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Oberheim (Voices): A Chronicle of War

by Christopher Leadem · English · Gutenberg #13841 · 543,947 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Oberheim (Voices): A Chronicle of War

Author: Christopher Leadem


        
Release date: October 23, 2004 [eBook #13841]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13841


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OBERHEIM (VOICES): A CHRONICLE OF WAR ***

Copyright 2002 by Christopher Leadem



OBERHEIM (Voices) 
a chronicle of War 

Science Fiction,
Approx. 90,000 Words

Copyright 2002 by Christopher Leadem,
All Rights Reserved.



to Hemingway



ACT ONE

Andersen Sector
Months X through XII
International Year:  2410



OBERHEIM

The dawn came cool and pale.  Looking down from the balcony he watched
the white sun rise slowly, lighting the valleys and stalk forests
below, the dark mountains behind.  The only sound was that of
transplanted birds in the distance, seeming unnatural in this
altogether alien landscape.  He heard his name called from within, but
did not answer.  Elonna came and stood in the glass doorway behind him,
wrapped in a blanket.

"What's the matter, Eric?"  He did not answer but only shook his head
without turning.  She stepped out onto the balcony beside him, opened
the blanket with her arms and wrapped it about his shoulders.  Her skin
felt warm against him, but could not displace the emptiness and anxiety
he felt.

"What's wrong?" she asked again, curling up against his chest.

"I don't know.  It's too quiet."  The girl turned her face to look out
into the wind, her long hair flowing behind.  She looked out at the
sun, warm and sleepy-eyed, then drew back from him with a start.

"Eric, look!"  Three black specks had just cleared the horizon, and
were moving swiftly toward them.  They flew in tight V formation, but
their shapes could not yet be distinguished.

"Oh, damn.  Elonna, get inside, down into the shelter.  I'm going to
try to contact the city."

She hurried inside.  He looked back then moved to follow, but too late.
 A shaft of yellow light shot down from one of the ships, now nearly
overhead, and he slumped to the balcony floor.  Then they were gone.

She cried out and rushed and knelt beside him, lifting his shoulders.
"Eric, no! Don't leave me here."  She wept and put his head to her neck
and rocked him back and forth, but he only lay there unmoving.

From behind the mountains came a blinding flash, followed after several
hushed breaths by a deep rumbling in the distance.  Then all was quiet
and the city, too, was gone.  She knelt holding him still, trying to
remember what he said to do if this happened, but for a time could only
cry. She heard the sound of smaller ships approaching but it did not
register.  Suddenly she knew she was in danger and must act.

She ran inside, quickly zipped into a coverall, grabbed a flask of
water as she passed out of the room.  She ran down the stairs, was out
the door and flying toward the forest while a part of her was still on
the balcony.

She reached the first stubble-shoots, four to six feet high, their blue
branches like thick hair at an angle toward the sun.  Brushing past
them, she was just entering the cover of the trees when a small
troop-deploying ship landed amidst the cluster of houses from which she
had fled.  Screams broke out but they were cut short, one by one.  Her
eyes welled with tears and she stumbled many times but kept going.

After what seemed an eternity she came upon the narrow path, branching
left and gradually rising toward an outlying spur of the hills.  But by
now she could go no further.  She had just strength and wits enough
left to move a short way off it and collapse into a long dry rill,
overhung with bushes.  There for a time, dizziness and fatigue pinned
her.  She was too physically spent to feel much sorrow, but at
intervals the knowledge of her husband's death came back to her like a
hollow blow in places she could not defend.  At last grief wholly
overcame her.

"Oh, Eric.  What am I going to do without you?"  She lay there weeping.
 Then slowly, like a memory, his words began to come back to her.

"If you get to the deep woods and I still haven't come, you've got to
hide."  I'M HIDDEN ERIC.  "But that won't do for long.  They'll be out
with heat sensors, so you've got to get to the graves."  She started to
rise, then fell back.  ERIC, I CAN'T.  "You must."

She staggered to her feet, found the path, went forward and began
looking for the cluster of gray stones which marked the turnoff.  She
found it just as she was ready to quit.

Leaving the path once more, she picked her way through vaguely familiar
landmarks till she came to two bare oblong mounds of earth.  THEY DO
LOOK LIKE GRAVES.  She fumbled about the edge of one till she found the
handle.  It took all her strength to lift it, and the thick red earth
on top did not move.  She slid her way into the opening and lay in the
shallow hole, the lid thudding to above her.

She felt for the dead-blanket, covered the length of her body with it
and shivered in the darkness.  The cutting whir of a search-ship
overhead sounded dully around her.  She clutched together like a child,
hardly daring to breathe.  But the ship passed over and was gone.

She was alone.


*


The night had come and though she could not see it she could feel it.
The air that tricked in from the breathing hole was cold and wet,
chilling her.  She turned and wrestled the dead-blanket from her,
reached up and tried to push back the lid.

It would not move, and for a moment she panicked.  Then placing both
hands together, she pushed with everything she had.  The earth above
her buckled, cracked and gave way.  She forced her way out.  She stood
up, brushed away the clay-like dirt, and looked around her.

All was dark and silent.  There was no moon, but through scattered
openings in the interlacing canopy a few stars shone dimly.  Her eyes
already accustomed to the dark, she worked her way slowly back to the
path, then turned to the right.  Still there was no sound and she
walked, tentatively at first, and stopping to look around her many
times, then with greater confidence on toward the hills.  She picked a
light, strong shaft from among the many that lay fallen by the way.
Its curved length felt reassuring in her hands.  She still felt great
loss, but no longer any fear.  The hours in the grave had not been
wasted.

The grade became steeper, and she found she was topping the first
shallow hill.  The way led down from it and then up again, more steeply
than before.  The smooth stones became larger and more numerous.

At length she felt she must rest, and sitting on a cold stone, suddenly
realized that for all her newfound courage, she had no clear idea where
she was trying to go.  Beyond vague references to 'people in the
hills', Eric's instructions ended here.  Through chattering teeth she
hugged her shoulders, lowered her head and tried not to cry.  ERIC.

Again she rose and looked about her, stamping her feet to try to keep
warm.  Nothing in sight.  Wait. . .what was that?  Either her eyes
deceived her or there was a pale resonance, little more than a shadow
of light, just beyond the hill in front of her.  From where she stood
the path hooked left to skirt its base before finding a narrow pass
between ever larger foothills.  But above and to her right came the
soft, inviting sheen.  Torn between fear and the need for shelter, she
moved cautiously a short way into the brush.

The climb was not steep, but try as she might she could not make it
noiselessly.  More than once she missed her footing, stumbled, and fell
through thick leaves with a muted sound like walking through corn.  In
truth the noise of her falling was not great, and except for a short
gasp on one occasion no sound escaped her lips.  But in that quiet of
night she was sure that it carried.

Finally reaching the hilltop, she looked down on a slight recession, in
the center of which lay a small, rounded clearing.  A dim lantern was
hung on a post at one end, seeming lost and forlorn in the wilderness.
All around it there was nothing to be seen except a broad, flat bench
on which a man might rest, and no sign that it was anything more than a
traveler's light, left to mark a trail, that would go on glowing for
years unattended.

Still she took nothing for granted.  She approached the clearing and
slowly, very slowly left the cover of the trees.  She made her way
silently to the post and examined it closely.  She heard something step
through the bushes to her left and her heart was in her throat.  She
whirled, relaxed and nearly fainted.

The man's face and hands were black.

"Thank God," she managed, swooning still.  The man, perhaps fifty, clad
in camouflaged cover-suit and jacket, remained at his distance.  When
she had recovered herself she saw that he regarded her kindly, but made
no attempt to help her stand.

"What have we here?" he said in a dry voice, with just a corner of a
smile.  "Another ebony wanderer?  And in the middle of the night.  I
was just getting ready to leave."

"I guess so."  Now that she was no longer moving, the cold pierced her
clothes and she shivered once more.

"Well, I guess we'd better get you out of it.  Have you strength to
walk?"

"Yes.....  How do I know I can trust you?"

"You have no choice."  He left the light as it was.

He led the way, and after hesitating she walked with him for several
miles without speaking, climbing ever higher into the dark, bony hills.
 They rested then briefly, her breath coming hard from the steep grades
they had already passed.  But now, leaning dizzy and pallid against a
stone, she felt a strange reluctance to speak of her condition.  A
harsh stubbornness had been growing inside her as they went, tightening
ever harder as fatigue become unbearable.  The feeling frightened her,
but she kept it to herself.  Instead she tried to satisfy another doubt.

"Who are you?"

"I am that which I am," he said.  And he gave a short, bitter laugh.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Nothing to do with you," he said.  "Just making a little joke to
myself."  She looked down at the ground beneath her feet.  "But now you
must be very tired.  No need to push yourself all at once.  Sit down on
the ground and we'll rest."

She slid to the cold earth with her back against rough stone.  It was
quiet, too quiet, and through the darkness the memories.....  She wept
quietly.

"So softness wins out after all," he said flatly.  She glared at him
angrily, but he was not looking at her.  "Don't worry about it.
Sometimes it wins in me too."  He must think he's some kind of stern
father, she thought.  A stern, unfeeling bastard of a father.

They walked till the hills became sheer, then rested again, this time
looking up at a dark face frowning down on them.  "How much further?"
she asked heavily.

"Not far."

"Truthfully?"

"Yes.  Can you walk a little farther?"

"Yes.  Just give me a minute to rest."  He did, exactly.  They set out
again, skirting the rockface till they came to a gap between cliffs.
They followed it up and in, moving through a narrow strip with high
walls on either side. Finally it died into a meeting of stone.

"Where now?" she asked between gasps.

"Nowhere.  We're here."

"But I don't see anything."  A cold fear ran through her.

"Wouldn't be much of a hiding place if you could."  He moved past her
and flicked his finger between a crack in the rock.  Almost at once a
soft white light began to filter through a cave entrance not ten feet
above them, a short distance to the right.  Something like a smoky film
was dissolving before it.  He boosted her up to a narrow ledge that ran
in front of it, and after a short, stepping climb she was there.  He
came behind her, gestured with his hand.

"Go on.  I promise I won't bite you."  Again, just a corner of a smile.

She entered the cave, found it warm and well lit.  A thick, transparent
tube along one wall provided the heat.  Light came down from three very
ordinary fixtures, hung from the ceiling some twelve feet above.  This
main chamber, neither large nor small, ran back into a narrow arch, the
shadows of which did not seem to go much farther.  There was a table,
long and low, a wooden bench and two chairs.  Several large packs,
three strange instrument panels stood against the far wall.  Something
dark and small was huddled among them.  To her surprise she saw that it
was a child:  a small boy, dressed in blue.

"Hello," she said.  "What's your name?"  He gave no answer, but studied
her with dark, shining eyes.

"I'm afraid you won't get much out of that one.  He's still a bit shook
up."  The man put down his pack, leaned his weapon against the edge of
the table.  "Found him away north this afternoon.  His mother told him
just to run and keep running.  He did.....  You want coffee?"

"Yes, please."  He returned from the back a moment later with a
steaming cup, and a plate of some synthesized food.  "Thank you."  He
pulled a chair and sat down across from her, watching her eat.

"So what's YOUR name?" he said at length, and the kind older man was
submerged.

"Elonna Dorsett."

"You're not all black, are you, Elonna?"

"No.  My grandmother was white.  Is that important?"

"Not necessarily."  A pause.  "So how many did you lose?"

She glared at him, then softened.  "Only one.  My husband."

He got up and paced, then stood squarely before her.

"So tell me this, Elonna Dorsett.  What do you plan to do about it?"
She hesitated. 

"Anything I can."  She had a strange sensation as she said the words: a
sand castle on a beach, broken and swept away by the waves.  But maybe
if there was a stone in its center, hard and sharp and black.....

"Well, at least you're no spy."  He said it matter-of-factly, as if the
question had been understood between them.  "And you've a bit of spunk.
 Not much perhaps, but a bit."  He winked at her halfheartedly, the
graying father once more.  "You must be tired."

"Yes."

He led her to the second chamber, gave her a thin mat against the hard
floor, which he placed a short distance from his own.  Then he fetched
the boy out from between consoles, and set him on the mat beside her.
He extinguished all but a soft bluish light, and lay down himself.  He
turned away.

"Who are you?" she asked quietly.

"I used to be a minister."  Again the short, bitter laugh.  "Now I
don't know who I am.  Just don't call me Moses."

He said no more, and they slept.


*


"How could they do such a thing?"  They sat again on opposite sides of
the table, drinking coffee and eating a meager breakfast.  With the
night passed and the boy off playing, she hoped she would find him more
talkative.

"What, the great white hopefuls?  Simple.  There was no one to stop
them."

"But why? when they brought us here in the first place?"  He chewed a
stale biscuit, and for a time did not answer.

"Don't ask me to explain the Minority Homestead Act.  It was created by
another government, and would take a week."

"But the killing---"

"Every expansionist power needs a hate-group within its own boundaries,
someone to blame for their own fears and failures.  Someone for the
violent but inexperienced to cut their teeth on.  Hating the Jews is no
longer fashionable, and there aren't enough of them here.  We were
obvious, so they picked us instead."

"Surely it's not that simple."

"Of course not," he said irritably.  "We represented old fears and
religious prejudice, the 'mark of Cain' and all that brutal bullshit.
We still had money and pride when their debt-based economy crashed.....
 This is pointless; figure it out for yourself.  I don't want to know
their reasons, only what I can do about it."  He fell silent, hard and
cold.  She said no more.

At that moment the boy came running out of the back and climbed quickly
onto the bench beside her.  Tears were in his eyes, and she put her arm
around him.  He buried his head against her, peeped out at the man,
then buried it again.

"Look after him, will you?  I'm going out for a while."  The man rose,
switched off the shield and went to the entrance.

"Wait," she called after him.  "I still don't know your name."

"My name is Lawrence."  He was gone.

The boy drew back and looked up at her, no longer frightened but now
tired and curious.

"Well that's better.  You don't have to be afraid of me."  He looked at
her and chewed his finger.  She returned his gaze and smiled.  "What's
your name?"

"Johnny Harris."  His leg kicked gently out over the side.  She patted
him on the head, then went to look for some paper.

The man went down between the high walls of the gap, coming out at the
twin faces of the cliffs.  Turning right, he skirted the huge southern
promontory till he came a scree hill, rising still higher toward the
frozen peaks beyond.  Here, some two hundred yards further up, a four
foot tunnel, shaded by a boulder, led deep into the mountainside.
Stooping to enter, he walked till he was weary and stiff with a sharp
pain in his back, then walked much farther.


*


It was late evening, darkening to full night.  Two men walked through
the opening with the shield still dissipating.  The familiar face came
first, then to her dismay the woman saw that the stranger was white.
He studied her as they approached, with the same hard cold gleam as the
other.

"I don't know," he said, turning to the guerrilla.  "She has the looks,
but not much grit, seemingly.  The face is much too soft."

Lawrence said nothing, hung his coat on a peg by the wall.  She half
expected him to draw out a hidden knife and bury it in the white man's
back.  But the two stood side by side, and she realized that she was
the outsider, the one in question.  The tall, fair-haired man stood
looking her up and down like a slave at auction.  She got angry.

"What am I, a piece of meat?"

"Shut up and get us some water," said the black man.  She turned on
him, furious.

"How dare you talk to me like that?  How dare you?  And if you think
you're going to turn me over to this Nazi---"  She ran to the wall and
grabbed the laser rifle, pointed it right at him.

But the older man just laughed grimly, and the fantasy fell apart.
"You see what I mean?" he said.  "She has some grit.  Put away the
rifle, Elonna."

"All right, but you get your own water."  He did, retiring to the back
while the other placed his rifle on the table and sat down.  Elonna
faced him angrily.  "You just watch how you look at me."  Then she
walked to the entrance, still unshielded, with the boy and went out.

The tall man watched her go, then turned to face his friend as he came
out with a filled water bottle.  The guerrilla handed it to him,
reactivated the shield and returned to the table.  They passed the
water back and forth between them.

"She is very beautiful, Lawrence.  But have we the right to ask her to
do this?"

"We have the right to ask.  But there will be no secrets among us.  She
will know who we are, and fully understand the danger before we ask her
to do anything.  There is no hurry.  I haven't fully judged her
character yet myself.  This will take time to set up on your end,
anyway.  We may not even get the chance."

"I think we will, if we are patient."  A pause.  "I didn't mean to
stare at her like that.  It's just that it's hard to tell her features
beneath that coverall."

"I know that, Morgan.  Still, it's a fine couple of gentlemen we've
become.  Myself especially, for having thought of it.  But if we could
eliminate Hunter....."

"No, I think it's a good plan, as far as it goes.  And if we've lost a
bit of humanity, it only helps us understand their mentality.  I was
there when they drafted the plans for these raids.  I've also had a
glimpse of what they've got in store for the Laurian socialists.  The
only way to stop them, or at least hinder them until the rest of the
quadrant wakes up, sees these bastards for what they are and sends out
real armies to stop them, is to strike at all points, especially the
top, and be just as cold and unfeeling as they are."

The other said nothing, stared soberly at the floor.

"You're right." He got up and paced across the room, his hands behind
his back.  The shield went down, and the girl reentered with the boy.
She addressed herself to Morgan.

"I'm sorry I was short with you.  I'm sure if you're with Lawrence you
have your reasons.  You just caught me off guard."  The men exchanged
glances, but did not reply.  "I'm willing to do what I can.....  You
must be hungry."

"No.  Thank you, I must be going.  I apologize too.  My name is Morgan.
 Keep in touch, Lawrence.  This will take time, but there are other
things you and I can do until then.  Elonna."  He rose and lifted the
rifle and left the room.  The boy approached Lawrence and punched him
in the leg.  The man looked down but did not smile.

"Why so grim?" she asked, not entirely able to keep the sarcasm from
her voice.

"You don't know what we're up against."

"Finding my husband dead on the balcony, I think I have a pretty good
idea.....  And how many did you lose?"

"I didn't have to.  My family was killed in a transport accident two
years ago."

...  "I'm sorry."

"Then don't speak of it again."

...  "Are you hungry?"

"Yes.  Yes, I'm hungry.  Why don't you see if you can make us something
that doesn't taste like tar.  I'm going to lie down.  Wake me if I fall
asleep."

"All right."

She went to prepare a meal.  The child followed.  When the food was
ready she called him and they ate without talking.  The only sounds
were the small sounds of the boy, tapping his tray with the utensil and
humming softly to himself.  Once he looked up at the woman and laughed:
 a piece of withered leaf was caught in her dark, flowing hair.  The
graying man watched them, and only wished he could smile.

Then night came again, and they slept.


*


Four days had passed, with Lawrence gone much of the time.  He never
said where he was going, or gave any indication that something unusual
was at hand.  But on the fifth day, as the sun sank and the shadows
grew deep around them, he said simply,

"I've got something to do tonight."

He was, if possible, tighter than ever, and at the evening meal ate
little.  Then he rose, ruffled the boy's head, and disappeared into the
second shallow chamber of the back.

He was gone a long time, and the girl took the boy outside, and when
she returned he had still not come out.  Then as she knelt on the
ground, playing some game with the child, a man emerged from the back
and she nearly collapsed from fear.

She ran to the wall, seized the rifle and would have shot.  But a
familiar voice stayed her.

"Put down the rifle, Elonna, or one of these times you really will
shoot."  The voice, she thought, came from the stranger, a square,
Russian-looking man with dark eyes and a shaved head.  He was clad in
the blue and black of a Cantonese army officer, the emblem of the
clenched white fist sewn to his breast, a small black cross in its
center.  His face wore the sharp look of command but his eyes, in that
moment, seemed to contradict it.

"Who are you?" she demanded.  "And what have you done with Lawrence?"

"I'm right here, Elonna."  The officer opened his jacket and unfastened
the garment beneath, pulling it open at the neck to reveal a dark
collar and chest, with tight curls of hair like thorny bushes covering
his breast.

"Lawrence!"  One of her hands lost its grip on the rifle.  "You scared
me half to death."

"I'm sorry for that.  I thought you had gone out."

At that moment she realized two things:  that he was going into great
danger, and that she cared for him very much.

"When must you go?"

"Very soon."  He resealed the uniform.

"Be careful, will you?"

"Yes."  He pulled a different weapon from among the equipment against
the wall, examined it carefully.  "I have to go."  He started for the
door.  She stopped him halfway and embraced him, her eyes gleaming at
the corners.

"Be careful."

"I will."  He pulled away and stood in the entrance.  He looked back at
her strangely, hesitated as if wanting to say more, then turned and was
gone.  He did not return that night.


*


The next day the woman was genuinely concerned.  She had just begun to
lose hope, when the smoky film of the entrance dissolved and opened out
onto the cleft.  A man stepped through, but it was not Lawrence.

