Episode IX

of

THE PATTERN OF INFINITY

by J. Kel

. . . And enterprises of great pith and moment with this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.

When his escort came late that morning, so furious in manner, so ludicrous in bearing, Vila Restal, fugitive, thief, so much more; late of Earth, late of Blake’s Seven, typically late in any event, had, for a few restless moments, forgotten the seriousness of a situation threatening to gravitate towards ominous. Astonishingly, he was impatient. In remarkably short order he had grown tired of the slovenly, noisy gawkers looking at him through the bars like he was some kind of animal prone to odd habits and strange sounds -- if one waited long enough. He was at or beyond disgust with his guards whose idea of a good time appeared to be watching their captive relieve himself. And frankly, he was appalled by what had happened to the good, quiet people of Keezarn. It was more than unsettling. If utopia were ever achieved in humanity's travels, this was a bad detour.

Well, what had happened? Vila sighed, and therein lies the secret for maintaining his sanity. He had no idea what could have happened; could not begin to speculate. The people that had seemed content, powerful, assured, and tranquil to a degree any random earth person could scarcely have imagined. Look at them. Despite their outward appearance, which reminded him of times that considerably predated commercial space flight, they had hardly seemed primitive. They seemed wiser, knowing, accepting, beyond shame or guilt in ways he could only envy. Now, as his dreadful escort stomped towards him through the muddy courtyard, and an occasional badly aimed mud ball was pitched his way, it was like he was trapped in some nightmare version of a medieval village. Time had flowed back, and then dumped him here, before speeding off to eternity. He was aware, of course, of the diversity of planetary cultures (using the term generously), particularly in the worlds far removed from the center. He knew regressions occurred. Had experienced them first hand. But this seemed worse than most.

It was vital the mystery be solved. No question about it. Solving it might give him a clue to so much more. Like what had happened to Kerrill. He still missed her, wondered what he could have done to deserve this. But as the guards knocked on the door to the central tower, it occurred to him that perhaps solving mysteries could wait. Step one was survival.

In truth, in his life, so plain and ordinary by his own assessment, mysteries had more annoyed Vila than inspired him. A mystery was a task, a job to be done, and done well. And jobs were tedious, like being stuck behind a desk (or in a docket) and having to listen to a lecture from a supervisor (or a judge). All these things he had set out in life to avoid. Work, truth, more work: who needed them? One had more important things like eating sleeping, and getting sufficiently drunk to forget it all.

The sun was almost over the walls of the "city", crawling lazily up to zenith. It was still cold, but becoming warmer and humid rapidly.

He did not want to spend a lot of time on this mystery.

But once again he knew he would have to wait. As the sun inched upward while they stood outside the central building of the fortress, his escort wiling away the time kicking dirt clods, fighting, chasing away spectators, and similar sophisticated pursuits, he alternated between sitting and standing, trying to put his mind anywhere but where he was. Trying to remember why he had come in the first place. He did recognize several from the group that had captured him the night previous. It was not a happy recognition. Night did nothing for them; daylight even less. In fairness, it could not be said that daylight was doing anything for him either. He was painfully aware of the dangers of deteriorating hygiene and was grateful there was no mirror around.

In the courtyard stood a large tree with enormous leafing branches. For some reason he found it a source of comfort.

Finally as the sun was about three-quarters of the way (he had not been fed yet, though he had been brought some water) someone from the central tower, a block-like building all of three stories high, emerged, yelled out a command and once again spears were pointed at him, though this time only three guards were permitted with him as they entered. Off the foursome trudged into the structure, up wooden stairs to the second floor. And there they waited once more. Surprisingly, the guards exchanged coarse humor. Vila leaned against a post, bored and looking it. After a few minutes, one of the guards left and went up the remaining flight of stairs.

He was being rather quiet about it, Vila noticed, and he wondered why. Suddenly, things got loud and terrifying. There was the sound of a female voice shouting orders. The sight of the other prisoner pleading for mercy while being dragged down the opposing flight of stairs did nothing for Vila's confidence. For a moment he entertained the thought that whoever awaited him, it was not truly Kerrill. Perhaps it was an impostor who had assumed her name. But that thought was hardly reassuring. He preferred to think of himself being received by welcome arms . . . he would smile then at his captors as they were dismissed in shame . . .

The absent guard came down and motioned them hurriedly to come up the stairs.

His two captors were now leery of him, keeping their distance, looking at him as if he had fangs. They stayed just behind him, their spears at an angle and always in his direction, as if to give some menace to their presence while at the same time being in a good position to flee. Vila, aware of all of this, was coming to the unhappy conclusion that he should be grateful to be alive. He was in equal danger of being impaled accidentally as on purpose by these clowns.

At the top of the stairs, he was positioned to the side of the main door. There were two enormous guards on either side. His escort guard approached the door. The giants, Vila did not know how else to refer to them, grumbled about Queen Kerrill's patience being tried. Two of his guards taking that as a hint, looked at each other and fled down the exit staircase. Now only one remained, standing beside him while two huge fists pounded on the door three times.

The door was impressive. It's construction was superior to anything he had observed so far. There seemed to be a genuine attempt at quality: the two metal handles were polished smooth and shining and the door had a deep red sheen to it. The pounding ceased; they waited. There were no other prisoners around. The dreadful sounds of begging and pleading were gone for the moment. Evidently, this day's business had been taken care of speedily and he was to be the last. The two giants glared at him.

How many individuals comprised the Keezarn? Hundreds? Thousands? Whatever the number, the rate of serious crime appeared to be surprisingly high. For one of the few times in his life Vila was completely innocent, and here even he was beginning to feel guilty.

There was another shout, a woman's voice saying something like "Bring the miscreant in!". Vila couldn't quite catch the rest. One giant moved away as the other grandly opened the door. He walked forward, and then an enormous hand stopped him. Evidently they were waiting for a more precise signal. There were voices, too indistinct for him to determine what was being pleaded or the nature of the proceedings. The statements being made were emotional but clipped. Justice, whatever its nature, was being dispatched. And with no plea-bargaining or considerations of character. Once he was certain he heard Kerrill’s voice, distinct now even when roaring. His heart skipped.

Vila’s remaining guard stepped ahead and entered the chamber. He heard the sounds of curtains closing. The two giants placed their spears crossing in from of him. Was he a special case? He smiled weakly at the thought, as he walked forward . . . as a voice crashed down on them, surging out into the air, hot and fierce. "State your plea! Queen Kerrill awaits!" The voice practically shook the floor.

Vila noted apprehensively that his advocate, if that was indeed what he was, replied much more softly. "An enemy encountered last night attempting to attack a guard post."

"Now hold on!" he protested but both guards quickly put their spear tips to his throat.

"Silence miscreant, or lose your tongue!" She resumed after a few seconds. "A prisoner you say! State the name of this enemy!"

"Villain Weasel," said his advocate as proud as a man ever was of a profound grasp of detail.

Vila was beside himself. This had gone far enough. He knocked the feet from under one guard, then wheeled the other around, toppling him over the first and sent both thrashing on the floor. He then strode forward, pushed the advocate aside, and saw to his astonishment as the curtain flew open . . . her: His queen. Queen Kerrill, risen from her thrown in fury, stopped as they confronted each other in shock, horror, and dismay.

"Kerrill," he said meekly. The giants, up now, rushed at him but she motioned them out. His last remaining guard and his advocate had fled as well. The doors sealed. A few others had stayed, frozen in their position.

"Vila," she stammered as she stepped down. Had she seen Vila's ghost the effect would not have been more extreme. "What a surprise . . ." she said.

"I just wanted to talk with you," he said, his arms spread.

"Clear the room!" she commanded at the top of her lungs. "Court is adjourned!" And then everyone, servants, record keepers, toadies, who knows what, scurried from the room as if someone had shouted "fire, earthquake, and rats!".

She stepped up to him slowly and Kerrill and Vila confusedly studied each other. Her weapons and jewelry clanked with each step. He couldn't help but notice how much larger she was than he had seen her last. But after a good ten years of separation, things were bound to be different. He accepted that. She smiled nervously, more of a grimace actually. "You were unexpected." She gestured to another set of doors. "Let's have lunch anyway."

"It’s all your fault," she said and Vila had gotten to the point that he was inclined to believe it. He was sitting on a couch in a room above the courtyard as lunch was being served. Or as she had put it, her "noon repast was being offered." The servant who had brought the lunch tray was very quiet, as servant's without tongues are prone to be. Queen Kerrill it seemed had a lot on her mind and was determined to speak it. The food they ate was better than anything he had had since coming here, but that was admittedly an empty comparison. There was even something purplish passing for wine. But despite his hunger and thirst, he could consume little. His discomfort level was no lower; his sense of a mystery lacking all resolution even higher. And now Queen Kerrill, having gotten over her initial shock, was giving clues, subtle indications, along with ferocious gulps and frequent belches that she was moving in the the direction of not being all that pleased to see him again.

"You could be more sympathetic," she complained. "I had to get this whole place in order by myself! Organize these people; get things under control and moving. What a mess!" She waved a large knife in the air. "It's not like you go from one world to another through some hyperwarp or whatever and there is room service waiting for you. These people would have been lost without me. Probably starved, the lot of them. Who knows? And it would have served them right!" She stopped, taking another bite of the charred piece in her hand, as she jabbed the knife at him. "If only you hadn’t left me," she almost choked.

Normally one would find it hard to wail and eat at the same time, but Kerrill managed. She took a large gulp of the local wine, a thick concoction Vila had judged having the consistency of hair gel, and a bouquet like turpentine. It was clearly an acquired taste. Vila had gasped when he tried it and had all but pleaded for water. She frowned, but said nothing. Vila pointed to the water glass and was happy enough to settle for the pitcher when it was brought. Just to be safe, he almost seemed to say to her deepening frown. She seemed to like it.

The guilt she was triggering was expanding its effect. "I am sorry," he replied sincerely, almost sheepishly. He took another drink of water. "I had no idea what I wanted at the time. I had to think about it. I thought of you a lot," he added and that was true enough.

She looked at him sourly. "I bet you did. Thinking of me that is. Maybe I don't like being thought about, ever think of that? In any event, ten years should have given even you time to do some deciding. Takes a while to make up your mind does it?"

The question seemed unanswerable so Vila didn’t. He sat there, gulping his water, wondering if she was ever going to drop this mode of acting and relent to something more human. Finally, desperation gave him an idea. Why not get her to talk about how she had come to be the ruler of the planet -- formerly known as "Vila’s World". She seemed to have pride in her accomplishment, no matter how much she complained about it. He hesitantly relayed his interest. She abruptly cut him off.

"Oh, very well," she groused. "Yeah, you might think it was easy." She pointed the knife at him again. "You would think anyone, any man could have done it. Well, let me tell you . . ."

And so she did. Apparently what had happened was this: the Keezerites in their original colony had formed what amounted to a group mind, one collective entity in which the individual elements were linked and joined telepathically. The operating motto for all the years prior to Bayban and Blake's people colliding together on the planet was: "Eliminate the Larynx". Now telepathic communities are not unknown in history. Auron's had tried such, at least obscure and disreputable groups of them, with results that should have discouraged everyone else. But the Keezerites to their credit had done better than would have been expected. Their system had worked for the most part and when they arrived at the new world, things initially appeared to be going well, though here Kerrill did not go into details. The problem appeared to be that the bulk of the inhabitants had fed their mental energies into the collective (more precisely its leadership) so that little was left for independent thought, initiative, or much else. In short, the qualities that were needed for colonizing and living on a new planet. So as the seasons changed and the demands of survival became more difficult to meet, and -- Kerrill shook her head sadly -- the old leadership began to die off (here the details became terribly vague), it fell to her to rise to greatness. She, who had been burdened with none of Keezer's history and tradition was pressed into leadership, to rouse the people out of their sloth and embrace their new home.

Vila was correct. She was proud of her achievement. And she let it be known that while she was for the whole time, hurt, frustrated, and many other unhappy things too numerous to mention now, she never forgot Vila. It was his memory who kept her going. Initially.

