noon and as they walked through the curving paths, he spoke again of how the patterns of nature must correspond to the patterns of thought and mind.

She could make little sense of it. Whenever he spoke of the patterns, the algorithms of the soul as he would say, it bothered her, but she did not understand why. She doubted she could ever equal such a mind in the depth of its learning. Such minds, she mused, were difficult to control. So it was with trepidation she took this walk into the garden, humid in the dense foliage, and stifling from the lack of breeze, which could be heard as it rustled in the treetops above them. It was quiet that day. Except for the endless practice session of the Songmasters, singing in the distance, and the humming of the bees, the garden was still.

They found an old stone bench and after they sat, he stopped speaking for a few minutes. When he spoke again--she could tell that even this short walk had winded him, though he was in mostly good health-- he began to speak of the influence nature had on Auron thinking. These were things she had heard before, and she could follow with only a slight amount of attention. He continued in this vein for several minutes more; she wondering where this was all leading to. Finally, he pointed out bees converging on a plant with large flowers, yellow and delicate. She sensed he was getting near to what he was struggling to say. And that it was something about her and her future.

"Long ago, even before there were the Auronar, even before Vastator or so it is believed, a scientist on Earth noticed something very special about bees." He studied her now attentive face. "It had been known for a long time that bees communicate with a kind of dance. This dance displays both the direction and the distance of a source of food. A bee when it locates such a source, returns to the hive and does this dance of programmed movements. It is in this fashion that it communicates the vital information to its fellows. Now, the dance had been studied for many decades, but this scientist, who was also a mathematician, noticed that the dance was--and this is really quite an amazing insight on her part--a projection of a six dimensional manifold onto a two dimensional space. You remember your studies of six-dimensional geometry? Well, that is the space in which the dance is performed. Somehow the bees--and they are delightful if not altogether brilliant creatures--appeared to sense these higher dimensions and communicate using the manifolds embedded in them. This fascinating, though quite preliminary study, pointed the way to a new synthesis of biology, mathematics, and physics quite unlike anything that had been achieved before.

"Unfortunately," he sighed, "much of her work was lost not too many years afterward when Vastator destroyed so much that was good and beautiful. It was the Auronar who rediscovered the fragments long afterwards and who built the research program which was to achieve so much, including finally bringing her work the recognition it deserved. Today we honor that scientist in gardens like these," he made a careful gesture, which included the garden and the buildings beyond.

"The gardens are an integral part of Auron architectural design. We honor the bees in both the hexagonal arrangement of the six buildings, and their structure of six sides. Indeed, the whole business has become something of a cliche, but the dance of the bees showed the way. It would be tragic to forget that original insight."

He paused. She looked at him, intense in thought, impatient, and puzzled. "This has something to do with me, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does. You are a quite extraordinary child, and soon to be come much more. I doubt that you have any idea of what you are capable of achieving." He smiled slightly, "and neither do we."

He hesitated, the smile fading. "You see, we Aurons are determined to understand life and its future, right down to the fundamentals. We must. It is a matter of survival, physical and spiritual. Even our human brothers feel some of this. And though some persecute us, as much out of fear as of hate, we hope they will eventually join with us. The religion of the Auronar, if you will, encompasses all conscious life. When in the depths of despair in the centuries after Vastator, it was the bees who showed us that there was a vastly more complex and beautiful link between science and life than had ever been imagined. That re-discovery led to our rebirth. The truth had finally been glimpsed as to how mathematics and physics were linked. Life, physics, and mathematics all in one package-- no one had imagined it might be possible to achieve such an extraordinary unification. Now that we have it, we must know where it leads," his voice was strong at first, but then trailed off.

"It's all very beautiful," she said, bored and disappointed, and scarcely convincing in her words.

He looked at her with a mixture of both shrewdness and sadness. She is so close to being what we sought. "Yes, quite beautiful, but you must not rush to possess it. There is no royal road to understanding of life any more than there is a royal road to understanding geometry. So, if I may continue?"

She nodded sullenly.

"Now, once the program was underway, it began to branch into many different directions. As you no doubt recall from your history lessons, there had been on ongoing research program in what was termed at the time the 'morphogenetic field'--a strange 'something' that supposedly guided the growth and form of not only individuals but entire species. It was as an idea we know now to be quite misguided but the work that came out of it was not entirely wasted. On occasion the right questions were asked; the research did provide valuable clues.

"Overnight," he made an expansive gesture, "with the discovery of the research on the bees, the whole 'morphogenesis' business collapsed and the long research project was transformed. The goal was transformed as well: find the higher geometries and patterns of life, patterns that might embrace all of human existence. But despite the enthusiasm and brilliance with which the new project was begun, the mathematics proved virtually intractable--until someone had a brilliant and frightening idea to make the problem workable.

"Throughout their history the Auronar have created telepaths and other individuals of diverse and specialized mental abilities. The thought was this: why not create individuals who could sense these fields, analogous to what the bee does, but with the vastly greater power of the mind? If it could be done, these individuals would be the trail blazers. They would ultimately be capable of exploring the whole of space-time, sensing existence in ways we can scarcely understand. They would come to know with unparalleled sensitivity the gossamer quantum fields that permeate space-time. These 'trail blazers' would travel to the farthest reaches of time, to retrieve information of priceless value. One of these people, imbued with knowledge we can scarcely imagine, would unite the whole of humanity in freedom, tolerance, and an end to hate."

Excited despite herself, she asked hurriedly, "You mean 'the Last Hero'"?

He winced and sighed. "No. That dreadful phrase is a product of the less intellectually endowed among our journalists, the type who have nothing better to do than to pandor to those who have a longing for such overly-dramatic and, I dare say, meaningless phrases. The name that Aurons properly use, and it is an ancient name which we appropriated and altered somewhat in meaning, is more poetic: the 'Messiah'--not a mortal god, but a wise leader who will inspire humanity by word and mind alone."

She was feeling increasing bold: "Am I to be that person?"

"No," he said firmly, though aghast at her perceptiveness. She was indeed a good study. "But you are a beginning. It may very well be your destiny to find that person, and of heralding this person to others."

She felt terribly deflated. She had no interest in what Man Would Become. In the heat and humidity of the park, the distant singing of the Songmasters, the oppressive droning of the bees, all were irritating to her. "What was the name again?" She asked idly, confused, not sure what to say, but determined to keep the conversation going. Something useful might yet come of it.\par

He was silent. "Tell me!" she demanded, grabbing his hand and for a moment was stunned by what she felt, like an electric current going up her arm. Her face must have looked it. He eyes flared astonishment as she slowly withdrew her hand. Her face reflecting emotions of both terror and triumph. There was something; a power; she had felt it. It was real.

"Please do not be upset," he said trying to comfort them both. "There is no name for this person as we have no idea who he or she might be. We have only the title--is that what you mean?--for this giver of freedom, a bestowed title--and it is quite musical don't you agree?--of the 'Messiah'. Long ago it meant a ruler of the last days. The Auronar have taken the term to have the primary sense of 'Liberator'. Though even those closest to him, I use the pronoun in the general sense, will distrust him deeply in the end he will be the one to bring hope, peace, and freedom in humanity's darkest and yet perhaps greatest hour."

She felt a chill as she absorbed his words in full. Why did they bother her? The words meant nothing to her. More old words from a very old planet, remote, covered with the dust and cobwebs of too many centuries. She was much too excited by the power, the something she had just felt, now working its way into her consciousness. That was something truly remarkable, quite unlike anything she had ever felt before. She looked at her teacher curiously, then slowly, as if by an accident, again brushed her hand against his.

And felt it again. Now she knew. She scarcely could believe it. It was an absolute certainty. He will be dead very soon.

"I am not upset," she replied slowly, fighting to keep a grip on herself. "Please continue."

"Well," he seemed to relax, almost happy that this had gone well. "You are a part of that program; you are our most successful creation to date." The others either went hopelessly mad or died very young, as did your cloned sisters. I am so very sorry.

But inside she felt a deep disappointment undermining this exhilarating moment. More than she could admit. She looked at him again. How certain she had been that she would be this future ruler! Who else could it possibly be? Now it was over. Oh, what did these people know!

"Will we live to see this person?"

"You will, I think." I most emphatically will not.

Could it be his health, she wondered. He was old, even by Auron standards and he was overweight, but not severely. She knew he was careful with his health. She knew he was open with all around him and certainly would have let his staff know had there been something threatening. He had always been the kindest and most solicitous to her, which had frustrated her no end. She would miss him, if briefly.

Puzzled, he looked at her as she quietly thought through the implications. "Is there something else?"

Her intent gaze, almost clinical, staring at him was not quite the reaction he had expected.

"No, everything is as it should be. Are you feeling well?" she asked abruptly.

He laughed slightly, but the laughter sounded forced as he patted his knee: "Always the best. I assure you, always the best."

She lapsed back into silence. They rose and left the bench, thenwith slow steps walked out of the garden; he returning to his laboratory, she to her room and studies. Thus the subject closed between them.

Not too many days afterward, in the silence and loneliness of his office, her teacher committed suicide.

The Darker Purpose

"Thievery necessitates planning," said Vila haughtily to an increasingly vexed Dayna. "It's not something you just do whenever the mood hits."

"That was not what I have been told." Dayna replied, laying her words out one block after another. "At least one particular thief I know, a true professional, had been quite good at stealing on the spur of the moment. All manner of things: like watches . . . "

Vila looked away, downcast. "I'm not the man I was. At least I like to think so. Which is what I am trying to explain. This will be harder than stealing a watch from a stranger."

Technically what she was saying was true. It was just that he hadn't known Blake at the time. He did know Avon, had been with him for three (four?) years, and that made all the difference imaginable. It was wrong, very wrong, to steal from a friend, to break a friend's trust . . . Of course, Avon wasn't exactly a friend, but for the sake of argument was close enough. If he, Vila, did this thing Dayna was proposing, and even if they were not found out, which seemed highly unlikely, Vila doubted he would ever be able to forgive himself. That was the crux of the matter. And it bothered him no end that Dayna did not seem to care.

"We have to do this! We have to know, " she continued, her voice harsh, low, relentless. "I'm in this with you. If he finds out, he'll find us both out, and we'll take the heat together. You agree we have to know what happened?"

Vila was unable to look at her. The logic was impeccable.

"And you agree he is hardly going to tell us on his own free will?"

Vila nodded his head slowly, in shallow movements of resignation. No one would dispute that. And that angered him. Avon would take the secret to his grave--and then keep it to himself in the afterlife.

"Then the matter is settled," said Dayna. "The plan, as soon as you come up with one and I trust it will be very soon," her voice was firm, "will be put into affect at once. Just ask me what I have to do. I will do it," she finished triumphantly.