"Morgan?  What's wrong, where's Lawrence?"

"He's dead."

Such an empty shock.  "What?  What happened?"

He was trying to sabotage a missile base, with several others.  His
papers were challenged and he was shot.  I'm sorry."

"Dead," she stammered.  "Dead.  Will they kill us all, one by one?"
She began to weep.

"Unless we stop them."

"How, damn it!  How?"

"A piece at a time."

"But you said you had a plan.  For ME."

"I do."

"Well what is it?  Stop treating me like a child!"

"Not now.  I'll come back tomorrow after dark."

"All right.  God."  She could not believe it.  He turned to go.

Without turning.  "You'd best harden your heart, Elonna, or it will
freeze inside you.  I'm sorry about Lawrence.

He was gone.


*


The next day seemed endless, but at last he came.  He looked over the
equipment leaned against the wall, then came and sat across from her.
He was at once both kinder and colder.

"I have a plan, Elonna, and them is a reasonable chance it will work.
But it may be more than your mind is equipped to handle.  Also. . .it
is sexual in nature."

"You think I don't know that, the way you're always looking at me?"

"Listen first.  Save your scorn for the enemy.  You will need it all."

"I'm sorry.  I'm not mad at you."

"Never, NEVER apologize.  And don't ever feel pity for a man who's done
you wrong.  If you do at a critical time in this, we're lost."

"You're worse than he was."

"Yes, and I'm still alive."  He stirred uncomfortably in the chair.  "I
didn't mean that.  Have you got any water?"

"Yes."  She sent the boy to get some.

"Try to understand, Elonna.  As undersecretary to Hunter, I'm
surrounded by them constantly.  These guerrillas, even Lawrence, flit
in and out of the fire."

"Lawrence did more than flit."

"Yes he did.  And if I could change that, I would.....  But I live in
the midst of it. I can't afford the luxury of emotion.  And I want
desperately to bring them down.  That they're my own people doesn't
help."

She studied him more closely.

"You say they're your own people.  What about us?  Are we just pieces
on the board?"

"Not a fair question.  You don't know what we're up against."  The boy
handed him a filled cup.

"Lawrence was found of saying that, and he's dead."

"Yes, and I'm likely to end the same way."

"Then why do you do it?"

"Because they ARE my own people.  Maybe you pity them, try to
understand.  I don't.  There's no excuse for this, Elonna.  None.  It's
all been played out a hundred times before.

"There lives are empty and harsh," he continued.  "So they say it must
be somebody's fault.  Surely their God can't want them to suffer, apple
of his eye as they're supposed to be.  So it must be anti-God.  And who
is this?  The blacks and other minorities, the corrupt and inept
liberals, a benign socialist colony two systems away.  For God's sake,
we've been in Space for two hundred years, we should know better.  They
forget, or choose to ignore, all the lessons it's taught us:  that
we're only very small, and should help each other.  They turn their
backs on history and the simplest understanding, and still find some
dark corner in which to masturbate their hatred.  There's no excuse for
it.  None."

She was silent for a time, then spoke.  "What do you want me to do?"

"Don't say yes until you've heard what it is.  Lawrence cared a great
deal for you, and if only for his sake, I must show some restraint."

"And what about you?"

"For myself, I would rather not ask a woman to do it.  Also, it flushes
me out of the inner circles for good."

"But you think it could work, and be worth it."

"Yes."

"You want me to sleep with someone and kill him."  She had forgotten
the boy.  "Johnny, would you run off in the back and play?  I'll be
there in a few minutes."

"Yes, Miss Elonna."  He walked reluctantly into the back.

"You want me to sleep with someone and kill him."

"Yes and no."

"What do you mean, yes and no?"

"You say it as if it's nothing.  I'm not asking you to sleep with some
soldier in a guardhouse and slit his throat.  We're talking about
Roland Hunter, the head of Internal Affairs."

"THE Hunter?  The man who ordered the purges?"

"Ordered, planned and executed, and the man who makes sure there is no
rebellion of conscience among the whites, no dissent of any kind.  A
big target, Elonna, and very wary."  Again she was silent.

"Still.  If you could arrange it.....  I think I could do it."

"With what weapon, Elonna?"

"Well, what about a poison needle?"

"No good.  You will be thoroughly searched.  Thoroughly."

"All right, then.  Stop turning it around.  You're the one who's
supposed to have a plan."

"Yes, though I'm not particularly proud of having thought of it."

"Morgan, you're forgetting what he's done to us."

"All right.  Have you ever heard of Sanlen 12?"

"It's some kind of nerve poison, isn't it?"

"Yes, like's snake's venom:  poison to the blood but not the stomach."

"What are you saying?"

He told her, in detail.

"But that's horrible.  God, what a way to die. . .and to kill."

"You would have to want to kill him very badly, and not hesitate at the
critical moment.  That's why I've been such a harsh judge of your
character.  This is no game, and the stakes are life and death."  She
looked into his eyes, and knew he was in deepest earnest.

"I need time to think."  The boy came back into the room.

"I'll be back tomorrow night.  Think about it in the cold light of day.
You must be very sure."  He lifted his rifle.

"Before you go....."

"Yes."

"How would you set this up?  How would you make him trust me?"

"Oh, he won't trust you, not for a minute.  But he does trust me, as
far as he trusts anyone.  As for setting it up, that's fairly simple.
Many of the cabinet ministers and high military men have taken
mistresses, and not all of them white.  If the Undersecretary of
Affairs should happen to come across a beautiful black woman he
fancies, a non-person with no rights, why shouldn't he keep her for
himself?  And if he's ruthless and full of ambition, as I'm supposed to
be, why shouldn't he offer to share her with the Secretary, or even
keep her discreetly hidden for his private use?  I've been known to do
such favors in the past."

"But if he hates us so much, why would he want me?"

"You don't understand men very well if you have to ask, at least not
that kind of man.  Power and domination are what he craves, sadism and
total control.  Do I have to say more?"

"No."

"I'll come back tomorrow if I can."  He shouldered his weapon.  "You
see why it was so hard for Lawrence to ask of you.  Toward the end, he
had decided against it.  Just so you know, the thought of sending you
in with that monster.....  I'm not that cold.  Not yet.  But they are.
Good-night."  He switched off the shield and left the cave.

"Good-night."  She stared at the table.


*


Morgan returned two nights later.  He looked tired and grim.

"Elonna.  I'm sorry I couldn't make it yesterday.  I almost couldn't
come now.  They're preparing the full offensive against Marcum-Lauries.
 I'm just sick thinking about it.  The Laurians don't stand a chance.
And they're good people."  As he glanced at her briefly she saw
something in his eyes that she had not expected.  He looked away.
"Hello, Johnny," he said absently.  Without being asked, the boy ran
into the back to get him some water.

"Sit down, Morgan.  Don't worry about me, I'm all right.  I'm even
grateful for the extra day.  I'm finally clear in my own mind."

"You know you don't have to do this."

"Yes.  But I want to, Morgan."  She handed him the cup and sat down.
"Only. . .I can't do it by hating them.  I've tried.  I tried
remembering my husband's death, but that only made me feel a terrible
loss, not hatred.  So I tried thinking about what they had done to
Lawrence.  Sometimes I think all he ever wanted was to live out his
remaining years in peace.  But he couldn't.  They had taken even that
away from him.  He was no soldier, any more than Eric was.  War was the
last thing either wanted, and it killed them both---my husband quickly,
and Lawrence slowly, from the inside.  He tried to be hard and cold,
but his faith in life had been shaken too deeply.  Do you know what I'm
saying?"

"Yes, though I think there was more to it than that."

"Maybe.  I'm just trying to tell you how I feel."

Their eyes met.  "Go on."

"I'm going to try to kill him, because I know something must be done.
But it's not in my nature to be vindictive.  I'll be as passive and
yielding as I can, and then just do it."

Morgan took a deep breath.  "You know there's the danger of being found
out, or of being killed afterwards?"

"Yes.  And I'm not just saying that."

...  "Well.  I admire your courage.  And I'll do everything I can to
protect you."  He took a long, slow draught from the cup.  "One thing,
anyway.  I won't have to be a part of their cancer anymore.  I won't
have to keep silent."  He lowered his head in exhaustion.  "Have you
got anything stronger?"

"Yes.  Lawrence kept some whiskey."  She rose to get it.

They talked together far into the night.  Then he said goodbye, and
made his way stealthily back to the high-security apartment complex,
and by a way known only to himself, entered the wide bedroom.  The next
night he returned with a dental surgeon, who implanted a small capsule
filled with poison onto the bottom of her tongue, and sharpened to a
cutting edge the canine tooth on the corresponding side of her mouth.
They made arrangements for the boy, and set a tentative date for five
days hence.  That day, at least, she would come and live with him.


*                        *                        *


The flat was wide and spacious, divided into three sections.  Coming
through the front door, one entered the large living area, the room
itself recessed to the right a foot lower than the polished hardwood
walk-in.  Deeply carpeted, it was furnished with long, pillowy couches
and stiff upright chairs.  Low tables of stainless steel and glass were
spread among them.  The in-wall, farthest from the walkway, consisted
of a broad Earthstone hearth (a luxury), and was crowned above the
mantle by a photograph of the First Minister, awarding the Medal of
Valor to a tall, stern-faced soldier.  A barrage of terraced and
hanging plants surrounded the slanting, beamed windows of the western
wall.  Its opposing face was a wall-size entertainment screen, now
projecting a tropical rainforest with a high, flowing waterfall in the
background.

The bedroom opened off the walkway to the left, behind a thick double
door of oak.  The kitchen was straight ahead, and by a further passage,
the workroom or den.

Elonna sat beside him on one of the couches, its deep-cushioned comfort
belying the approaching danger.  She moved closer, and quite
unconsciously, put her head against his neck.  Morgan put his arm
around her and stared at nothing.  She was clothed in mistress fashion,
a long dress of sunburst silk and mesh.

"When will they be here, Morgan?"

"Soon, I think.  Try not to worry."

"May I have another drink?"

"Sure."  He started to rise.

"No, nevermind.  Don't get up.  I'll be all right; just don't get up."
He drew her closer, warmed her shoulder with his hands.

"Remember," he said, "don't worry about looking scared.  You play the
part of a refugee among enemies, saving yourself by being my mistress.
Your natural reactions, whatever they are, will be all right."

"Well I'm glad of that.  Oh Morgan, I wish it was over."

"So do I.....  Oh, also.  Don't be alarmed if he speaks of your past or
your family.  He'll have found all that out ahead of time."

"I'm scared."

A warning light lit above the doorway.

"They're in the building."

"How many?" she asked, fighting back a surge of fear.

"I don't know.  I'll try to find out."  He got up and went to an
intercom by the door, moved his hand across it.  "Lieutenant.  How many
have we got tonight?"

"Six, Undersecretary."

"Thank you, Walthrop."  He switched it off.  "Six."

"Why so many?"

"Probably to check the rooms.  I don't think they'll stay."  Several
seconds later the door tone sounded.  He turned to Elonna.  "You okay?"
 She took a deep breath.  He opened the door.

The Secretary entered, preceded by his two bodyguards.  Two uniformed
soldiers followed.  Morgan addressed them sternly.  Another soldier
remained in the hallway.

"So this is the little lovely," said Hunter civilly, nodding towards
her.  He gave his long officer's coat to Morgan, and the two uniformed
men began to sweep the room with hand-held detectors.  Her eyes drawn
to him by some morbid curiosity, Elonna studied the Secretary.

In his late forties or early fifties, he was a man of average height,
blonde-gray and gaunt, still retaining a taut musculature that showed
itself in the square shoulders and stiffly upright posture.  He had a
lean, hard face with prominent cheekbones and brow.  But what held her
attention most---Morgan opened a bedroom door for one of the
soldiers---were his eyes.  Steel gray and cold, they looked out
restless and insatiable.  And though they did not flit, as with lesser
men, they nonetheless seemed unable to rest their gaze on anything for
more than a short time, as if never satisfied with what they saw, angry
and bitter because of it.  But when they returned again to her, she
knew it would be very hard.  He followed the silk dress up the long
length of her body, and into her eyes.  Here was something he wanted.

But even as she looked away, she felt a new determination growing out
of her despair.  And though for a moment she had seen him with woman's
eyes, sensing the underlying weakness and need, she felt no pity for
him.  His self-malignation and inner violence had cost thousands of
lives already.  If it were at all within her power, they would cost no
more.

It was at this same time that she decided upon a strategy.  Morgan's
plan had been to lie and act as little as possible, and to decide at
the time which of three contingent courses to adopt.  In this way he
hoped to avoid unnecessary risk.  She glanced over at him quickly,
looking broken and hurt, and both understood:  she had been told of
this ahead of time, and though no longer shocked or capable of much
fear, she felt shamefully and bitterly betrayed.  She sat down again
dejectedly and hung her head, without having said a word.  Then let a
single tear trickle down her cheek, and wiped it away.

Had they known it, this was probably the best course they could have
adopted.  This was not what he wanted---a broken and dispirited
prisoner.  He wanted something still alive, desiring freedom and
capable of struggle.  At once he called the soldiers to him.

"That is all.  Leave the one at the door and get below."

"He has a rifle in the study," said one.

"I know that as well as you.  You have your orders."

They touched their chests with a closed right fist and were gone.  He
seated his guards in two chairs placed on either side of the bedroom
doors.

"I would like a drink, Morgan.  Bring one for yourself, and for the
lady.  Whatever she likes."  When he had left the room, Hunter moved to
sit in a high-backed chair across from her.  She looked up at him,
puzzled.

"Please, you must not be afraid of me.  Your master is a hard man
because he has to be.  We are not ogres."  It was suddenly important to
him that Morgan had never had her.  "No one is going to hurt you.
Please, won't you trust me?"  She said nothing, continued looking down.
 The tall man began to re-enter the room, but Hunter waved him off.
"Has Morgan been treating you well?"

"Yes, very well."  There were almost tears in her eyes.  "But I thought
I was going to be his.  I've been good."

"Of course you have."  Now he let Morgan enter.  On his tray were three
drinks in narrow glasses.  He gave one to the Secretary, who drew out a
long stick (for sensing poison) and submerged it in the glass.  He gave
another to Elonna and took the third for himself, sitting in a chair at
a small distance to one side.

"Please, drink up," said Hunter.  "To your health, Elonna."  She made
the toast halfheartedly.  "Let's have some music, Morgan.  Do you have
a Beethoven program?"

"Of course."  He rose to put it on.

"You like Beethoven, don't you?"  She nodded.

And so the time passed, with music, small talk and drinks.  At
intervals the Secretary asked simple questions about her health,
promised she could stay here with Morgan, even hinted that the purges,
ghastly but imperative, were now over, and that if she had any friends
or relatives still in hiding, perhaps they could be given safe conduct
off the planet.

Indeed, so much time had passed that she began to think nothing more
would happen that night.  But it was this very gleam of hope that he
waited for.

"Will you allow us one more small inconvenience?"  The tone of his
voice seemed to imply that nothing more than a routine question was
forthcoming, some sad necessity, painless and quickly over.  But some
deeper instinct warned her that the time had come.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Would you go back into the bedroom and take off your clothes?  One of
my guards will search you; he shouldn't be too rough.  You see, I want
to lie with you tonight."

Her mouth opened as if to speak, but no words would form.  The final
attack had come so softly and suddenly that she found she could not
react.  Through the liquor her blood went pale.  She turned to Morgan,
but he could not help her now.  She had to gather herself.  Somehow.
Somehow.        "Is that what you really want?"

"Yes, it is."  She brushed back her face with her hands.

"All right."  She got up slowly, did not collapse.

"Snipes."

"Yes, sir."

"Do it."

"Yes, sir."  The guard took her by the arm and led her past the other,
who held open the bedroom door.

"What's the matter, Morgan?  Surely you knew I would want her?"  Morgan
said nothing.  His eyes were cold and hard.

After several minutes, the Secretary got up and made his way to the
bedroom.  The guard, returning out of it with a nod, passed by him and
shut the door.  He resumed his seat beside the other and the two looked
straight ahead.  Several moments later the door opened again, from the
inside, and Hunter's head appeared.

"Oh by the way," he said.  "Don't let him into the study.  You won't go
anywhere will you, Morgan?"  The doors closed for the last time.
Morgan gripped the arms of the chair, burning up inside.


*


After several minutes he got up and began pacing back and forth,
pulling angri-nervoursly at a heavy ring on his right hand.  The guards
watched him.  Sounds still came from the bedroom at irregular
intervals, horrible to hear.  That they were muffled didn't help.  At
last he felt that he must make his move.

"May I go into the kitchen?  I want another drink."

The guards exchanged glances.  The larger of the two said, "Go with
him."  The other rose and followed him into the kitchen.

"You want one?" asked the Undersecretary gruffly.

"You know I can't."

"Of course."  He looked past the standing man's shoulder.  "Wait a
minute.  Sergeant, what's that?"

The guard half turned to look behind him.  There was a flash of metal
as Morgan brought the blade-tipped ring across his neck.  The man
staggered but made no sound, as the poison collapsed both lungs and
heart.  Morgan carried him by the armpits and set him down, dead, in a
chair.  He unclasped the pistol from the man's belt and peered out into
the hallway.

At that moment there was a cry, suddenly stifled, from the bedroom.
The voice belonged to a man.  The bodyguard leapt up from his seat.

"Forget about it, Snipes."

"Morgan.  What are you doing with that?  Where's Bonnard?"  Morgan
fired two short bursts into his chest, then casting aside the body,
broke open the door and entered the bedroom.

Elonna sat shaking on the edge of the bed, trying to dress herself.
Hunter lay dead upon the floor, his face contorted wildly, his limbs
drawn up like a shriveled spider.  A trickle of blood could be seen at
his crotch.

"Are you all right?"  Morgan asked.  He helped her into the coverall,
swept back her tear stained hair.  There was a sharp sound as the outer
door was thrown open.  A lone soldier rushed in, was killed by Morgan.

"Are you well enough to run?"

"Yes."  She shook her head severely, trying to force herself back.  "He
was really very gentle at the beginning."

"Don't think about it.  We've got to get you out.  As soon as his pulse
stopped the soldiers below knew it.  Come on!  We've got to get you
out!"

He threw back the carpet beside the bed, lifted a trap door.  They had
just shut it behind them when four more soldiers burst into the room.
With a shout their captain ran past the body, now half covered by the
rug, and fired a laser burst into the lock.  It fused and fell inward,
but even as it did so the door was sealed from without by thick bars of
treated steel.  The captain tried to lift it, realized his mistake.

"Tarkin, Nemiah, get your men below and fan out.  Block all exits."  He
lifted his hand-com, ordered the building and neighboring sections
surrounded, called in air patrols to block the skies.  He rolled back
the carpet with his foot, looked with angry disgust upon the body of
Hunter.  Two men in white entered with a stretcher.

"Get him out of here."  They lifted the body and took it away.  The
captain paced the floor.


*


The passage, after its beginnings beneath the trap door, was shallow
and not wide, so shallow they had to lie flat and pull themselves along
by staggered hand-holds above them.  After perhaps a minute, though it
seemed far longer, they came to the emergency ladder-tube, began to
climb.

Reaching the roof, they saw the police ship and the man (one of their
own) guarding it.  He nodded to Morgan, ran toward the railing of
converging walls as if alarmed by sounds from below.  Morgan came
behind and clubbed him unconscious with the butt of the rifle.  He
leapt up into the ship, where Elonna was already strapping herself in.
Her hands would not stop shaking.  He jammed the door shut, made ready
to lift off.  Six seconds later, they were in the air.

He started the small, fast ship forward just as the first of the air
patrols drew near him.  He fired twice and banked sharply left.

His shots went high and wide, and as he turned, the lead ship strafed
his exposed underside.  Smoke and trickling flame burst out within and
the shields collapsed, but he kept the ship moving.  Broken by the
concussion, Elonna lay limp in her seat, only the harness keeping her
in place.  He steered the ship low between a gap in the oncoming hills,
as unseen emplacements opened fire on his pursuit.


*


Morgan stepped wearily through the entrance of the unfamiliar cave,
trying to support his broken shoulder with the opposite hand.  The boy
broke free from the woman's grasp and came toward him.  Seeing only the
man, he broke into an angry despair.

"Where's Miss Elonna?" he cried.

Morgan tried to speak, but the boy ran up to him in tears, punching and
kicking.

Then Elonna passed through the narrow arch.

"No, Johnny, don't.  It's all right.  I'm all right."

She wiped the tears and grime from her face and knelt and hugged him
deeply.  The child buried himself against her.


........................................................................
.........


















STALAGMITE


The day was so dark that Dobrynin began to wonder if something wasn't
seriously wrong.  He stopped the pede-like cruiser at the foot of the
great volcano, looked up through the glass at the warping sky.  Black
clouds continued to roil up from countless hollow, sharp-edged peaks
all across the planet.