Vila was genuinely touched, so he didn't press for missing details, which seemed wise in any event. So, as she took upon herself more and more of the responsibilities and powers of leadership, it became sadly clear that the thousands of new arrivals to this world were in no shape to cohere into a viable colony. They would have to completely abandon their old ways. So Kerrill gradually moved from being leader and tutor to assuming the role of absolute dictator, though she preferred the term "guidance counselor."

Vila choked. The whole business was truly awful, she assured him. She had to do everything, and how she had suffered. She wanted him to know that. She had to do everything, all the time, her alone. It was like running an orphanage. But in the end, the achievement spoke for itself. She would in time get over how bitter she was about having to do it alone. Things had not gone smoothly, but other than the unfortunate original leadership, most survived the first year.

She then asked him what route he had taken coming to her city and after he told her, she resumed, more relaxed.

Alas, probably because of their history, but who knew? the Keezerites were not a fully competent group, but after the first year, order had been achieved. Not as complete as she would have liked, of course. Some backward elements popped up, at first sporadically, and then with increasing frequency -- she threw her knife down with a thwang into the floor; it seemed she could hardly restrain herself now -- the bastards, particularly the "Southies" continued to resist her rule after all she had done. But they were being dealt with! The crime level was coming down, would come down, she concluded as she pushed the plates on to the cart, and then kicked the food cart away. They would all come together, one big happy family. She would see to it.

Vila for the most part was impressed, yet he could not help but feel a bit of a chill. What was the nature of the bulk of the crimes Queen Kerrill had to contend with these days? He asked her. She shrugged and would only say: just crimes.

He smiled and nodded sympathetically throughout. The story may well have been as she relayed it. Might as well take it at face value. Here's to the Queen. He offered a toast. There was no question she was tough and would have had a hard time adjusting to the changed circumstances from being a raider, and a rather low-level one at that, to being a colony leader. Still, it bothered him that after all these years and accomplishments, she managed to blame him for her troubles. It had, after all, been a difficult and hurried decision for them both. He would have assumed that she understood the nature of life, particularly their lives, and would have matured on the basis of that understanding.

How much had she remembered of him?

On to other topics. "I want to thank you for dismissing my trial," he said cheerfully, hoping to sustain the mostly positive mood to their conversation. Everything was gone from the table except the wine and water. He dared relax a little, leaning back in the couch slightly. He always felt that underneath her rough exterior, Kerrill was basically a decent sort. The frowns, the brows knitting together like she was examining some repulsive insect, it would all pass.

She looked at him suspiciously. "Your trial has not been dismissed. I merely postponed it." She stood. "The damn things get boring anyway, so tedious and repetitious: ‘Cursing the name of Queen Kerrill", 'Avoiding service to Queen Kerrill, ‘Trying to learn to read’. Day in, day out, always the same. Never any imagination. I know the laws. They know the laws. You would think," she glared down at him, "that I would have . . . executed . . . enough of them by now that they would have come up with something new!" She gave him a look implying that any reasonable person, such as himself, would certainly have agreed.

Vila did not know what to say. The situation here he sensed was both confusing and dangerous and that was the only consistent sense he had. He smiled nervously and raised his goblet of water in a toast, choosing his words as carefully and as smoothly as he could: "To Queen Kerrill, may her just and merciful reign continue."

She grimaced, endearing in a way he thought. She said, looking out the enormous window of this top floor of her tower. "You know what I think when I see each new dawn on my world?"

"No," he said.

"I think of it as an enormous piece of pie, waiting for me to engulf and devour."

"That's very spiritual," he said. And he could not help but be distressed that she did not pick up her own goblet to complete the toast.

For Del Tarrant, starring into the 3-D main monitor of the new Liberator; the bridge deserted except for himself, this was the moment he had perhaps dreaded more than any other in his life -- and it came as he was nearing what he told himself he had always wanted. Thoughts, ideas, burst inside of him, flowing through and out like a torrent of a river gone mad. As he moved his right hand through sweaty hair, looking in the monitor and seeing all eternity spread before him, he grimly accepted the realization that in this supreme moment of his life, the drunkenness of glory and the sobriety of power had crashed together in a whirlpool feeling of utter emptiness. The energy, the daring, the audacity all so typical of him were canceling each other out, abandoning him, leaving him deserted like a drowning victim cast upon a barren shore. He felt the moment. The prize was glittering before him. Yet, he honestly did not know what to do with it, and worse could not, he was certain, have summoned the will to possess it even if he had the knowledge.

For much of his adult life he had wanted to be his brother. Then he had wanted to be Blake. He had chafed under Avon, even as he had come to the state of wanting to be Avon. Now they were all gone and Del Tarrant had to admit he missed the supreme irritant, as much as he wanted to kill the . . . Avon, that is. Say this for that man: whatever his failings, far too many to catalog, he always seemed to know what to do. Avon had it: born leader par excellence. He always seemed to have a plan, or at least an extra card up his sleeve. Now Tarrant would have to accomplish with all his doubts and insecurities what Avon could do effortlessly. And make it work, which Avon in fairness had not quite managed to do himself: unite the disparate elements of failed rebellions near and far, past and present, and fuse them into a single lightening bolt thrust at the heart of the devil's lair.

Take Earth in one blow, crush it, bring it down. End Federation rule forever. And don't botch it. And there he realized it was hopeless.

For in truth, Del Tarrant was as desperate to avoid a war with Earth as he was determined to be the one to lead the attack. He knew the commandments of war, and for the life of him he could not imagine any set of circumstances that could justify or would lead to a successful conclusion for the "raid" they were planning ("raid" was how in conversation the name they were beginning to refer to the operation).

Twice before there had been strikes against Earth; once by Blake; once by Avon. Both had been graced with more luck than they deserved. But Blake's at least made some strategic (in the sense of surprise, simplicity, and economy of force) sense: to wit, to undermine Federation morale. It also had tactical justification: hitting Federation defenses and communications. Avon's adventure had made no sense whatever. It was so obviously a one man vendetta that only the sheer strength of the man's personality had enabled him to retain command afterwards. Oh, to hell with it. In the end, the effect on the Federation of both actions had been negligible. And here he was -- no amount of hammering his fists together could change it -- in even more questionable shape. He wanted to lead the raid, more than anything. He dreaded what would be unleashed, more than anything.

It had come to a head with Cally’s return to the ship. Indeed, return to life. Things were starting to get a bit too odd for his taste. First the return of Dayna, Vila, and himself from being "frozen" (whatever that meant) on Terminal. Then the new ship. Then the fact that almost ten years had passed -- so Avon had informed them -- but if you had asked Tarrant privately he would have told you he didn’t believe a word of it. What else? Of course since when did his opinions matter? Except then Avon was gone. Just like that, back to the Federation and its ruler. Then Vila left. And then Cally had returned. And his thoughts were chasing their tails and he was close to having had enough of it.

Try and get this straight! Cally was dead. There was no question about it; no disagreement from anyone. He remembered her death, the explosion rumbling underground, the terrible cry of . . . And now she had returned, if it was truly her, and he could not help but be suspicious. Yet Dayna, whom he counted on to steady him, accepted her at once. And the two women together had insisted on getting the whole thing rolling again: rescue Jenna, those two Aurons whoever they were, even Avon. The pressures were enormous. They couldn't do it without him. He was thinking of yielding on some points, for diplomacy and all that, but he would be damned before he allowed Avon to become an objective of the raid.

Soon after arriving (returning?), she had called a meeting, outlining a plan as to how they were to proceed, what allies to gather, what weapons, stratagems, supplies, timing, fall backs, on and on the list of objectives and contingencies went. Some minutes before he had gotten up from the meeting in disgust, doing his best to coolly walk out of the room, until he stood here, trying to get himself under control and the situation with it. His behavior was not professional but he did not care. He was grateful that no one had come after him.

The final straw had been her insistence that they first retrieve Vila. That had infuriated him. If someone quit, he quit for good; he wasn't coming back, and he, Tarrant, certainly wasn't going after them. He had never liked Vila, nor Avon, but at least he could respect Avon. Nobody liked Avon; everybody respected him. But Vila -- the man was beyond useless. Tarrant wanted nothing more to do with him. He did not deny Vila’s value, in certain rare circumstance; that was not the point. But for this . . . Cally’s desperate attempt to cobble together a fighting force would have been comical given the odds were so completely against them. Comical, if the result was not certain to be catastrophic. Frankly, Tarrant had had enough; the death of his brother still stung. You would think the rest of them would feel they had had enough. That was yet another reason he felt he could not trust her. Why the eagerness? Her sister, of course, but there had to be more. He didn't want to start on that but there was this inescapable feeling of oddness, that something was not right. Too much strangeness, like too much tragedy, was bad for the thinking.

Now where was he? Vila. Try and be fair. Could it be that he, too, was thinking of leaving? Well, yes, he was. There were too many questions, too few answers, too much that was mysterious; too much that was just plain unfathomable and uncomfortable. It all smelled of an enemy that could never be defeated. That would use and manipulate you so completely you could never land a blow. Put it together and the odor was as vile as death. If he were to die in the "raid" -- the possibility had to be faced -- it would be as a man, fighting against men, where the weapons were real weapons, no rot about an enemy that could "foresee the future". For any other reason, any other time, he would conceded: rescue the fool. Which one? But not now. Rescuing Vila was not a way to salvage a hopeless cause.

He no longer saw any point in dwelling on the impossible. Well, there was a point. He had to start thinking about what he was going to do about it. To be in command, if that is where this was leading, he had to start thinking as a commander. So in that sense he relished his temporary isolation, here, on the bridge. Here he did not have to prove himself to anyone. Here he could pout all he wanted.

What if he no longer had to defy authority, but exert it? If he were the authority? Say the word, point the direction, they would follow. They were going nowhere without him. And that suited Tarrant just fine.

So maybe he should return and tell them just what he had been thinking! Tell Cally with her oh-so-mysterious demeanor that he would have none of it any longer. Tell Dayna busily playing both sides . . . No, that was unfair. He liked Dayna. He trusted and needed her. Give her the opportunity to make the right decision, but if she didn't . . .

He calmed somewhat. It made sense to him now. The words gestating within him were reasonable; the very essence of reason, in fact. And the name they called forth was the name of action. Nothing less. Take it or leave it. Tarrant took a seat on one of the couches, struggled to relax. For a few more minutes he watched the stars frozen on the screen (the ship was drifting at low velocity and the stars he observed sullenly were very far away). When the two women came to him, it would be time to tell them he was taking over. Henceforth he would lead, whatever the consequences.

But they showed themselves to be in no hurry to beg him back, so when he returned to their impromptu meeting room, which had been the kitchen/dining area, he noticed with deep that both Cally and Dayna had apparently not left their seats, their expressions still intent on the planning. In due course, they noticed that he had returned. He was about to say something intimidating when Cally brightened noticeably as she glanced up at him. As if they were now oh so delighted to see him. Dayna too looked at him almost cheery. Gosh, how rude of me to have upset you both and how noble of you to have forgiven and welcomed me back!

"Tarrant," Cally said, "We were discussing Servalan. We need your input."

"Oh, yes," Dayna agreed. "You must to listen to this. It’s quite amazing."

So Tarrant sat down, holding himself in check, trying not to look glum but not succeeding. He would much sooner discussed Avon. Frankly, he would have preferred discussing anything than Servalan, one enemy, denying the usual maxim of military strategy, he preferred to know less about. She appalled, yes, but there was also that damnable element of mystery about her. Another one. He wanted no more mystery. Action! People wanted to believe she was some kind of demon, as if the humanness of the creature wasn’t frightening enough. Who could take action against a demon?

"I believe we have to face the fact, and it does impact our planning, that within limits she can indeed predict the future," Dayna said firmly

There was an awkward silence. Tarrant did not want to discuss this in any way, shape, or form. "Not that again. I can't believe you two are still stuck on that," he said, more in weariness than anger. "Don’t tell me you came back from the dead just to tell us that."