She tried to put as much enthusiasm and confidence in that statement as she could, but in truth even Dayna was distressed about what they were plotting. She didn't like Avon. Of course, who could be said to actually like the man? But she respected him immensely, as did everyone on the ship. Not even her father had invoked such awe in her. To steal from Avon was like stealing fire from the gods. It was a violation of trust, and surely would invite terrible retribution. Yet following her own compelling logic, there was no turning back.

So in the vernacular of the shady, that afternoon Vila performed Step 1 of Operation ORAC: "Casing the joint". That is, he went to Avon's cabin for a friendly 'meeting', a totally unprecedented action and one certain to arouse suspicions. Ostensibly it was to get advice. In reality, it was to determine the lay of the steal prior to the actual breaking and entering. Vila winced, but it wasn't every day that a mark let you into the scene of the future crime and master thief he was, he was not about to pass on the opportunity. He had insisted on it and a nervous Dayna had promptly agreed; too promptly for his taste. Meanwhile--speaking of suspicious actions--Avon had moved ORAC out of the bridge and into his cabin, making the task of the would-be data thieves that much more difficult and that much more imperative.

Vila was coming, ahem, to ask advice. Well, advice was typically in short supply from Avon, but Vila was hoping surprise would work in his favor. After the room was 'cased', the plan was roughly as follows. First, steal ORAC's key. And that meant, among other things, fabricating beforehand a device that would have the look and feel of the real item and substituting it for the actual key at just the right moment. Making the copy would be Dayna's task. Second, Vila would switch the two keys; details to follow. Third, Dayna would monitor Avon's movements so that when he was away from his cabin for sufficient length of time, only a few minutes they calculated, the data heist would take place. Finally, switch the keys back so that no one would be the wiser. Essentially this step involved a reverse pick pocket to give back what had been taken from the man in the first place. Vila had earned his livelihood at one time pulling such jobs and such a skill, once acquired, would never desert you. He should have been far more comfortable about it than he was.

The actual data 'retrieval' would not be difficult. Vila would take in a standard data recorder, query ORAC, and copy the resulting data using infra-red link. The two conspirators would then analyze the data in private.

Interrogation of ORAC itself was an unknown risk. ORAC was known to be terse (good) but also enigmatic (not so good) and opiniated (much worse). They doubted they would have a second chance on this.

It was in fact, ignoring the moral qualms for the moment and he was getting over them, interrogating ORAC that filled him with the most dread. There was something genuinely scary, in a Greek tragedy sort of way, about what might happen when the device was awakened and the questions were asked.

Vila shuddered at the thought of ORAC spilling the beans. The next time it was queried, wouldn't Avon be surprised?

Each time he faltered or came near panic, it was Dayna who carried him through. Her help was of more value than he would have guessed, both in planning and execution. She was, it turned out, quite knowledgeable on database programming, and the kind of queries that she coded would extract the maximum of relevant information while avoiding the extremes of data clutter and overlooked crucial details. In any event, the two wrote a set of focused queries that would be pumped into ORAC to devastating effect. The truth would at last be revealed.

Such was the plan, but what mattered now was that there was no avoiding going to Avon. It had to be done. The groundwork had to be set and that meant at the very least raising the issue in an oblique fashion. As Vila stood before the door, he wondered if Avon would be in a chipper mood. Might just fork over everything they wanted to know, who could say? It could happen and thus they could avoid this whole distasteful business. And perhaps Cally would step back on board or Avon turn himself over to Servalan. Vila shook his head.

He straightened. He was ready. Like anyone who had been in Avon's employ, Vila feared Avon's righteous wrath more than any other force in the universe. If he would have to face Avon for performing the burglary, at least he was determined to get the information that his suffering would warrant. And be a man about it.

So it was with awkwardness and trepidation that Vila knocked on Avon's door not long after the final planning session with Dayna. Try to appear as innocent as possible.

The door opened and before him sat Avon at his workstation, ignoring him, saying nothing whatever. Vila entered the room and the door closed. Avon did not give the slightest indication of awareness of his presence. Finally, he looked over at Vila, managing to mix both curiosity and scorn: "There is a matter requiring your personal presence? Most would have found e-mail sufficient to the task."

It occurred to Vila--again!--that a total lie at this moment could not survive. He needed just the right balance along the jagged, chaotic edge of truth and falsehood.

"I want to know more about the ten years we were 'away', 'frozen'," he swallowed. He spoke truthfully and forcefully enough.

Avon turned back to the task at hand. "I rather suspect you do. But as I alluded, I scarcely understand the business myself, and giving the pressing matters we are engaged in, the question is not of sufficient interest for any of us to pursue it."

"But it is for me," Vila said determinedly, stepping forward slightly. "I have thought a lot about this. I must have the truth." Good.

Avon eyed him curiously. "I was unaware you had achieved a philosophical bent at this stage of your life; though in fairness returning from non-existence could presumably have that affect." I ought to know.

Vila was silent. Avon continued: "Be careful what you think about, Vila, you might just achieve some understanding. And then where would you be?" He smiled slightly, giving Vila his first case of the shudders.

But he continued to stand there, always the professional, taking in the room, noting the configuration, observing the silent ORAC in the far corner. The key had to be on Avon's person. "Is that your way of saying you won't discuss it?"

"Why yes, I think it is. Run along. You need to understand a great deal more than the last ten years. And it truly is not for me to teach you."

Vila was miffed. "The issue is more important than understanding."

"Well, that's a relief."

He suspects something! "Why are you so reluctant to tell us? You have never been reluctant to spare our feelings before. Why now?"

Avon gave his full attention. "What is life?" he shrugged. "It's one of those things you wouldn't understand. Maybe someday. Let me put it this way," he seemed fully warmed to his visitor, "to the extent the truth can be known, that's epistemology and metaphysics, and to the degree I am compelled to tell it, that's ethics. And the degree to which you can be expected to understand, that's the theory of mind," he grinned. "That's philosophy for you, all the questions you should ask before you need to ask them. Could I lead you to an act of wisdom, and thereby make you think? I am much more concerned these days in leading you to Hell and bringing you out alive. That's politics. Do us all a favor--postpone your curiosity."

Vila considered that; Avon had a point. Given their situation, the man in charge was not being entirely unreasonable. Still . . . "I'd prefer not," he said stiffly. And that was the best he could offer as a witty rejoinder.

Avon returned to his task. "Preferences are based on values. That's economics, or where economics joins ethics. I studied them in my misspent youth, a whole summer on a world . . . Not worth the time and effort. Let me put it this way: for the purposes of the task before us, the truth will not free you. It will only burden and imprison you."

Vila realized he would get no more. Dayna was right. Time for extreme measures. He prepared to leave, puzzled, but now totally committed to the job. Avon suspected something, he was sure. So be it. Vila turned at the door, determined to have the final word. "I won't kill her either. She hasn't done anything to me, personally that is." So there!

"How unfortunate. I was thinking you had by far the best chance."

It had all started a few weeks before, on a day like any other. A day that had begun well, except for the slight headache that was to grow progressively worse until the astonishing events of that evening. Other than that physical discomfort, Servalan had seldom felt more confident. Somehow whatever obstacles she faced this day, they would be overcome. She dressed quickly but stylishly that morning, dressing to match the confidence and boldness of her mood: red dress, black hat, and a corsage. For her. She went over to her main office for the first of several critical telemeetings planned for the day. She was eager to embrace them all. Total victory would no longer be denied her. The fall of Lindor was just the beginning.

So at the appointed hour, the enormous wall monitor came to life, the faces of the scientists and interrogators greeted her. From her elevated position, she looked down on them. On the whole they appeared trepidatious, which was gratifying, but not too cowed, which was encouraging. It meant they had good or at least useful news to report.

"I am ready," she said firmly.

"We have completely broken the security code of the recorder," said one of her mathematicians stepping forward. "All Federation computational resources were placed to the task of breaking the encryption keys," he stated. "I can now report that every file is open to us."

"Excellent," she beamed. It had taken months, everything at her command except--understandably she had been reluctant to turn ORAC over to them for this purpose--and was relieved now that her most secret of weapons had been unnecessary. "See that the files are properly catalogued and forwarded to my account. I will review them (with ORAC) in their entirety before making them available to those who need to have access. Continue."

The scientist stepped back. The newly appointed head of interrogation then stepped forward, a man named Dev Tarrant. There was much that annoyed Servalan about him, including his name, but he went back a long way, over fifteen years, and his knowledge was considerable. Perhaps too much so. He was known to excel at his work. He enjoyed what he did. Well, she could live with that

"Supreme Commander," he began unctuously, "the interrogation of the subjects, while not complete, particularly in the case of the Auron called 'Li', can be considered nearly so. We conclude that any additional information extracted from them is likely to be of only marginal interest."

The impertinence of the man. "I will decide that. What is the status of each of the 'subjects' ?"

Dev replied cautiously. "Of course, Supreme Commander, not meaning to appear presumptuous. If I may continue? Subject Jenna Stannis has almost fully recovered from her injuries. She, however, claims to know little of the technology in question and nothing of the former Lord Protector's plans. Despite her reputation for hostility towards to Federation, I am inclined to believe we have gotten from her what we can."

Well, perhaps. Servalan frowned. "And Mykal Hodos?"

"Fully recovered though as obstinately uncooperative as Stannis. Federation methods have, however, had greater success with him. The subject does have a rather low pain threshold. We believe that while continued interrogation is warranted, the value of the obtained information from Hodos is questionable. Of course, it cannot hurt to continue probing."

Servalan's frown deepened. Well, yes, but were her people getting ahead of her? "And why is that?" she asked idly, but inwardly was alarmed.

"We need to understand more of what motivates the Auronar, so the last of them may be captured and subdued. You yourself pointed out his immense, if potential at this point, value . . ."

That did it. She was becoming increasingly irritable but was struggling to ensure it did not show. Damn this headache. It was like a light piercing into her eyes. "I agree, but I wish the thrust of your methods to be more subtle, the strategy to change. Whatever his 'pain threshold', more indirect methods are now called for. I have plans for him. I know his value and I do not want him damaged. Must I do everything? Have him placed in another cell, one more comfortable with the best hygienic facilities. Improve the qualify of his food and so forth, to the maximum allowed a 'guest'."

"Guest?"

"You have trouble with the word? I mean guest of the Federation, not prisoner. In short, leave them to me, all of them. Are my orders clear on this?" She hoped she did not sound too exasperated.

"Perfectly," Dev bowed. He had begun to lose some of his swagger. "As for the Auron who calls herself 'Li'." Servalan tensed. "We have, of course, held her under sedation for some time now, following your instructions. Her quite remarkable strength has weakened, but because of the circumstances, there has been little opportunity to adequately interrogate her. It is her occasional ravings--quite incomprehensible--and her lack of technical knowledge that makes it unclear what more can be gained."