The satellite readout only confirmed what his eyes and instincts told
him.  Tremors and quakes shook the ground beneath him as a heavy static
storm crackled white and spindly light through the poison atmosphere.
Marcum-Lauries One was caught between the pull of its two suns, which
happened roughly every three hundred years.  But even so, internal
pressures were much too high.  It boded ill for the hopes of his people
if the massive, ore-laden planet stopped producing.

"Damn."  Molten silicates were running down the sides of the volcano's
shattered peak.  He re-engaged the flexing wheel pods and headed back
toward the dome.

How he hated this war.  Not just for the killing.  Any fool knew that
life was no great gift, and death no injury.  One took care of his own,
forged what meaning he could, then surrendered in the end to oblivion.

But this war.  This stupid, wasteful war.  How many times must the same
story be told?  Poverty and abuse on Canton leading to discontent, the
fascists coming to power, spreading their hatred in the name of God and
white supremacy.  And of course a remote socialist settlement, theirs,
had proved the ideal target for a tune-up campaign.  If they hadn't
gone straight for the Khrushchev colony he would probably have laughed.
 Fascism must inevitably fail, just as humanist Marxism would never
die.  The Cantons would surely be put down, but not before many things
innocent and beautiful had been maimed forever.  Fascists!  In spite of
all that he knew he could almost hate them without thinking.

And their own tentative alliance with Soviet Space.  How long would
that last if the gold, tungsten and osmo-alloys stopped coming?  This
planet was the key, and at the moment not a very sure bet.  All he
could do was go back to the safety (relative safety) of the dome and
wait for Percy's report, and see if the Soviet astronomers had anything
intelligent to say.

He suddenly realized as he crawled in segments across a gap in the high
ridge. . .that he loved this place.  Yes, loved it.  The wide valley
that opened before him, even in turmoil, was beautiful to the point of
pain.  Who could not feel the beauty of its raw vastness?  His wife and
colleagues on the tamer Lauries II had always thought him demented.
THE STORMS, THE LONG NIGHTS, they would say.  But he had never minded
the storms or the dark.  They merely seemed to him a metaphor for life.
 Yes, life was a storm; that thought heartened him.  Perhaps this was
just another, if more severe.  No, he knew better.  The fascists were
real and the planet was in trouble.  The flux of power among the Space
giants now favored the United Commonwealth, which remained neutral but
refused to allow the Soviets to intervene.  And the German States, God
damn them.  For all their greatness and determination they still
retained a stubborn streak of the Nazi mentality.  There was little
question who they would side with if it ever came to such a choice.  It
was all quite hopeless.  His people were just pilgrims and this, too,
would never be their home.

"Yes, yes, yes.  But I do not give up!"

The dome was in sight and he was drawing closer.  He was there.  He
guided the high-gravity cruiser between two of the eight supporting
struts arcing down from the huge floor, the raised structure.  He
waited for the lift to be lowered, crawled up onto it.  The airlock was
opened, and the cruiser raised inside it.  The doors were shut below
him and breathable air whispered around him.  He opened the hatch,
climbed down and greeted his son.

"Leon.  Any news?"  The young man seemed troubled, though he was doing
his best to conceal it.

"Yes, and none of it good.  Salnikov is on the communicator.  I'd
better let him explain it."

They walked quickly to the high wall of the dock, rose in separate
tubes to a curving corridor on the primary floor.  From this they
entered the meeting room.  A large screen at the front of it showed the
dispassionate face of Vladimir Salnikov, Soviet ambassador to
Marcum-Lauries Independent.  They pushed past the chairs of an oval
table and went to the railing before it.

"Yes, Vladimir.  What have you got?"

"I've been talking with Science Central," said the ambassador.  "We
know what the problem is, but are not yet certain what is causing it."

"Well are you going to tell me or do I have to guess it?"  If all the
stars in Space had suddenly gone out, it would never show on that face.

"Easy, Nicholai.  I am on your side?"  Dobrynin gave a reluctant nod.
"Your planet is in serious trouble.  She will not engage her second
orbit.  She only remains at the equilibrium point between the two, and
loses almost six minutes each rotation.  Internal pressures, as I am
sure you know, are dangerously high.  If something does not change
soon, she will blow herself apart.  You have perhaps ninety-eight
hours."

...  "Why, Vladimir?  Why?"

"We cannot be sure, except to say there is no natural phenomenon that
would explain it."  A pause.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"Not for the record."

"What about off it?"

"Go to scramble," said the Soviet.  "Code 4."

His son made the necessary adjustments.  Salnikov began again, the
words no longer corresponding to the movement of his lips.

"Can you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Have you sent out your reconnaissance?"

"Yes, toward Cantos."

"Deviate course.  There is nothing there."

"Where should we go instead?"

Salnikov gave a set of coordinates:  a straight line out from the
planet, directly opposed to its trajectory, as it sought to cross the
intersection of its figure-eight orbit, and begin to move around the
second sun.

"What should we look for?"

"An enormous station, over one hundred kilometers across.  You won't
pick it up on laser or visual, but if you send someone out you will see
it clear enough."

"What is its function?"

"We don't know, and we are not about to go in and find out.  But its
location is suspicious.  That is all I can say."

".....okay.  Thank you, Vladimir."

"Good luck, Nicholai.  I think that you will need it."  The screen went
blank.

"Leon. go down to the lower communication room and signal all bases.  I
want everyone off---everyone.  These domes won't hold forever.  I'm
going to try and reach Percy."

Without further speech his son was gone.  He leaned over the railing
and tried, and after twenty minutes finally succeeded, in reaching the
racing ship.




The planet had been evacuated.  The heads of the geological and mining
crews, along with military, scientific and governmental heads from the
three colonies, were huddled together in a briefing room aboard the
space station 'Lynx'.  Dobrynin stood behind the podium and signaled
for quiet, wanting desperately to get started.  If only he could get
his hands to work at something.  He tapped the quiet buzzer impatiently.

"Gentlemen, please.  We haven't much time."  Those still standing were
seated, and the last rustle of voices died away.  All eyes went forward.

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you the spot we're in," he began.  "You
all know that ML One is in trouble.  What you don't know is why.  I
have just learned myself, and it is hard to believe.  But it's true.
The orbit of Marcum-Lauries is being tampered with from outside.  The
problem is man-made."

Expressions of shock and disbelief.  TIMID FOOLS, thought Dobrynin,
THAT IS ALL FOR THE GOOD.  THAT WE CAN DO SOMETHING ABOUT.  But there
were others who said nothing:  the miners, the workers.  They, too,
only wanted to know what could be done.

He dimmed the lights and switched a graphic onto the wall-screen behind
him:  a binary system, the elliptical figure-eight of the planet's
orbit encircling two nearly identical suns.  He pointed to the lower
right junction of the crossover point.

"Here is where she lies now.  Every 304.62 earth years, she completes
her orbit around the first sun, in this case Lauries, and passing the
equilibrium point between the two, begins to circle the second in the
opposite direction.  There is a period of instability as she lies
between the pull of both; but nothing like this.  Then slowly the pull
of the first sun grows less, she engages her second orbit, and
geological activity becomes more stable.  All quite simple.  There are
several examples of it just in the part of the galaxy we know."

"So how can a man change it?" came a voice.

"One man can't, obviously.  But many men, with much planning and
outside help, can and have."

He expanded the graphic, receding the orbit and two suns to a lower
corner.  Then tracing with the pointer a straight line away from the
planet's trajectory, he projected near the center of the screen a
miniature (but still too large for scale) image of the enemy station
that Percy had photographed in ultraviolet and sent back to them.  This
he enlarged, until it filled all the screen.

Again expressions of dismay, and this time few kept silent.  Its
already ominous outline distorted by the ultraviolet, it looked like
the huge, black and irregular hull of an ancient aircraft carrier, with
something like an enormous radar dish mounted securely to the
corrugated deck.  As he rotated the image its high, central tower was
pointed directly at them.

"This is the cause of our troubles."  He resolved the image with the
remote, turned it once more to show three similar but lesser tower
structures spread across the bottom, an irregular tripod.

"The concept of a gravity or 'tractor' beam is nothing new.  It has
usually been used from ship to ship, or from static base to ship.  Its
principals to date have either been magnetic, the creation of
artificial gravity, or kinetic, scrambling an object's own momentum to
bring it down.  What we have here is the first case, a gravity beam,
though on a scale, and utilizing principles that are altogether new.
The towers at the bottom of the structure are pointed at neighboring
bodies, and serve only to hold the station in place.  The central
tower, the one doing all the damage, is pointed directly at
Marcum-Lauries.  That is why she won't engage her second orbit.  That's
why internal pressures are ready to blow her apart.  She is being
pulled by three sources at once, as well as by the thrust of her own
rotation.....  We have eighty-six hours at the most."

He re-lighted the room, and for a time there was silence.  Then as the
shock wore off, the questions began to come.  He answered them with
growing impatience.

"I don't know how it is possible, vice-minister, but it is.....  The
Soviets confirm our theories.....  Where would they get the money and
technology?  Where do you think?  No we cannot be sure.  But if it
isn't the German States then I don't know anything.  No, the
Commonwealth won't help us; why should they?  The Soviets are powerless
to intervene."

"But if the Commonwealth knew what the Cantons were doing---"

"They would applaud it.  They are in the midst of a right wing
resurgence themselves.  And the propaganda sent out against us has been
most convincing."

"They say we kill our babies," came a grim voice near the front.

"We let the seriously handicapped and terminal disorder cases die of
their own affliction.  It is an act of mercy."  A doctor.

"I know that as well as you," said Dobrynin.  "But to them we kill our
babies, just as we are atheists who believe in nothing, because we
discourage religious extremes.  That is all meaningless now.  They will
think what they will.  We have no time to change their minds."

"We are overlooking the obvious," said a general, standing.  "What
about military action, an attack on the base?  Our forces beat them
back from Khrushchev well enough."

This time another answered, Ambassador Salnikov, who had just entered.

"You beat them back because you knew they were coming weeks in advance,
and because they did not send their full strength against you.  Indeed,
it could only have been a diversion, meant to give you false
confidence.  Do not think you will find the station lightly guarded,
General Kopek.  THEY  (there was something peculiar in the way he said
the word) play this game to win."

"What does an ambassador know of war?" retorted Kopek angrily.

"Much more than I care to.  Put away your guns and your anger, general.
 They will not help you here."  The old man sat down with a snort.

There was a long, defeated silence.  Finally one man, a co-worker and
friend, raised his hand.

"Yes, Lebedev."

"What can we do to fight this thing?"

Dobrynin felt the small spark inside him that he knew to be hope.

"Well I am glad someone asked.  We are not beaten yet.  Stein, you are
chief scientist here.  What flaws do you see in the Canton scheme?"

The tall man rose, bowed his head self-consciously.  "Well, governor.
As we discussed before, I see two problems for the station.  First, if
the tripod is indeed used as an anchor---and this seems likely---and if
the gravity beam is as strong as it must be to do this thing, then the
pull on the station itself must be tremendous.  Doubtless it is well
constructed, of the hardest alloys and banding fields, for this
purpose. . .and there may be other forms of cohesion as well.  But even
so, I would have to say it cannot maintain that kind of stress for
long.  We are given eighty-six hours---though I must tell you that is
only an estimate, it could happen much sooner.  The Cantons must also
know this.  I do not think they have much longer."

"And the second?"

"The second flaw is what puzzles me, and I think that herein lies our
hope.  Any gravity beam, no matter how refined, can be at least
partially disrupted by passing another object between the sending unit
and the target.  This particular beam, in order to travel such a
distance and affect such a large, dense mass, is extraordinarily well
honed.  The solar flares of Marcum and Lauries have been only mildly
affected.  So.  If we were able to pass a large mass, say an asteroid
or small moon, between the planet and the station.....  During the time
of disruption, should it be successful, we would not only give the
planet time to engage her second orbit, but also send a huge projectile
plummeting directly at them.  I'm sure they are prepared for this to
some degree.  But a very large, solid object would be quite difficult
to destroy or turn aside.  They would have no choice but to shut down
completely, and very soon afterward at that.  Unfortunately, as we
discussed, there are no asteroids or other large objects, of sufficient
size, close enough at hand to be moved into position in time.  Still,
something of this nature seems our only real chance."

"Thank you, Thomas."

"Then what can---what will we do?" asked many voices at once.

Dobrynin stood calm, until the murmur died away.

"We will make our own asteroid."

Silence.

"May I remind you, Governor, that you do not have the authority to
exercise such a plan without the consent of the Council?"  This last
remark came from Franz Pecci, a slight, high-ranking member of the
Leadership Council whom he had never liked.

"And may I remind you, Mr. Pecci, that as governor-general of the
planet I have final say on any decision which affects mining and
excavation.  My jurisdiction is quite clear.  And if you have a better
plan, I would very much like to hear it."

"We could negotiate.  It seems clear that the Cantons don't want to
destroy us, only exact for themselves some future profit.  We have not
even tried---"  Dobrynin was about to answer hotly, when Vladimir
Salnikov lifted his hand and strode to the front of the room.  He stood
beside the speaker.

"Governor Dobrynin's plan has the backing of my government.  I have
spoken with them and they will stand behind it.  And someday, Mr.
Pecci, I would very much like to know how you can be so sure what it is
the Cantons want."  At this the man was silent.

"What say you, Vice-Minister?  Has this plan your consent?"

The vice-minister rose.  "Well.  I am sure the Minister will want to
know all the details, and I am sure he will question the risk.  But for
myself, you have my approval.  And I think when the Minister is briefed
in full, he will agree that we have little choice."

"Thank you, Peter," said Dobrynin.  "I will see that he is given a full
report, and that he is kept informed throughout."  He turned back to
the others.  "Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me.  My engineers and
I have much work to do.  Doctor Stein, we could use your help as well."


With that Dobrynin left the room, followed by five others.  Salnikov
watched them go, then lowered his head, and returned to his ship.





The charges had been laid.  Two hundred kilometers beneath the surface,
six old-style nuclear explosives had been set in a flat, star-shaped
pattern---this, in the heart of a solidified iron and nickel flow one
hundred and sixty kilometers across, rising directly from the planet's
core.  Ironically, the massive upheaval which caused it had occurred
many thousand years before, during yet another violent passage of the
planet's equilibrium point.  If such a bullet could be launched at the
station, it would indeed be hard to knock down, though the full effect
on the planet itself could hardly be calculated.  Between the force of
the blast and the current instability, almost anything was possible.
Dobrynin had no illusions about serious mining for at least a
year---that things could ever again be the way they were before.  But
it had to be tried.

It has gone well enough so far, he thought.  Five dead and seventeen
wounded, but still, well enough.  This is the hard part now.  I don't
mind dying, if I have to.  But I don't want to.

MAYBE YOU WON'T DIE, said a voice.  Yes, and maybe I will.  I hope that
my son understands.  I hope he sees that I have no choice.  BUT YOU
HAVE A CHOICE.  Do I?  If there is a choice then I don't see it.  Not
without surrendering all that we have worked for.  No.  I cannot go
back.

His son entered the room, followed by Stein and Alexander Dimitriev,
his chief engineer.  At his gesture they were seated at the table
across from him.

"Thomas, Alexander.  Now we are come to the hard part:  how to detonate
safely and accurately.  As you know, in this, timing is everything.
Everything.  If we miss by only a few seconds, we doom the planet to
extinction."

"Is it true that you intend to remain behind?" said Dimitriev, "and
detonate the bombs yourself, from no greater distance than a thousand
kilometers?"

"Father!"  YOU MUST UNDERSTAND, LEON.

"Before I say yes or no, let us look at the alternatives.  That is why
you are here.  I must know that you stand behind me."

"We could blow them by radio control."  His son.

"No.  With the static storms this heavy and unpredictable, they could
detonate too soon, or not at all."

"What about a laser-triggered mechanism above ground?" asked Dimitriev.
 "A fast moving ship could activate it, then be gone."  Dobrynin opened
his hand toward Stein.

"I'm afraid that's not possible," he conceded.  "To avoid cloud cover
and volcanic discharge the ship would have to fly very high.  And the
way the upper atmosphere refracts light, even laser is not a sure
thing.  And also, there is the problem of the gravity beam itself,
distorting the path of the ship."

Dimitriev turned away.

"Alexander, Leon.  Listen to me.  There is only one other chance that I
see, and it is not a good one.  We could build the laser-trigger upon a
high tower, allowing me to activate it from the ground at a greater
distance.  But I am not sure we could construct such a tower in time.
And also, it would cost more lives."  He looked at his son.  "Or I
could detonate the bombs myself, safely and surely, by cable from
Leopold Station.  I wish there was another way."

"But why does it have to be you?  You are needed---"  His son broke off.

"Who would you have me send instead?  I am most qualified, except
perhaps for Stein.  And this....."  He spoke now with difficulty.
"This is my home.  It is everything I have worked for.  If it is lost
then I. . .I would not want to live.  We have left the mainstream.  I
do not want to go back."  The room was still, and no one spoke.

Finally Dimitriev rose and came toward him.  He offered him his hand,
and Dobrynin took it in both of his own.

"Good hunting, Nicholai.  I am with you."  He turned and left the room.
 Stein rose also.

"I will have an approximate time, and prep the computer, at Leopold
before I go.....  I think that it is possible."

"Thank you, Thomas."

The scientist bowed his head and was gone.  For a moment father and son
stood looking down, and neither spoke.

"Why couldn't I do it in your place?"

"You have not the skill.....  Your mother needs you."

"And not you?  Will you leave her alone?"

"She has always been alone.  Forgive me."

"Father."  He was crying now, ashamed.

"Please, Leon."  His throat was thick.  "You must be strong now.  I
need you to be strong.....  There is a chance I will not die."  His son
left the room.





Leopold Station.  He sat with the button in front of him, on a console
shelf amidst computers.  He studied its scopes and readouts carefully:
eight minutes.

He was glad that it was far away.  It did not seem real.  Almost---he
was thinking in Russian now---he was not afraid.  Perhaps he could
reach the tube and down into the shelter in time.  If that would help.
I MUST CONCENTRATE.  He breathed deeply, and watched the counter tick
away his life.  Seven minutes.  Six.

He heard a sound behind him.  At that moment the image on one of the
screens shifted slightly.

"Turn around Dobrynin."

He whirled, startled, then returned quickly to the console, made the
necessary adjustments.  "What do you think you're doing?"

"Putting an end to your brave little noise."  Dobrynin said nothing.
"This gun fires nerve pellets as well as the other, Nicholai.  I can
paralyze you without killing you."  Pecci's voice was calm, but there
was fear beneath it.

"And I can press this button and kill us both.  And if I die, how will
you survive?  Doctor Stein says the planet will not last another hour;
do you not feel the quakes?  You will perish along with it."  As he
spoke he watched and moved his hands across the console, all the while
fighting the bitter urge to detonate now:  too soon.

"You lie."

"No, Franz, in this I speak the truth.  Your only chance is to get down
to the shelter, now, and I will forget what has passed between us."
Pecci said nothing.  Dobrynin knew that he must buy more time.

"It doesn't matter, does it?"

"What?"  He could feel the tension of the smaller man's mind.

"It doesn't matter that since I am twenty-five I have made no serious
mistake, that myself and many beside me have worked hard for thirty
years to make this place our home.  It does not matter that we have
broken from the current.  Still, we are dependent on others.  We are
like the stalagmite, which must be fed from above.  If anything comes
between us and the source, we are cut off.  We cannot grow.  And any
puny, so-called man with a putrid hammer, can come and chisel away at
our roots!"  He could not contain his anger.

"I could kill you now!" cried Pecci.  He raised the gun and would have
shot, but at that moment Dobrynin put a hand to his ear.  A faint
voice, mingled with crackling static, had come suddenly into his almost
forgotten ear-piece.

"Governor, can. . .hear me?"  It was Stein.

"Yes, Thomas.  Try to speak louder.  What is it?"

".....just received. . .information on the beam.  We. . .incorrect by.
. . minutes."

"How many minutes?"

"Four.  Must be sooner.  Thirty seconds. . .now."

"Thirty seconds!" he cried.  And regretted it as soon as the words had
left his mouth.  He quickly punched twenty-five into the counter,
forgetting all other instruments.

"Yes....."  Then no more was heard.

"Turn around, Dobrynin!"

"Go muck yourself!" he growled.  If he was going to die, then let it be
like Trotsky.

14.  13.  12.

Pecci shot him in the back and killed him.







........................................................................
............................................................