She ignored that remark, imperturbable as ever. "It’s not a joke. Believe me. It's not something I could blurt out, but she has told Li in utmost seriousness. The Auron Web has confirmed it, reluctantly I might add. The evidence, gathered and examined, is overwhelming."

"And if gullibility has a name . . ." said Tarrant, speaking to the ceiling.

He was close to getting a rise out of her now. "There was a project, very secret. It's goal was to develop just such a mind. Her’s was as close as they got."

"Spare us any more Auron failures!"

That stung. Cally turned red. She hated the effect he had on her. She reviewed patiently what she had told them. "The Auron researchers couldn’t control her. We don’t know what happened precisely but one day the research center where she resided burned to the ground. There were many deaths . . ."

"And?" For a moment Tarrant closed his eyes. This was so tiresome.

"She vanished."

"You are convinced this 'prototype' and Servalan are one and the same? Even by the standards of Auron legends, doesn't this stretch credibility?"

Cally's voice was halting. "I suppose there are reasonable grounds to doubt, but when you put it all together, it would explain a lot. I want you to take this seriously. We can't ignore it. It affects all of our planning."

Tarrant considered. He was pleased to be getting under her skin, but despite himself her point was valid. "I'm sure it does. It still could be coincidence. It could be anything. How do you know this 'person' wasn’t killed in the fire herself? Or," leaning forward, "Servalan took the legend to use for her own purposes? If she really knows the future, every action against her would be blunted anyway"

Cally sighed. That was the rub. She was struggling for the right words and could not understand why Tarrant was fighting her every step of the way. Why wouldn't the man work with her? But she could not let him intimidate her. "There may be a way. That is what we are trying to tell you. But you have to consider the truth first. For her to admit to being an Auron is inconceivable, unless she had a very good reason. She hates Li, fears her I am certain -- why we do not understand -- but there is no faking her emotions. She would not fabricate such an admission. I admit there are aspects of this that are all but incomprehensible. Tarrant . . . ," she asked, looked directly at him, for a moment the smugness in the man gone from his face. She glanced over at Dayna, who was absorbing the battle between the two and not liking it.

"Yes?"

She looked over to Dayna. "I’m asking you both -- do you trust me? Do you believe who I say I am?"

"I believe you," said Dayna, her voice briefly sleepy.

"Look, we have been over this. It changes nothing," said Tarrant

"It changes everything if true. She sees the future, but she does not know it. Do you understand what I am saying? She can misinterpret, misunderstand, become confused. She is mortal. It may be all that we need to defeat her. I am sorry to have to ask you to take it on faith, but it is not possible for me to give proof."

Tarrant assumed a pose of deliberation. He was desperate to get off this topic. "So like Macbeth, she is given counsel of the future, but her visions may be as unreliable as the tales of witches."

Cally blinked. "Why, yes. That is correct. Well put."

"Getting back to the point, I don’t care. And further," the sore spot surfaced in his consciousness, "I don't see why Vila makes any difference one way or another."

Cally had wanted to hold off on Vila. "Servalan can only be defeated by her own psychology. We know enough about her that she can weaken, lose control, blind herself to the reality of the present -- because she is so dependent upon her knowledge of the future. To defeat her, we have to grab at every possible," Cally hesitated, "weapon. I want Vila back for a number of reasons, already noted, but one in particular . . . "

"He’s a talented thief, and he drives her crazy! That should be sufficient. That’s what Avon said," said Dayna, trying to inject some humor, but succeeding only in rubbing it in.

"Avon is not here." Tarrant hated the man's name being invoked as some king of truth. He made the statement as firm as possible. Were they going to continue to badger him? He had no interest in rescuing Avon either.

"Majority rule, don't you see" said Dayna cheerfully. "We might even find use for him. Stranger things have happened."

Tarrant was silent, furious. Future visions. Majority rule. Nonsense and other words. He would have to find another opening or explode. Perhaps . . . what if he could . . . Grab the advantage. Act. Very well, bring Vila back. What difference did it make? Anything to get moving. But allow him to exact a price and . . .

"Fine," he said calmly, "but only because I want a decision on the 'raid', nothing else. Frankly, I want an end to these endless discussions. Here is my offer: you two are free to get him back -- assuming you can find him, assuming he wants to return, assuming he is alive. But there are conditions."

Cally looked pleased, but Dayna was concerned. "This had better be good," she said.

He leaned forward. "My conditions are . . . " and he stopped.

"Name them," Cally said.

"I am coming to that. I give you permission to bring him back, though I personally think we have better things to do. But there will be a price; it entails a risk over and above what you encounter down there."

Tarrant told them. He was pleased to notice a look of shock on both their faces as he presented his terms. And for the first time since coming back on the Liberator, from returning from non-existence, all three laughed out loud: Dayna, thinking of her hapless friend returning one more time; Cally, thinking of what a joke this must all seem, now with Vila as the punch line; and Tarrant, thinking of Vila as the guaranteed vote he needed to bring an end to this nonsense about a raid on Earth.

Cally was exhausted when she at last returned to her cabin. She was certain part of her tiredness had to do with adjusting to her drop from transcendence, but she had been equally certain it would pass quickly. Only it hadn't. And she was having a terrible time reaching Li. Their communications link dropped almost as soon as it was established. She felt increasingly uneasy. Losing transcendence, regaining an embarrassingly clunky body, it was unsettling; she could not get over the ominous feeling that she had made mistake. It would pass quickly, but for now. Even eating seemed odd and wasteful. Showering alone gave her pleasure. When she was young she had spent hours in the shower, now . . . As she undressed, she realized she was in such a tired state that sleep itself would be difficult and she dreaded restless sleep. In transcendence, one never slept. She told the lights to gradually dim, and instead of gracefully slipping under the covers, simply fell upon the bed. She was disgusted with herself. Why was she acting as if she were drunk? She found herself hearing whispers, fragments of words and sentences meaning what? She rolled over, trying to get comfortable, but the softest bed felt like it was made of rocks.

She looked up and around her room. It was the Liberator, in all its worst aspects. Her room was not just comfortable, it was barely fit for habitation. Was that part of her unease? Just one more spare cabin in a ship that never had seemed able to accommodate any of its people. Blankets, bedding, some furniture, the inevitable computer/communications link to the bridge, that was it. Adjacent to what passed for a laundry facility. A bathroom and kitchen. It was on the whole an efficient and familiar design but one that was as appealing as a cold shower. It was too much like the original, and that aspect she could have done without. The Entity had its reasons, but still . . . she wanted something that pointed to a different, better future. This design did not do it.

The lights were almost gone. There were more whispers, just at the edge of hearing. Was her mind going? She did not know and was too damn tired to worry about it. She was looking outside on the wall monitor, to the slow drift of stars and it was then that she fell into the dream . . .

It was a dream about Li, of that Cally was certain. Something very important. The dream began with four words, words that dripped with color, flamed with rainbows:

Time - Gift - Vila - Life.

The words shimmered and were vibrant as they circled about her just out of reach. Then suddenly they combined into one word. Meaningless characters dropping away like burning embers leaving only a single iridescent "i". The letter grew, glowed before her, triumphant. Then it began to vibrate, to separate, and there were two "i"s. The two 'i's grew arms and joined hands forming a "W". Then another 'I' appended to it. "w i"?

The dream appeared to be specific, precise in its symbolism in a way she had never experienced. For a moment she was delighted she was no longer transcendent. There was no dreaming for the transcendent.

A snake slithered by. She was hypnotized by its beautiful, rhythmic movements, drawing her to follow when it suddenly reared up and hissing tried to strike her. It had Servalan's face. Cally leapt back. The snake quickly reduced in size and became a single letter "s" moving to join the others and now before her was "w i s".

She waited, not understanding.

The ground gave way beneath her and she was hurtling screaming towards a star in a space utterly black, void, an infinite nothing. Small at first, a pinprick of light, it swelled and became enormous before her, searing the sky and exploding in sheets of white fire shockwaves wrapping around her. She tried to get away, to run but could not. She was trying to run with feet of lead as the explosion burned all existence and as tubes of light enveloped her she heard a chant:

Avon's Nova,

Avon's Nova

Avon's Nova . . .

The fires died around her; the sheets collapsed in flaming filaments to the black rough ground at her feet, at her knees, at her hands. She stopped. Before her, the filaments formed a burning letter "H".

The "H" joined the other letters; the word completed: "W I S H".

She tried to move up. But the ground held her. The dream was not finished. She was being devoured, her hands sunk into the ground which held them fast. The ground was crunched and flaked, like coal.

The "W" left, inverted, and became an "M". The four words returned and as they marched past . . . the "L" dropped from "life" . . . the "L" dropped from "Vila" . . . . the "i" congealed again. Words and the letters remaining. joined in a circle, spinning ever more rapidly into an "o".

The letters danced like bees in a hive and a new word appeared, terrifying in its suddenness: MOLLI.

Cally awoke with a start. Her cabin was silent except for a faint whisper of the air circulating. She was breathing very rapidly. For several minutes she could hear each of her distinct heart beats until things slowed. She asked the cabin lights to return. She check the time. It had only been a few minutes.

Molli was gone. There was only Li.

The next morning after a mostly sleepless night, in the kitchen she tried to explain the dream in all its startling detail to Dayna, who just nodded and "Uh-huh"-ed and they both felt embarrassed as neither knew what to say. So she shut up. But in the nights afterwards, the dream would not go away. She remembered it perfectly, though it did not repeat. It had to mean something, but she was more curious as to where had it come from?

And what did Vila have to do with it?

Hundreds of lightyears away from the Liberator and its unhappy people, it could be said that Vila, confined to his new quarters, i.e. his new cell, had not given up hope, but even that psychological holding action seemed to him to be not altogether reassuring. There can come a time in the life of any man when things become so appalling that he begins to grasp at anything for hope. And the desperation can lead him to grim, life altering, decisions. So it was with Vila, incarcerated by his former love, a nightmare if there ever was one. After ten years, Kerrill remembered him. Which should have been good new but it wasn't. She loved no one else. And that might well be worse.

For the odds of a pardon, all but non-existent as he had come to understand in the court of Queen Kerrill, were diminishing even further with each passing day. His only hope was that she appeared not quite ready to rush into the final decision. And when it came, it might be better than expected. Age and power had coarsened her, but there was not yet reason to panic. Perhaps, and this was the essence of the hope he clung to, they had also deepened her, matured her after a fashion. As each day went by, it seemed she wanted to know more about her captive and for the first time that anyone could remember -- he had heard the guards discuss it in wonder -- Queen Kerrill the Just was hesitating.

One night not too long after these thoughts rolled around inside his brain, while Vila was lying on his bed staring up through the bars at the strange constellations and trying his best to be accepting about the whole business, a guard opened the door and informed him he had been summoned. To what he wanted to ask, but the man whose demeanor was unfriendly enough, seemed to give off an air of not knowing anything more than he did, i.e. dump the questions.

He was nervous. The clothes he had brought with him had been washed and mended and so he was able to make himself almost presentable. but the three guards appearing again --the same ones? it was hard to tell -- this he did not like the looks of it. He was marched to the door of Queen Kerrill's chamber. There were no door guards. When his lead guard knocked on the door, Vila could hear her shout, "Who is it?!"

The guard replied stiffly, "The prisoner", then scurried rapidly back away from the door.

She shouted again, "Bring him in!" and Vila, looking at them helplessly as they urged him forward, opened the door with supreme hesitation.

"Come in!" she demanded just as he entered the room. "And shut the damn thing behind you." He did. His eyes adjusted to the gloom, and in the thickness of the candle smoke and dim light, he noticed Kerrill in the corner. She was standing and while the cut of the dress was crude, and the weaponry seemed excessive -- how many knives did she need? -- it kind of worked, after a fashion, he told himself. For a moment his hopes soared, but the frown on her face as she stepped closer in the light did not vanish. How he longed for a smile! A kind word . . .