He stopped, as if expecting a cue. Servalan considered what he had said. It was true she had put off dealing with the hated 'Li'. It was most unlike her. She glowered at him, but inside she hesitated. Everyone knows "Li" bothers me. That is a weakness I will have to guard against. Finally, her face softened. "Li is a special case," she said evenly, not quite clear how to convey exactly how special. "As with Mykal, it will be necessary now for me to take over her interrogation. (I should have done so sooner.) Here are my instructions," she said, leaning forward. "Eliminate the sedatives over the next two weeks. See that she regains both strength and coherence. Cease interrogation for now." Leave her to me.

"Then I take it that all previous orders, Madame President . . ."

"You may certainly 'take it' that they have changed! See that the new orders are followed. Report back to me in two weeks! I presume you know what I expect to hear."

"Of course, Madam President."

"This grows tiresome. I will review the remaining reports off-line. The health of all the prisoners' will continue to be monitored and of course shall improve, quickly I might add. New instructions will be forthcoming. Is there anything in addition that requires my personal attention?"

There was silence.

"Very well. Now I must resume my work of safeguarding our victories. Please make sure you do the same," and she snapped off the monitor.

She put her hand over her eyes, softening the pain slightly. Why is this happening?

The next item for her review was not a presentation as such. It was a new propaganda ad targeted at locating those Aurons who still remained in hiding. Though most had been captured, enough remained just outside of her grasp to be of concern. Mykal would help in due course, but until then . . .

Fortunately, getting the cooperation of the Federation citizenry to track down the remaining few was not difficult. It was always easy to blame an Auron for any misfortune that befell a good citizen. Indeed, cooperation had at times almost been too enthusiastic. Oh well. Better too much than too little. Clearly what was required was the proper guidance. Hence this newest propaganda ad. As with all such broadcasts, she insisted on reviewing it before release. IS THAT AN AURON BESIDE YOU?

Aurons are a menace to the Federation and to you! They take your jobs, corrupt your children, and give aid and comfort to the enemy. They cause prices to rise when you want to buy; to lower when you want to sell. The Federation has had enough. Aurons must and will be stopped! The Supreme Commander has ordered it!

If you know someone or have heard of someone you suspect to be an Auron, contact the Professionals: the Special Services Identification and Removal Units. Highly trained, courteous, and efficient, they will follow up on your lead and confirm if the suspect is indeed an Auron. If so, you will be amply rewarded! DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ARREST OR SUBDUE AN AURON YOURSELF!

Aurons are dangerous and carry diseases. Be cautious at all times!

Here are a few of the danger signs to watch for. They indicate the person you suspect may be an Auron. *

Has no interest in team sports.*

Plays weird, annoying music.*

Does not have a picture of the Supreme Commander displayed prominently in his/her house.*

Does have a picture of the disgraced "Lord" Avon.*

Uses the forbidden name of "Blake" (or any of his band) in casual

conversation.

Remember: where you find one Auron, there are likely others.

IS THAT AN AURON BESIDE YOU?

She thought about it for a few moments, then played it again. She smiled. It was good. She liked it. "Broadcast it," she ordered.

Now to the last item on the agenda.

The time came, not too long in fact after Vila's visit to Avon, when Tarrant decided it would be appropriate to inspect and possibly perform maintenance on the ship's engines--however that might be done to engines that likes of which none of them had ever seen. Following several raids on Federation bases scattered about the outer worlds--and so far without any noticeable countermeasures--both Tarrant and Avon agreed it would be prudent to ensure the ship's propulsion systems, advanced and esoteric as they were, continued to function properly. In short, to learn more about them. For the raid on Earth, whenever it might come, the ship's systems would be pushed to the limit. They would have to perform perfectly.

In the bridge, the two openly discussed the matter while Dayna pretended to keep busy and Vila loitered about looking useless. It was perfect cover for the two conspirators.

"Do you think ORAC might be of assistance? It could be useful as a diagnostic computer," Tarrant suggested.

Avon watching the star fields, answered briskly. "We would spend most of the time building an interface between the two and we would need ORAC's cooperation from the outset. It would find the work demeaning--one of it more endearing human characteristics. If memory serves me correctly, the ship has its own diagnostic programs."

"Just a suggestion," replied Tarrant, observing the same fields with an even more melancholy expression. "It would make sense to have it cross check us." Then looking at Avon, "There doesn't seem to be much use for it of late. It seems odd that we have not called it into service."

Everyone except Avon tensed. "I was unaware that we had done anything that would required it being called. But the mission is still young. All in due course," he said, turning away from the viscreen.

"Of course. By the way, when do you want to perform the maintenance?"

Avon turned at the exit passage. "We'll do it in the morning, before the next raid. Beginning of the watch, six sharp. This must take no longer than forty minutes."

Vila and Dayna exchanged glances. ORAC would be left in Avon's cabin. Avon would be away. Time to put the plan into action.

So very early morning ship's time, Vila performed the minor miracle of bypassing security and entered Avon's cabin. Most security breeches are inside jobs and in truth the software of the locks was not that different from what he was used to. Surprisingly, Avon had never considered breaking and entering a serious possibility aboard the Liberator. The implications were terribly distressing to Vila. He trusts me, he thought as a wave of guilt passed over him.

Vila had determined this programmatic security system could be bypassed using one of several possible network emergency quasi-"events" to distract the system. It would not give him a lot of time, but enough until the systems stabilized themselves, figured out there might be a problem and sounded a general alarm. In the dim light, Vila worked on the electronic lock, carefully adjusting the codes until he could insert the "emergency" condition (using an event generator of his own coding). The locks moved to a state of partial openness; Vila pushed forward until . . . simultaneously, the lights in the hallway went black. He put on his infra-red goggles as the door slid open with a shuuuush. He should have thirty seconds.

Dayna for her part, having learned how to monitor each of the ship's rooms as part of life support supervision, was watching the hallway and Avon's cabin for occupant activity. It was easy to monitor Avon's brain waves, respiration, movements, and from there determine when he had entered deepest sleep. So when Vila was alerted by Dayna, he was able to enter the room in confidence. And Tarrant was no where to be seen.

Vila entered the room. Thirty seconds. His nightmare was that Avon slept in his clothes. Pick-pocketing the man asleep would have been too much; but his apparel had been tossed on a chair. Quickly Vila rifled the pockets, took out the key and replaced it, hands shaking, with the look-and-feel duplicate. Fifteen seconds. He quietly and quickly stepped outside the door, reversed the programming, and stepped back as the door closed with a huuuush.

He removed his goggles and placed them in his pocket as the lights came back up. Elaborately and rapidly, he tip-toed down the hallway to his own cabin, mission apparently accomplished.

It was at that moment, just as he reached the door of his cabin, that . . . Brannnnnggggg! . . . the alarm sounded. He leapt inside, pitched the keys and goggles on his bed, then backed out again as the door to his cabin opened loudly. He rushed down the hallway back to Avon's cabin, trying to look perplexed and concerned and scared and ran directly into Tarrant.

The alarm stopped. He stared at Tarrant. Vila was startled, no acting on his part. He had not expected that the man would be making an impromptu inspection tour, either that or suffering from insomnia. Where was Dayna? Tarrant seemed to need even less sleep than Avon did.

"I was monitoring the systems in this section," said Tarrant, matter of factly, "When I noticed the power dim along this corridor. I came as quickly as I could. That was when the alarm went off. You didn't notice anything, did you?"

"No. Nothing. I was in my cabin all the time. Honest."

Tarrant eyed him. "Well, I had hoped that Avon would enlighten us, but," staring at the door, "he shows no signs of awakening. Shall we rouse him?"

Vila shook his head slowly.

"Then we will let sleeping Avons lie. The man must sleep the sleep of the just--who would have thought? In any event, presumably the power drain caused the alarm to go off, but why? I will check it out in the morning. Just add it to the work already planned. Nice to know you are a light sleeper," he said, "though I seem to recall that wasn't always the case."

Vila, looking sheepish, said nothing.

And with that, Tarrant walked briskly down the hall. Vila watched him, still breathing heavily, wondering if the plan was already starting to unravel.

Early that morning, ship's time, after the four had eaten silently in the kitchen area, Tarrant and Avon went off to their morning assignment, promptly at 0600. Vila and Dayna listened intently until they had gone, then discussed the nights events as they rushed to Avon's room.

"Pity we couldn't have duplicated ORAC," whispered Dayna.

"No time," replied Vila, aghast at the suggestion and taking it more seriously than was warranted. "Last night I bypassed the system for a quick entry/exit. Maybe too quick. I set off the local alarm. Where were you?!"

"As soon as you left Avon's cabin, I switched the monitor! I didn't see Tarrant. Sorry. Look, we don't have to do that again, do we?"

"No," he said, continuing to whisper. "Well, not exactly. It will take a little more care this time. In the meantime, watch them; every second! I am worried Tarrant suspects something."

"You're worried?! He has to suspect something now! And he is certain to speak to Avon about it. That was a very odd conversation you had with him."

Vila was breathing heavily. "No time to worry. We go? Regardless?"

Dayna nodded vigorously.

"Once inside, I will interrogate ORAC, record the results and we will examine them later."

"Avon won't be able to track what you did, will he?"

"Only if ORAC tells him or he monitors ORAC's logs--both of which aren't likely . . . Unless . . .I honestly do not believe he has brought up the device since . . . " Vila stumbled into complete uncertainty. "I just don't know."

As Dayna returned to the bridge, Vila worked outside Avon's door using his second, revised entry procedure, this time essentially saturating the lock with "quasi-events". These were events that had not resolved themselves into being true alarms, and thus permitted him to override the hardware more gradually and with greater assuredness. It took several minutes, but finally the door, like a miser opening his wallet, grudgingly opened.

ORAC's lights were blinking in a dim, random, unhurried pattern. As the door closed behind him, Vila summoned Dayna over the communicator. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes! You're in?"

"Oh, yes."

"Good luck."

"Thanks," Vila inserted the real key, his hand recorder ready to absorb the data.

ORAC awoke instantly with the sound . . . Mweahhhhh . . . of an angry cat, his lights flooding the room. Vila covered his eyes.

"ORAC, it's me, Vila. Remember . . ."

#There is the presence of another, my equal, not here. I am offended, for I cannot believe. . .#

"ORAC, quiet! Please! Keep it down! I need to ask some questions."

#One will be quite sufficient. I really must get to the bottom of this. I must.#

Vila sighed, wondering what the thing could possibly be carrying on about. He pressed the recorder up to one of ORAC's ports and pressed Send. What was sent more or less was the following query: need to know what happened to the following (he gave the names), during the years (he gave the year), listing all major events, including dialog. Sort by time and priority. Prepare summary and reports as follows. He pressed receive.

ORAC digested it. "Oh," ORAC seemed to sigh, "I am to trace the line through the pattern of infinity once more. Here," Vila watched the lights blink on the recorder, not having a clue what was being transmitted. "The information has been downloaded. Will you please leave me in peace? I have a very serious matter to pursue and do not remove . . ."