ACT TWO

Andersen, Korchnoi and Larkspur Sectors
Months I through V
International Year: 2211


INVERSIONS

"There are various theories as to how insect life came to exist on
Newman's Planet, named for its American discoverer.  Most suggest that
its seeds were somehow transported here from Earth, though there is
little agreement as to how, naturally or otherwise, this was
accomplished.  Others state that it must have evolved here naturally.
But this theory runs into equal difficulty.  For the insects of
Newman's world---and insects they are indeed, as like to our own
physiologically as one mammal is to another---resemble much too closely
specific genre already found on Earth.

"And yet there can be no denying that the four species known to exist
(interesting in itself, that there should be so few), date back in
their respective habitats roughly 95 million years.  Fossil remains
have been found, and their location and carbon dating signaled back to
us.  Unfortunately, no first-hand data is available, as the only two
exploration parties ever to brave the hostile environs did not return.

"But from what they were able to gather and send back, we are given a
picture both intriguing and disquieting.  By far the most interesting
news comes from the last report of the British expedition, only hours
before all contact was lost.  One of their young behavioral scientists,
concentrating on the 'Stoors' of the equatorial regions (large,
foraging creatures most nearly resembling the warrior ant,
approximately 1.5 meters in length), was able to observe a gathering of
several colonies around a single, great stone, possibly a meteorite, in
the center of a deep cloven valley.  He reports that the various
groups, distinguished by dots and splotches of color on the head and
abdomen, continued to stream in from all directions for nearly two
hours, apparently taking no notice of his hovering cruiser.  And when
they had swelled to perhaps five thousand, they locked forelegs
together into countless, concentric circles around the stone and began
to chant, though by rights they should have been able to make no such
sound.  Mitchell Collins, the observer, reported that he was not sure
whether it was, in fact, a physical sound, or one that came to him
through his mind only.  He further states that the precise movements
and ritualistic nature of the gathering suggested some kind of
primitive religious ceremony.

"This last observation, of course, remains purely subjective."



---Dr. Charles LeDoux, planetary biologist, to a meeting
of the United French Scientists Guild.






I


Naik Shannon had never heard of Newman's world, or if he had, the
memory lay buried too deeply.  And at the moment, he had other things
on his mind.  The survivors of the Marcum-Lauries colonies, his present
charge, were scattered and in disarray.  His own ship was too badly
damaged to lend assistance; he was running with a price on his head;
and of his own forces perhaps a hundred still lived.

Shin, his second in command, had radioed that he was trying to gather
sufficient escort from the remnants of the fleet to take the civilian
ships to safety in Soviet Space.  Where the others had turned in the
wake of the dismal defeat he could not guess.  His head was pounding
and he felt old and though he wanted to it was hard to care.  Never had
he felt so helpless.

After the death of the ore-planet the Canton assault had been swift and
overpowering.  The Laurian wings had fought well enough, considering
their numbers and outdated equipment.  But they were no match for the
grim machination thrown against them.  He had seen almost at once how
the battle would go.  But while there was any chance at all.....

The red-brown planet loomed closer.  It had a somewhat ominous look:
the knotted lacing of deep-cut ravines, the jagged mountains, so
massive their outlines were visible even from here.

THEY ALL LOOK STARK AND ALIEN AT FIRST.   But this one was something
peculiar, no denying.  Almost it had an aura of strangeness.  If he
hadn't been so desperately short of oxygen he might have kept
searching.....  For a moment he had forgotten the Cantons.

Again he studied the star system readout on the ship's console,
switched to the more detailed graphic of Centaurus III, Newman's
Planet.  Touching the fingerboard, he summoned all the relevant data
his computer possessed.  The cursor darted back and forth across the
screen.


                                        Centaurus III

                                diameter:                 16,000 kil
                                gravity:                 .6 relative
Earth
                                atmos density:         .4 relative Earth
                                CO2                         72.1
                                O2                         19.4
                                N                         5.2
                                CH4                        3.0
                                Trace                        .3
                                temp: 
                                120 to 35F                 tropic
                                100 to 20F                 sub tropic
                                70 to -15F                 up mid latitude
                                30 to -90F                 polar sub pol
                                wind:                         5 to 220 kph
                                humid:                 .15 to .02 relative
Earth
                                flora:                         positive
                                fauna:                         probable


He read the last line over, took a deep breath.  There were some fears
one never fully overcame.

Not that Fear stood large in his mind---seventy Earth years were enough
to teach him how meaningless that word was in the end.  Fear of death
was not only something he had never known, but something he had never
understood in others.  His Cherokee blood, perhaps.  He did not dread
it.  Now, more and more he almost welcomed death, so long as it was
honorable and not cheap.

But this was pointless.  He had to decide on an entry and find a place
to land, and hope his breathing mask could make something of the
strange planet's 'air'.  Then take on as much oxygen as possible.
Then.  What?

GO BACK AND FIGHT THEM AGAIN.  He was tired.

Simin crawled out from the heart of the stone, upwards through the long
carven tunnel.  Coming to a meeting of ways met a brother, touched
antennae lightly---vibrations in the sky - yes brother I will come.
Followed twice left and right outward toward the canyon.  The way grew
wider, more brothers, out into the serrated caves opening far above the
valley, came to the broad ledge.  As one the heads of twenty mai rose
to watch the yellow flame descending.  Touch---as before---moved to
look out from the rim of the ledge, front legs suspended in the air.
The shell was landing in a wide plain among the hills beyond the
valley, at the foot of the Mountains of Teeth.

Joining.

As before - down from the sky - bright flame, shell - two legs - I do
not know brother.  Summon queen, others - not yet I think.  But we must
- brought to us - gods - no, too small - perhaps this one is different.
 Must act as one - yes, as one - I think it is so.  Yes brothers, I
will go.

*


Shannon opened the hatch and looked out, long white hair pushed back as
the wind swept past his hawk nose and weathered features.  His face was
red as brick.  Intense, steel-gray eyes looked straight ahead.

Scattered patches of some yellow-brown foliage skirted the edges of red
stone that rippled up in curving waves from the dark and rocky soil.
Before him lay the rock-strewn plain, beyond it long low hills.  He had
purposely avoided the shadowy chasm beyond.  The sky was pale gold, to
auburn at the edges.

There had not been enough oxygen left for him to wait long inside the
ship.  The air-lock stood closed behind him.  It was a naked feeling as
he took those first breaths, sounding loudly through the intake bars of
the mask.  ALL RIGHT?  It didn't taste just right, but the indicator on
his sleeve showed green:  sufficient oxygen, negligible poison.  He
felt restless.  He crossed over the lip of the threshold, and descended
the perforated steps.

Footing immediately around the landing site was difficult, as he moved
out several paces to look back at the mountains unobstructed.  The
rising sun had just cleared a high gap between them, and its shadow of
light crept slowly down their shoulders.

He felt emotion stir inside him.  Like stark and stalwart horns they
rose to their impossible heights, almost vertical.  Of what stone they
had been forged to so withstand the wind and weathering he could not
guess.  Like jagged pillars that would not die.  The warrior's heart
within him flamed.

Feeling some presence, he turned back to face the plain.  Something was
moving toward him.  Distance defied close description; but the shape of
the body and the nature of its movements did not at first imply
intelligence.  But he knew better than to form such judgments.  It
moved openly, tactlessly toward him. He felt no fear.

But as it drew steadily on, he felt the sudden shock of recognition.
This was no slow, cumbersome oddity.  It was an insect, nearly five
feet long.  Like but unlike a huge ant---it was flatter, more heavily
armored, with creased edges and corners, not unlike the rock.  Crisp,
tight-folded wings.  He turned back toward the ship, but there was
stayed by the will of whatever it was that came forward.  He felt a
sudden shame at his desire to run, and whirled angrily to face it, the
long knife (the only weapon he carried) in his hand.  With this action
the creature seemed pleased:  it wholly released its grip on his mind.
It continued to come on.

Stopping finally some eight meters in front of him, it raised its upper
body and addressed him.  He saw then the bright orange-yellow ring,
darkly filled, on the underside of its thorax.  He heard words in his
mind, somehow in his native tongue.

"I am Simin.  We must fight, you and I.  I cannot let you live.  For
this is our world, and it is not our way.  But your death need not be
without honor.  And if you fight well, it may be of greater worth than
you know."

For a moment the man stood disbelieving, incongruous.  Then,
 
"You will have to take me first!" he cried, feeling yet again the fire
that was in him.

The drone gave way before him, moving to the more level ground a short
distance to one side.  Shannon wondered at this, since clearly it moved
among the pebble-stones effortlessly, then realized also that his knife
had grown, or at least appeared to grow.  Its curved blade gleamed, two
feet long.  The creature was trying to even the odds.  But it fully
meant to kill him.  That he knew with equal certainty.

The two circled, then the mai advanced.  The man aimed a blow at the
head, but Simin rolled away beneath it.  Then rose and came closer.

*

The man had fought well.  SO UNLIKE THE OTHERS.  That he possessed the
heart of a soldier Simin had known from the first brief mind scan.  But
never would have guessed the size of it.  For it was easy to feel the
vast deserts the man had already crossed, and the final defeat showed
clearly in his eyes.  But still he fought on, for no other reason than
that his fierce spirit refused to be broken.  Paused before moving onto
the fallen body.

Came forward, touched antennae to his temples, and drank deeply from
the streams of Shannon's life.  Then engulfed the top of the skull with
massive, bowed jaws and cracked, lifted away the cranium.  Slowly ate
the man's brain, taking with it the remainder of his memory.

Almost at once the change began to come over him.  Tingling, he backed
away slowly on his hind legs.  At last the miracle had come.  He lifted
his head to the sky, and felt the transformation taking place.  The
hard shell of his face softened, yielding gradually to a new shape:
hawk nose, burning eyes.  White hair streamed back from the auburn
face, hard-edged once more.  The huge protruding jaws remained.  His
forward body was now nearly upright, like a mantis, but with stronger,
more flexible arms.  His mind was keen and sharp.

He turned back to face the mountains, felt the same fierce elation.
And for a time he could not move or think for the wonder of it.  How
had he not felt it before.  For a time he could not move or think.....

At long length he turned and headed back to the place of his spawning
---the Gorge.  The brothers, now forty, saw him reappear atop the high
precipice that loomed at the far side of the canyon.  They detected
some subtle change in him, though from that distance they could only
descry a somewhat more elevated form.  He did not come to them at once,
but stood looking down upon the stepped vastness, alone, as if seeing
it for the first time.

When at last he did spread his wings and fly closer they looked up at
him amazed, not understanding.  He landed on the ledge but remained at
his distance, regarding them quietly.  He addressed them, no longer
needing to touch.  His strange eyes shone and he did not move, as if
overwhelmed from within.  He spoke to their minds.

"My time has come.  Summon the others."

They could not understand, but obeyed, dispersing to summon their
queen, and all others that lived within the span of their own.

*


The sun tipped the horizon and dust was gathering and still the long
files of mai continued to stream down.  Already the central basin was
nearly filled, and pushing back toward the statued spires of the west
wall.  The moving shapes were dark in the lengthening shadows, and all
looked up at him, perched silently atop the Carrier Stone.  The first
circle of seven queens, not touching, seemed to understand, as did the
drones behind them.  All others knew only that another Outsider had
been killed.  Waited patiently for the joining.

As the darkness deepened and the last movement ceased, all joined and
were silent.  The queens approached the Stone, the giver of life, and
touched it.

From out of its crumpled iron surface arose a faint hum, the remainder
of its strength.  All lives were now fused, and the queens sent out
their messages.  Joined forelegs and antennae, bent all their thought
toward Simin, so that now he probed the memory not with one mind but
with many.  And stimulated by the Carrier, its greatness began to come
forth.

Slowly the streams of Shannon's life broke free and flowed in a gentle
murmur through all, paced and given substance by the queens and drones.
 And slowly they took shape into music, a long, rhythmic chant.  Then
with gathering strength as a river fed by many tributaries, rose into
song that filled all the valley, and echoed in the hearts of ten
thousand mai.  From birth to death, the long struggles of his life were
played out, rising and falling like the seasons of the wind.  Again and
yet again he did battle, with hope or without it.  The song grew within
Simin, overpowering, so stark and beautiful that he thought he must
die, but knew he could not yet.

Then all again was hushed, and stiffly the drone-that-was raised
himself up.  A voice rose out of his soul, but it was no longer his:  a
pulsing, soft white glow hovered in the air above him.

"They have called me a mercenary, but it is not so.  I am a warrior.
For be it my virtue or be it my curse, it has never been within me to
yield to aggression, or to stand aside and let violence pass.
Something has always risen inside me when persecution, in any form, is
at hand.  In this I claim no virtue, no heroism.  This only will I say:
 that I have ever given my strength to those unable to defend
themselves, the downtrodden, the weak, oppressed by the strong.  But
most bitter in my malice have always been those who kill in the name of
God, some higher purpose.  They are to me blindness and murder
personified.  Thus, I do not claim it.

"In twelve wars have I fought---in half as many victories.  For in time
my soldiering became no longer a conscious action, but an instinctive
response.

"Well do I know my folly in choosing this bitter course.  But if I am
to live, then it will be as a man.  And if by the loneliness that is my
soul I can turn aside the sword of injustice, even for a short time,
then so help me God I will do it."

The words ended and the glow receded.  It lived no more.  Again
himself, alone, Simin lowered his head, so deeply moved that the water
flowed freely from his eyes.  The ruling queen approached him.

"Simin-that-was.  Do you take this Quest?"

"I will take it, though I fear to falter."

"You will not."

The queen stepped back, and all proclaimed him.

"Si-mai, ungol, misch-naik!"  AGAINST THE EVIL THAT WAS AND IS, WE SEND
YOU.  The joining was ended, and the gathering dispersed.




II


He had flown for many days into the growing cold.  The sun was gone and
the wind was rising as he searched the ground below him for a place to
pass the night.  It must be sheltered, not so much from the elements
(though this too was important) as from the marauding bands of ground
wasps that lived in these northern regions.  There was still far to go
and much danger ahead.  He had no strength for useless battles.

At last as all light faded he came upon a towering pillar of stone in
the midst of a vast wasteland, split at the top as if cloven by a giant
axe.  Reaching its heights, he descended slowly into its broad
embrasure.  Detecting some deeper shadow in the blackness of the
eastern wall, he flew toward a narrow fissure in the rock.  Landing
silently on the lip of it, he tested the air for vibrations.  All was
still.  He moved inside and huddled close together.  He was empty and
cold and weary to the point of exhaustion.  He remained in quiet
thought for many hours.

When he had taken the quest, he knew only that he must somehow continue
the labors of Shannon's life---find some way to avenge the death of it.
 He had wandered alone for a period of days, remembering, until one
morning, at the rising dust of a fiery dawn, he had felt the North
calling to him.  He felt it still, though less strongly, and he deemed
that this was right.  What he hoped to find there he could not say.  He
only knew that he must find it.

The most difficult aspect of his journey thus far had not been the long
flight on short provisions.  To the mai such things meant nothing.
They lived to work and serve the greater need, that was all.  No, it
was more the feelings and emotions that the long pilgrimage evoked in
him, seeming almost to rise from the vast loneliness of his world.  For
though the man's spirit had died or moved on, his sensations and
experience had not.  They lived on within Simin, and sometimes puzzled
or even frightened him.  He understood, and knew this was necessary;
but the knowledge did not make it easier.

WHAT A TORTURED RACE THEY MUST BE, he thought. SO TORN BETWEEN DESIRE
AND FEAR.  THEY ARE GIVEN NO ROLE, NO CLEAR PLACE.  THEY MUST FIND IT,
AS WE MUST FIND MOISTURE IN AN ARID LAND.

It was this fear of frustration and fruitless searching that he felt
most deeply, because it had for so long been a part of his own
existence.  Through all his twenty months he had sought after some
intangible, some elusive quality of being, with no more guide than a
restless and smoldering hunger inside him.  TO NOT KNOW, really not
know who he was or where he was going.

This, he decided, must be the doom of humanity:  to be born a burning
question of itself, a paradox of beauty and destruction, love and loss.
 To take personally and introspectively the irresolvable conflict of
life and desire over stillness and the void.  Again, he felt it so
deeply.  That the struggle could also be beautiful he knew.  But still,
such a hard and lonely fate.....

When dawn came he crawled out of the niche and looked about him.  The
great crack was shadowed and still.  He felt the presence of many
creatures, but they were not yet near him.  The rockface offered little
resistance as he climbed, and soon he stood atop a hooked spire that
sprang from the pillar's crumbling eastern shoulder, high above the
plain.  Two long lines of wingless wasps were mounting towards him.
The first of their number touched the spire.  He took one last taste of
the dawn, then flew out beyond their reach.

He flew staunchly and steadily northward, now that he had some plan.
For the clarity of first-sun had told him what he must do.  Stopping to
rest along the top of a shallow ridge, he ate part of a darkening
bush-bulb, nearly as large as himself.  Its taste was bitter, but it
gave him strength.  Then he set out again.

His mind had determined to search the farthest North.  Shannon's memory
told him what he might find there:  great frozen wastes of ice and
earth, underground hollows left from times when the water had been
greater.  Sometimes as he pondered these, at the edge of thought he
would feel a sound, a sensation: deep throbbings in empty places
beneath the ground, a golden light that drew him onward.  But then it
would vanish and leave him, wondering.  He must find its source, if it
were real.

Three days more he journeyed toward it, till on the fading edge of the
third the wind forced him to land.  It had been gathering strength
since the morning of the spire, and now carried with it a bitter and
biting cold that would not rest.  His strength beginning at last to
fail him, he determined to go on on foot, until he found some shelter,
or a reason to stop.  He felt the presence of no other creature, yet
still he was uneasy.  He had reached the edge of the mighty tundra that
formed the cap of Newman's world.

Now more and more he reached into Shannon's past, trying to find the
thing that had kept him going.  Genuine physical weakness, other than
simple hunger, thirst and fatigue, was something he had never known,
and dealing with it frustrated all the lessons he had learned as a mai.
 Being alien to his experience, he had assumed that it did not
exist---that there was only weakness of will, and that so long as his
desire held, no barrier of the flesh would ever stop him.  This lesson
in perspective he accepted, though grudgingly.  It seemed that
everything he had known in three seasons of life must be relearned,
altered to fit this new reality.  But his will remained undaunted.

He traveled many hours into the darkness of night, until he found a
small hollow of earth and root of stone at the base of a pummeled and
wind torn boulder.  A thin lacing of ground-snow, carried by the wind,
swirled around him and whistled in its cracks, making a melancholy
sound that he felt still deeper for the lassitude of his body.  Here he
rested, and tried not to think, until the coming of morning.

The morning was much the same as the night, with only a patchy gray
light to tell him when the day had come.  He moved out of the shelter
and walked, across shallow hills, rising in monotonous rhythm through a
bleak and barren landscape.  The earth was a dull and frozen brown,
broken now and again by rock, or gnarled scrub, or nothing.  The thin
snow blew over all, trailing and whirling about in long wisps like the
twisting hands of witches.  He continued on for many hours, until the
wind relented just long enough for him to exhaust himself in flight.
He landed again, and found the earth covered intermittently with thin
patches of ice, sometimes deepening and joining together into shrunken,
unmoving streams, or withered oak leaves of many fingers.

He continued and night came again but he did not stop.  He had eaten
what hard and knotted brush he could find, and there was now no lack of
moisture; and though it was his mind he feared, denying it had not yet
become unbearable.  He rested a short time, went on the next day. And
the next, walking because he could not fly, into the growing cold, and
thicker snow, and ice that began to dominate the ground.  Until he was
alone.

Time passed.

*


He had reached the farthest North.  The world was ice, layered with
snow.  The wind blew the white softness above into dunes, sometimes
foaming against islands of rock, huddled together in groups or
branching straight like disjointed coral reefs, while its gusting
blasts wrapped veils over all, swirling and howling in relentless
defiance.  The day lasted but four short hours, then all was swathed in
darkness, so that the swirling sheets were blind and crashed over him
like spray of drowning surf on the deck of a floundering ship.  He was
utterly alone.

Simin's strength was gone; he did not know what kept him going.
Perhaps because he had never known defeat.....  But surely it was more.
 Through the numb slowness of his near-frozen body a heart beat that
carried no blood.  He was dangerously crippled by the cold.

He had passed wide cracks in the ice, chasms and fissures that he knew
must lead down:  sometimes he could almost see, or sense, uncovered
earth or the edges of rock far below.  And this was what he sought.
But always the feel of them was cold.  He sought an entrance, which led
to a passage.  He must find it soon or perish.

On the seventh day since entering the tundra, an hour after the
disappearing of light, a vast abyss opened before him, wider and
emptier and deeper than any he had yet come across.  Like a crushed
cylinder of otherworldly proportions, it yawned directly in front of
him, dropping deep into the earth.  His forelegs hovered trembling
above the void.