But given everything, she was in her own way gracious. "Sit anywhere. No, there," she pointed to a chair. "I realize our first meeting did not go as well as I had liked. I hardly gave you a chance to apologize. And you were tired. And my guards . . . what can I say? Are you rested now?"

Vila sat in a chair a couple of meters from his queen. He responded cautiously. A lot depended on how this went. His voice was thin. He tried to strengthen it. "I feel better. I wanted to thank you for getting me out of that cage."

Her answer was all business. "Oh, we hardly ever use it for an extended stays. Justice is quick around here, as I am sure you have gathered. In fact, thank you for reminding me. It's in a dreadful state. I am having it demolished . . . In any event, usually it is straight to . . . sometimes there are variations. No time to maintain a jail," her voice went on breezily and she almost smiled. "I need everyone out in the fields!" She fumed. "Doing whatever people in the fields do. But you are a special case."

Then she yawned and sat in a chair opposite his. He was silent which appeared to irk her, but it was probably unavoidable. He did not want to risk sounding like a fool. She eyed him then resumed. "It’s not easy being Queen. People always asking for this, whining about that. It’s an endless bother. Sometimes I find myself thinking . . . I wish I had stuck with my . . . previous life." Her frown deepened. "The life I left because of you. No. For you."

It was odd watching her. One moment her eyes were cold, suspicious, angry. The next, within an instance it seemed, they were warm, glowing, friendly. Or was it the other way around? That seemed to be the best way to put it. Friendly. At times. Not lasting long, mind you, but at least on occasion lacking in hostility.

She was looking off into the distance, the candles casting rough shadows like ax blows about her face. For a moment, the thought occurred to him that she must have gone through this routine several times, when he had been nowhere to be found and there was very little prospect of his returning. And over the years . . . but his revelry was broken.

"It’s all your fault that this has happened! The biggest mistake in my life, and all because of some silly little man. Puny if I may say, but still love undid me. How I hate love! When I was growing up, I dreamed of being someone like Servalan. Now look at me, queen of an entire world, and I have never been more unhappy! If only my father had not left my mother . . . Or was it the other way around? It has been so long. She really hadn’t intended to kill him. I knew my mother. She was quite sweet. Just moody. The pills, she tried so many, but they didn't help. They only made her see things. Believe things. Why can’t men forgive and forget? If only I had grown up in a family with something other than boys. Of course, I beat them . . . at every game, but how my self-esteem suffered. If only . . ." She paused then raged full force directly at him. " . . . If only I hadn’t met you!"

Vila almost jumped. She leaped up, surprising agile, her weapons clanking as she towered over him. "Do you know how much I missed you? How many times I cried myself to sleep?!"

"No," he said weakly, slowly shaking his head, genuinely touched and feeling dragged down into the depths, huge rocks of guilt roped to him. Not to mention being scared to death.

"Well, too many! Oh, what would you know!? A thousand lovers I have had, and let me tell you, men are all alike. I hate being queen of these dolts. My heart hardened because of you, them, everyone." She got the faraway look again, then considered sitting in a closer chair, then seemed to think better of it, She returned to the original. "I admit I should have been kinder at times. There were excesses," she sniffed.

"Oh, Kerrill," he said sympathetically, reaching out his hand.

"Silence! Do not interrupt me when I am being miserable. I find it comforting. But what would you know about that!"

Eventually she stopped blubbering and looked at him despondent. "Now I have lost my thought . . . Oh, why must I suffer? Do you know how hard it is to get decent soap around here! I must smell . . ."

"You smell fine, really" and he did mean it.

"You mean it? You were sweet that way, once." She almost smiled. Then in a moment she raged at him again. "You’re just saying that because you want to be king. My little, puny king," she sneered. "Well, it won’t happen!"

"Kerrill," he said softly. He did not want her to completely lose her temper Not here. Not now. "I came back for you. You meant everything to me."

"Really? Where have you been the last ten years? How many have you sweet-talked? You know all the lines and I bet you had plenty of chances to use them! Putting on airs of being one of Blake's bad . . ."

"No. That’s not true," he said glumly but forcefully, though he had to admit he wished it were.

"Ten years and nary a thought of anyone else but me?" she asked coyly, again a slight smile as the teeth showed. He could see she wanted to believe it. Now was his chance.

"I was frozen." He struggled to explain. "I was . . ."

"On 'ice'? In the 'cooler'? In prison . . .?" she asked, taken aback then almost believing it. "You were caught? I believe that! Surprised the Federation didn’t execute you. Of course, we lost all track of what was happening out there," she waved her hand at the ceiling. "Obviously you remained alive, which seems highly unlikely, but whatever . . ."

"Yes," he agreed. "No. Well, yes. I mean I was out of circulation for a long time. Not prison, exactly. I am not sure what. When I came to . . . Got out . . . brought out . . .The first thing I wanted was to see you again." Well, maybe a close second.

She looked at him suspiciously. "I don't understand a word you are saying. But I supposed I can’t get angry for you not writing."

"I couldn't send letters," which was truthful enough, and it was the best he could do. "I didn't have your address."

"No excuses!"

"No," he sounded glum. "You are right. I mean, I realize what I did was a mistake, but I felt loyal to Blake's people. I had made a promise." Had I? It seemed like one.

"You’re lucky you didn’t get yourself killed. You and your friends and your promises. What about your promise to me?! You know what you did to me? You caught me in a weak moment. That was assault, mister!"

Vila’s head was starting to spin. Was that emotional occurrence in private between them, now an assault? It seemed mutual enough at the time. Quite mutual. And how could he possibly have forced . . .

"Kerrill," he tried to sound stern. "We made . . . "

"I don’t know what you call it, but if I had known I was not going to die . . . I bet you are still thinking about . . . " and she started launch into another gale-force sob, but managed to stop herself. Vila looked at her, for the most part wanting to take her in his arms, but realizing he dare not do so. And a small part of him was wanting to slap her.

"Besides that, I'm glad you returned," she straightened, after sniffing for several minutes. "But I can’t go back. It’s over." She sighed so deeply it almost shook her. "I am a powerful woman and I have responsibilities and will honor them." She looked at him, almost pleading. But still threatening, he noted.

"I truly did come back for you," was all he could say.

So for the next few hours, they tried to talk; he doing his best to keep his story straight -- in truth, it made little sense even to him -- as to where he had been and what he had been doing. And she doing her best to justify and/or excuse everything she had done over the past ten years, and on occasion before. But in the end, around midnight, it did not seem that either of them had made much progress in developing empathy for the other's situation. To her, he came across and just another wastrel to be put to work, or death, or whatever. It appeared to him she had done some fairly appalling things. A lot in fact. But he still needed her, he told himself, and he had come all this distance and was willing to excuse any number of 'transgressions'. Yes, that seemed a polite way to put it. The question unresolved was what she was willing to forgive in him.

Exhausted at last, she summoned the guards, reaching over wearily to a thick rope hanging close to her and giving it a sharp tug. At once, he could hear the sounds of running. She bellowed for them to wait outside. The reunited lovers walked over to the door, stood there, the closest they had approached each other all evening. For a moment he thought of kissing her, hand, cheek, . . . tried to do so in fact, but she backed rapidly away, looking at him as if he had pin worms in his eyelashes. She studied him, wary. "Would you like a hug?" she asked.

He considered it. But then realized he was certain to be judged either too enthusiastic with the hug or too tame. Either misjudgment could have dangerous consequences. All he knew for certain was he would not get it right. Vila looked at his queen, weaponry and all, and shook his head slowly, then left for the waiting guards.

It was, Cally decided, as much as she could have hoped for, but she could not help but be alarmed at what had come over the man. Getting Tarrant to agree to retrieve Vila seemed a major achievement considering the hours of arguing that had gone into it. But the turbulence of the man's emotions were almost overwhelming to her. Something was seething underneath him and she did not know how to placate it, let alone control it. She did have empathic abilities, unfortunately average, and this was beyond her. At first it had seemed he would rather do anything except rescue Vila. Then Mr. Adamant, Mr. I-will-stand-in-the-doorway, suddenly relented. That was only the beginning. Sometimes he kept his distance, aloof, almost pouting, then just as quickly he would forge ahead, against her, against even Dayna, turning on them as if moving in for the kill. Now Mr. By-the-Book, then in-turn Mr. Show Me, then again Mr. Ideas & Imagination. What other irritations and impediments could he pitch their way? Even Dayna trying to distance herself from the conflict and be as objective as possible didn't know what to make of it. Indeed, it seemed to Cally, she was becoming increasingly removed herself. As if they didn't have enough problems.

So when at last he agreed to retrieve Vila from whatever mess he had gotten himself into this time -- they all agreed he was certain to have gotten himself into one -- Cally moved quickly. No victory celebration; such was well beyond her. Strung out -- she herself was having difficulty integrating emotions now that she was back in physical body and brain -- she could only feel overwhelmingly uneasy. The two had never gotten along, but pick any two of Blake’s crew and you probably could have said the same. Only Gan had gotten along with everyone and look what had happened to him. But this seemed worse.

She hurriedly packed. Tarrant would extract a price. That much was certain, no shrewdness required. What Cally wanted to know was there going to any cap, any limit to the costs he would impose? It was beginning to look like there wouldn't. He had told them more than once that a 'raid' (like, having spent some time in military school he was the supreme authority on tactics!) on Earth was a mistake. Couldn't be done. A guaranteed without-question disaster; one that some and probably all would pay a heavy price from, sure to go down in the history books as one of the biggest blunders ever conceived. And he wouldn't stop rubbing it in.

Sure, he was willing to go along with the majority vote in this instance -- how very generous! -- and implied it was unbelievably noble of him. But suppose they did rescue Vila? With he and Vila on one side opposed to rescuing Avon (how could it be otherwise?), against Dayna and herself on the other . . . well, the whole business promised to lead them right back to the loggerheads. And that, it occurred to her, may well have been the reason he had relented to retrieve Vila in the first place. Tarrant was many things, all aggravating, but stupid he was not. Cynical thoughts aside, however, his latest condition worried her. Once again she found herself in no position to dispute it, being led step by step to the inevitability of his conclusion.

She stormed down the hallway. She had to get Li out. The dream made it imperative. Step one was Vila. And appalling thoughts to Tarrant!

Li was her weakness. Tarrant knew it, would zero in on it at any moment, extract a very large price any time he wished. The many times their eyes had locked . . . badgered into a corner, all she could do was maintain her dignity. There were some things she could yield, but Li was not one of them! What did he want?

The decision on the raid he now insisted (after saying before there was no decision to be made!), was to be done using an objective process. Fine, but what exactly did he mean by "objective"? It wasn’t traditional risk analysis, which showed the odds so overwhelmingly against them as to not be worth considering. No, he had something else in mind, and the look of smugness made her want to punch him. She pounded on the door to Dayna's cabin like it was Tarrant's face. Let's go! I'm ready.

Just as they had entered orbit around Vila's world, he informed her of his intent. They would use the rules established by Edward the Good some eight centuries before -- the dreaded "direct attention thinking tools", the bane of every Auron school child, a procedural nightmare to be pitched aside as soon as the recess bell sounded and after graduation never to be used again.

It was not that Cally objected to the tools. They were in fact useful on occasion. It was just that whenever she had used them, and even Avon had used variants of them, they resulted in a significant restructuring of the plan, or at least a reinterpretation. That could not be allowed.

Cally sighed in exasperation, looking at Dayna. Both were grim and determined. They entered the teleport, now neither looking at the other. Was Dayna, her ally, abandoning her as well?

And that was something that came close to causing panic in Cally. She and Dayna had spent hours working out how this was going to be done, from the supplies ordered to the allies gathered. This time they would be going in for keeps; with massive, sudden, overwhelming force. The "raid" was intended to be a knockout blow, one that cause the Federation to implode like a paper bag being smashed against a wall. Rescuing the prisoners, their people, was the unalterable objective. But Tarrant -- she watched as he calmly worked the teleport controls, scarcely looking at them -- implied he was only interested in Avon. To bring a successful conclusion to the effort Blake had begun thirteen years before, on principle target Two need only be eliminated. He, not Servalan's supposed powers, was the secret of her success. He said nothing of the others.