"Gladly," said Vila, retrieving the key as ORAC made the sound of a cat in heat . . . Hhhheeeeammmmmmm . . . He hurriedly left the room.

Later, with Dayna, as he was about to load the information onto her workstation, he found himself nervously fingering the key. "I have to get this back to Avon quickly. If he notices . . ."

"Why should he notice?" Dayna smiled. "It's a perfect copy--except that it doesn't work. And Avon has had no occasion to use it on ORAC since we left Terminal. Right?"

"As far as we know. You may be right. But I think things are about to change," he said grimly.

Dayna looked at him, puzzled. For Vila a premonition was not unusual, but this seemed more concrete. She shrugged and together the two began their examination of the records of the last year of Blake's rebellion and subsequent events.

The meeting took place far underground of Servalan City. It was in a room formed like a hemisphere, in the center of which flooded a 3-D projection of what particular graphic the speaker was explaining. Around the projection was a long, lighted, circular table, a ring broken into six equal parts, with one part elevated. Servalan attended this meeting in person, a most unusual event, because these were her Special Services officers, those of the highest rank, people she could be said to trust. In any event, they had practically begged her. That surprised and concerned her. It was most unlike them. They isolated her from much that she found irksome and annoying (she let them handle all communication with the despised and no-longer trusted military). And they liked to handle things on their own, and that she appreciated. So why . . . ?

The officer inside the ring, she could barely see him through the projection, was explaining what they had found regarding the string of incidents involving attacks on Federation bases in the outer worlds. Her concentration was intent on the projection, but the headache was making it increasingly painful. How she longed for this day to end!

"The pattern of the attacks," the office spoke briskly, "has become more clear over the past several weeks. Piecing together the various reports we have received, what appears to be happening is this: a ship of undetermined origin comes in under the planetary defenses and proceeds, very low to the ground, perhaps no more than fifty meters above it at most, to attack position." There was rustling in the room. "It then attacks the base with standard energy weapons and the like, not apparently with the intent of delivering a knockout blow, but enough to disrupt communications and cause a fair amount of damage. Just to show what it can do, no doubt. That attack, however, is not the end of it. After the base scrambles to respond, the ship strikes again. Apparently it hides a short distance away, absolutely motionless and undetectable. While the base ships fly off in pursuit of the phantom, it rises and performs a second more thorough strike and then vanishes."

Servalan listened intently, intrigued, but also with a sense of foreboding. She liked the crispness and objectivity of the description, but she wished the man would get on to whatever conclusions were forthcoming. What was that ship? Impatiently, she asked, "Do we have any understanding of how the ship remains undetected?"

"None," the officer shifted around the display of the attack movements. "In one fashion or another all known spacecraft are either detected by the radiation they emit or reflect. This ship is propelled by a means that we have so far been unable to detect. And it attacks in modes that appear impossible."

Servalan pressed. "It cannot be magic. It must elude us by some means our detectors are not equipped to respond to. I presume our scientists," she said wearily, "have an abundance of suggestions?"

The words came out slowly. "Not at this time, Supreme Commander."

That angered her; for the moment she forgot her headache. "That time has now arrived. Have the scientists involved in the matter report to me directly, tomorrow at 1100. I want to hear every idea and suggestion they have. Enough time has been wasted on this!"

"I agree fully, Supreme Commander. But there is more."

"Very well," she sighed. Must I do everything? "But before continuing, are there any pictures of the vessel? Perhaps they could give us some clues."

"Yes, Supreme Commander. I was coming to that." She could hear the discomfort which was becoming almost an alarm in the voice. Now she was very interested. "Quite by chance, a Federation ship assigned to one of the bases was approaching for a landing. It was also snapping pictures for a surveillance test. The enemy vessel in question happened to be coming in for an attack run, one our ship was able to record. Here is the video record," he stepped back, "computer enhanced and," he cleared his throat after swallowing, "enlarged."

The cone in the center now showed a 3-D ship coming straight at them. It was the Liberator, or least a ship identical to it.

"Why, that's Blake's ship!" someone blurted out, followed by several moments of awkward silence and muffled conversation around her.

"No," the speaker continued calmly, "we have it on the word of the Supreme Commander herself--who, as I must remind you, graces this room with her presence--that the terrorist vessel with the given name was destroyed, utterly, over a decade ago." He let the words sink in. "This could only be a copy."

"Then this ship must be from the System!"

"No again," said the officer firmly. He clearly was ready for that. "The System imploded sometime during the Troubles. All Federation surveys of the area over the years have failed to detect any signs of life on the three planets and ruined orbital stations that comprised that enigmatic civilization. It is highly unlikely that it is another derelict, given the vastness of space and the fact that none has been recovered since the original. This ship, which does indeed identify itself in its broadcasts as the Liberator, cannot be from the System. Likely for reasons of psychological warfare, it's outward resemblance to the former rebel vessel is perfect. But that is all."

Servalan let it sink in. Liberator. How she despised that name! No wonder her people were desperate for her to attend. But now that she had recovered from the initial shock, she was more curious than furious. She spoke evenly. "Well, if we have no idea what propels this ship, can I presume effective counter tactics have been implemented, now that we know the tactics of these people, whoever they are? Lacking the knowledge as to how the ship remains undetected, we still have the technology to combat it, do we not?"

"And I was getting to that, Supreme Commander." the officer almost stammered. Clearly she had touched upon a sensitive area. She had not lost her touch.

"We concluded that given its hitherto unknown form of propulsion, one that left nothing in the way or chemical, nuclear, or field residue--there were still actions we could take. We could reprogram the defenses, use other if less sophisticated means to scan the nearly surrounding space, divert ships and other resources to cover likely areas of attack, and so on. These methods were promising. Unfortunately, at about that time, the tactics of the enemy vessel changed as well."

"What?! I don't understand. Was there a goal in all of this maneuvering?" she waved her hand about.

"Why, to destroy the ship."

"No," she despaired. "That is not, can not be, the goal. That is my decision to make and I have not made it. See that no attempt is made to destroy the vessel until we understand its capabilities in full. Am I understood?"

"Perfectly, Supreme Command."

"I am so relieved. What were the new tactics of the vessel?" she asked icily,

"As our defenses re-aligned, the vessel's attacks ceased, at least for the time being, and in their place, these started to appear."

The 3-D picture of the Liberator was replaced with an image of what must have been a very small spheroid, with a number of antennae protruding. There was a moment of confused silence. The picture seemed to show something resembling an ancient satellite.

"This requires a bit of explaining. This device is not a bomb, though it will explode if approached too closely. It is a highly efficient and powerful transmitting device, placed in a chaotic orbit. Such orbits exist on planets with two or more moons of comparable mass. The device transmits randomly as it traverses the chaotic trajectory. As you might guess, it is a difficult and time consuming matter to track and destroy these 'devices'. The messages are as follows . . . " and he motioned the pointer to start the recordings.

But Servalan cut him off. "The messages are not nearly as interesting a question as to who is making them." The speaker hesitated. "Who is making them?" She asked.

"A reasonable guess can be made that the messages have an artificial source. We deduce this because the voices are those of people known to be dead."

This is a nightmare. "Name them," she said wearily.

"Del Tarrant, Vila Restal, and Dayna . . ."

"Enough! " They were dead. Had to be. She had almost tripped over the bodies. Had watched them being disposed of. "No other voices?"

"None identified at this time, Supreme Commander."

She sat brooding in the silence, stunned. Avon was not among the voices. Why, when his would be by far the most persuasive? And it was hard not to suppress a laugh. If they were reduced to using Vila to summon a call to arms, their situation must truly be desperate. But where was Avon? This had to be his doing. The planting of these propaganda satellites--well, only Avon would have thought of using the mathematical convolutions of the gravitational N-body problem in a campaign of psychological warfare. A masterstroke, if she dared say so herself. And the daring of the attacks on the bases--she sensed at once they would resume--all showed the signs of his work, his mind in action, his audacity. Avon was alive! Just as she had foretold. And that meant soon he would be returning! Could she ask for anything more?

A lot more actually. For one thing, how could all this possibly be?

"Tell the base commanders on the outer worlds to expect the attacks to resume. In the meantime--could these voices be artificial constructs, AI type programs?" The technology had existed for some time and though highly illegal--not to Federation Security, of course--had been used with occasional effect. Considerable research money had been poured into the area and the technology had been used; in fact, too frequently. Regrettably, over time people had begun to discount anything they heard (confessions from Blake and the like) and the effectiveness of the technology had been correspondingly reduced.

"That is the most troublesome aspect, Supreme Commander. Our analysis of the messages, voice patterns compared with extant records, suggests they are either the product of a technology in advance of our own or," she could see where this was leading and knew it was the truth, "for reasons we cannot fathom, they are genuine, that is: they are the product of living human beings, yet ones confirmed to have been killed on . . ."

She rose, confused, angry, triumphant, miserable. She had experienced such nightmares, several times since Gauda Prime, but never believed they could actually be true. She had discounted them utterly, and now was paying the price (Avon is on that ship!).

"See that the following orders are carried out. Do not attempt to destroy the craft. I want it pursued, tracked; I want to know everything we can find out about its capabilities, but do not attempt capture or destruction. Only make it appear that such is what is being attempted. The time will come when the vessel and its crew will need be destroyed, but not now. Do not take any psychological counter measures--that would only give credence to whoever is doing this."

"Does it matter not at all what they are saying?" someone asked boldly as the lights came up.

"Of course not. Whatever it is, it is treason. One does not analyze a treasonous statement, one merely acts to see it is not implemented." Damn this headache!

She had not been asleep for long when in Servalan's darkened room, ORAC came to sudden, brilliant, and radiant life.

She awoke at once. She was a light sleeper, and this frightened her. She had never seen this happen before. Of course, ORAC the computer is always powered on, indeed cannot fully be powered off. It is an optical/quantum computing device using both fuzzy logic and fuzzy objects with a zero-point vacuum energy power supply. But it can be set to a very low level "sleep mode". In that mode it can maintain a continual if drowsy process of data search and analysis. When its key is removed, ORAC functions for the most part locally, continually re-examining its data, drawing new conclusions, posing new questions--but its network probing circuitry is never entirely silent. It retains the potential to receive data from every computer compatible with it in the known universe. If it encounters something beyond its capacity to analyze, some traumatizing unknown, it can for a short time sound an alarm, optical, sound, or both.

When Servalan years before had configured the device, she never once expected the alarm to be used. Now it was. Data of urgent import was struggling to make its way to the surface, to the awareness of everyone in the vicinity. This was a call to action.