This must be the passage, or he would die.  He no longer trusted his
judgment; it had fallen in the snow many miles behind him.  It could
well be madness, but he felt a presence far below, some wild hope.....
No.  He must find shelter.  Perhaps it was there.  A shelter.  If he
could find it.  MUST CONTINUE ON.  NO, HERE.  IT MUST BE HERE, OR I AM
DYING.  SO. . .EASY TO SURRENDER.  LIKE FALLING ASLEEP.  LETTING GO.
NO!

He turned his sinking body around, and forced it to descend:  hooking
and digging, scraping into ice, forelegs stretched to the limit, trying
not to slip.  To slip was death.  Down.  Down farther.  A little
farther.  THE WIND IS LESS HERE.  Here.  KEEP MOVING.  MUST KEEP
MOVING.  NO STRENGTH. . .BUT WARMTH COMING BACK.  YES, WARMTH.  MOVE.
FARTHER.

DON'T SLIP!  DON'T SLIP.  An overhang.  CAREFUL.  MUST STRUGGLE PAST
SOMEHOW.  SOME WAY.  PAST.  WARMTH.  IT MUST BE WARMER.  KEEP MOVING.
IT WILL BE WARMER, OR I AM DYING.  I AM DYING.  IT IS WARMER.

After the long and grueling climb, stopping many times to marshal
strength, he found himself at the bottom.  The cylinder had narrowed,
so that now it was scarcely thirty meters broad, a sharp cleft of
stone, rising  sheer into ice that overtook it for perhaps a thousand
meters more.  He rested there, his body pulsing, spent.  The cold was
not as intense, and the wind was less, and the movement had warmed his
limbs.

But he was weak and near dead from hunger and exhaustion.  He needed
sustenance badly, soon.  Or it was over.  He moved to a tiny pool of
snow that had formed from a trickle of the torrent above, and with his
trembling foreclaw worked small bits of it into his mouth.  All done in
pitch darkness, and very little feeling left.  Then moved to examine
the corners of the cleft.

The first was blocked, solid stone.  He turned about.  He did not know
he had reached the opposite wall until he passed through it, was
inside.  A cave had opened blindly and taken him in, narrow and not
high, but a cave nonetheless.  A passage.  After a time he knew
instinctively that he was underground, but was far too weary for the
knowledge to have much effect.  He continued forward.  He must find
some kind of sustenance.  Sustenance.  He thought of his foreclaw, but
remembering the man.....  No.  Not yet.

He wandered on, stumbling, raising himself up to go on.  Plodded
forward, sinking ever deeper, and onward, until the air around him
suddenly grew larger.  A loosened rock rolled off another, and the echo
did not return for some time.  He moved to his right, sensing
something, and stroked the tip of his claw against the slanting surface
which met it.  The surface was sometimes soft and not smooth; it was
not part of the stone.  He tried to break off a small piece.  The layer
was thin, and it crumbled.  He tried again, brought the wretched
substance---some kind of dried blood, or excrement---to his mouth.  Its
taste was bile and bitter and acid.  Then swallowed.  Throat burning,
he repeated the motion perhaps a dozen times, then collapsed, half
holding, to the floor.  And lay unmoving.


*


Simin woke from his delirium many hours later, somewhat stronger, but
still dizzy and confused.  The little nourishment he had taken lifted
his mind back to awareness, strong, if subtly altered by the thick aura
of the place, and by the strange and pressing reality of his quest.  He
rose slowly, careful not to spend the wavering hope he had found, and
looked around him.

Looked around him.  There was a dim light in that place, that region of
vastness.  And whatever the source, though all before had been
darkness, it was undeniable.  The light was dim and surreal, softly
yellow and fallow gold, but nonetheless afforded him a glimpse of this
underground world, if it did not end, which he must now traverse.  For
here, more than ever, he sensed a presence that was greater than his
own life, if distantly, not calling him but aware of his need.

Strangeness.

He was not alone in that ribbed, spine-ceilinged enclosure.  Around a
far turning he caught movement, and was sure as an ebb and flow motion
of body and legs rounded the inward corner that was the edge of his
sight.  He was still too weak to fight, or to go on, as the many legged
creature approached him blindly, unaware of his presence.  It drew
closer, then seemed to slow in its movements, coming gradually to a
halt.  Descendant of the centipede, it studied him from a distance of
forty meters, its poisoned forward spikes twitching with unease.

Though the centipede was longer, its bulk and his were nearly equal.
He had no strength for a fight, nor did he seek one.  But perhaps his
quivering opponent could be daunted, backed down.  Yet as he continued
to watch he felt no aggression, only puzzlement, coming from the other:
 He was not part of its food chain, nor was its territory threatened.
It was only frightened, why so strongly he could not guess.  He also
knew, with sudden sureness, that it was one of many.  Somehow he knew.
He took a step forward, and it retreated swiftly along the way it had
come, moving onto the wall, perhaps instinctively, where it felt a
greater measure of safety.  He followed it as best he could in the half
light, the flexing striped-brown body, hoping to find the source of its
food.

He passed the narrowing corner at the back of the high, curving chamber
and descended a long, often twisting, downward tunnel that branched off
from it.  The other's speed was considerable, moving through the
regions of its birth, and try as he might he could not keep up.  He
soon found himself alone in a roughly spherical vault, not large, with
five knife-slash passages opening off it.

The light here was thicker, and in a swift moment of recognition he
realized the reason for it.  The soft glow was neither greater nor
weaker anywhere around him:  it did not have a true source, nor did it
cast a single shadow.  He felt a slight pulsing of moisture across his
face, like a fine drizzle-rain touched by the wind.  The light was in
the mist itself.  Also, there was the sensation of his flesh lightly
touching, warming against the inner edges of his armor.  His senses
were heightened, and he was acutely aware of his hunger.

His antennae began to twitch, almost without his knowledge, turning him
to the left.  He followed to a shallow rift at the lowest point of the
enclosure, where he found a tiny pool of dark water, sponged by a thick
and brackish black algae.  He immersed his jaws and tasted.  Again.  He
filled his mouth, and painfully swallowed wave after wave of the wet
and mud sustenance.

Then he backed away and lifted himself up, feeling alive once more.  He
moved to hide himself behind a jagged plate of rock, and waited for his
strength to return.





III


Simin stood before the flat porous surface of a section of a wall of
stone.  The pale light which illuminated it was the same as ever,
perhaps a little brighter, or his eyes had dulled in growing used to
it.  But through the worn blankness of his mind (though a fair measure
of his physical strength had returned, yet having no will to drive it)
he felt a spark of emotion, almost human, that held him there with a
hollow aching in the center of his chest.  He stood before a fading
portrait, a mark left on the uncaring stone.

At his feet lay the scattered and broken armor, all that remained, of
another who had tried.  This melancholy work, drawn in the creature's
own browning blood and severed foreclaw, had been its death-act of
remembrance, its struggle still to forge some meaning from the
emptiness of its failure.  It had not been mai---he knew from the
broken shell and the drawing---and this more than anything else,
thundered shame at his growing feelings of surrender and despair.  He
remained silent, head down, wrapped in rage.  At length he looked up to
study the creature's last act of flesh.

It was the image, subtly changed, of a winged chivit, roaming insects
living to the south of the mai.  The outlines of its frame, like the
edges of a fisherman's net, were opened at the center of the body and
joined shut at the limbs and single arching wing.  Its left foreleg and
right hind (it had only four digits in all) extended from the main in
almost Egyptian caricature, drawn with a trembling hand.  The effect of
the whole was that of a shriveled and shrunken Phoenix, macabrely
adorning the tomb of some lost pharaoh. Subtly changed, like
himself.....  But the thing that held him---one strange detail.  A
smoky blur emanated outward from the body, like Spirit growing out of
flesh.  A fearful banshee image, or dying vision of the Life After?
The long journey.

Aura.

Breaking away at last he continued downward, seeking the source of the
light, finding passages as best he could.  He tried to read what signs
there were, the faint flux of incandescence, feeling called but never
sure, taking what nourishment he could, for three days more.  Always
the strange tingling of flesh against his armor increased, as did
internal body heat.  And ever as he went he came across more of the
striped-brown creatures, male centipedes, some running it seemed, from
what he could not guess, all fearing him, all bearing the marks of
battle.  Yet none were ever wounded to the point of near-death, and all
appeared strong of their kind.  It was a puzzle he could not dissect.
Their fear held his confidence, but drawing steadily downward, he felt
a growing reluctance to trespass the source of their being.  It seemed
to contradict all fairness that the way which led to meaning, if it
did, lay through a world of savage (of this he was also quite sure),
sniveling insects, who had in no way raised themselves above the
animal.  They were mindless and ugly, and his distaste for them would
not be abated.  Fatigue, too, was becoming unbearable, as the invisible
force that beat back on him, assaulting both mind and body, continued
to grow with the light which was its sister sun.

On the fourth day, though time meant little in that place, passing only
in the world outside, he discovered the reason for his revulsion.  The
dull, scraping sounds of armor against stone, of multitudes locked in
battle, had caught first at the edge of hearing, seeming unreal, then
steadied, held, and increased as he went on.  Till coming to the
fissure-like opening of yet another vast cavern, he looked down on a
sight that twisted his spirit like rope and squeezed hard at the knots.
 Some twenty meters below him, as it were through a glassless window,
he saw and understood at last the riddle of these pathetic creatures.

Newly hatched---the broken, swollen webs of multiple cocoons lay many
layers deep all around them---they were locked into countless battling
pairs.  Each separate fight was to the death, the victor sometimes
stopping to eat a part of the vanquished, gaining strength, then moved
on to grapple with others who had yet survived.  By such attrition
their numbers had already been reduced from thousands to hundreds, to
what end he could not imagine.

Then he saw the females.  Huge and bloated, they sat complacently on
raised vantage points at the margins of the battlefield, awaiting the
final conquerors.  These victors he knew, from the signs he had already
seen, would mate with them and then be cast out, possibly eaten, left
to die as they would, the reason for their brief, wretched lives
extinguished.

He watched them in dull horror, growing to intense pity and disgust.
For he knew that what he sought lay beyond them, and that its power,
for good or ill, had nothing to do with them, and no influence
whatever, either to elevate or corrupt.  They were only here, and
through some flaw of intelligence, or heart, or having no choice, they
lived and died in a meaningless haste of reproduction.

He must past through them.  He waited as long as his patience would
hold, away from the window, not watching.  When he looked in again many
hours later, the number of fighting pairs had been reduced to perhaps
sixteen.  He crawled in through the high opening, moved carefully down
the back-leaning arc of wall and onto a level with the combatants, all
unnoticed.  A narrow wrinkle in the chamber, nearly flat at the base,
ran like a sunken path before him, dividing the battle in half.  Having
no choice, he began to walk the shallow gauntlet, moving stiffly,
always ready for a fight.

First one pair and then another released their grip as they saw him,
confused.  Some, already on the verge of death, lay writhing and
legless, fighting still.  The four queens, each from its raised
pedestal, looked on in disbelief: their sacred ritual had been
disturbed.  Simin moved steadily forward, staring down and backing off
each male as he passed.  He was nearly halfway through.

Finally one of the females raised up her forward body, and began moving
it back and forth like an impatient cobra.  The male closest to her
---it seemed to Simin the largest he had seen---broke away and came
forward, moving toward the dry canal where the intruder stood waiting.

Unlike the others it showed no outward fear.  It advanced without
hesitation, or thought, or much of anything except the blind mating
aggression of its kind.  It stopped only once, looking back at the
female from the lip of the sunken path, then came forward with only one
impulse in its mind.  Kill him.

Simin had only a short time to plan his fight.  As the creature drew
nearer he opened his wings instinctively and strafed the air with his
foreclaws.  His wings!  In all the time since finding the abyss he had
forgotten them, first from the weak amnesia of near-death, then from
simple disuse.  With no more time to marvel he moved in a quick
half-circle to avoid the lumbering bulk, then flitted up behind it onto
the slanting edge of the rift.  These short bursts of flight he
repeated several times (the thought that he could fly to safety and
forget this fight never occurred to him), searching for a weakness.
Though filled with a sullen rage, he knew there could be no mistakes.
Rising higher, he hovered briefly above his baffled foe, then swept
down onto its back, and in three quick motions of jaws and foreclaw,
tore off its head and left it to die.

Still full of bitter and unused anger he landed again on the plain
closest to the female, clawing the rock as if clinging to a rope, as
his blurring wings drummed threateningly.  Then letting go he flew
directly over her, and left the sorry massacre behind.

With this action his patience expired.  Landing as the far side of the
chamber grew shallow, he walked on through a curving length of tunnel
for some miles, until confronted by a three-directional branching of
the passageway.  He followed the right-hand way first, and for a short
time made good progress.  But then it doubled back on him and finally
ended, died, into a narrowing of stone through which he could not pass.
 Furious, he worked his way back to the starting point, taking this
time the central shaft, leading downward.  The result was the same,
though it took him much longer to realize.  Returning again to the
meeting of ways was now difficult, since in his haste he had been
forced to take and re-take several turns in a compact but puzzling
labyrinth, that he found in the end took him nowhere.

Coming again after many hours to the branching of paths, he tried to
rest both mind and body, conceding the inevitable.  His anger here was
useless.  It had only robbed him of strength and precious time, and he
was no closer to a resolution of his bitter quest than he had ever
been.  And also, a peculiar yellow fear, such as he had seldom
experienced in his life, was beginning to grow in him.  At first he
blamed himself, raging.  But walking through the twisted tunnels of the
labyrinth he had realized, suddenly, that it was not his fear alone.
His body was still not right, if wrong in a way that was hard to
define, and there could be but one explanation for it.  The mist, the
growing light, was affecting his altered physiology.  He searched
within himself, bewildered, till Shannon's memory put a name to it.
RADIATION.  A force that should not affect an insect, but which worked
on those parts of his body that were yet human.

He rested for a time, but his rest was brief.  The feelings of unease
continued to grow in him; they would not be contained.  The source of
what he sought---he could now feel a faint throbbing in the stone
around him---was a danger in itself, repulsing, even as it called to
him.  He must find it quickly, then be gone.  For he knew that his time
in those depths was limited.  He gathered what courage and presence of
mind he could, then pushed on, entering the left-hand passage.

He summoned now all his underground instincts, honed by the long
delvings of his life among the mai.  In those days, a constant stream
unbroken by sleep, he had endlessly searched out tunnels untraveled or
long forgotten, returning ever and again to those that went deepest,
learning the mazes, delving deeper still.  Though what he sought there
he could not have said.

The left-hand way was subtle, as he passed onward through the narrow
stone, with many turnings and side passages.  He held mostly to the
main shaft, learning its direction, following it on its slow, steady
course downward.  Many times it narrowed, till he was ready to despair.
 But always through perseverance and careful backtracking, he was able
to find a way through.

The narrowing and tight touching of the walls began to frighten him.
By this, more than any other token, he knew that the growing fear
inside him was not solely his own.  Far back in the journey he had
realized that
in taking the quest he must know, in part, what it was to be human.
Perhaps the spirit of Shannon still lived more strongly than he knew.
And perhaps there were others as well.  Often he had thought with human
voice, human words, till now it was impossible to separate the two.  He
had known, and been, emotions that were not his own.....

But THIS fear.  Sometimes from the deeps of his mind he could hear a
howling as of many tormented voices, rising out of him like a driven,
heart-frozen wind.

He stopped.  He himself was afraid, and he did not know why.  He must
master it and go on.  He must master it and go on.  Go on.....
Resistance was thick around him, his body's weakness, till he felt that
in standing still he walked against a current of water.

He hardened, and went forward.  The passage began to open again,
growing wider.  Several more of the branching ways, through a mesh of
stone, and a straight, subtly rising tunnel lay before him.  Far off in
the distance he heard, unmistakably, a steady throbbing, echoing like a
fall of water---the deep, rapid pulsing of a heart.  He pushed on,
harder, though the pulsing of yellow light grew stronger, pushing back
on him, darkening to gold, an airless wind urging him back.

The passage seemed endless, and still it went on, with no
indication.....   Ahead of him, the tunnel opened out, almost beyond
the edge of sight.  He continued.  Farther.  He had reached it:  the
horn's spout.  Over the lip, and in.....


*


The beginnings of the chamber greeted him like an opened book, lying on
its bindings, leaning downward.  The rock of that flattened wedge,
angling slowly away from him, was ribbed and strangely
symmetrical---smooth porous gray, but bathed in a strong golden light,
inexplicably tinged dark crimson where it met a rise of stone.  He was
only vaguely aware that beyond this antechamber the ceiling warped high
and huge, above a valley that dwarfed even the place of his birth.  For
here, as nowhere else beneath the surface of his world there were
shadows, lengthening toward him to either side of the shallow, widening
staircase.  And for all the desperate haste of his journey, Simin could
not yet go forward.  He stood looking down at the two pillared
sentinels in awe, the vast spherical expanse beyond.  He little thought
that he himself, standing before the rim of the long tunnel he had just
traversed, his upper body and underside wreathed in red, formed an
equally stunning and unlikely visage of life against the Void.

Assimilation.

Two stone sentinels stood in perfect symmetry, like Roman statues, atop
the angling walls that rose to either side of the stairway's end.  The
sunken plain lay beyond.  Whether these silent watchers had been carved
by Nature or intelligence it was impossible to say:  perhaps meant to
connote angry, reptilian merman rising out of the stone, perhaps
roughly shaped bodies whose accidental carving held no meaning at all.
Here all boundary between the spiritual and the meaningless faded.
They stood silent, faces outward, guarding the plain below.  He
descended slowly until he stood between them, on the ripple of stone
looking down.

The plain lay before him like a massive wrinkled dish, bone-white and
barren.  He breathed deeply several times, not knowing why.  His
objective was a clear as the tolling of a bell.

A broad crater rested in the center of all, sinking out of sight, and
from it came the deep tremor of sound, the slow throbbing of light that
pervaded the underground vastness with its certain and unnerving
presence.  Everywhere the edges of floor and ceiling glowed red, as if
from heat, and the brightness of yellow gold folded over and through
him like a liquid current of sun and air, warming.  Simin had not the
heart to remain there long; he must descend now, or turn back in
defeat.  This place was the very nexus of his unspoken fears.

He descended into the Valley, and almost at once the wailing of
human voices erupted in his ears, rising and falling in a discordant
terror of mutilated passions, scales without notes or boundaries.  He
moved on, oblivious, physically incapable of dealing with this fear.
His weakness cried out strange horrors; his strength was confused.

He continued, not knowing what else to do.  The surface of that plain
was cracked and uneven---warm, and unbearably long.  The cacophony of
human fears climbed and fell back, rising now as if engulfed in flame,
then chilled, despairing.

HUMAN FEAR.  At last he understood.  He felt the presence of other
minds so strongly that he wondered if Shannon were truly dead, and not
merely the emissary of human suffering and grief.  For this, surely,
was an unearthly place of His world.  The high ceiling, the infinite,
trackless waste.  The heat.  Words raced through his beleaguered body,
slowing, till with a dread he would not have thought possible.....  The
voice of a weary, tortured old man, his spirit broken in the end---a
Jew, his lungs filled with poison---formed physically, undeniable, in
his ears.

"Inferno."

He stopped, as if a razor had cloven him in two.  It was there before
him, all around.  He could not go forward, or back.  He was dying.
Yes, dying in that place, where the river of his dreams, fallen to a
trickle, had at last died into unconquerable sand.  He stood frozen in
terror.  To breathe was a pointless misery.  There was
nothing---alone---in that hollow place but death.

He knew not where he got the strength, or desperation.  He lifted the
first of his walking legs, moved it forward.  It touched the ground, a
little farther ahead.  He moved the next, and then the next.  He
staggered forward, feeling a will such as he had never known hardening
out of his weakness and despair.  He was terrified, in pain.  Burning
with fever.  But he moved.

With this action the resistance seemed to falter, the wailing of human
passions to subside.  But only for a moment.  They redoubled their
assault---the current against him was physical---but broke against his
stubborn movement like a wall of water against stone.  He continued.
The sand of many hours flowed past him.

He was nearing the crater, now certain he would die.  If only by his
death he could achieve for Shannon, and for the other.....  He forced a
foreclaw to shackle the edge of the crater, looking down.  Determined.
The dry heat of that place was unbearable; and still distance defied
him.  A silver-white core, cruel mockery of the Carrier stone, glowed
at the center of the broken-rock pit.  From within came the voices, the
fever, the Heat.  Yet this was his only quest.  He must. . .TOUCH
it.....  Must.

He could not walk; his legs would no longer carry him.  With a weak
spasm of his hind and a pathetic flutter of wings, he pushed himself
over the edge and slid, rolled across stones, folding his wings just in
time, to tumble down a steep slope then land, legs folded beneath him
gripping hot stones, perhaps a hundred yards from all his desire.