Damn him! She would never abandon Li! Odds were not a concern. When had they ever mattered? Edward the Good and his annoying thinking tools would only serve to make them doubt.

And doubt would be fatal. She had tried to make him understand. Yet doubt was clearly all that Tarrant the Impediment intended. He was as unmovable and out of place as a boulder in a bathtub. He had, she realized, played this more astutely than she would have imagined. Even Dayna was becoming receptive to his ideas . . . and without Dayna all was lost.

The night before, for the first time, Cally was outvoted.

She was presenting her plan. Get allies: Lindor’s remaining defense forces, along with whatever partisan bands, pirates, cutthroats, criminals they could induce to throw themselves in with the remnant of Blake’s guerrilla band. That would be the strike force, stripped from every corner of the Federation.

Opposing them: the Combined Fleet, Servalan's mammoth force now numbering 10,000 ships. But its movements, as far as could be surmised, took most of those ships away from the Center at any given time. On any given day, the Supreme Command might be able to summon perhaps a tenth of that in the defense of the Earth. Still a huge force, given Earth's ground and orbital defenses, but the odds were at least thinkable. A strike at the Center, if timed perfectly, might be done quickly enough that the fleet could not be recalled to Earth's defense. The end of the Federation would be in sight.

Intelligence gathered from many sources indicated that Servalan had become increasing confident that the long rebellion against her was finished. These factors, Cally concluded, meant that Earth was vulnerable. They also made a rescue mission possible. Not only of the three prisoners, but of the five thousand children. She offered her hand to Dayna.

They would need a transport vehicle, one large enough to bring back several thousand people to Terminal. Then the Entity would give them the long promised "nanotechnology" and the impossible would be achieved: the Combined Fleet neutralized, the war over almost as soon as it had begun.

In the transport room, Dayna took her hand, the handshake firm but unenthusiastic. They checked each others equipment. Neither said a word.

Hijacking a liner was out of the question. A crime of that magnitude would be a red-flag alert to Earth. It was Dayna who suggested using a mine-layer. On the return run to Earth, these ships, big, ponderous, slow, were bereft of mines. They were lightly guarded, if guarded at all. Few vehicles in space are more worthless than a mine-layer without mines. Lacking mines, and because none of the rebel forces had any, Earth authorities would pay little attention to the seizing of a mine-layer.

Li was the key to the timing of, well, almost everything. If Li could obtain and relay the information when the Federation would be at prime vulnerability . . . if the link with her sister could be reconstructed and remain undetected, they might now exactly when to strike.

And Avon? Could the man be trusted? For if he betrayed . . .

Cally put it all aside. Despite everything, she still trusted the man. A man Tarrant was seriously considering shooting on sight. "Li loves him," she had said, as if that were somehow proof of the man's value, though everyone in the room knew what she really meant. She herself loved him, though if pressed she would not have been able to define what that meant or why anyone should possibly care.

"Avon will come through for us," she had told them, not entirely with conviction. "At the moment of maximum chaos," she concluded, "he will come through for all of us, just as he always has."

Tarrant wanted to roll his eyes, but he was working on his version of Military Cool and at times not doing a bad job of it. "Then as a necessary first step," he had reminded them, "as a very minor practice exercise if you will, it is agreed that you and Dayna alone will get Vila out. Working under the assumption, not altogether unwarranted, that by now he will want, very badly, to return to us."

Cally had wanted all three of them to go to the surface. Dayna and Tarrant had voted her down.

So as the ship headed rapidly back to where they had left Vila, Cally was ever more alone with her thoughts. Last night, she began brushing up on the thinking tools of the great Edward. The irony was, much to her embarrassment now, earlier she had tried to get Tarrant interested in them. As a way of loosening the man up. He had just brushed them aside. When he turned around so completely, she could not help but be alarmed.

Dayna went about organizing the weapons, clothing, supplies they would need. They were to be fully prepared when they went down as if they were attacking Earth itself. All part of the exercise Tarrant had insisted upon.

She did not know that Tarrant himself was trying to sort it out as to what he wanted, but in another sleepless night could not.

Now in orbit around Vila's World and bad night or not, he looked energetic and chipper when they showed up. He cordially wished them luck, inspected their apparel for the proper degree of subtlety and he sounded sincere in his irritatingly obvious advice ("be inconspicuous") and praise ("You look deadbeat and tired. Good."). He seemed to trust them, though Cally could not shake the feeling that he had something up his sleeve. As Tarrant was short-sleeved that day, she also couldn't help but be ashamed for the thought.

At the controls, he glanced up and listed the conditions for a successful mission. They did not want to hear it, but . . . if things did not quite go as planned, he would be here, in stationary orbit, ready to bring them up. A nice gesture, he seemed to imply. He was confident, in control, and Cally couldn't help but think that maybe she had been wrong about the man. He wasn't such a bad sort. No!

Tarrant nodded at them and activated the controls. They had returned to Vila's World.

Cally and Dayna, two gentle, harmless-looking women, in dress, shawl, and odd-shaped pieces of colored cloth said to be latest in peasant styles, trudged wearily at the end of the day up to single guard post of the main (southern) entrance to the fortress. At least that is what they presumed the structure looming before them was. The locals they had met along the way, somewhat nervous about where they were going, had referred to it using many unfamiliar terms, but always harsh sounding. This is not to say that the "Southies" as they sometimes referred to themselves, were hostile. Indeed they were overwhelmingly friendly, if somewhat remote. But some topics clearly pushed the needle on the discomfort meter.

Quiet, yet communicative and open in a way neither understood, these people managed to be able to sense what it was either Cally or Dayna wished to know, and quickly convey it. But there was an air about them that hinted of a need for psychological distance; a concern they could not address openly. Naturally, they had not accepted the two women's cover story, saw through it at once, but it did not seem they were demanding the truth. The Keezerites whom they had first met were only too happy to concoct a new cover story for the visitors. Now, standing before the gates of the compound, the two wondered if this sense of foreboding was what their hosts had been so reluctant to discuss. The place before them was brash and threatening, but open in its threats and Dayna found she liked that. Nothing seemed to entail unacceptable risks. It must be that something else was troubling the good people of this world.

Cally had similar reservations, but unlike Dayna, she felt at peace, confident. After their stay at the farm house, even thinking of Tarrant had ceased to trouble her. Parts of the dream, parts of the future it entails were starting to make sense.

Let's back up a moment and explain how this had all come about.

After teleporting down, the usual entrance upon the planetary stage, they found a narrow road, more of a path really that took them wayward and wandering past several small enclaves. If was late afternoon when they arrived. Along the path there were few trees, plenty of dust, but the orange light of the sun was not harsh and the humidity was tolerable. The temperature mild. They walked along, the two watching as people came out, looked at them in a friendly and inviting manner, gesturing for them to come over. Cally would smile, shake her head, and they were seemingly not disappointed, giving a wave as the two walked by.

After the third time this scene played out, Dayna decided she wanted to stop and chat. There is something about walking on a warm day on a planet you had never been to before, and where the inhabitants are decidedly odd in any event that, well, takes a lot out of you. By the time they reached the next farm, she practically insisted upon stopping. She pointed out that the sun would be setting in a couple of hours. Cally nodded slightly, but said nothing. It was getting on Dayna's nerves.

"It would be nice to eat and maybe have a place to sleep, or has the lure of open road," she kicked a pebble, "prove irresistible?"

Cally smiled.

"Would you stop that? You're starting to act one of them."

She relented. "All right. We'll stop here. I was just curious. Did you notice how after the first group saw us, the others were waiting for us?"

"Yes, but we expected that. They could have phoned ahead."

"No. You misunderstand. They looked as if they were as curious as ever. I mean, have you noticed it appears they knew we were coming but nothing else."

Dayna looked at her oddly, but did not reply. Cally indicated the two-story white farmhouse nestled in the shade of enormous trees, where several women (Dayna counted four) were standing, gesturing to them. The setting sun was burning across the green field behind them. It was all very tranquil, even the insects seemed lazy.

Dayna cautioned her. "And have you noticed there doesn't seem to be any guys around?"

Cally walked confidently to the farm house until they were right at the base of the porch. There four women silently watched them approach. "Well, there must be a few," she whispered. One of the women was clearly pregnant.

Dayna looked irritated. Cally said to them: "We are here seeking a friend," she began and the women listened politely with heads tilted slightly and with curious expressions. Finally they nodded and with gentle movements, like the swaying of branches in a breeze, waved them in. Dayna did not like the looks of this. So they can't read minds, but can they at least talk?

After a quiet dinner quickly served, too quiet in Dayna's estimation (the whole business was really getting on her nerves), the table was cleared and their hosts sat down to stare at them. What were these people? They certainly kept their distance, but the service had been polite; utensils, food, water, were always ready. When at the end of the meal, the two offered to help clean up, it was almost tearfully refused. Dayna nudged Cally and the two went outside for a brief stroll in the twilight. The temperature was cooling quickly and Dayna relaxed a little. She struggled to remain firmly undecided. Perhaps this was not such a bad place. Vila and the others had talked about mineral deposits, but it was clear the place had a livable charm, if you could stand the inhabitants. She brushed aside an insect that quickly flew off, She breathed in the smells of the place, so refreshing after being confined to the Liberator.

She didn't want to come across as overly suspicious but as Cally started to return to the house, Dayna stopped her, speaking softly. "I don't want to appear rude, but you don't mind if I excuse myself? These people may be nice and all, but they are, uh, rather strange."

Cally looked at her and shrugged. "I do sense they want to talk, however."

"Are you sure? I didn't notice any gabfest going on. Did we interrupt?"

Cally sighed. "You don't understand."

"No, I don't understand and would you or someone . . ."

Cally put a finger to her lips and telesent: //They were gesturing to us throughout the dinner. Very subtly, but it was real. And they were gesturing with increasing urgency. They want to talk. It's just that they don't know how.//

Dayna looked at her totally confused.

//They seem to think we are very primitive. They are very solicitous, as with small children.//

Dayna shook her head not knowing what to say or feel. Should she be offended? She considered it. Okay, she was willing to admit it, maybe she could be looking at this all wrong.

Dayna whispered: "Let's assume you are right. If they don't telesend, how are they going to talk with us? Do we pass notes?"

//Just go upstairs. Act like nothing could be more natural than these people.// She pointed up to an open window. //I think you will find everything you need.//

Dayna sighed as they stepped back inside the house. The table cloth had been replaced with a candle and four stones laid out in a square, the candle in the center. The benches around the table were gone, and the chairs that replaced them were thickly upholstered. The smell of food was gone: the smell of flowers, wood smells, had replaced it.

The three hosts were waiting. The pregnant one was gone.

//See what I mean?// Cally took a seat.

"Enjoy the seance," Dayna whispered, excused herself with a forced smile and went upstairs. Energized by simply being away from those people, she bounded up the stairs where she found the pregnant one running a hot bath for her, steam curling out of the bathroom. Said individual turned and smiled but remained intent on her task. Eventually she began turning off the water, the faucets squeaking as they turned.

"Don't mind me. By the way, what's your name?" Dayna asked, not knowing what else to say.

She giggled and quickly got up to leave, just as Dayna rose from the bed. She brushed against Dayna as she went by. The woman stopped and looked back, Dayna catching the look of dismay on her face. Dayna had been sitting on the bed, leaning over, watching the bath as if it were the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her. She was thinking of bath . . . the woman brushed by, and Dayna fell back with a cry onto the bed and was instantly in the deepest sleep.

In the kitchen all four sat around the table while Cally took out a picture of Vila. It was then passed around. At first she tried, just to make sure, telesending the name. She got nowhere. But as the picture was passed around, she noticed that each of the women was progressively saddened by it. This was alarming enough. For the moment she thought of Li. When the picture was returned, she asked, out loud, for directions to the main settlement. No response. She pulled out a map that had been constructed from a photo reconnaissance run by the Liberator. She pointed along what appeared to a main road, presumably emerging from path they been taking. Simultaneously now, all three began shaking their heads gravely.