So it was when ORAC-the-original encountered ORAC-the-copy. For some data is indeed more urgent than others, and on this particular night the data had a supremely urgent quality about it. For all the frantic traffic that might be impinging upon it, Orac-the-Original recognized at once the threat to its supremacy from ORAC-the-unknown. It screamed in light. It yelled in colors. Servalan moved from being startled, to being frightened, to being angered, to wondering. She covered her eyes, hating the light for the pain being inflicted on her, gathered the key on her nightstand with one hand, rushed over, and slapped it into the device.

In the deep dark of her bedroom, Servalan, tormented by her headache, felt the fall of silence. Only the sound of the ventilation equipment could now be heard. And for the first time that day, she felt relief. ORAC dropped the display of twinkling, piercing, and colorful lights that would have done an emergency vehicle proud. It began to talk.

"ORAC," she interrupted. "What has happened? Tell me at once!"

#It cannot be--but I have met my equal.#

"Where?"

#On board a ship called the Liberator, but not the Liberator. I am certain. The contradictions must be resolved.#

She stumbled back onto the bed, stunned. Things were beginning to make sense. Her headache receded quickly. Her thinking began to clear.

"But the Liberator is gone," she said quietly, dully.

#The original, that is true. But this is a copy, improved in many respects. On that basis. . . #

"Enough, Orac. I get the point. Tell me only this: is Avon on that ship?"

#Without question.#

"So they must have a copy . . . "

#That is the point I am trying to make. But it too may be improved, though it cannot. I must . . .#

"Quickly, get everything you can on that ship. Get his plans. Then break all communications," she demanded. "We will analyze the data in the morning."

She had to think. She hated computers, but they had their uses. And soon she saw an opportunity, a plan to make her latest dream of Avon's return achieve its actuality.

Later, as she turned on the lights in her room. After ORAC announced the end of its preliminary scan, and the fact that its opposite number had shut down, she removed the key. She toyed with it in her hand. She was fully awake now. "Thank you, ORAC," she said, watching the frantic activity of the lights. "What a team we make."

"We're dead."

Vila said it simply, but with conviction, his breathing shallow like a sigh of resignation. He and Dayna had been reviewing the file dump of the last year of the rebellion and beyond, both intent; neither speaking a word. After the last of the records had been absorbed, complete with video clips, they remained silent until Vila powered off the device and handed the record cube to Dayna.

Dayna was puzzled. "You mean when Avon find's out?"

"No, I mean we are really dead. We're ghosts."

Dayna smiled weakly, then suppressed a laugh as she pinched him. "A pinch to make you grow some sense. I have never felt more alive. And stop worrying about Avon."

But Vila was shaken. "You saw what he did. First me--almost--then Blake--you heard the title they give him; then Sarkoff . . . Avon was never the most rational person, we all knew that, but this is too much. How can we ever trust him?"

She shrugged. "We never could trust him. But he's indispensable."

"You say that about all of us!"

"Well, some people are more indispensable than others. Let's just say we depend on him while we glance frequently over our collective shoulders when he's around."

Vila fretted. "He spent years with Servalan. Incredible. Then up and deserts. Why? What answer could there be? You know what this means don't you? I'll bet anything that he will desert us too and go back to her!"

She rolled her eyes. "Vila, I never knew you had psychic powers. Anyway, don't dwell on it. We don't know the full story of any of these events. Get a grip on yourself! He probably did what he thought he had to do. He's no sentimentalist, but he's not cruel, or stupid." She fingered the record cube. "Never that. What a mess," she admitted. "Oh well, that's life."

"Don't say that!"

"Why?" she asked, bewildered.

"It's very close to something he says. This whole 'life' business gets to me. When Avon said we had been frozen in time, that was one thing. But this? Back from the dead. What have we let ourselves in for?"

She put the cube in her pocket. "What were the alternatives? Maybe it was meant to be Couldn't be any worse than what we had let ourselves in for all along. Nothing's changed. I want justice. You want . . . " she stopped. "What do you want, Vila?"

"Frankly, just between you and me, I have no idea." Then he looked almost wistful for moment. "Don't tell anyone."

She looked at him sympathetically. "You're not thinking of leaving, are you?"

"No," Vila paused, thinking just that. "I mean, where could I go? It's just that I can't survive with him and I can't survive without him. None of us can. This is a suicide mission we ghosts are on."

Dayna nodded slowly. "He implied as much. But we can't leave them in Federation prisons. Anyway, I always wanted to meet Jenna. Kill several birds with one stone."

Vila looked aghast. "Nice way to put it! Maybe Avon was right. It was better we didn't know. Jenna--what does she mean to me now? It's not like we were ever close. And the other two, people I have never heard of. You know, I had a chance for a better life once. You remember; with a wonderful girl. I blew it. I really would like to taste happiness once. Is that asking too much?"

Dayna took his hand. "Happiness is a taste that frequently turns bitter--if you don't know that by now, the rest of us certainly do. Cheer up. If we are ghosts, maybe we can't be killed. Maybe there is some kind of destiny in this and we will succeed. Not everyone comes back from the dead. This is a second chance with a vengeance. We should be grateful."

Vila could not look at her; could say nothing in reply. All he could think of was a vision of himself drifting off into space while Avon apparently did not give it a second thought. I've got to do better, he thought.

The Frailty of Our Nature

"Three ships! Attack vector!"

The Liberator had just begin the second pass of its attack run, the strafing run on the base, when the sensors picked up three ships bearing down on it. Dayna saw them first: Federation fighters.

"Avon," that was Tarrant, "they are on a direct course for us!"

"Show them on the visscreen." Even Avon looked worried.

The large black oval showed three red dots converging on the Liberator's flight path. Below was a clock racing towards interception time; and other information, distance, velocity, acceleration.

"Break off the attack. Get us out of here!" Avon commanded.

Tarrant complied and the Liberator began moving upward away from the base, slowly at first but then much more rapidly, to the safety of open space. The three pursuers increased their speed as well, continuing to close.

"They're gaining!" Vila said, noting the obvious.

"Yes," agreed Avon, quietly now. But not by much. "Build acceleration, but do it steadily. See how far we can draw them out. The formation might break." Then we could attack, if that is what they want.

"Avon," said Tarrant, too loud. "They had to be waiting for us. How could they have known? We pick these targets at random."

Avon stepped down from the dias. "I prefer not to speculate. If they were waiting for us, there are several implications of that fact; none of them pleasant."

"Is their intent to capture or destroy us," Dayna asked as she watched the screen nervously.

Avon considered. What did they intend? "Their force is insufficient for either purpose. I suspect they have something else in mind."

The four watched as the Federation ships velocity increased, the Liberator adjusting in turn, keeping the distance almost, but not quite constant.

"What are they doing?"

"Testing our capabilities." She knows.

"We're getting away," Vila sighed.

Avon continued to examine the visscreen. "If they fire at us, don't respond."

Dayna looked at him. "All defenses up," she said. I hope you know what you are doing.

"Keep them at minimal strength."

Dayna was shocked, but at that moment a signal came in.

Dayna: "They're trying to communicate!"

Tarrant: "Not interested."

Dayna: "They're sending a transmission. Very focused, very strong, receiving it . . . now . . ." Her voice trailed off. The four looked at the large monitor as the blurred face appearing in the main viscreen became terrifyingly familiar.

And with her overbearing assuredness, white dress and outlandish broach, Servalan seemed to be all too obviously sizing up her audience. "I trust introductions are unnecessary. This message is not being delivered to the lot of you, whoever you are, only to one man in particular. You know of whom I speak. At the end of this transmission a coded message will be found. Only that man is capable of breaking the code. See that he gets the message. That is all."

And the screen went blank.

Vila spoke first, as the three red dots fell away. "What do you make of that?"

"I suspect we will find out soon enough," said Tarrant. "So the message is directed to you alone, Avon. Perhaps a 'welcome back'?"

He shook his head. "Servalan is not known for her sentimentality."

"Neither are you," said Dayna. Oh God, Vila was right.

"Nor is either of us particularly good at answering irrelevant questions. Forward the packet to my workstation. I will take it there."

"Avon," said Dayna, "be careful. She wants you back. You are taking a risk even listening to the message."

He paused, thinking, not seeing them. "I have been driven by obscure messages for some time now. One more should not be a concern."

"There is likely to be virus in the message," chimed in Tarrant.

"There is certain to be virus," replied Avon. "I will isolate my workstation from the ship's network. Send the packet by direct pipe upon my signal. My system is backed up. I will reinstall once I see what she has to say."

"Avon," said Dayna, looking genuinely worried. "I think Tarrant means the virus in the message may not have your computer as its target."

After he left the bridge, Avon returned to his cabin and powered up his workstation. First, he isolated it, performed a backup (actually unnecessary), then notified Tarrant when he was ready. He monitored the packet as it streamed over the network pipe and formed on the wall monitor of his cabin. The message was contained within a graphic image. That in itself did not concern him--a challenge; well an irritant; actually a chore. The fact that the image was of Li, however, did momentarily distract him.

What could she possibly mean by that?

But first to strip off the message container. He presumed the security code would involve something between him and Servalan that would be easy for him to recall, but impossible for others to know. The key he would be looking for would thus involve meaning--not syntactical or lexical correctness, exchanged keys or any of that. The concept of a meaning key could be made very involved but it was workable. Use of meaning codes was forbidden within the Federation, naturally.

The image of Li on the monitor stared at him. He blocked it from his mind. She always was wanting a gift. He keyed in: "My gift to you".

At once the image of Li dissolved and was replaced by a video recording. It was Servalan, sitting behind her enormous desk on Earth, in full glory; in a chair large enough to be a throne, dressed identically to the image in the narrowcast message they had just received. She began calmly, but with a decided edge to her voice. "Greetings, Avon. How nice of you to still think of yourself as a gift to me even after all that has happened. Certainly, your returning will be just that, though I confess I remain unhappy with you. I forgive you, for love is my nature, but punishment will have to be made. You do understand that? But that is for the future." She smiled. "Let me explain the situation as it stands now.

"To begin, I am delighted you survived, truly I am, but your survival has placed me in a difficult, dare I say awkward, position. Politically, it would be far better if you were dead, but since you clearly are not, I have to balance my feelings for you with the realities of the present situation. You will be relieved to know I have found a solution.

She frowned. "I am not so happy with what you attempted to do, but I am truly willing to let the past almost be the past--provided you abandon these nonsensical attacks at once and surrender yourself. Now, I am certain you are wondering, given my request, and the obvious fact that you are unlikely to return without a strong inducement, what could possibly serve as such? And what of your companions in crime, whoever they may be?"

She scowled. "I don't know where you got this ship or how you have managed to conjure up impostors for Tarrant, Dayna, and that ridiculous Vila, but I do know this--without you, they are helpless. Remove you from the stars, bring you home to me, and this nonsense ceases at once. With you by my side, as you once were and will be again, all future attempts at rebellion are doomed. Your friends will abandon the attacks and in due course flee to the outworlds or surrender. It hardly matters which. The logic of what I say is clear, I trust?"