He welcomed now its death, if only he could move.  If only he could go
that distance farther, against the barrage.  Of distance.  But he was
afraid.  Afraid to die.  To die!  At last he had met the greatest human
fear:  the wakened animal, knowing it would live no more.

Oh, it was too much.  He steeled the fire in his heart and went on, but
would have screamed if he could.  Fifty yards.  Forty.  It was too
much.  Too much.  The stones beneath him rasped and hissed, speaking
Death's name.  Downward, into the final hole of death, the murderer of
all his passions.  It was too much.  What kind of God would ask.....
Too much.

His death reached out.  He touched the stone.


*


He touched the stone.  Slowly the feverish weakness left him, as if a
violent storm fading at the last.  The human flesh, the human trial,
had left him.  There was only Simin, and he was one.

The Stone, which had appeared to burn white-hot, was cool, and he
experienced a sense of tranquility such as he had never known.  He had
done it.  The spirit of Shannon was at peace.

His mind was calm, his own.  He remained, outstretched foreclaws
touching this new life, where death had been certain.  His inner being
was like the quiet surface of a pool.  A tiny pebble fell into it, and
as the ripples smoothed outward and the settled stone touched bottom,
he understood.

"It is a strange truth that the path to beauty and meaning often lies
through fear and ugliness."  After a time another part of his being
added this.  "God may exist; at times I feel him.  Yet we must walk
dark paths alone, and endure."

He remained there in silent thought for some time, until at length he
turned and made his way back toward the tunnels, knowing now with
certainty what he must do.  His mind possessed new powers, because it
was one with the Unnamable.  His armor was many times stronger.

He knew what he must do.





IV


It was irony, perhaps, but also a shrewd tactical maneuver on the part
of Shin il Sung, that brought the Laurian refugees to Hegel V, the
remote Canton mining planet.  Limping toward Soviet Space with a
patchwork of seventeen ships, Shannon's second-in-command had hoped at
first that that the fascist armada, which had paused for two weeks to
regroup and consolidate its victory (whatever that might be, as the
colonies they attacked had been largely destroyed), would at least
allow them to escort the civilian carriers unharmed.  But when the
fanned out cluster of ships began to appear again on laser detection,
mockingly unconcealed, he knew that he hoped in vain.  Their enemies
could leave no honest witness to the massacre.

Shin's own trail would be more difficult to follow, but he knew that in
the end they would be found, long before the countless miles had been
crossed.  Sheer distance made this part of the galaxy anarchic.

There would be no help from beyond.  The Soviets, with their usual
pragmatism, had said a polite no to his request for protective escort,
even hospital and civilian ships for the wounded, and the women and
children.  It was clear that they were taking a larger view of the
conflict, hoping to turn it later to their own advantage, which made
the lives of a few thousand refugees of but small concern.  And there
was no one else to turn to.  His messages to the Commonwealth and
Japanese outposts would not be received for weeks, not believe until
long after they were dead.

Not that he was wholly unprepared.  For many long nights he had puzzled
over charts of this sector, trying to find a place where, if they must
fight and die, at least it would be on solid ground.  Space combat
against such a force was less than futile.  It was nothing short of
murder, with no place to run, and no hope at all.  The trick was to
find a land base that could not (or would not) be attacked from the air.

The memory of the Hegel diamond mines had come to him as pure
inspiration.  The Cantons, gearing up for an expanded war effort,
couldn't possibly afford to knock them out, especially after the
unexpectedly severe break-up (explosion, really) of Marcum-Lauries One,
the valuable ore planet, now lost.  And this far out in neutral space,
at a time when ships and men were needed elsewhere, he doubted that the
mines were guarded by more than a token force.  If he got there first,
and caught them off guard..... Shannon had chosen his second well.
Shin was tough as nails and twice as sharp, and with the same capacity
for facing despair without letting it overwhelm him.

He had acted immediately on the impulse, whatever its source, putting
the fleet on standby combat readiness, and jumping light-speed toward
the target with five destroyers and two hundred of their combined
army's best troops.  No other Canton outpost lay within that vector.
The closest neighboring system, Centaurus, was bleak and uninhabited.
The rest of the fleet would come behind, arriving roughly forty-eight
hours later.  Then, if they had been able to subdue and take control of
the mines, together they would prepare to meet the Armada.


*


"You have grown, Simin-that-was."

Returned to the land of his birth, he stood alone by the Carrier Stone
with the aging queen who had given him life.  A gentle wind sighed in
the valley.  Nothing else moved.

"I am Simin."

She considered this, listening to his unspoken thoughts.

"Yes, you are Simin.  What will you do now?"

"I must go."  It was not necessary, but still he signaled the words to
her with a touching of the antennae.  For he loved her.  The queen
bowed her head.

"The human's death was not wasted.  That pleases me, for his spirit was
great.  Go now with all our thoughts."

Simin took his leave of her, flying slowly and circumspectly up out of
the Gorge.  These emotions were his alone.  He flew to Shannon's ship,
and entered it.  Working the controls with melancholy ease, he left
forever the place of his birth.



*                         *                         *



The Canton Fleet Marshall walked openly toward the three broad cave
entrances held by the Laurians, tucked in and overhung with shadow at
the base of a dry, tawny ridge several thousand feet high, crowned with
foliage.  The precious diamond mines lay beyond.

Marshall Bota had not bothered with a signal of truce, or an
escort---his hovering vehicle stood empty behind him.  No doubt the
mercenaries would be tempted to shoot; but he had no time for these
games.  Shin's move had been a clever aggravation, nothing more.
Looking up at the wind-veined rock, the Canton told himself with mild
amusement that he should drop it on their heads.  The hostages meant
nothing to him, and the mines could be re-dug.....  But some of his
soldiers might not understand.  Wait until later in the war, once
they'd had a taste of it.

Shin watched the approaching general through the glasses, searching for
any sign of personal weakness.  It was indeed their only hope.
Recognizing him as the Fleet Marshall, a small voice inside did in fact
tell him to shoot.  But though bitterness rose strong against
restraint, he knew that it would be pointless and dishonorable to kill
him now.  Though doubtless if the tables had been turned.....

Bota was somewhat surprised to see the Korean's solid form emerge from
the canopy of shadow, striding toward him.  He had expected an older
man.  He stopped where he was and waited.  A slight upgrade, and the
two stood face to face.

The marshal unclasped his breathing mask and slipped it aside, though
the dense atmosphere of that place was barely sustainable to human
life.  The Korean did the same.

"Commander Shin, I believe."  Shannon's second was only mildly taken
back by the use of his name and proper rank.

"Bota."

"MARSHAL Bota."

"You didn't come all this way to tell me...(he struggled for breath)...
how many men you stabbed in the back!  What do you want?"

"One would expect a cornered monkey to show more respect."

"A cornered MAN has nothing to live for.  Speak your piece and get out."

"All right.  I want the hostages.  I want them now.  Your civilian
ships will be allowed. . .to whimper to Soviet Space.  We won't stop
them.  It's your hides we're after."

"You'll let them go, just like that.  Is that why you destroyed ALL our
ships?  Is that why your ground equipment is lined up against us?"

"Oh, yes.  There is that.  Well.  We've had our little talk.  Enjoy
your moment of heroism.  Lord knows. . .I'll enjoy ending it."  He
started to walk away, then turned.  "Oh, about the hostages."  Shin's
glare was unchanging. 
"Cut off their heads, and throw them down into the mines.  I'm going
grind you to powder."


*


The Canton line advanced slowly from its distance of five kilometers, a
visually odd procession of large flat vehicles, cat-tracked, with
lightly armored ground troops hurrying behind, protected by the
advancing shield wall of the Armadillos.  Huge laser cannons projected
from their slanting fronts, all trained upon the thick bar of shadow at
the base of the oncoming ridge.  Bota's machine led the subtle wedge,
its magnetic-field disrupter already pulsing to try and weaken the
Laurian's shields.

Shin barked out his orders rapidly, for all the good it would do.  He
stood with several of the men before the instrument-laden vision panel,
simultaneously listening to analysis of the enemy advance, searching
for a non-existent weakness, and trying to exude some measure of
confidence and calm---which wasn't easy with only four big guns of his
own, and his power-shields unstable.  His headset buzzed with two and
three voices at once.  THERE HAD BEEN NO TIME TO LAY ARMADILLO MINES!

The civilians (those who would go) were huddled in groups of two- to
five-hundred in the deepest recesses of the mines, along with the
prisoners.  He had no illusions about their safety.  The rest, perhaps
a thousand grim, forlorn men and women, stood resignedly behind them in
the vast hollow that joined the three cave openings, bright arches that
looked out on the light of day, watching a young officer try
desperately to save them.  And all the while Shin struggled to think
what Shannon would do in his place, and what he would feel.

All at once the Canton lasers began to fire.  The temperature in the
enclosure rose noticeably, and the walls began to tremble from the
pushed-back force of the shields.  The soprano thump of their own guns
began to sound, as Shin fired his energy bursts in answer.  They made a
brave sight and sound, bright spheres whizzing through carefully timed
openings in the shields, but seemed to have little effect on the grim
machination set against them.

Feeling the trap close in, Shin strode from one battle station to the
next, snarling his commands like an animal.  Sections of rock crashed
down from the ceiling to the sound of screams and deep pocks.  A great
fissure rose along one wall, widening, and he began to wonder if he had
not murdered these people after all.  One of the Laurian gunners was
struck by a falling stone, and he ran to take his place.

As suddenly as it had begun, the Canton barrage ceased.  The advancing
machines stopped dead in their tracks.  The Laurian shields, too, went
down, and their guns would not fire.  The clustered civilians, many
locked in sheltering embraces, looked around and at each other.  Medics
ran to attend the wounded.

Bewildered, Commander Shin moved out from the largest of the cave
openings to examine his shield projectors.  To left and right they were
intact.  WHAT HAD HAPPENED?

He heard a soft roar as of a ship passing high overhead.  He looked
first at the halted Canton wedge, not trusting.  They were little more
than a kilometer away.  The ground troops moved about in confusion as
officers shouted, but the great Armadillos were silent and still.

Tentatively at first, the scattered shapes and tension-drawn faces of
his own soldiers, intermixed with the Laurian refugees, stepped out
from the dividing line of shadow.  He thought to order them back, but
did not.  He, too, felt his eyes drawn to skyward.  Against the dark,
greenish dome, cloudless, an orange flame descended from out of the
pale fire of the sun.  It was not a large ship.....  Shin tried to
discipline his hope.

There could be no doubt.  It was Shannon's ship.

The weathered vessel landed between the two armies.  Shin wanted to run
to it wildly, with tears in his eyes.  But a voice spoke inside him,
saying simply:

"Peace.  Your master is dead."

The hatch of Bota's machine had been opened, and now he clambered out,
his face red with rage.  "Shannon!" he shouted, as if his voice could
penetrate steel.  "Whatever trick this is, it won't work!"  He barked
an order to one of his lieutenants, who threw him a weapon and
assembled one full company behind him.  The marshal clambered down the
vehicle's tracks and leapt to the ground.  Collecting himself he strode
forward, with half his men behind him.

Shin looked on, puzzled, ordered his own people to stay back.  As Bota
drew to within fifty yards of the vessel, Simin opened the hatch.  The
Canton raised his rifle, then lowered it in sudden dismay.

Simin stepped out onto the threshold, and with a short burst of wings,
stood on the ground beyond it.  Again Shin heard a voice.  "Remain.
This is not your fight."

Those who did not know Shannon well could not have seen his imprint on
the creature's stark, intimidating face.  Shin had seen it, though
unwillingly.  The Force Marshall had not.  Simin came to a level in
front of him, then stopped.  He said nothing, stared with an unreadable
expression.

"What are you?" demanded Bota, trying not to be unnerved.

"What do you want?"  Simin answered him without haste.

"I have come to fight you.  To kill you if I can."

"WHAT?"  Bota forced himself not to take a step back.  "What quarrel
have you with the Republic of Cantos?"  Then seeing no change:  "My men
will burn you to ash."

Simin responded slowly, not to be dramatic, but because he wanted the
exchange to mean something.  He soon saw that it would not.

"No, your men are powerless."  He paused.  "You seem to have little
respect for the one called Shannon.  This I do not understand.  Even as
an enemy, could you not see the courage he possessed?"  It was useless.
 "You think that you are stronger.  You have only to fight as well as
he, and his cause will be vanquished.....  Prepare yourself!"  He could
not submerge his anger, knowing what Shannon had known, and reading the
thoughts of this proud and willful man.

He stepped back, and the weapon in Bota's hands was changed to a long
knife.  Then, no longer an illusion, the marshal was given a physical
prowess equal to his own.  But remembering the Cherokee, Simin gave him
still greater advantage.

As Bota stood bewildered, a deep murmur grew in the air all around him,
a rising chant, descending from the sky like a fall of cloud along the
way the ship had come.  Those of his soldiers who looked behind them
saw the lesser ridge at its distance appear to grow, layered with the
ghost image of a high, terraced precipice, with statued spires rising
from its base.

The refugees saw these things as well, as the chant became mixed with
the sound of drumming wings.  And it seemed to them that their own
numbers grew, or they were suddenly aware, of a vast multitude around
them.  The marshal looked about him and at Simin, as if slowly
descending into Hell.  The drone felt no pity for him.

"Fight for your life, if you are able!"

The mai began to circle with all the disciplined fire of his heart, and
Bota had no choice but to submerge his fear.  He fought.  He swung his
weapon tentatively at first, not believing it real.  But this thought,
too, was soon of little avail.  He slashed and dove, summoning all the
strength and endurance of his kind:  the wakened animal, fearing death.
 As the sound closed around them like witness to every struggle of good
and evil ever fought.

Their battle was even at first, with the Canton's fierce, desperate
will so confronted.  Their battle was even.

But after a time that will began to waver, and his fear to grow to a
weakness inside him.  Almost he sensed that the creature could not beat
him, had not the strength.  Yet his fear formed an equal voice,
lamenting that its spirit fought on so, and would not be cowed.  Both
were cut and bloodied, and weary to the point of exhaustion.

Simin, his own being stretched to the limit, sensed the other's
weakness and made it his island of hope.  He continued.

And at the last, driven to a supreme and final effort, he drove his foe
to the ground in a shallow depression, and with a trembling foreclaw,
slashed his throat.

The man looked up with terror in his eyes, which slipped to sorrow,
then to death.  His body lay still, and the sound was gone.  The
landscape was as before.

Not only the Marshall, but all his men lay dead.  The Armadillos were
as shadows of a dark, machinated dream.  His orbiting fleet, as well as
the landing craft, stood emptied of life.

Simin crawled slowly out of the depression, and turned to Shin.

"Shannon's life has bought your freedom.  Go, then find some way to
fight them again."

His life and energies spent, his quest ended, Simin opened his
foreclaws to the sky in a gesture of invocation.  The body split apart,
and his spirit flew toward the stars.















Battle Plan


THE STAGE IS SET FOR CONFRONTATION:

1)  P-K4*

*Chess moves.  For greater understanding, may be read in conjunction
with a chess board.

The Belgian-Swiss Alliance had entered the movement on the side of the
Cantons.  Indeed, they had taken it over.  Those of broader vision had
suspected such a move was possible.  That Cantos, a single
planet-colony of sixty million inhabitants, could hope to make more
than minor gains in that newly settled quadrant was somewhat doubtful.
The known galaxy was expanding, and the Cantons themselves had been
little more than blind, eager puppets, fed and encouraged from outside,
closely watched to see how far they could bend (or simply ignore) the
precepts of International Law.  Though the damage they did was all too
real.

P-K4

As the inhabited regions of Space spread out and became more remote, so
the rules and niceties which had guided earlier colonization grew thin
and wore away.  It was merely a question of how much aggression the
reigning superpowers would allow.  The Four were still a force to be
reckoned with.

2)  N-KB3

In the current balance the United Commonwealth held the greatest sway,
its advanced technology and more plentiful resources always keeping it
one step ahead of Soviet Space.   The Americans had been the first to
colonize, and first in deep-space exploration, the advantages of which
were still paying off.

N-QB3

The New Japanese Republic---Empire, in everything but name---was
strong, but surprisingly benevolent.  For the first time in its modern
history this serious, hard-working nation had the room and resources to
keep its naturally overachieving peoples busy and content.  There was
no longer any reason for the underlying brutality of earlier Japanese
culture, and in truth many of the more aggressive social and political
stances had begun to lose favor among the masses.  How long this
relative inner calm would last none could say, and few thought to cross
them.  In romanticized histories of the second World War the saying,
"Let sleeping dragons lie," had been used to refer to the United
States.  It now applied with equal and ironic aptness to the Japanese.

3)  B-N5

But the fastest growing, and to many the most frightening of the Space
giants, was the metal-churning monster known simply as 'The German
States'.  Their technology and industrial determination once more
bringing them to the fore of the political arena, this born-again
superpower, in the eyes of many, was the card on which the growing
instability would turn.  And the Germans themselves, for reasons not
entirely clear, seemed to savor this new role, and to do everything
possible to enhance it.  Most had believed (not without cause) that it
was they who encouraged the Cantons, and therefore they who would soon
be making their presence felt in the outlying sectors.  But when the
time for such a move had come---the ruthless destruction by mercenaries
of half the Canton fleet at Centaurus (so read the propaganda
line)---they had shown no such inclination, choosing instead to remain
neutral.  True, their moneys and weapons were sometimes involved; but
by all legitimate intelligence not a single German squadron or military
adviser had been seen within the whole of Andersen sector during the
dispute.  There could be no denying, however, that their geological
fleets had moved in quietly after the destruction of the Laurian
ore-planet, recovering valuable mineral wastes that the Cantons could
not.  The mysterious 'gravity station' had also disappeared.

P-Q3

Historians and sociologists who studied the German peoples had found
themselves in sudden demand among the politicians and media of the
smaller, more skittish nations; and their separate conclusions had been
nothing if not ambiguous.  The general consensus among the most
respected, however, had been that history's "romantic Huns" were as
mysterious and unreadable a people as God ever put on the Earth.  No
one could know what the Germans were capable of, for good or ill, until
they did it.  In World War II they had played the part of heinous
villains (and done so with terrifying cruelty); in the reshaping of
Europe after the collapse of the Communist Bloc, they had acted as
generous unifiers, and staunch defenders of the lesser democracies.
That this latter posture had finally and decisively cut the political
binds and military restrictions imposed by the Allies after the fall of
the Third Reich, was a fact that some (though not all) tended to
overlook.  The one consistency throughout had been an aggressive and
self-righteous pursuit of nationalistic goals, based partly, but not
solely, on a continuing discomfort with Western humanitarian ideals.
"The Germans don't want freedom," the 20th Century author had declared.
 "They don't understand it.  What they want is a strong leader, and a
cause worth fighting for."  But here again, words could never quite
capture the stubborn fiber of the German spirit.

And, of course, those who did not fit the negative stereotype---there
were many---were human beings just like any other, complete with their
share of artists, dissidents, dreamers, idealists and alternative
politicians.  That those in power continued to be for the most part
conservative, flag waving nationalists (as indeed had become the case
in the United Commonwealth) did not mean that the Germans had no heart.
 Many quiet, everyday working people secretly hoped for the emergence
of a more moderate geopolitical stance; and few would deny that a truly
good German was as unselfish and compassionate an individual as one
could ever hope to find.  Unfortunately, fierce nationalism remained,
and the end result was always the same:  subtle but continuous
expansionism.

4)  P-Q4

But by all appearances this was not to be a (directly) German war.

B-Q2

Yet the shadow of her past, and continued arms build-up, bred little
trust among her neighbors.


  5)  N-B3

There was nothing particularly unique about the Belgian-Swiss
Alliance---the most integral of the 'intermediate' powers
involved---although to themselves it seemed a thing of great
importance, occupying countless hours of thought and preparation.
Formed out of mutual colonial interest scarcely a dozen years before,
it had since made substantial (if in the eyes of the affluent, still
modest) gains in and around the Berlioz Quadrant, and was currently
exploring the regions that lay beyond---the limits of man's domain in
that direction.

Left behind by the sweeping, mechanized changes of the past two
centuries, these proud and businesslike peoples, not wholly dissimilar,
now seemed resolutely determined to improve their lot, to gain
respectability, and to leave their mark on future histories of the era.
 Whatever that might mean.

P x P

The Belgian Empire of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries had
long since past into dust like the ruins of Ozymandias, leaving it a
diminutive, unimportant nation of temporal and unstable affluence,
subject to the whims and power-plays of its larger, more industrialized
neighbors.  Like the Germans of the late 1930's, their aggression began
with a legitimate (if distorted) complaint.  Glorious, upright Mother
Belgium had been raped again and again.  That these feelings of injury
and lost wealth has survived for so many generations, provided a rather
grim example of the dangers inherent in an inbred culture which shuts
out change, clinging instead to a proud and class-conscious society.