Cally was getting desperate. They had to get to the main settlement as quickly as possible. But her hosts were drawing back as she grew more agitated. To her anguish, in the presence of people whose mental powers equaled her own, she did not know what to do.

The center one, the older one she judged, stood and came over to her. She offered Cally her hand, and as she did the two other women moved quickly behind Cally. She gestured again, more insistent. Cally slowly put out her hand. There was a cry upstairs and she stood up abruptly. Then the two behind her grabbed Cally's arms and she collapsed while they gently guided her to the floor.

In the morning, when the two were on their way north, Cally tried to describe what had happened.

"They did remember us, quite well, but they did not want to let us know until they understood what we were after. They wanted to 'read' us, if you will, with our emotions open."

"Were you finally able to telesend?"

Cally shook her head. "It doesn't work with these people. Their minds just block it out. I don't think they do so intentionally -- that would have been terrible manners. No, it just doesn't connect with them. They have a different means of telepathic communication. They communicate using emotional channels, bursts coming from the subconscious mind. Language is the last stage, not the first, for these people. When they are desperate, they go directly to using sleep, what we would call dreams I suppose. But I am not sure what to call it. To be fair, they were as frustrated as I was. They wanted me to show them something from deep inside, tell a story that made me sad, or happy, anything to provide a core image that would serve as a link. That is how information flows among them. That is what they were signaling about Vila."

Well that was all nice, thought Dayna feeling drained, but . . . "The bath was cold when I got up. That girl who brushed by me sapped the energy right out of me. I mean I was out. Which is to say, I don't understand a word you are saying."

"I am not sure I do either, but I think I can say truthfully that they have to find an emotional path. However it is achieved is not important. Then they can flow into you. When it happens, it is all very sudden. The girl who brushed against you obviously knew she was going to know you out. It might have been an accident."

"I doubt it. What emotion were they keying on?"

"Anxiety, frustration, who knows? Anyway, one moment I was trying to tell them I was seeking information about Vila, and that got me thinking about Li, and then I felt terrible, and the next thing that happened after I heard you cry out was I awoke from a very sound sleep, the best I have had since returning . . . And I knew everything they could tell me. They paid no further attention to me. They just went about their morning chores."

Dayna looked down the road, the hills gentle and low. It looked a very long way to go, even though she judged from the map they should have no trouble getting to the settlement by evening. "Can you tell me now what we will be facing?"

Cally nodded. What had happened after the colony first tried to establish itself was that most of the old leadership had died, rather quickly and mysteriously. Kerrill, who was not queen yet, was a prime suspect, but she moved much too quickly for anyone to stop her. She gathered around her a number of followers, malcontents who had chafed under the old order and quickly became a force to be reckoned with. Before anyone had quite grasped what had happened, she had effectively split the colony in two. The majority of the colony wanted no part of any power struggle or Kerrill so moved south, fanning out over the long, gentle and wooded valleys that were the remains of a once great drainage area. Most of the people who left were women; most who stayed with Kerrill were men. This created problems, but Cally was getting ahead of herself. To the south, the soil was good, the transportation adequate -- there was a large four-legged beast, a behemoth they called a "yargdwo", immensely strong, slow as a turtle in molasses, that enabled them to develop an agricultural economy, fairly similar to what they were used to. They needed little else and soon that part of the colony was doing well.

But on Kerrill's side of the divide there were problems. Queen Kerrill, she took the title without hesitation, would send raiding parties south in search of men who had deserted her as well as to bring women north. But "parties" is what in fact they frequently became and in any event the women of the south were able to monitor these actions and hide without difficulty. Overall, the colony continued its southward migration. As Kerrill built up her "city", it was becoming increasingly isolated, its population undisciplined and hostile, and the Queen ever more paranoid.

So as the two walked along one of the roads, smiling as they passed the carts hurtling along under yargdwo power, and declining several invitations to hop in (it was much quicker to walk), they began to concoct their improved cover story on the basis of what they now knew. Normally two women traveling alone would not be heading for the city. But times were changing. Some women were in fact going north seeking husbands. Meanwhile, Queen Kerrill had instituted fairs that were designed around a family theme -- food, recreations, games, and other activities labeled "entertainment".

So it was in family seeking guise they would enter the city. The two took turns adopting a suitably humble and solicitous manner. Tarrant and Vila would both owe them one at the end of this.

After a while Dayna asked. "You said 'entertainment' in an odd way. Is there something 'brides to be' should avert their eyes from?"

Cally hesitated, looking unhappy. "By family entertainment, the townsfolk appear to mean 'humane executions'. By the way, this does appear to be a new policy."

Dayna considered that. "Now I am starting to get worried. I suppose I shouldn't ask what 'non-family entertainment' is?"

"No," Cally shook her head.

"One more thing. You said that when you passed around Vila's picture, they looked sad. Was it because . . .?"

"That they remembered him? No. There is something I don't understand, at least not yet. But it may be tied to the dream I had earlier. Something would happen to him, but they could not explain."

"Or would not. And us?"

"They just strongly implied we were all in great danger."

Dayna snorted. "Well, that was helpful! As if we couldn't figure that one out by ourselves. What I want to know is if they can knock us out with that trick, why not take a bunch of them with us and finish Kerrill?"

Cally smiled. "Sorry. The men are immune. There is no way her bodyguard would let the women anywhere near Kerrill. They like her."

"It's never easy, is it? Well, can the men do that trick. If so . . . ?"

"Don't worry. They can't project the emotional bursts. And they are immune to them."

Dayna was disgusted. "Figures."

They worked their way along the main road, the well-kept farms diminishing in number, but still where farmers and their very shy families would offer them eggs and water. Wagon traffic became more congested, however. As they neared the fortress, the roads were filled with rowdies, who hooted and hollered, but who did not seem unfriendly. They trudged forward.

It was only upon reaching the outpost that the people, especially the guards, seemed increasingly on edge. Eyes darted and grim mouths asked probing questions of everyone queuing up to enter the compound. It seemed all good citizens of Kerrill's world should be on the lookout for something or someone, but no one knew exactly what. Certainly two poor peasant women on foot seeking husbands hardly fit the bill of the latest invasion danger, so they saw no reason to depart from their cover. As they waited, a few tried to whisper to them and warn them away. The city could be dangerous. One needed to mind one's tongue. Both women nodded and said nothing.

They were confident, these two. How they were going to rub it into Tarrant when they got back! Only the increasing interest shown by their fellow travelers was a source of anxiety. ("You say it is called Kerrill City? We came from so far away. What a nice name? We have never seen anything like it.") Fortunately, no one recalled them, or seemed to even remember the events of ten years before. Given the traumas these people had endured, it was to a past dim and murky that Blake's people belonged. The present alone saw them for what they claimed to be.

The level of good cheer continued its rapid decline as they moved closer to the guard station. As they approached, Dayna remained confident, except for a brief anxiety attack. What if everything had turned out well for Vila? If Kerrill was his long lost true love . . . It seemed unlikely, yet it was not entirely outside of the realm of possibility they might be getting along rather well. On the other hand, supposed he had been caught for some for some petty act? There were still too many possibilities . . . She calmed herself. Why did she have to care so much, especially for Vila?

It was twilight now; the sun behind them, the air musty, the voices around them low and persistent. They maintained the proper attitude heads down and shuffled forward. The guard scowled at them.

"Forgive us, kind sir," said Cally. "We are two traveling virgins," Dayna snapped her heel against Cally’s ankle, "Ouch . . . Whose feet are hurting from the long journey."

"State your business!" His voice was harsh; he scowled at them. He had not seen them before, but then again, he had not seen many of the yokels who had come by lately all for the show. Still, he remained wary. Didn't trust them, any of them.

Dayna took over. "We came here for Queen Kerrill’s blessing, as we are seeking husbands to honor us." She tried a curtsy.

That seemed to put the man somewhat at ease. He stepped from the booth to take a look. They kept their cowls on. Intrigued, he walked around them, nudging the cowls for a closer look. The other travelers gave hoots of impatience. He finally said, doing his best to look jovial, "Well, if I do say so myself, you two should have little trouble. Could use one myself, you know." He stepped back and gave the bell three rings, smiling, and directed them to a group that was waiting to be let in. "Or two."

"Thanks. We’ll keep it in mind," replied Dayna.

The crowd before the gate was being formed into batches. After they were cleared one more time, the gate was opened and permitted to go in. "Mind you," the guard shouted after them, "ladies like you should not be wandering out alone. Good time that you came, though. There is going to be a 'hanging' tomorrow! Very special. Should bring you luck." And as an afterthought, "May Queen Kerrill take care of you and grant you a blessing."

Both women waved back as they hurriedly entered the gate. Cally telesent: //That was sweet// Dayna made gagging sounds.

Finally, once inside, they threw back their hoods. The overwhelming sensory impression inside the fortress was of smell, a terrible suffocating smell, like . . . Cally stopped herself. No one else seemed to mind. She pointed out to Dayna something resembling a large building or tower towards the center rear of the court yard and as their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Dayna then pointed out what looked like a gallows close by. It was surrounded by workmen, still busy in the evening.

They watched for a few minutes, as families flowed past and children scurried underfoot. People of dubious nature were starting to advertise their wares. Cooking fires were being started.

"I wonder if there is a place we can stay?" Dayna asked. "I doubt if the Hotel Kerrill," she cast a glance at the tower, "accepts people without reservations."

"Actually, I think they will," said Cally, nodding to the gallows.

"And what was that ‘virgin’ nonsense? That was not part of the script!"

"Sorry. I got carried away. I thought it sounded more plausible than just that we were a couple of broads looking to get married. I wanted sympathy. And my ankle still hurts."

They walked for a ways along the wall, working their way slowly towards a better view of the gallows. ("Curious?" "Yes.") It was then Dayna noticed the poster nailed to the wall. In the faint light. they stopped to read it, Dayna leaning forward.

"Well, this place is full of wonders. They even have paper," Cally sighed, joining her, not quite making it out as the lettering was crude.

"That’s not what I mean! Look at this!"

Cally read it, stunned. "You don’t suppose. . . "

"I certainly do suppose! Given the generous spelling and syntax, ‘Vilun Weesel" can be none other. They're going to hang Vila tomorrow!"

"Keep it down . . . Ohmygod! What if this is an old poster!"

"I don't think so. Look, this is the reason for the crowd. Remember? Tomorrow is the beginning of 'family week'."

Cally continued to stare at the poster. "What a way to start things off. There are women and children here . . . Do you get the impression Kerrill dispatches her enemies any way she sees fit? Why the 'genteel' exception in this case?"

"She must still have fond memories of Vila," said Dayna, trying to sound touched.

"That's our Kerrill. Always the softy."

Poor Vila, thought Cally. It was always risky to return to an old lover, but this seemed excessive punishment even given his luck.

"We need to find out more."

Dayna went over to what looked like a person in authority near the gallows. She was genuinely tired now, especially of the weak and helpless routine. "You," Dayna demanded, "we're travelers. Have come a l-o-n-g way. Is there a place we can stay?"

The man gestured towards the courtyard, shrugged and said nothing.

"Thanks," Dayna said. "We get the picture. By the way, will the hanging really be tomorrow? We would be so upset if we had missed it."

The man nodded and grinned. "You are the travelers looking for husbands?"

Dayna and Cally looked at each other. "Yeah," said Dayna. "We didn't want people to know, but actually we are here for the hanging first."

"A hanging over a wedding any day, I say," chimed in Cally.

"We were just worried we had missed it," said Dayna mournfully.

"Tomorrow," the man said reassuringly, "Glad you like that sort of thing. A hanging is rare around here. Usually Queen Kerrill . . . "

"Yes, we know."

"But, a hanging it is! Tomorrow. I could," he said walking over, bowing slightly, "show you a fine time. I have some friends. Women like that. A lot of them are looking for wives too."