Her face relaxed; the anger replaced by a smirk. "Very well, so what to do? I thought at first of broadcasting a threat to kill some of the prisoners, transforming their status to hostages if you will. However, I know you well enough to doubt you would be moved. You are neither stupid nor weak and such crude tactics would be certain to fail. Mykal, Jenna, the Auron brats, what would you care . . . ?"

Her voice trailed off. She seemed to suppress a laugh. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I am neglect to mention a name? I must have missed one. How rude of me. Let me see . . ." She made an elaborate counting gesture with her fingers, pealing each one back then stopping. "Oh. That's it. Cally's sister," she beamed. "How foolish of me! You remember her. The one called 'Li?'"

She slammed her hand upon the desk and rose out of the chair. "Listen to me, Avon, and listen carefully. Li worries me. There is something odd about her, something I do not understand.

"Yes, the contents of the recorder are mine. Quite a security lock you put on it! That was cute, Avon: joining public key cryptography with Ramsey Theory, then tying the two together with a Godelian algebra. Gave my scientists fits for months, but finally it is all mine. And yet, sadly, it did not answer all the questions I had and that is another serious concern. I don't like people who worry me. You worry me, Avon, but for you make an exception--if only for you. Not for Li."

She blew him a kiss, then walked around the desk until she was in front of it, leaned backward, the picture of bored, sophisticated demeanor. He almost expected her to start doing her nails. "My temptation is to kill 'Li' as soon as I have gotten everything from her that I can, but that seems wasteful, do you not agree? Her demise will happen, of course. It is certain she will be lie dead before me, though sadly I do not know when."

She shrugged. "But more to the point, I do not want to be rushed into this. You agree that rushing is bad form? So spare me this, as I am sure you want to spare her. Avon, I sense something between you and her, something powerful, and that angers me deeply."

She looked closely into the monitor, peering out as her face filled the screen, as if she were trapped inside. "If you do not surrender yourself within 72 hours, she dies. With graphic unpleasantness. I will be there personally to supervise. The sickening details will be recorded and transmitted to you.

"To spare her, surrender yourself to the nearest Federation base and give the following message, speaking it to a security officer." The message flashed on the screen:

"O God, who knowest us to be set in the midst of so many and great dangers; that by reason of the frailty of our nature, we cannot always stand upright."

"Quaint, isn't it? And it's that simple, Avon. End this, as only you can, and you can come back to me. Eventually. We will have to talk, of course, but you will be restored to my side. Some day. Fail, and Li dies, and as my dreams have also foretold, I will see you fall before me as well."

She turned and walked back around the desk, took her seat, and smiled. "Oh, by the way: thank who ever powered up your ORAC copy. I know you wouldn't have been so careless. The act alerted my ORAC. Together, we learned a great deal about your ship. It made surprising you in your next attack rather easy, do you not agree?"

The screen went blank, then was replaced by the image of Li with the message Servalan had instructed him to relate. The message was imposed on her face, red letters flashing. Avon tried to copy the file, but all that could be copied was the text. He was not surprised. Wearily, he powered off the workstation and tried to make sense of it all. It appeared possible she did not yet know how much he knew about her background.

One thing at a time. How had she gotten into ORAC? Suddenly it occurred to him. The only possible explanation. He slowly pulled out the key from his pocket.

Intellectually, he had been thinking about little besides her since he left Terminal. What she was; her power over him; her power over the whole of humanity. A little of the enigma that was Servalan had been revealed. An Auron. But where did it lead?

Avon clinched the fake key in his hand.

In every time, in every place, there had been people who claimed to divine the future and sought to derive power from that knowledge. The Auronar were no more immune to the superstition than anyone else. For all their intelligence and pretensions at wisdom, they too succumbed to the disease.

He opened his hand looking at the key more closely.

But what to make of those claiming such knowledge? Charlatans, clever Cassandras the lot of them, whose claims to future knowledge appealed to the weakest elements of human nature--a longing for a mystical connection to the cosmos to ensure a security that simply was not there. Prophecy was an ax to the tree of time, a shackle to free will. Knowing the future, at least to the extent science permitted such, was essential to intelligent life. Naturally. But the mystical was a short circuit in the mind, that burned to a crisp what useful knowledge was there.

Yet he had witnessed that ability, or at least something very like it. Given the strong theoretical reasons for believing that full, clear, precise knowledge of the future was unattainable, it still could be that the uncertainties woven into the fabric of reality might permit openings. And the openings could yield an enormous advantage. She was the next step in evolution.

He could scarcely believe he was thinking these thoughts. Cally had said without hesitation that Servalan could see the future--in ways that even the Auronar did not understand. Perhaps then Servalan herself was ignorant of the full extent of her capabilities. She would, after all, have been "untutored" on this particular skill. All that was known was that at some time, forty or so years before, she had been born on Auron, raised, educated and then vanished taking a new name from a cat-like creature still found in one of the remote deserts of old Earth--and upon arriving at the Federation's doorstep became Servalan, the most powerful, devious, and treacherous personality ever encountered in the Federation.

He had never considered the possibility of such a being. His whole training was in reason, science, economics, direct and wary self-interest. He would have been predisposed to discount the whole business as totally without foundation, another irritating Auron fantasy about their past--but he had witnessed that ability transmitting through her body, when she had been his captive as they fled Lindor aboard the Sword of Auron.

He studied the key. The copy was very good. On this ship, only Dayna had such fabrication ability.

He recalled the picture now, with startling clarity. She had started to breath erratically, struggling to catch her breath. There was no problem with any aspect of the ship's ventilation. She had not been ill.

Her body had been reacting to the near future, struggling to get air. When the moment came when I increased the pressure of the cabin, and she had been thrust out into the corridor where the air pressure had been reduced to that of a mountain top. That was what her body itself was capable of perceiving near-term.

One other person had the ability to execute the plan and carry it off.

But what of her dreams? Aurons spoke of telepathic dreams, dreams of images and events far away and in the recesses of time, past and future, events that fed the music of the SongMasters. Without the dreams, they could not see into time, and even then only imperfectly. Such was the legend, anyway, discounted totally by anyone who had ever objectively studied their peculiar culture as he had once. Briefly anyway. Servalan had been designed literally to make the myth reality.

Avon shook his head. The thieving . . . Then stopped. What on earth had he expected?

The audacity of the enterprise impressed even him.

He could not condemn what the Aurons had attempted. The program that had led step-by-step to the monster was mystical nonsense, not science. Yet, they had pulled off something extraordinary. And it was the only lead he had. It worried him. To the degree that one's knowledge of the future approached absolute truth, so that knowledge became a cage, a jail that could never be escaped. It was a trap for anyone who dared come too close to the person with that ability; a net that would drag them down into the depths of hell.

He and Vila would have a talk, very soon. He clinched the key and jammed it back into his pocket.

And if the prophetic individual in question were mad? Even as every rational aspect of his being struggled against it, the problem fascinated Avon; drew him in. The rebellion, if it were to have any chance now, would have to know more about her. She had to be observed, studied closely, the extent of her abilities understood, the limits discovered. Pitch theory and speculation aside. Go for direct empirical observation.

It followed all too logically that he was the only man in the galaxy who could approach her closely enough and for a sufficient time to get that absolutely vital intelligence.

And there was something else that tugged at him and to his horror he also could not banish it from his mind. She had spoken of some strong bond, feeling, whatever, between himself and Li. She believed it quite genuine, regardless of his contrary knowledge. For the life of him, he could not imagine how she could be so wrong. Far better to threaten Jenna, whom he disliked but respected, than Li. He had been drawn to her sister, briefly, in a humiliating period of weakness but Li was a completely different person. He hardly knew her.

Why Li? Did he return to the question as a kind of reassurance that Servalan was indeed fallible?

He finished re-installing the workstation software, pondering the enormous gravity of what this might imply for all their futures.

Her intuition is remarkable, but her time sense is defective. That offers hope. The bond she speaks of cannot be entwined in the Now. The bond, if it exists, is stitched into the future. Want . . . Desire . . . Need . . . Long for . . . When ? And how thus validate Servalan's knowledge of that passion? She is ignoring the present but is remembering the future. Neither she nor I can escape. I am frozen in that future she sees.

Nothing can prevent it if what she says is true, but can it be re-interpreted, re-pictured as the Aurons say, to yield a different reality?

Stunned, he smiled and put his hands behind his head and his feet on the desk, in full acknowledgement of the power of her trap which had caught all of them.

Of course I will surrender. How could it be otherwise?

On the bridge, Avon confronted Vila. "So it was you who broke into ORAC," he said evenly, unable to quite summon the rage he should have felt. He had not yet fished out the key, however, and waved it under the suspect's nose. That would have been too crude. "Most security breeches are inside jobs. Once Servalan tipped me off, it followed at once that this particular 'job' was as well."

"I don't deny it. I had to know." Vila stood his ground, still angry about what he had learned, but never had he felt more guilty. Much as he wanted to, he couldn't shift the responsibility for his actions on to Avon. He would have to eat this, act by reprehensible act, all by himself, in full. How he wished Dayna were here to help.

"And are you satisfied with what you have discovered? Your pilfering has blown our cover completely. Short of dumping ORAC overboard, they can track us whenever we bring the device up. There might have been countermeasures I could have take, but . . . " he was appalled at his own thought.

Vila did not know how to respond. Jeopardizing the ship was almost too much to bear. He wanted to blame the "Man who Killed Blake," but could not. Coward though he might have seemed in life, he had always accepted responsibility for every disreputable deed he had taken.

Still, it was worth a try. "You nearly killed me out there. It's nothing I can forget." It was the best he could do

Avon wanted to roll his eyes, but kept a straight face. "Try to come up with a more original sentiment. This is a rebellion; an act of treason. There is no more serious crime in the Federation. Our intent is to overthrow an interstellar empire. Be dedicated to that end or be expendable. Be thankful that I consider you less expendable than Tarrant."

"Why can't I make that judgment? And you, are you expendable as well?"

"Why yes," Avon smiled. "And you will see just to what degree very shortly. In the meantime, would you mind," Avon finally pulled out the fake key, holding it up, "returning the original?"

Red-faced and humiliated, Vila gave him the swiped key. Avon examined it and said: "Now, if you don't mind, I will keep them both." And with that he turned away and stormed back to his cabin.

So for the next 24 hours, and other than to issue the course changes to Zen required to bring them to their destination, Avon cut himself off from the crew. He was preparing for his departure, not thinking about anything else. In a brief intense conversation, he turned ORAC over to Tarrant. Other than that, he refused all communications, taking his meals alone, taking what naps he could in the time remaining. He half expected a mutiny, but they did and said nothing to contermand his orders.