In fairness, the pattern of outside domination and disrespect had
continued until the all too recent past.  Their bitterness was not
wholly unjustified.  That their own oppression of the Africans during
the days of the ivory trade had been a major source of their one-time
wealth, was not (like the skeletons in so many national closets)
something they tended to weigh into the balance.

6)  N x P


The descendants of Switzerland had reasons and motives that were more
subtle, if equally implacable.  Europe's perennial pacifist and bastion
of neutrality had been left behind for purely economic reasons.  Its
stable and rigidly controlled economy was no longer needed by the rich
and powerful as a safe deposit box for (often unscrupulously)
accumulated wealth.  Concurrently, its self-contained, standoffish
political posture had become obsolete, almost laughable in the face of
the growing opportunities of Space.  Like so many other nations without
an early Space program, the inhabitable and exploitable regions close
at hand had been divided up without them.  The modern-day Swiss
accepted the consequences of this flux without bitterness, outwardly at
least, but were now inexorably committed to improving upon Fate.

Still, the Swiss view of the coming campaign was somewhat different
than their ally's, less zealous, and their actual dislike of their
enemies and desire for battle were much less vehement.  In their view
the Belgians were to provide the fire, they the cool edge of
professionalism.  Between them they formed a somewhat inexperienced,
but sullenly determined foe, not to be taken lightly by the smaller, or
similarly stationed powers of the region.

THUS THE ATTACKERS, AND THOSE WHO WERE TO REMAIN NEUTRAL, IN THE DRAMA
ABOUT TO BE PLAYED.  HERE NOW THE DEFENDERS.

P-KN3

The former Eastern Bloc nations of Europe had remained closely linked
economically after the collapse of the Soviet Union, and surprisingly,
as often as not, politically allied with their former oppressor.

The great "Decade of Change" which shook the Kremlin in the late
twentieth century had forever changed the face of Marxism, and for
nearly half a century the Russians had abandoned all thought of
communism.  But decades of poverty, organized crime and ever dwindling
national importance, had brought about a socialist
resurgence---non-violently, through elections this time---and the
creation of the new Soviet States.

With the dismantling of the Eastern bloc, conditional at first, then
with fewer and fewer strings, many had predicted a defiant break with
the grim, iron-fisted oppressor---a label which unfortunately contained
a good deal of truth---and a wild swing back to the West.

But in large part it had not occurred.  Possible explanations for this
'non-schism' ranged from political and cultural isolation during the
Cold War, to the eventual success of numbing Marxist propaganda.  Even
East Germany, which reunified with the West, had since divided into two
groups, its easternmost peoples falling back on the old alliances.

For if there was a common thread in the weave of East Europeans, it was
a quiet dedication to hard work, and a genuine, even natural
unselfishness---a combination of qualities not highly valued in the
Americanized west.  And though to brand one half of a continent more
concerned with the common good than the other is preposterous, there
could be no denying that the two sides of the now extinct Iron Curtain
remained stiffly uncomfortable with one another's professed doctrines
and system of values.  Fifty years under vastly divergent philosophies
and spheres of influence could not be broken down in the years
immediately following.  And with the subsequent exodus into Space,
learning to live with and understand each other had become largely
unnecessary.  In the purest sense of the analogy, Eastern Europe had
taken one road, and the West another.  The distances that separated
their lives were now literal.

The nations and alliances resulting from the East-West split remained
estranged, if no longer sharply opposed.   And in a war that like so
many others seemed to be drawing boundaries along lines of ideology,
the possibility loomed of their coming together again not with
overtures of peace and understanding, but on the battlefield.

AND FINALLY, THE WATCHERS ON THE MARGINS.

7)  B-K3

The two major superpowers, still militarily head and shoulders above
the rest, hardly added to the stability of the situation.

The politics of the United Commonwealth, formerly the United States of
America, remained the politics of a child.   The 'new Americans'
continued to claim God, family, and self-righteous free enterprise (to
their Republicans a god in itself) as the sole and irreproachable
motive for all their actions.   Thus everything they did in the realm
of foreign affairs, usually only half understanding it themselves, must
(in their eyes) inevitably be right, and for the good of all who
followed the true path of capitalism and democracy---in that order.

Soviet Space, meanwhile, had become equally intransigent.  The Soviets,
in their turn, hailed as their banner the liberation, equality, and
self-rule of the working classes.  These, so the Party line claimed,
had built civilization, but been denied the fruits of their achievement
by the corrupt upper classes, who, like Narcissus, were blind and
self-serving, inherently evil and doomed to fail, but not before
sucking the blood of true humanity and preventing the dreams of Marx
and Trotsky.....  And so on, disturbingly similar to the old communist
propaganda.  And of course they made no mention of Stalin, the purges,
and the brutal repression of the KGB.
 
B-N2

That these two irreconcilably opposed powers, directly or indirectly,
held the lives of countless millions in their hands (whether through
action or non-action) was disheartening, but not at all atypical.
Contending governments and heads of state had managed to keep their
peoples at odds, away from any sense of shared humanity and mutual
need, from the beginning of history.  In this sense at least, those who
knew something of the nature of war could prepare themselves, if only
for the worst.

"For as you lean," spoke the prophet, "so shall you fall."

8)  Q-Q2

The United Commonwealth, under its present leadership, could best be
compared to a wealthy adolescent, raised with the notion that the world
owed it something, angry and sulking because the expected happiness had
not yet been delivered.

It seemed that every time the Commonwealth's economy threatened to
bring its standard of living closer to the rest of humanity, angry,
illusioned people came forward, organized, made aggressive, patriotic
noises, and persuaded the middle class (the real power in the
electorate) to abandon the floundering liberals and elect a
conservative, Republican President.  Then, before hard-line
conservative dogmas could be re-exposed for what they were---a pleasant
excuse for big business to run wild---the ax was put to social
programs, health and environmental concerns were put on the shelf, and
'survival of the fittest' became the unspoken ethic.  Large stores of
weapons were amassed (with the money saved by being less sensitive),
some kept, others shipped throughout the galaxy to areas of instability
where "freedom and self-determination" were threatened, meaning that
the governments there already were, or showed signs of becoming,
socialist.  And all such militaristic actions taken with the expressed
purpose of preventing bloodshed, and similar aggression on the part of
Soviet Space (which required little prodding to respond in kind),
resulted in quite the opposite result:  endless carnage and civil war.

That this same pattern of mutual confrontation had brought the Earth to
the brink of nuclear holocaust many times in the past, was apparently
all but forgotten by a bulk society with a historical attention span of
roughly five years.  And every time, this cycle was repeated as if it
were something new, unique, and wholly necessary, by a people who
professed to be, and probably should have been, the most enlightened in
the galaxy.

N-B3

Not that anyone really expected the Americans to fight.  They were for
the most part (deep down) morally opposed to violence, had not the
stomach for it.  And blind, self-serving sheep that they were, the
middle class could only be deceived for so long.

Because this same, slow-thinking blob of humanity which elected and
gave the presidents their power, also set the limits for its use.  In a
nation literally ruled by public opinion, they were like an anchor
unsoundly planted.  The ship was free to drift a certain distance to
either side, but could never move too far in any one direction before
the anchor finally caught on some solid objection, and the movement was
brought to a halt.  True, the angry seemed angrier this time, the
aggressive less easily pacified, and the Christian right-wing (a
contradiction of terms, for anyone the least familiar with Jesus'
teachings) more implacable.  But it had been nearly a hundred years
since the Commonwealth had been directly involved in any kind of
offensive (military) war.  Most observers had come to think of this
naive superpower as a big dog that liked to bark and throw its weight
around, but wasn't really looking for a fight.  The damage it did was
more subtle and indirect---like stepping on flowers not yet open, and
crushing creatures too small for it to see.

But as the saying went, "When you sleep in the same bed with a giant,
you had better sleep lightly."  The United Commonwealth was the most
powerful nation-state in the history of mankind, the more so because it
did not know its own strength.

9)  P-B3

These are, of course, the bare facts, and like all generalization,
subject to flaw.  There were West Germans who loathed and rebelled
against every hint of the Nazi mentality, Japanese who had never been
violent, Belgians and Swiss who opposed the coming war, members of the
Soviet leadership who cared, and Americans who saw the world clearly.

Unfortunately, as all too many times in the past, there did not seem
enough who broke the mold, nor did they play an active enough role, to
keep the wheels of ignorance and violence from churning.  Because the
study of war is the study of people in power and the masses they are
able to persuade---of strife, twisted dreams and ambitions, and of
human nature set in its darkest surroundings.  For this reason the
small and destructive characteristics of a people (of the aggressors,
at the least) tend to surface, often riding on the back of what is
truest and noblest in them, and individuals silently opposed to the
politics of carnage don't seem to count for much.

The sad and simple truth remains that, to be prevented, nationalistic
aggression must be resisted from within, either by large numbers of the
population, or by those in positions of power who are willing and able
to stop it.  And so far throughout history, with very few exceptions
and during wars uncounted, it had not been.


*                         *                         *


0-0

The battle room aboard the armed space station Mongoose was quietly
tense and alert.  The Czech and East German officers attended their
various stations with well-drilled efficiency and outer calm,
intermittently reading off coordinates and running hands across
pulsating fingerboards, making adjustments and speaking by headset to
the various squadron commanders of the close-hovering fleet.  The
defense grids---interlocking walls of energy which prevented the free
and rapid movement of attacking ships---were in place and activated.

In the center of the room, behind a spherical plexiglass screen, a
three-dimensional monitor projected tiny wavering shapes among the
static lines of the grid, marking the approach of the Belgian-Swiss
forces.  A young lieutenant of average height and wiry build, with
intelligent eyes and features, studied the projection and corresponding
console before him with fascination and growing apprehension.  He felt
foolish and out of place:  his first battle.

A taller man in his late fifties, stern and brown-eyed, a classic Czech
soldier to the last detail, came up behind and put a hand on his
shoulder.

"Courage, Brunner," he said in low harsh tones.  "I need your judgment
today."  It was the closet thing to a compliment he had ever paid his
young protege.

"I'm sorry, Colonel.  It's beginning to look very real."

Dubcek's dark features bored in on him in the familiar
expression---down-thrust head and knitted brows, eyes looking up
through them like a boxer's.  It was a hard and intimidating face,
though with a gleam of sharp and illusionless intelligence.  Only
Brunner seemed to suspect a deeper humanity beneath the facade, and he
was far from certain.

"It is real, but not something to be feared.  Real men will die this
day, as all men must.  It is the only way to stop them."  At that
moment the voice of the executive officer broke in on them.

10)  B x N

"Colonel, enemy light cruiser 'red' engaging destroyer group B."

Dubcek nodded in acknowledgment.  Brunner quickly adjusted and replaced
his ear-piece, and the sounds of actual combat came to him for the
first time.  He heard:  ships signaling one another, attacking, being
attacked, some voices calm, others tense and on the verge of
panic---explosions and bursts of pain within bridge compartments,
engineers crying damage reports, men dying and signals going blank.
The older man heard them too, studied the projection without haste,
made several marks on the glass.  Again the voice of the exec:

"Destroyer group B has succumbed---no surviving ships."

Brunner watched his commander's face, half expecting to see no change.
But a change did come, if only for an instant:  a cloud of pain and
uncertainty flashed across it.  The dark countenance grew darker still,
and he muttered beneath his breath.  "If he wants to trade, we'll
trade."

P x B

"Advance robot battery 7," he said out loud.  "Knock him out of the
sky."  The order was passed on, and several seconds later the blip that
had been the enemy cruiser also vanished from the globe.

A yeoman entered, bringing news of the Coalition reinforcements.
Dubcek acknowledged the message, gave one of his own, then turned to
his young lieutenant as if in answer to his unspoken question.  His
eyes, like those of a bird of prey, had returned to their normal
luster.

"We don't have to beat him, just hold him off till help arrives.  That
is why we are aligned defensively, ready to counter-punch, and take
advantage of his mistakes."  Both turned back to the projection, and to
their own thoughts.

11)  0-0-0

Masaryk began to speak again, but Dubcek waved him off.  "Here," he
pointed.  "He's moved his battle station behind the carrier, and
brought the corresponding battleship to corridor five, trying to
strengthen his position for a frontal assault."

Brunner hesitated, not wishing to overstep his bounds.  "Does that
surprise you?"

Dubcek almost smiled.

"No.  He imagines he's being clever, showing me something I haven't
seen.  But I've played this game a few times before."  To his exec:
"Battleship A to corridor four."  Masaryk nodded, and passed the order
on.  The main battle computer silently acknowledged the move.

R-K1

Again Dubcek turned to his lieutenant.  "In a battle of this scale, and
fought under the controlled conditions imposed by the grids,
preparation is paramount.  But once the real fighting begins, the book
goes out the window.  You may see me do things you question.  If so, do
not assume that you are wrong.  Decisions made in the heat of it are
based mostly on instinct, and instincts can go astray.  Don't override
me, but if you see anything unusual in either my strategy or his, I
want your comments as soon as there is time."

Brunner was having trouble adjusting to this new intimacy, however
strained.  "Colonel.  Won't the computer do that?"

"To hell with the computer.  This is no damned field exercise.  I'll
ask for your comments, and those of my staff because I want input, not
analysis.  You'll be dead wrong most of the time."  The expression
changed slightly.  "I need your inexperience, to remind me of things I
might forget."

Dubcek moved back toward the place where his exec stood leaning over
the main ship's console, one hand on the back of the First Technician's
chair, the other pointing to the vision screen before her.  Both looked
up as their commander approached.

"Major," he said to the woman.  "Would you excuse us for a moment?"
Wessenberg rose, gave a quick bow and left them.

"Well," he said to Masaryk, who had been his second many times in the
past.  "What do you think of the way he has positioned himself?"

"He's done very well.  If he does as well the rest of the way, we could
catch it hot."

"Yes, but he won't.  Everything up to this point has been done by the
book---his computer could have done the same.  Once the main engagement
starts, he'll find himself hard pressed to sweep us away.  We have
reinforcements coming in six hours.  He does not."

"Do you take that for granted?"

"What do you think?"  The commander glared and Masaryk, who knew him
well, adopted a more deferential tone.

"No, sir."

"I'm sorry, Rolf.  As always, you see what troubles me.  It makes no
sense.  Why do they divide their forces, and simultaneously attack the
Dutch colonies at Larkspur?  Half their fleet tied up hundreds of
parsecs away, the rest barely more than what we have here.  They may
walk through the Dutch outposts---they have the hardware---but they
will have no such easy time here."

"Could they have made an alliance we don't know about? the greater part
of their force yet to arrive?"

"Yes, but with who?  And how will they come in time?  Our Coalition
reconnaissance nets are thick and constantly monitored, yet we've heard
of no unaccounted for ships anywhere in the vicinity.  He has walked
into this as if he knows no fear, and that troubles me.  The Belgians
might attempt such a thing, but never the Swiss."

"But doesn't the fact that they show no fear prove they are capable of
anything?  Ambition and inexperience often lead to such blunders."

"Yes.  Let us hope that is it."  He unconsciously turned toward Brunner
with a wistful glance.  "Still. . .this could be our last battle."

Masaryk looked up at him, stunned.

"Peace, my friend.  I only meant that the times are changing, and we
must prepare the young."

As Dubcek walked away, and gestured the technician back to her post, it
suddenly occurred to Masaryk that in all their years together, he had
never before called him friend.

12)  B-R6

Almost the instant Major Wessenberg sat down, she saw a movement so
incredulous that at first she thought something must be wrong with the
equipment.  Not waiting for the exec:

"Colonel.  He's brought his second cruiser straight at us."

Dubcek hurried back, stood on the other side of her, checking the
screen.  He turned back to Brunner, who said "Correct," in a voice
suddenly full of optimism.

"By God, he is a fool.  Light cruiser A, engage."  Masaryk relayed the
message, and the Czech/East German light weapons ship advanced.

B x B

"Now he's put his foot in it."

13)  Q x B

"Enemy carrier to corridor one---light cruiser knocked out.  Carrier
fighters and torpedo ships releasing."

"Of course; he's got no choice.  All forward guns at the ready.
Battleship A to column four."

R-K4

As the Exec relayed these orders and the gunnery shields were rolled
back, along with the steel plates that covered the huge battle room
'window,' those in the large, arcing chamber were given their first
direct view of the battle among the stars. The massive Bel-Swiss
carrier, of German States construction, loomed long and gray at its
distance, fighters and missile ships hovering below it, but made no
attempt to come closer, within the range of their guns.  It had been
brought forward without adequate support.  Far to the right their own
battle cruiser could be seen moving into place, along with the
stationary first destroyer group and robot-repulse ships, all perfectly
positioned.  And they knew also that their own carrier, every measure
the equal of the enemy's, was not far off, ready to be brought into
play at a moment's notice.

The twenty-odd officers and staff within the battle room, to that point
largely somber and dutiful, trying to suppress anxiety and inner doubt,
seemed to come suddenly to life.  They attended their posts with
greater enthusiasm, and unconsciously began to speak louder and faster,
through the headsets and to each other.  For the real fighting had
begun; it was no longer left to dark imagining.  They were doing it,
with the clear and early advantage going to their own forces.  Their
commanding officer, a staid veteran who had been here before, grew in
their eyes to something almost more than human, while the enemy's
commanders had begun to show signs of impatience and inexperience.  The
oncoming fleet, which before had loomed so ominous, became mere ships
once more, made of the same metal, and no greater than their own.

Dubcek seemed to sense this, and though he did not want to lower their
confidence in him---this confidence, and the increased efficiency it
brought, were a major reason for all that he did---he knew it was far
too soon to be jubilant.  Before giving his next order, he spoke to
them directly.

"Communications.  Give me an open channel to all vessels."  In a louder
voice.  "I want the rest of you to listen to this also."  The channel
was opened, and his voice subtly amplified within the chamber.

"This is your commander speaking.  Do not be premature in your
enthusiasm.  Our enemy has overextended himself and diminished his
force without apparent gain, but that is all.  While his actions may
seem foolish, we do not know all the reasons they were taken.  I have
learned in my many years that things are not always as they first
appear.  If you believe everything you see, or must see confirmation of
all you believe is happening, you will be misled.  I have faith in your
courage and your judgment.  We still have a long way to go."  Without
further speech he moved away and stood by Brunner's tactical projection
globe.  The room became quieter, the faces more serious.

"Your observations, lieutenant."

"May I ask a question first?"

"Ask it."

"Do you suspect he has reinforcements coming?  If not, I see no logical
pattern to his later development.  Why did he not move straight ahead
with his robot batteries, try to weaken our forward wall?"

"War is seldom logical, Brunner, but it is a valid point.  As for
reinforcements, I wish I knew.  I don't see how; but I must remember it
is possible."

14)  P-KN4

Masaryk's voice.  "Enemy robot ship coming straight ahead, corridor
two."  Brunner suppressed an urge to look out through the wide portal.

Dubcek pointed to the globe, again made several marks on the glass.
"You see.  Now he's done it, but a step too late.  Carry on."  He
strode back to the command station, nodding sternly to his second.
"Bring our carrier to corridor three.  Engage his if he's willing."

Q-KB1

Several minutes later the huge outline of the German/Czech carrier ship
became visible, though still at a distance, as it took up its position
beside and slightly ahead of them.  The engagement, if it took place,
would happen right before their eyes.

The fighters and larger torpedo ships of both vessels continued to
stream out of launching chutes spread across their undersides, forming
up into squadrons, attack groups and flotillas.  The starboard guns of
the Mongoose were activated, and Masaryk could be heard giving
instructions to the captain of the second battle cruiser.

Brunner looked up to see Dubcek standing before the foot-thick plate
glass of the battle room portal, headset on and hands clasped tightly
behind his back, the one held by the other opening and closing
sporadically.  The huge 'window' began at his feet, rising and arching
high above his head.  For a moment Brunner's eyes lost their focus, and
the aging commander seemed to stand among the stars:  between two
giants and their swarming offspring, trying to orchestrate, or at least
influence, a battle between angry gods and their armies, wholly
unaware, and indifferent to his presence.

The Belgian-Swiss carrier, which had the edge in tempo and preparation,
came forward.  Squadrons bolted forward, and both sides began to fire.

At first the more experienced German/Czech pilots seemed to be holding
the enemy off, keeping his forces from linking up into an effective
attacking thrust.  But the sheer numbers of the ships pouring out at
them (which they had no way of anticipating), and the equally
surprising effectiveness of the carrier's supporting fire, began slowly
but inexorably to turn the tide against them.  Lasers and explosive
torpedoes flashed.  Ships burst silently into flame, or broke apart, or
were disintegrated.  The tortured voices that came to Brunner through
his ear-piece were soon more than he could bear.  Almost he wished that
the gray goliath would turn its guns on them, that they might respond.
But it was a wasted hope.  Though tantalizingly close, the aggressor
and all his forces were just out of range, and they knew it.