Both women looked at each other, trying not to appear distressed. They were getting in too deep much too fast. "Uh, maybe tomorrow. Yes," said Dayna "After the hanging." She glanced at Cally.

"Sure. We can look you up!"

"It's been a long journey. We really need rest," Dayna went on, backing away.

"Awfully tiring. All that walking and . . ."

"And far too much excitement to look forward too," Dayna agreed. "Makes me . . . us . . . really nervous. No fun then."

The man studied them but seemed to accept their story. "A pity. But I will take you up on that offer for tomorrow." He winked and went back to his work.

Cally, who kept an eye on the man was they retreated, was trying not to show relief, but then decided there was no need. Inwardly, she was fuming. This was cutting it too close. No chance at all to spring Vila quietly from wherever he was kept. And what had he done to warrant this? Could it have been that bad?

Dayna nudge her. It was clearly they were being noticed. They walked quickly away, trying to blend in with the crowd. //We need to keep low. Too many people are watching us.//

Together the two mingled with the crowd, thought of getting something to eat, then thought better of it, and finally found a corner which they judged would serve as good defensive position. They would be taking turns, each four hours on, then four hours asleep.

There were other women who were watching them as well, but they kept their distance and as night fell, went away.

Cally sat down while Dayna leaned against the wall. Their latest friend was no longer watching them, but too many others had. Too late to scout a more comfortable place. This appeared to be the best they could do. Eventually Dayna sat by her and they found themselves looking up into the night sky, trying to locate the stationary point that would be the Liberator. They couldn't find it.

"I’m going to get Tarrant for this," said Cally. "Wipe that smug look right off his face." But she couldn't continue. Dayna did not want to hear it, and in truth, Cally was worried about Vila. They needed to work on the rescue plan.

In the dark, Cally tried to telesend, but Dayna with a quick hand motion cut her off. There was no one near; Cally looked confused. "There is something I want to talk with you about," she whispered.

"Fine. But can't it wait?"

"No. Please. Do you mind if I telesend? Just listen and respond as normal," she said, hating the feeling of the moist ground underneath her. She could not get comfortable no matter how she shifted.

//We need to figure out how can get Vila out of here with a minimum of fuss. Plan A is gone.//

Dayna looked out on the milling crowd, wondering if these people ever went to sleep. They only seemed to get louder the more the night dragged on. "These people give me creeps," she hissed. "I mean the one's here. Did you see the way they keep looking at us?"

//Probably 'Family Week' is new for everyone. A lot of them are crude but I think it's mostly Kerrill's fault -- whatever it is she has done to them. You saw the women in the farm house. The people, several of them, who offered us a ride along the way. They are nice for the most part; pick any one of them at random and I bet they wouldn't hurt anyone. How were they to know what was going to hit them? Their previous leadership hadn't planned on Kerrill taking over.//

Dayna sighed, feeling more generous. "I suppose. And probably they don't see too many women travelers without male companions."

//You're thinking it would have been better if Tarrant had been along?// Cally chided her.

"Well, after the vote, you said you thought it maybe it was better we did this alone," grumbled Dayna. Now she was the sullen companion, and beginning to feel guilty. "Look, I'm sorry. Would you stop it? People are going to think I'm some crazy person talking to myself."

//Better for both of us,// and they started to laugh.

Dayna thought about it some more. "I agree we have to figure out how we are going to do this. And do as little damage as possible. Fine. These people may be more scared than anything else. Now what?"

"Your faith in humanity always encourages me," Cally replied. "We'll do it clean and swift -- but I do look forward to spoiling their 'entertainment'."

The two leaned against each other on the ground, discussing in whispers what they could to do. Eventually they came up with a plan that sounded workable. Now they had to get some sleep. The ground was as damp as ever. The night was clear, but cold, and the planet's tiny moon raced overhead was a reminder that time was fleeting. At least the noise was finally starting to die down.

Just as she was about to doze off, Cally heard Dayna whisper.

"Cally?"

"Yes?" she replied sleepy.

"Are you glad to be back? I know this must sound odd."

She knew this line of questioning would have to be addressed eventually. "Yes. I am. I had to act. I liked where I was but this is a fight I could not stay away from."

"Did 'any one' try to stop you?"

"No," she replied evenly. She was always uncomfortable when any question came close to the Entity. "It was my decision. I will live with it."

"Of course. Not meaning to pry, how to put this . . . did Avon have anything to do with it?"

"You are prying and Avon always has something to do with any decision we make." True enough. Now drop it.

But Dayna plunged ahead. "You still love him?"

"Yes. With all my being," she replied grimly. But why do people think I have nothing better to do with my life?

"That would worry me."

"It would worry any normal person!" she admitted. "But I am more concerned about my sister." Very well, out with it. "She is now half me. Presumably you know that. Which means she has my love for him in addition to her own love. I mean, she really is in love with the man. As much as any woman has ever loved." And she has no idea why or the implications . . .

Dayna spoke hesitantly. "I doubt you can save her then."

"Look, is there something else we can talk about?" I just want her to understand. Things were done to her; she doesn't know what. If only we could talk. I, her trusted sister, feel more guilt than any . . .

"Sorry. Well, you know Tarrant is suspicious of you. I mean he is always inquiring about you. I think he wishes you had stayed away."

Cally was getting angry. She knew as much of course but did not want to hear it "I'm flattered. I am so glad he trusts you."

"Sorry. I just think you two need to talk. I am not going to be a go-between."

"We'll talk. As soon as we get back. Now get some sleep."

Dayna snored lightly as Cally, thought into the night. Thanks to Dayna's questions, she was too agitated now to sleep herself. When dawn finally came, Cally watched the spears of light coming over the walls, and was already dreading this day. She nudged Dayna awake. Dayna tiredly acknowledged it was indeed morning. Then she was alert. "You let me sleep," was all she could say.

Cally looked off into the distance, as the people began to stir in the cold, many with frosted breaths. "I kept wondering if we can pull this off."

Dayna nodded. She turned to Cally expecting a deep frown, but her companion was smiling. "I have it cover. And now it is my turn to sleep. Let me know when they bring our 'love hostage' out. We are going to collect a debt from our friend after we spirit him away."

Dayna nodded, looking apprehensive.

"By the way," Cally inquired, "what did you get out of our experience back there?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure. I mean just what I have already had. The need to take care of you people. Which reminds me. I am sorry I was so preoccupied. I did not give you the proper attention when you were discussing your dream. If you still want to, we can discuss it any time."

Cally looked grateful, but sounded worried. "Not now. Parts of it are starting to become clear, but I need to think more about it. Maybe we can talk about it later when I get it all sorted out."

"Is it that significant? You know you can tell me. I am always interested in knowing what is going on," she sounded glum.

"I think it is. For Li, certainly; maybe for us all. But who knows? Later. Telepathic dreams can mean anything." She stopped. "See, it is a beautiful dawn," said Cally.

Dayna yawned, stretched, unimpressed. "Yet another one," was all she could reply.

Vila Restal, prisoner, condemned man, object of destiny, awaited his fate. His life plan? Brief: execution and the unknown beyond. He was at least gratified that she had demolished that wretched cage, and continued to confine him in one of the more comfortable rooms of the tower. It was an honor, she told him and after a fashion, he was beginning to agree. Not quite a token of unbounded affection, but at least a gesture of grudging respect. She even assured him there would be ceremony and protocol accompanying his "departure". From her point of view, he was being treated well. So he waited. There appeared to be no appealing his fate, whatever it might be. She told him the decision would come in exactly two weeks. But that time had passed.

Only a few days before the deadline he had received a note delivered by the guard. It read: "I never want to see you again. K." But he suspected she did not really mean it. It would have meant the end of their relationship. It would have meant his end as well.

She had said in their last meeting -- how had it gone? -- that "for order to be maintained", for life to carry on in the manner that she and her subjects had become accustomed, sometimes painful sacrifices were necessary. Very painful. Sadly, in her heart she realized his presence was no longer "appropriate". His return was a cruel, heartless act, perhaps the worst that had ever been done her, and it depressed her grievously. Now she must do what her position required. It was not easy being a Queen with absolute power over the lives of everyone and it was obvious that by being humane she was taking improper risks. She would make her just decision, she announced. She would not keep him waiting in torment.

The messages had become the worst part of captivity. She was forever weeping in the letters, when she wasn't raging at him, tearing him to shreds as the biggest liar who had ever lived. He would look up from the letter and in his mind see her face, staring at him with tearful red eyes. If only he had not abandoned her, failed her as so many had, none of this would have happened. Now she had lost all the kindness and decency that was within her and could never get them back.

Guess who's fault it all was?

After two weeks, Vila was starting to get a impatient with the all too real letters and the fantasy visits. It was he after all who was going to be hanged (the carpentry progressing slowly outdoors was clear enough in that regard). It was he who struggled to keep his emotions under wraps, while she waved hers in the breeze. She had taken everything from him. All he could hope for now was, if not a return to their original, brief, and intense relationship, then one in which they would at least talk with one another as considerate human beings and by so doing perhaps persuade her to grant him a pardon.

He was also getting angry. Why the helpless posture when she had absolute power over his life remained a question he could not begin to answer? He was beginning to think that maybe he should have taken up psychology, which would have been more use with Avon in any event, not that depressing philosophy.

At night he would look out the cell window, past the walls of the fortress, to the stars and little moon and wonder why things kept happening like this and would there ever be a change. He vowed if he did somehow manage to get out of this mess, he would truly change. Whatever it was he was doing wrong all his life, he would stop, (if he knew what it was), and at last become the man he had always wanted to be.

But then another morning came and as another breakfast was served, his anger would disappear, shoveled under the dread of execution. Could he escape and flee? Probably, but to where? To whom? The plan got fuzzy fast. He had overheard conversation in the courtyard referring to farming communities to the south, but clumsy and inept as her minions were, there were enough of them to make it unlikely he would get far. His survival skills were urban, not back country. He had no idea what plants here might be edible, what animals might be dangerous, what the lay of the land beyond the fortress was like, where there was water . . .

All he could do was hope something would turn up. The draft animals did look promising. They were big with enormous muscles. They should be capable of good speed once freed of their burdens . . .

There was time to think, all the time he would ever want. That was the worst part. In the past, things had always turned up, hadn't they? Sometimes they had taken their sweet time, but he had survived so far, hadn't he? He was destiny's child, and the phrase made him smile. He thought about the two years he had spent with Blake, the uneasy friendship (if such it could be called) with Avon, and about the odd turns things kept taking. It had to add up to something.

What had he been trying to accomplish all these years? Avon had plenty to prove, but him? He had despised the Federation, but like most of its citizens, more skilled than most actually, had found ways to circumvent its onerous aspects. His life had not been so bad. He had managed to avoid the horrors of marriage, regular employment, and the high costs of acquiring objects on credit. It was not his fault or concern that some of his fellow citizens couldn't keep their opinions to themselves or had been born with the wrong set of genes. So why had he chosen to follow two of the most dangerously flawed men in the galaxy for the most nebulous and dangerous of goals, freedom?

What did it say about him? Well, it said nothing that made sense, psychologically or philosophically. At least to the extent he understood them.

Night after night, instead of planning his escape, he thought about the problem. His problem: him. Kerrill's opinions of him were forthright and chilling. They hurt. Laying awake to nearly morning one long night, he told himself that if he ever got out of this, he would dedicate his life to being a better person. There had to be a point to his life, a destiny, and somewhere with Blake’s Seven, or whatever the number had been, lurked a shining clue.

During the day, he would watch the preparations outside. The crude, but functional carpentry that quickly felled the tree that had given him comfort. He listened as the guards discussed the festive week nearly upon them. On the first day of the third week, the dawn rays of sunlight played over his face as he looked out over the courtyard. His was a face filled with contentment and dread, anticipation and anxiety. He would not give up. He would ready for anything.

The guard came as usual, but this time instead of the announcement of breakfast, he heard, "Rise prisoner! You have been summoned by Queen Kerrill the Just." Vila shuddered. Her full title.