Finally, as they approached the Federation starbase, he summoned Dayna to the teleport room, ordering the others to stay away. And that is where she found him, standing there in his black uniform, wearing a long coat and gloves (it would be cold where he was going), and even holding a hat by his side. Proper civilian attire; none of this rebel foolishness. And no weapons were on him, as least none she could see.

"You are leaving?" Dayna asked, still finding it impossible to believe. She had never thought it would come to this.

"So it would appear. You have my instructions."

"It's risky what you are doing, but yes, I think I can do it. No stationary orbit?"

"None. Proceed as planned. The teleport should be up to it."

"Yes, that's almost certainly the case," she replied, struggling to keep her cool. "Forgive me, but I was more concerned about ourselves. You realize the odds of us succeeding without you are greatly diminished."

"I would say," said Avon without a hint of irony, "they are none at all."

"She will insist you tell her about the technology that made this ship. Doesn't that concern you?"

"I can tell her nothing she does not already know."

And that may well be the truth, thought Dayna. Now we know why whatever it is that runs Terminal gave us an end-product of the technology, but not the technology itself. It was certain he would return to her.

"We can't stop you but I can't avoid wishing you luck. For what it's worth, Avon, it was I who pushed Vila into this. If you can't forgive me, at least forgive him.

"Forgiveness is not a concern."

"Is it ever? Old habits die hard. But luck . . . " she said resigned. "You will need it, where you are going, with her . . . " her voice trailed off. She could scarcely speak.

"It occurs to me that the danger of being with her or being far removed from her are approximately the same. My leaving changes nothing."

"No. That's true. Nothing for you."

Dayna studied the man. Other than his clothes, he had no luggage, no kit, nothing other than mind. Now perhaps to be turned against them. She could have killed him . . .

She focused on the instruments. The instructions were to swoop down by a large Federation base (it had been chosen at random) and drop Avon a few kilometers away, near one of the main throughways, before hurtling off at maximum speed. By the time Avon was in custody, the Liberator would be long gone. Avon would not know their destination. Tarrant's Four would be the last remnants of the once great band.

Dayna watched the instruments. Avon looked serene, his hands to his sides, his body and breathing relaxed, his expression unfathomable yet composed.

Abruptly he said, "Here. I had intended to keep it as a memento but it more properly belongs to you," and he pitched her the fake key.

She looked up startled but caught it expertly. Then she returned staring intently at the numbers of the console. She wanted desperately to say something that would break through.

The displays converged. Only seconds remained. She set the automatic sequencer (things would be happening much too fast for human reaction time during the final moments) and looked up.

"Avon, it changes nothing," she struggled to say, "But at least consider . . ." but the form shimmered and he was gone. At least consider that there is no escape wherever you go.

It was about a half hour before he reached the main gate of the base. He had materialized about two kilometers from an access road, closer than he had wanted but acceptable, and while it had not been easy, he had made his way through the bush and dying trees and now walked briskly, mixing in with the other travelers: the idle, curious, the hucksters with something to sell and the charlatans hoping to con. No one questioned him; he seemed to fit right in. No one seemed to have the slightest awareness of who he was; of if they did, care. From time to time, a Federation ground-effect vehicle would silently rush past.

By the time he reached the main gate to speak with the officer in charge, a dour, bored man interviewing those seeking business or employment at the base, he had come to relish his new anonymity. When it came his turn, the Federation officer was intent upon his monitor for long seconds before finally noticing Avon, giving him at first a startled then a curious look. "State your name and business," he said

"Kerr Avon. Surrender to the authorities, per the request of the Supreme Commander."

The officer rose, looking at him closely, sharply. He had been told this might in fact happen, but he never for a moment believed it. "The Supreme commander does not make requests. Nevertheless, there is a resemblance. If you are who you claim, you have a message to give me. " You had better, he seemed to say. He had already notified Special Services security.

He thrust a keyboard over to Avon. Avon ignored it and instead recited the memorized message Servalan had given him. The message was coded internally and compared with a stored message that had been broadcast throughout all Federation centers. The officer noted that the two matched. The Federation Icon on the screen was blinking briskly--a flashing silent alarm. Avon sensed the presence of several security people coming up behind him. His fellow travelers of minutes before were already scurrying to safety.

"Raise your arms," came a voice.

Avon did so obediently. Several hands frisked him, then lowered his arms abruptly and cuffed his hands roughly behind his back.

The officer worked at his console for a few moments, returning the coded message that he knew would be transmitted to the highest level of the Federation. He had never sent such a message before and prayed he would never have to do so again. He hoped he would get a promotion over this, but survival would be more than satisfactory. Completing his task, he found himself once more starring at Avon. "That was too easy, wasn't it?" he asked.

Avon nodded. Then was quickly marched away.

It could not in any way be said that Vila had pondered his decision. Nor could it be said that he had rushed blindly into it. But the thought had been in his mind and now had come forward at long last demanding action. It was now--or ever the life of regret. Avon's departure had freed him at last. While he felt guilty about abandoning the rescue attempt, it was obvious that without Avon, they did not have a chance. Why fret about it?

So it happened that for the second time in a week, Dayna behind the teleport controls, while a former member of the ship's crew stepped into the chamber. She had given up on making heartfelt pleas. She had spent the whole of her energy on Avon who had been certain to ignore them. The irony was that she could not bring herself to use them on Vila--on whom even at this late a date they might have been effective. But she was not going to hold anyone against their will. Their mission was in ruins, but she would not beg. She felt the bogus key inside her pocket, a grim reminder to her that perhaps this had all been her fault. She shrugged. Whatever the riddle implicit in the history of Blake's band, it would be for others to solve.

Vila was determined to go, to find the happiness denied him almost ten years earlier. She would wish him well and speed him on his way. Tarrant had made no objection to his departure. So it was up to her to make it as quick as possible.

She liked Vila, knew in his own way he was a vital to the mission as Avon, and was every bit as deep (and secretive). His fool mask concealed a intelligence which none of them had been able to penetrate. Vila was capable, and could survive in the Federations shadows as easily as Avon, but leadership was not his style. He would have to find his own way. Perhaps someday he would make it back to them, presuming there was anyone left, but she doubted it. One thing could be said for certain about Blake's people. They did not hold re-unions.

Vila looked morose, but clearly was more anxious than Avon. He was eager to get on with it. As she watched him, a thought occurred.

"Vila," she said brightly, "you appear to have forgotten something."

Vila looked around him then looked at her confused.

"Your teleport bracelet," she laughed, trying to keep the tone light.

"I'm not coming back," he said flatly.

"No, not for you coming back, but to summon us." She winked.

Vila looked more confused.

"Really, you might get into trouble. Or you might want to summon us to a party--should things work out, if you know what I mean," she grinned, and pulled one of the bracelets off the wall and brought it over to him."Here, think of it as a farewell gift and a reminder of your comrades, even if you never use it."

He took it slowly, reluctantly, then beamed at her. "Thanks. You're right. It will be a nice reminder. And I hope things work out for you both. Get away from here, you two. Find a place where you don't have to think about any of this. Blake would have understood."

"Good advice," she said nonchalantly, returning to her station. "Perhaps we will take it. Well," she said, studying the ship's orbital position. "The orbit is stationary. You will be put down several kilometers north of a large settlement. It appears to be the only one on the planet so presumably you will have no trouble finding Kerrill." She paused. "Vila--it has been ten years. Times change; remember that."

Vila looked uneasy. "Of course, but maybe there is a place for me down there. There almost was once."

Dayna nodded and activated the controls. Vila gave a slight wave and then vanished. A few moments later she got up wearily, wondering who was going to go next. Tarrant? Herself? It hardly mattered. She returned to the bridge and took her position. Already she could see that the Liberator was moving rapidly away from "Vila's World". She smiled wanly at Tarrant, still intent on his task, though the piloting could easily have been done automatically. "Mission accomplished. Now what?"

Tarrant glanced at her, saying nothing. The stars before them drifted slowly and in silence the ship proceeded on its journey.

When Vila teleported down to the planet's surface, he had no idea what to expect. The lush vegetation, too lush if you asked him, the amazing mineral outcrops, the blazing star sky were all as he remembered from his previous and all-too-brief visit of a decade before. Now he was heading for the large, nearby, settlement, his quest for happiness begun.

It was a night cold and empty, but like Avon he had dressed well and knew from the local constellations approximately what his direction should be. So he wasn't worried, not in the slightest. With luck, and no undetected natural barriers--he had been provided with a computer-generated map which assured him there were none-- he should have little trouble finding the people of Keezarn, and with them Kerrill and a new life. At least a different one.

So as he walked along, his mood, down since saying goodbye to Dayna, became more upbeat. The rebellion was no longer a concern of his. Avon was gone; Servalan was triumphant. Blake who? Not exactly the biggest set of surprises imaginable. He would miss Dayna . . . And? Well, that was about it.

From time to time he would look up to the night sky peppered with stars and brushed with meteors and there would almost be a skip to his step. Whatever the future might bring, the universe and its questions would remain. He would check them out someday. Perhaps Avon was right. It was important to look under the surface from time to time. But all in due course.

He regarded as a good omen the lone, jagged moon that raced across the night sky.

While he did not miss the life that Blake had thrust onto him, he wished his former comrades (friends wasn't quite the word) well, wherever they might be. Perhaps they would return sometime in the distant future. Old Vila and they would have a drink (several actually) and many a song together, toasting a universe that might have been.

The path (trail?) he was following--it was not entirely clear which-- began to widen into something more resembling a road than a rut. There was less vegetation; less rocks. Wheel marks in caked mud were clearly evident. After a time, he began hearing running water. He came to a structure that might have served as a bridge: two trees, trimmed of branches for the most part, felled across a rough and noisy stream.

That stopped him. Suddenly his shoes seemed filled with lead. It wasn't lack of courage (Vila was not a coward, but he treasured caution); more lack of certainty (he hated uncertainty). He looked back up to the sky. The omen moon was gone. There was no going back. Hesitantly, he made his way across the two logs. First walking upright, but then as they become increasingly slippery, on all fours, praying that the bark would hold. Grabbing the occasional branch, cursing moss wet and twigs jagged, he forged ahead. Eventually he made it. Only twice had he fallen flat, face first.

So when he made it across and stepped onto the bank, he stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts. He recalled that the Keezarians (Keezerites?) had forsaken modern technology for a simpler--altogether much simpler--life. Naturally he could live with that; almost welcome it. Dental work might be a problem at some point, but not now. The bridge, despite its demerits, was probably all that they had required to get the job done. Good for them! Take it as a symbol of a new, better life. There was not much of a tourist trade on "Vila's World" (even the name sounded good), but he would manage.

He walked on for a while not sure what time it was (he would have to acquire a watch at some point, he reasoned) before he noticed the first stirring of dawn. All doubts and misgivings faded away. In the early light he could see in the distance a massive structure, jumbled walls black and ominous in a way he could not quite put together in a coherent package. He looked about him but everything looked tolerable in this light, the plowed fields with wandering furrows, the barren trees, quite normal really. Naturally, he was somewhat unsure how normal would manifest itself.

As he walked closer to the settlement, or fortress, or whatever it was, he noticed what had to be a guard post, or perhaps an outhouse of advanced design. As he came openly upon it, the sleepy sentinel awoke to sudden life when Vila foolishly blurted out a question.

"Halt!" the man said, struggling to leap up, get on his helmet and aim his spear simultaneously. It was quite comical, but the man's disposition did not seem amused. And the spear looked lethal, though in a reassuringly primitive. Vila suppressed a smile.

"Stay where you are!" the guard shouted as he came out slamming the wooden door behind him. "Raise your hands!" he ordered, then looked around, alternately poking and frisking his captive. "Identify yourself."

"Vila Restal. The name should mean something to you. Does it?"

The guard stopped, considered it. He was of indeterminate age, with a full bristling beard and unkempt hair that made him look deranged. He shook his head vigorously. "It doesn't," then went about checking Vila some more, looking around suspiciously the whole time. "You alone?"

"Yes," Vila sighed. "Do you mind if I drop my arms now?"

"Yes. No. I mean keep them where they are. How did you get here?"

Vila pointed to the sky. "It's a long story. I was here once before."

The guard stopped, and stepped back. "All right, lower your arms," he growled. He looked at Vila oddly. "When was that?"

"About ten years ago," said Vila, slightly more relaxed, rubbing his arms. But, of course, that was Earth years. "I helped open the hyperspace gateway so your people could leave Keezarn." The guard looked bewildered.

Frustrated, Vila offered more than he probably should have to the moron, "I was with a girl name Kerrill . . .

"Stop! What did you say?" the guard demanded, pointing the spear.

"I was with a girl named Kerrill," Vila repeated diffidently.

"That's Queen Kerril to you, knave. On your knees!"

Vila dropped to his knees, now truly annoyed and genuinely concerned, but still convinced that this was a big misunderstanding and that it would soon be cleared up. The man grabbed some rope, had Vila put his hands behind his back, and proceeded to tie him up. Vila could have gotten free in seconds, but by now decided it wisest to humor his captor.

"Then this planet must be . . ." he offered.

"Kerril's World."

"I think we are getting somewhere. Then this fine place I have come to is 'Kerriltown'."

"Wrong!" barked the guard. "Kerril City."

Vila decided to try his diplomatic skills again. "Sorry. You did say 'Queen Kerril', correct? There doesn't happen to be a King around, does there?"

"No," asserted the guard, "not that it will do you any good. Queen Kerril the Just rules alone."

Vila considered that. That might work in his favor, but that "Just" part worried him. "Are you just going to leave me here like this? I mean, I have come a long way and all. Do you treat all your visitors this way?"

The guard considered that difficult question. "Can't say. You're the first. So stay right here." The guard went over to the shack and began ringing a bell at full strength. In the quiet of the early dawn, it was very loud indeed. Soon footsteps were heard running in all directions and quickly Vila found himself surrounded by a half dozen men with various spears and what appeared to be farm implements. At first they seemed angry with who summoned them, but then were curious, then excited.

"Finally captured one!" someone declared.

"One what?" responded the guard.

"An Enemy; a Prisoner!"

"Is that what they are called?"

"I think so."

"Sure. You got a 'prisoner'," said another in triumph.

The rest of the lot cheered, until the guard told them to shut up. "Well, he's not my prisoner any longer. Take him to one of the cells in the courtyard. He's Queen Kerril's problem now."

"You'll get a reward for this, I wager," said one.

"You'll get paid; soon enough," said the guard sullenly

"What's his name?"

"I didn't quite catch it. Something about a vila . . ."

"Villain! I knew it. One whose name speaks its evil!"

"Now, just a moment . . ." started Vila.

"Silence! Take him through the gates, find a cell, cage, whatever, and watch him closely. I am not sure he is without friends."

And so at dawn, Vila with his escort went inside the gates, his captors being unconcerned about not wakening anyone else. They led him to a cell, or perhaps it was indeed a cage, and cheerfully chained him to what passed as a wall, the chains being just long enough to permit movement to the filthy bowl or to the broken bench within. There was also a cistern and what might have been a table at some time. Vila looked about, hesitant to touch anything. His captors left noisily.

He recalled them being a good deal less vocal the last time he encountered them. He wondered why the change.

In the courtyard itself a few people were stirring, and some cooking fires were being lit. He could hear the pouring of water, the beating of arms against clothes for warmth, and the dreadful smells. Occasionally there was the cry of an infant. There was movement all around in fact but no one seemed to take notice of him. For that he was grateful. After being searched, his canteen had been taken from him as had his teleport bracelet. He had his clothes; nothing else. A thief of his class honors style. These people had none. It was not clear what they had at all. Nowhere had he seen a watch. He tried to put a positive face on this. After all, it was funny being in a cell now. It was in a cell where it had all started, so many years before. But a Federation jail was palatial compared to this. Guiltily, he wondered how Jenna was doing.

He sat, trying to get comfortable on the mud floor which thankfully had some hard, dry areas. Suppressing Jenna, he considered further the turn of events.

As the sun advanced, he noticed on the "floor" something like a drain. He wondered if he could swirl down into it. What was it Avon had said about the questions you needed to ask before answers were required? Something like that. Well, too late to check with the man now. There was a definite chill in the air on Kerrill's world.

"Queen" Kerrill? He would not give up hope. She would remember him and everything would be well again. Soon. Maybe. That was as close as he could get to confidence, as he continued to stare at the drain.

Then he looked up as the dawn sky began drowning the stars in a tide of blood red. He began to wonder for not the first time in his life if he had made a serious mistake.

It was a door, gateway, opening, portal, whatever. What did the words matter? What mattered was her hesitation. She had to pass through it. She was going back. She was closer now, closer than she had ever been to leaving this place. Her home. Hah! The dark "whatever" before her was round, shimmering on the edges, swirling in the center, starring back at her like an enormous iris. Cally stood before it, overwhelmed with doubt, trembling, unsure, angry. Was this the right thing to do? Molli the Songmaster would have had something terribly poetic and poignant to say at this point; Zelda the Scientist would have measured and studied the whole business objectively, and though this was completely outside her field, come to a conclusion sensible and rational. But what could she, Cally do? Ever since the inception of the Plan, her thoughts had skirted the possibility of returning to the bodily living, but she had never found a compelling reason to do so. Now Avon's return to Servalan had pushed her to where she had to act. Black as a cinder sun, a perfect circle, except for the rainbow shimmering along the circumference, the opening beckoned. She peered in. There was nothing but a small lighted speck flickering in the center. Still, she could sense the force of the object pulling her in. She moved closer. The speck became a small ring, turning rapidly. She had to decide.

When the news had first come to her through the Auron Web, she had refused to believe it. Rather unlike her! But when Li had telesent to her the astonishing confirmation that Servalan was indeed an Auron, Cally had no choice but to accept it. You had to trust someone who was half yourself. So much suddenly made sense, after all the years of bewilderment and terror at this creature, all the rumors and mysteries at last resolved. Terrifying as that news might be, the veil had been lifted from the monster and the full horror of her evil and power stood insolent before them. Servalan, the Auron abomination, could see the future. Of course; it had to be. What other than shame could have induced them to deny the possibility for so many years?

Now, for Avon to return to the monster and the abrupt way it had happened was like a fierce flame blistering her. It meant the end of everything she, Blake, and the Entity had planned. It meant a future condemned to defeat. Final failure, now and forever. The Plan was finished.

She had called out to Blake, but he had not responded.

So what to do against so formidable an opponent? What was even possible? To rush blindly, striking at random sounded like a course of action, but it seemed as futile. Cally, the Fighter, needed the clearest of heads to deal with this, all of them did, but transcendent as she was, she was drowning in her emotions. She had longed to weep again, but no tears could flow for the transcendent. It was one of those think-with-your-heart moments, but her heart . . .

She had no heart . . . Time passed . . . Eventually in the first step of going back she assumed a mortal body once more.

Cally stood before the door, her head bowed, feeling the force of warped space-time tug/pull/grab at her. She had a body and a heart. If only I had a decisive mind.

She was angry with the Entity; not Blake. She understood his silence to her calls. But as she recalled her recent conversation with the Entity about Servalan, she clenched flesh fists in frustration and fury. Much bothered her about had been cunningly withheld.

//You knew she was an Auron?!// Cally was unstoppable in her rage.

But the Entity was calm, obviously prepared for this moment. //Yes, but that was not the reason we kept the knowledge from you. Had you known, you would have quickly followed the logical path, as you did, and discerned the truth about her powers. At the start of the Plan, the knowledge would have paralyzed you.//

She told the Entity what to do with the Plan. //Knowing or not knowing; the truth is the same. How could you have kept it from us?//

//Events had to reach a critical stage, to take on a momentum of their own, before you could be informed. Now you are compelled to act regardless. It was the best decision, given the dangers. Try to believe . . . //

//It's hope that I want! Why didn't you kill her when you had the chance. Her evil, can be solved, computed.//

The Entity was unfazed. //True, she is part of the equation. We knew there was profound link between her and the nature, the fundamental significance of, time. But what matters now is her link to Avon. Without her power over him, Avon could not be moved to do the things he must. Sometimes, in the words of the great Edward, one must go south first in order to journey north. She was necessary. There are larger issues.//

Cally was disgusted. That this large an omission had occurred right in the heart of the plan was unforgivable. The Entity was trying to talk its way out, but she would have none of it.

//The first time she was here, Terminal let her live. It wiped out every other person of her party, but allowed her to escape. Terminal, 'your employer', might have informed us as to why.//

//I have told you all that I can. She can foresee/see/sense the future. It is an enormous advantage.// it added glumly.

//I would think so. Even against Terminal itself.//

//That is true. To defeat her, the picture of the future, its interpretation, must be altered. Only those caught in the equation can do that.//

//Meaning Avon, Servalan herself . . . and Li.// She almost gasped in horror. //You might have told Avon. You might have told my sister!//

//Had she known her destiny, it would have paralyzed her as well. Now events are achieving a momentum of their own. Neither of you will be stopped. You will act. If it is hope you seek, there you have it.//

Cally was stunned; her physical heart was thinking for her. It was pounding, and in unison with it waves smashed against the walls, feeding her rage. She wanted to scream, but it had been too long. She would have to re-learn. The Entity retreated, losing phase, but did not leave.

So it was all foretold! Well, she herself knew that Avon might return to the monster. What mattered now was why. What pressures could she have applied to him? What could Servalan have said/done? Unless they found out, they were helpless.

//Why did he return to her? If we only knew why.//

//That not even she can know for certain. We can only guess.//

//The 'equations' tell you nothing? What good are