Vila turned slowly, looking at the bed for the last time. "Glad she retains the title. I would hate to be confused."

The guard flung open the door. "Save your wit! Queen Kerrill may have use for it, though it would appear doubtful," he pointed outside.

Vila was bound and led upstairs once more to the ante chamber, then after the suitable exchange of pleasantries was presented to his queen. Well, presented to the black curtain that separated him from his Queen.

"Vila Restal," her voice cold and hard, hammered at him from behind the curtain. "You have been summoned here to receive final judgment, a moment that must come in the life of every man. A life worthless, a life such as yours -- even such as yours -- must be weighed in the balance before final sentence is passed." This did not sound good. "Even a life of criminality, of crimes against women, must be dealt with fairly and honorably. I have struggled with this decision, more than most, but I cannot escape responsibility. Truly I have vacillated but in the end, Vila Restal, alias Villain Weasel, and no doubt other names on many worlds, I have found you guilty of felonious knavery, abandonment in the first degree, and criminal trifling with affections. You have been cleared on all other charges."

"Any particular order?" he asked blankly.

"Silence! Do not interrupt! The method of execution I have chosen is humane, dignified, and reasonably quick as such things go. It also has a long tradition which you should appreciate. Since your crimes lack originality, so shall your punishment." She growled: "Other methods can be chosen if you continue to vex me."

Vila shut up.

She continued, her voice rising. "You will be taken to the place of justice, there to await the carrying out of your sentence at precisely the moment the sun in its angry splendor casts its fiery lances directly down upon you, smiting your shadow . . ." The guards looked at each other. "Noon!" she bellowed, but then her voice softened. "I love you Vila, unconditionally, and that I believe was my failing, and probably the failing of the many women in your life. I, and they, were too merciful, too forgiving, too generous, and now we must all suffer." He heard her sniffling. Then she blew her nose with a honk.

Vila was too weary and disgusted to protest. The guards checked his bound arms, placed rough bindings on his ankles and a blindfold over his eyes. He was already thinking of his next move: with the right tool the bindings should present no problem. At gag was placed firmly over his mouth.

"Any final requests?" Queen Kerrill asked.

Vila moaned and nodded vigorously and the gag was reluctantly removed. He at least had a ready answer to that question. "Only that I be allowed to attend to private functions first."

"Of course," she said imperiously. "Your Queen is generous. All my people will attest to that." The guards nodded vigorously. "Guards, lead him to the main place of relievement. Leave him for a time by himself. Good bye, you whose name I must forget as if it had never been."

The gag was replaced. He was marched down the stairs and led to the courtyard, past a large, makeshift and if history guided him correctly, mostly accurate gallows. He observed with an odd feeling of pride that his execution had apparently attracted quite a crowd. Was his notoriety that great? There were people lined up against the walls and crowding around the base of the gallows where a ring of guards struggled and shouted to keep everyone at a distance. There were, he was appalled to note, a fair number of women and children.

All in all, a mass protest against his fate seemed unlikely. In fact, while they were silent at first as he was led past to the "place of relievement," there arose howls and ragged jeers that increasingly formed a chorus. For the first time, he truly began to be afraid.

But inside the place of privacy as the guard removed the blindfold and then the bindings on his wrists, he got to work. He quickly studied the bindings on his ankles. They were makeshift shackles of crude metal that would be easy to get out of. Once his hands were free . . . and those bindings were even cruder. They could all be circumvented easily by a man with his skills. Looking around at his feet, he found a rusted nail. It would do the job. He stuffed it in a back pocket. All he had to do was break free, grab a weapon, and/or a hostage, and he should be able to get out. Make that ride out. He glanced outside through a crack in the wall and saw a few carts with the huge animals that resembled horses. They had to be a lot faster than walking.

After several minutes, he exited the stall and was tied and blindfolded again. He resumed the march with his guards, his steps short and unsure. First around the gallows so all could see, then up the stairway to the scaffolding. After a few more steps he was stopped and rough hands positioned him. He felt a noose being draped around his neck, the tightened. The sun was beating down directly on him, so it must be near noon. He waited patiently while the executioners tried to figure out if when was in fact the proper time.

As it neared noon, local time, and with it the collective exhalation and exaltation of the awakening masses, Dayna awakened Cally and they began the careful process of moving ever closer and unobtrusively to the place of execution. She had watched the finishing touches of the construction that morning. She had watched the tests. Now as they stood their patiently, a few rows back with both excitement and relief they observed a blindfolded Vila being paraded in front of them and then disappear into the Place of Relievement.

They were ready. Indeed, their only concern now was Tarrant. They did so much want him to be impressed.

//What do you think? Make our move?// Cally telesent. The crowd was getting restless and noisy as Vila returned into view.

"I think so," she looked around.

//One more time: a distraction, a disturbance, then all three of us out of the fortress. Once clear, summon our leader upstairs.//

"Is he watching us up there I wonder?"

//He had better be! I bet he is thinking and loving every second of it!//

"May the prayers of maidens everywhere be answered. Let's move."

But getting closer proved difficult. There were plenty of guards and they were getting increasingly edgy, sometimes holding their spears upright, but occasionally thrusting them forward. The crowd had discovered the remarkable versatility of produce as projectiles, and while it was clear the target was Vila, the aim overall was not the best. The guards were getting annoyed.

It was when they reach the front of the crowd, that Dayna noticed their friend of the evening before. They had seen him in the morning, but he kept coming and going, looking very busy as he was shouting orders. Probably a foreman.

"Look," she shouted, waving.

//Our 'friend'. Indeed?//

The two moved excitedly forward while the chap grinned and ordered a path cleared, directed them to the of the stairs. All the while the pelting and booing continued with everyone on the gallows pretending not to notice. Vila was facing the opposite direction from them as they came up the stairs.

//Watch this,//. "Can I touch him?" she asked the foreman.

The man looked surprised, then a little worried, but finally laughed. "Sure. Grab him wherever!"

She went over to Vila, tapped him on the shoulder. //Boo! We're here to get you out, don't ask why. Looks like the reunion did not go well. Do us all a favor from now on -- stay away from old girlfriends. Now, see if you can manage the fine art of cringing.//

He was delighted; could barely contain himself in fact. So cringe he did. The crowd hooted and she turned to them. "You see," she shouted (Dayna moved behind two of the guards), "Villun Weasel is afraid of a mere girl! I say dispatch the coward! What do you say?"

The crowd roared, yelled, squealed, grunted. This was even more than they had hoped for. A true show. She winked at the hangman and jostled Vila again. His gag slipped.

"Cally!" he gasped.

//Alive and well and say my name again and I will kick you in the shins! Keep it down. Dayna is here too. Both of us to rescue your sorry butt I am sad to say. Just follow our cues. Can you get out of your shackles?//

He nodded vigorously.

Cally turned to the crowd but before she could say anything, Dayna had something to say herself. She tapped on the shoulders of the two guards, then she turned to the crowd. "Oh, please gracious people, I regret I must differ with my friend and beg you to spare this man! She and I came looking for husbands and I fear he is the best we have found."

Vila gulped. He hadn't expected this.

//Dayna! Good . . . don't ham it up too much!//

The foreman came over, looking suspiciously at them for the first time, but was unclear as what to do. Cally moved closer to Vila. There were three now surrounding Dayna. The hangman, glancing over to the tower, held tight to Vila’s rope.

"I changed my mind. I want him too!" Cally shouted. She threw her arms around Vila, holding him with all her strength. The hangman looked at her, near panic. He moved closer, tightening his grip on the rope.

It was at that point that one of the guards standing by Dayna had had enough. "Can’t do that! Queen Kerrill’s orders! You two must leave!"

"Cally. I never knew!"

Just as she was about to give the signal to Dayna a voice roared from above. "FOOLS! STOP THEM! THEY ARE HIS FRIENDS!"

Cally glanced up, then over at Dayna. //Now!//

In a second Dayna had dispatched the three roughnecks over the railing, drew out her gun and shot through the rope, severing it light it had been hit by lightening. But just as she shot, the hangman had grabbed Vila as well and was now trying to separate Cally from him. For his efforts, Cally gave him a quick blow behind the knees. He fell backward . . . and the trap door flew open, pitching the two in.

Dayna rushed over and looked down in shock where Cally and Vila had just landed. The two had fallen into a cart attached to one of the local draft animals. She looked around wildly. Two more guards rushed at her. She flipped them over just as fast. Then there were several more pouring up the stairs. Queen Kerrill screamed at the crowd: Get them! And uncertain at first, they were starting to obey. Dayna saw her two compatriots were out of the way; she jumped down as people everywhere began surging up the stairs. The three of them struggled to secure the trapdoor. To the deafening sounds of dozens of angry feet stomping above them, they at last got the latch in place.

Vila, pleased as he could be, looked like he had a great idea. He removed his shackles and grabbed a stick, leaped on the animal and shouted "Go!". The two women looked at each other. The animal barely seemed to pay him any mind.

Dayna glanced up: the trap door was secured for the moment. Cally groaned as he continued to slap its rear. "Vila," she shouted. The noise upstairs was deafening and people were now pounding on the walls. "Its top speed is two kilometers per hour!"

Vila stopped. "Sorry. What are we going to do?!"

Suddenly, the beast lurched forward, one massive leg at a time, pushing against the door, shaking the whole of the structure. Dayna quickly disengaged the cart as both women leaped on the animal. The howls and curses above and around them were merging into one enraged crescendo. All three held each other: this was bad. The gallows were rocking now. The beast hit the door again as the wood began to break in loud, sharp cracks. That was worse.

Vila, holding one, looked behind in terror. Through the boards, they could see the enraged faces. Cally kicked its side and it began to lumber forward, slowly, straining against the wood. The ceiling lurched down.

Out of options! She activated her teleport bracelet as she gave one on Vila. "Still know what to do with this?"

"Sure!"

"Teleport now!" The three grabbed on to each other as the structure collapsed around them.

And the next thing they knew they were back on the Liberator, huddled one after another, their ride gone. They fell back forward and landed together in a heap. Tarrant watched, appalled. He began shaking his head.

"Welcome back, Vila," he said, as the three gradually disengaged. "I am told that you will be needed. And given the state of things," he let the phrase hang in the air as he looked upward, "perhaps you are."

All Vila could say was as he stood and brushed himself off, trying not to look at his two rescuers, "I think I need a drink."

Later, in his cabin and after taking a bath and falling onto his bed, he had his drink. This new and improved Liberator came well-supplied. He had noted it before, but not with such appreciation. This particularly drink was an exquisite one of rum, a lacquer actually, with a deep red color he could peer into and see his reflection. It had a magnificent bouquet, delicate as a flowery meadow in Spring. He was unsure if he had ever been in a flowery meadow in Spring, but the imagery seemed right. Taken all together a heavy though satisfying and sensuous blend. He took a sip; several more. Damn right.

He had not eaten in a while so took its effects quickly. Not to mention strongly. He voice commanded the wall monitor and dimmed the lights. Soon his glass clanked to the floor and he was in a flowing, warm hum of a sleep, dreaming of rescuing -- armed with a huge flaming sword -- bravely his comrades, his friends . . . even Tarrant . . . Lord help us, even Avon . . .

As the Liberator raced off into the night.

In the ordinary life of an ordinary man, time has a cadence, a rhythm that pulses to his planet. Until death, such a measured and restricted life need never falter, need never be questioned. But for a man more than ordinary, a life steeped in stars, the former Lord Protector had a period of self-examination to go through as he too had faltered. It had been several weeks since Kerr Avon, recent and on occasion successful fugitive from Federation justice had moved into his latest cell. This cell was better than most. It was spacious, comfortable, temperate. Food, refrigeration, and running water were available in whatever quantities he desired. He could shower, send his clothes to a laundry service, even summon a tailor judging by the suits placed in the ample closet, for what conceivable purpose he could not guess. He could do anything, except step outside.

Books technical or otherwise were not provided, but there was a connection to the usual technical links and one additional channel, the all pervasive broadcast system from which there was never escape, the Federation News Network. Whatever his