Brunner next became aware, to his dismay, that none of this seemed to
alarm either Dubcek or his executive officer.  The commander watched,
but gave no order; and Masaryk continued to speak only to the captain
of the corresponding battleship.

He suddenly realized what this meant, but a part of his mind refused to
accept it.  They were sacrificing their own carrier to set up and then
destroy the other.  Strategically it was sound---weakening the enemy's
thrust, buying time for the reinforcements.

But what of the lives and humanity, the hundreds of men and women whom
Dubcek had just spoken to about courage and judgment?  What about their
FAMILIES?  Didn't he care?  Didn't anyone care?  And where was the God
that he had reluctantly begun to believe in?

At that moment all he knew was hatred and grief.  For perhaps a minute
he ignored his instruments, glaring instead at Dubcek's back, silently
daring him to turn around.

Suddenly a ship burst apart directly in front of them, not more than
ten kilometers off.  Out of the wreckage a tiny white projectile moved
toward them, and others of similar shape were sent flying in all
directions.  To his horror Brunner recognized them as men.  Too light
an object to trigger their shields, the writhing body came straight at
them, seeming to gather speed, and with a final orgasm of misery,
crashed against the glass.

With a dull thud it bounced off and back into the emptiness of Space,
leaving a wide splotch of blood on the glass at their commander's feet.
 If Brunner hated him then, the emotion changed when the man finally
did turn around.  There were no tears, but something in his face spoke
of a much deeper wound.  His voice boomed across the room.

"If there is anyone here who does not yet know what war is, look with
your eyes!"  His arm jerked toward the stain.  "It is blood!  Blood and
men dying."

As if cued by these words a blinding flash, followed in rapid
succession by several others, lit the room.  The enemy carrier, finally
scoring a direct and unshielded hit, had sent its blackened counterpart
to infinity.

Q x Q

As if regretting his outburst Dubcek stood very still, then descended
the high step and strode quickly to the command station.  He took off
the headset, and gave his orders.

"Battle cruiser B:  I want a full spread of anti-matter torpedoes, then
move in and finish him off.  All remaining fighters back to Scypion
Base; those that can't make it, to Mongoose emergency docks.  Destroyer
group A, prepare to clean up enemy stragglers."

"And the torpedo ships, Colonel?"

"Keep firing at the carrier until there is no carrier to fire AT."

"But without escort---"

Dubcek's eyes flashed.  Masaryk relayed the orders.

R x Q

The battle between the two vessels must have ensued---after several
minutes the enemy carrier disappeared from the projection globe---but
Brunner saw and heard none of it.  He remained silent with his head
down, palms leaning heavily on the console.  Crying.  The next thing he
was aware of was Dubcek's steadied voice, once more amplified, once
more, he assumed, on an open channel to all ships.  He looked out of
the portal, but there was no afterglow.  Nothing.  Dubcek's voice.

"All ships' personnel not engaged or on standby readiness, this is your
commanding officer.  The carrier J.S. Bach and all its crew have been
lost."  Pause.  "There is nothing that can bring them back, or justify
their death.  They will be sorely missed.

"But know this:  that they died not in any act of aggression, but
defending their homes, and the ones they loved.  It may be small
consolation, but we have hurt our enemy badly.  They no longer have the
position or the firepower to seriously threaten us.  I won't lie to
you.  More men and women will die before our reinforcements arrive.
And there is no more fairness to who dies in battle than there is to
who is struck down by fatal illness, and who is left to die of age.....
 We can only continue, and hope that our acts will one day be
remembered, and our sorrows vindicated.

"My strategy from this point forward will be to engage the enemy as
little as possible, which is only now a viable option.  Take heart in
the fact that this is now a fight he cannot win, unless he holds some
card that is hidden from me.  The colonies, the people you guard, are
safe.  And if we keep our courage and our wits about us, we will see
him beaten before the day is passed."

Dubcek signaled the communications officer to shut him off, said to
Masaryk, "I'll be in my quarters.  I don't think he'll try to attack
again soon, but call me if he does."  And left the battle room.

Brunner gathered himself, sat down before the console and tried to
think.

*


After perhaps fifteen minutes he got up and asked Commander Masaryk to
be relieved, saying that he felt ill.  The executive officer, who knew
a thing or two, looked hard at him and said, "If you've got any sense,
you'll be careful what you say to him."

Brunner nodded, and walked slowly out into the main corridor, then
through several passages before reaching the short hallway that ran
before his Commanding Officer's chamber.

Remaining a short distance from the doorway, he hesitated.  He gathered
his courage, turned the corner and entered the room.

"Sir, may I speak---"  He stopped, seeing the older man sitting quietly
at a wooden table, a bottle and glass in front of him.  "I'm sorry,
sir.....  Excuse me."  So far as he (or anyone) knew, the Colonel never
drank.

"No, no.  Come in.  You have not discovered a terrible secret.  I have
an artificial liver; didn't you know?  I can turn it higher whenever I
wish---the first sign of combat---and be sober in two minutes time.  A
waste of good liquor, really.  Please.  Sit down."  Brunner approached
hesitantly, sat in the wooden chair opposite.

"Besides," the man continued.  "Didn't you know that all good field
commanders were drunks?  Take the famous Ulysses S. Grant.  They say
that on the day of a battle he was rarely sober by mid afternoon.
Probably why he was so successful:  he could send his men off to the
slaughter without a second thought.  Some even go so far as to say he
tried to end all his battles in a single day, so that the next morning,
when he was apt to be sick, he could sleep and give no orders.  But you
look surprised.  Is all of this new to you?"

"I was never much on the American Civil War," said the young man
evasively, not liking (or understanding) the tone of sarcasm in the
older man's voice.

"Oh, really?  That's too bad.  It is filled with such irony.  For
example, the saying, 'War is hell.'  Very true, but do you know who
said it?  The equally famous General Sherman.  And he should know,
since he did everything in his power to make it so---burned and
pillaged like a regular barbarian.  A nation of 'heroes'."  He cleared
his throat, continued.

"And these same, gentlemen soldiers---Grant (then President, no less),
Sherman, Sheridan and Custer, next turned their expertise upon the
pesky Native Americans, who had the gall to defend their land, their
women and their children.  Wasn't it Sheridan who said, 'The only good
Indian is a dead Indian?'  Massacred and starved an entire population
into submission, innocents slaughtered without a second thought."

"Colonel....."

"But here, I'm boring you.  What did you want to discuss---literature,
fine art?"  He took another drink from the glass, hurting his throat
with too large a gulp, showing that he really was not a drinker, or not
a practiced one.

"Two things," said Brunner stiffly.  "First as an officer of the
bridge.  Then as a man."

"It sounds serious.  Well.  What is your report as my analysis officer?"

"Yes.  I only wanted to reinforce what I said earlier:  that the
enemy's strategy, ever since the main engagement began, makes no sense.
 He had attained a strong attacking position; his weaponry is at least
the equal of our own; and yet he attacks without design, and trades
forces with no apparent gain.  I know, from my studies (this last he
added almost as an apology), that battles are often chaotic.
Commanders become confused, lines of communication break down, soldiers
and officers panic.  But none of this, so far as I can see, has been
the case here.  For example, why accept the sacrifice of our carrier?"
He reddened, forced himself to continue.  "Just because we brought it
forward, hardly forced him to attack.  I wish I could believe that the
enemy is really that foolish.  But I can't.  They have spent years of
preparation, and nearly all their resources. . .for what?  Only to let
some impatient general throw it all away?  The only explanation I can
find is that they are trying to lull our sense of caution and weaken
our defense, for another fleet that is yet to come.  I know that by all
current technology this is impossible.  Yet I feel that it could
happen."

At the words 'current technology' Dubcek stirred uncomfortably.  The
young man had sensed his darkest fear.  He remained quiet for a moment,
mulling this over.

"You have done what I asked," he said finally, "and done it well.  Now.
 What do you have to say to me as a man?"

Now it was Brunner who could find no comfort in his chair.

"I wish to resign my commission," he said with an effort.  "I do not
think I was made to give orders."

"Do you hate me so much?"

Brunner winced.  "No, Colonel.  It is true, I hated you at first---"
He looked up, horrified at his own words.

"Come on.  Out with it.  It won't matter much if you resign."  Dubcek's
manner was unruffled, but the lieutenant thought he caught a gleam of
pain, or something, in his dark eyes.

"There was a moment when I hated you---when I first realized you had
sacrificed our carrier for theirs.  But I don't feel that way now."

"Then why?"

"I just can't do it.  I tried to put myself in your place. . .and I
can't.  This way of life, of thinking.....  I can't."

"You think I send men to their death without feeling."  It was not a
question.

"No."  But Brunner would say no more.

"No, but that was cruel of me.  Young men are so much more, SENSITIVE.
You think you could never send men to theirs, that you are not the
right kind of man---cold, calculating.  You think too much, feel too
much, is that it?"

"No.....  I don't know."

"Save war for lonely old men?"

Brunner looked hard at him, defiant.  This time he was sure.  There was
something quietly desperate in his commander's eyes.  It was fear.  Not
the fear of age or death, but that of a far greater hurt:  the pain of
life's final reckoning, of uselessness and barren seed.  "Can I tell
you something, 'as a man?'"  Dubcek turned his eyes away, poured the
bottle into the glass.

"Yes."  Brunner too looked away.

"I wasn't always old, or alone, with no other calling."  He breathed
heavily through his nose.  "But my wife died some years back, and we
had no children.  Some men can go on from such a thing:  find another
wife, start again.  But I am not one of them.  I had never loved
before.....  But that is beside the point."  He drank the glass again.

"I found myself alone, in the military, with no real skill other than
being a soldier, a good officer.  My father had been a working man.....
 So I put all my energies into advancing my career, trying to fill the
emptiness.  Telling myself."  He gave a short, disagreeable laugh.
"Telling myself that if I could only rise high enough through the
ranks, that I could SAVE lives.  I was going to make certain the old
war-mongers who ran the armies of the world did not subject innocent
people to the kind of loss I'd known.  I was going to see to it that no
task force was ever advanced needlessly, no ship ever mindlessly
sacrificed to gain a tactical advantage."  He stopped, as some other
emotion rose up in him.

"You say you hated me when you learned I had sacrificed a thousand men
and women.  What would you feel if we had lost, and left the colonies
unprotected?"  He rose in a rage, as Brunner stood and backed away.
"How would you judge me while some Belgian officer was raping your
pretty little wife?"

Brunner's eyes flashed murder at him, but he said nothing.

"Yes.  And how would you have liked me when the political executions
and imprisonments began?  Forget your romantic notions!  When it comes
to occupying armies, there are no morals left to judge."  He steadied
himself, took a breath.

"Behind us lie the three planets of our people, our home.  One hundred
million inhabitants.  Nothing else stands between them and us.  And
maybe our enemies don't even want them.  Perhaps they would be just as
happy to destroy the entire system, or even use radiation bombs:  empty
the inhabited planets of life without destroying the cities, the
beautiful landscape.  Do you think this is a fucking game?"

"You misunderstand.  I am not judging you."

"And you misunderstand," said Dubcek bluntly.  "Why do you think I take
an interest in you?  Why do you think you are here?"

"I don't KNOW!"

Dubcek waited.  "Shall I tell you?"

Brunner turned his head painfully, faced the older man.

"You are here because this battle will not end the war.  This war will
not be the last our people know.  Because if someone has to command and
send young people into battle, I want it to be someone who still has
some feeling left....  Because I respect you.....  I have no son."

Brunner squeezed his temples with his hands, unable to stop the tears.
"But I CAN'T."

"You can, and you must.....  I am not releasing you."  Dubcek stalked
out of the room.

The young lieutenant did not return to his post for several hours.  The
battle went on without him.

16)  P-KR4
P-KR4

17)  P x P
N x P

18)  KN-K2
R-R4

19) QR-N1
B-K3

20)  P-R3
P-Q4


Brunner reentered the battle room with his head down, walking stiffly
to the place where a subordinate stood manning his station.  The man
looked up, handed him the lightboard---showing how they had arrived at
the present disposition---and with a quick bow started to leave.

"Wait," said Brunner quietly.  The man turned.  After an awkward
silence.  "How are we doing?"  The man looked at him with mild
curiosity.

"As you see."

"That's not what I mean."  Their eyes met.  "Have we truly engaged the
enemy only when necessary."

"Yes, Lieutenant.  But he does have a battle to fight.  If I may say
it, the old man has done very well.  But here."  He pointed again.
"We'll know soon enough."  Brunner turned his gaze back to the globe,
and the man was gone.

Lieutenant Olaf Brunner would remember the rest of the battle as bits
and pieces of a vague, impossible dream.  Unable to bring himself to
look out the portal at his fighting comrades, he watched the moving
shapes as if entranced, as they swam amid the invisible sea of the
globe.  Masaryk's voice.

"Enemy first destroyer group to corridor two, column six."

Dubcek.  "Engage."

21)  N-N3
N x N

"Battle cruiser coming forward to intercept."

"Robot battery 5, attack enemy battery opposite."

22)  R x N
P x P


"He took the bait.  Second destroyer group moving forward."

"Mongoose forward to column two.  Starboard guns to standby alert."

23)  N x P
K-N2

"Still coming right at us, corridor one."

"Let him come.  Light cruiser, heading C-four."

24)  P-R5
B-B4

An unfamiliar voice.  "Colonel.  My instruments show a strange energy
field materializing before the enemy battle station, bearing 00 to 04,
F-six.  Apparently a highly charged, extremely dense mass of negative
ions."

Hearing this, Brunner's senses came suddenly, vividly to life.  Some
half remembered, theoretical principal of matter.....  As the fear
materialized in thought, he was filled with a dread such as he had
seldom experienced.

Looking up, he saw that Dubcek too was unnerved.  He turned toward the
speaker as calmly as he could and said, "Link up with the main ship's
computer.  Keep me posted."

25)  P-R6(ch)

Masaryk.  "Robot battery still coming forward, moving into range."

"What?" replied Dubcek absently.

"The enemy battery, moving into range and preparing to fire.  We've got
to move back."

"Yes.  Of course.  Mongoose to corridor one, column one."

K-R1

For some reason these coordinates seemed to Brunner the final
manifestation of an impending doom.  Riveting the globe with his eyes,
he understood the reason why.  The enemy was perfectly positioned.....

"Colonel," he said.  Dubcek glared at him, angry and agitated.
"Colonel, please."  The commander left his post and came toward him.

"What is it?"

"Sir, if that's some kind of star gate---"

"It CAN'T be.....  That is only a theory."

"But the American scientists are said to be coming close."

Dubcek did not wait to hear him out.  He started toward the chief
scientist.

At that moment a blinding silver halo split the sky, and through its
inner darkness passed a ship far greater than any yet seen in battle.
To his final, unyielding horror, Brunner saw the outline of an enormous
carrier take shape inside the globe, in perfect position for the kill.

26)   New queen appears, QB3.  Check.


BECAUSE WAR IS NO GAME, AND NO ONE PLAYS BY ANY RULES.

At their posts, Masaryk and Wessenberg were struck dumb.  Dubcek stood
still in the middle of the room.  The chief scientist had taken out his
ear-piece and thrown it to the floor.  All seemed incapable of
movement.  Finally Masaryk stirred, shook his head and cleared his
throat.

"Colonel.  A second enemy carrier has appeared.  Bearing 01 to 02,
F-six.  He's staring right down our throat."

Dubcek, shaken to the bone, somehow managed a short laugh.  He turned,
walked toward his executive officer.

"Configuration?"

"Commonwealth Super-carrier.  It's the Americans, Ivan."

Dubcek breathed out his final despair.

At that moment the communications officer turned toward him.  "Sir.
It's the Commonwealth commander with. . .terms for our surrender."

"Bastard," he muttered beneath his breath.  Then.  "Put him on the
screen.  And get me General Itjes with the Coalition reinforcements."
He quickly checked the time.  They were due to arrive in another hour.

The large main screen of the battle room came to life.  And there in
the midst of it, his face animated with tension, confidence and
self-satisfaction, stood, in military uniform, General Charles William
Hayes, Secretary of State for the United Commonwealth.

His fear submerged beneath a desperate, fey indifference, Dubcek turned
to Masaryk with a rueful expression.  "This just keeps getting
better.....  Yes, Mr. Hayes.  What are your terms?"

"I want the immediate surrender of all your forces, and a complete
shut-down of planetary defense systems.  In return I'll see that your
people, both military and civilian, are treated fairly and with
respect."

"Oh, I have no doubt of that.  Unfortunately, I do not have the
authority to negotiate such a complete capitulation.  I have contacted
both our President and the Assembly (a necessary lie), and also the
Coalition military representative.  You will have an answer soon
enough.  One question, though, if I may ask it."

"What is it?"

"How do you plan to run the occupational government?"  He looked at
Brunner as he said these words, turned back to Hayes.  "Who will be in
charge?"

"The Belgians and Swiss."

"While you carry the crusade elsewhere?"

Hayes' voice was blunt, brutal.  "You have five minutes."

"That should be sufficient.  Thank you, Mr. Secretary."  His face left
the screen, and Dubcek immediately went to work.

"Brunner, Wessenberg, Kinsky and Schmidt, get to the evacuation ships.
Gunnery and engineering high-officers to remain at their posts;
everyone else off.  First battleship and remaining cruiser to provide
cover for their retreat, then get out themselves---link up with the
reinforcements as soon as possible and put themselves under the command
of General Itjes.  Go on.  Move!"

Masaryk relayed the orders with grim satisfaction.  His commander was
going to fight.

As the others filed past him with blank, scared faces, Brunner remained
at his station.  Dubcek looked over at him.

"Get out, fool!"  But still he did not move.  The aging commander
strode quickly over to him.

"There is no time for this.  If you want to be brave then hold on to
your commission and fight them again."

"I don't want to leave---"

The voice of the communications officer broke him off.  "General Itjes,
sir.  I've also contacted the colonies:  all data being relayed."

"Good," said Dubcek.  "Put him on and get below."  He held out his hand
to Brunner.

"Goodbye, Olaf.  Go.  Now!"  His lieutenant turned and left the room.

Four officers remained in the chamber.  "Anyone else who wishes to go,
it must be now."  None stirred.  "Very well."  He nodded, turned to
Masaryk, then remembered General Itjes.

The chief scientist had moved to the communications board.  He put him
on the screen.  The lined and wizened face of the German General stood
before him.

"Yes, Ivan.  I understand you're in trouble.  Can you hold him off long
enough for us to get around his flank?"

"Don't bother trying, General.  He's got the ships and firepower to cut
us both to pieces.  The best thing you can do is guard the civilian
retreat from Premislyde and Goethe.  I'm afraid Athena must surrender."

Itjes sighed painfully.  "All right, then.  Agree to capitulate your
forces along with it, and stall on the rest for as long as you can."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sir."

"Why not?"

"He is not about to be detained, and I am not about to let him win this
battle without the shedding of American blood."

"Ivan, this is no time---"

"This is bigger than both of us, General.  They must know at the very
beginning that they will be resisted every step of the way."

"Colonel, it is pointless to die like this."

"Sorry, Helmut.  I have much work to do.  Save as many as you can." He
gestured to the chief scientist, and the screen went blank.  He turned
to Masaryk.  "Is Hayes unloading yet?"

"Just starting now, sir."  They both watched as perhaps a dozen of the
monolithic carrier's twenty chutes were lowered and the first wave of
fighters, mingled with other, larger ships, came streaming off.  "If
that's the Dreadnought....."

"It is."

"They say she holds over three hundred vessels---cruisers and
battleships among them.  Twice the size of our entire fleet."

"Are the evac ships off yet?"

"Checking.  The last one is just clearing now."

"Give them thirty seconds to be off, then put the third robot battery
in his face.  I'm tired of looking at it."

Masaryk waited, gave the order.

P-B3

"Colonel, it's the Commonwealth commander."  Dubcek shook his head.

27)   N x P

"Bel-Swiss destroyer group engaging."

"Big surprise.  Knock them out with battle cruiser two."

R x N

"Cat's out of the bag now," said Dubcek.  "Hayes is making short work
of our battleship.  Poor bastards."

28)   Q x R(ch)

"He'll be coming after us, next."

"I hope we didn't make him mad."

Masaryk smiled.   Even as they spoke, the great ship, anticipated by a
swarm of torpedo ships and fighter-bombers, began to come forward,
gathering speed as if to ram them from the sky.

"Oh, Lord.  Here they come."

"Bring us forward!  All guns open fire!"


K-N2.....




........................................................................
.......................................................




























INTERLUDE





















VOICES


"Morgan?  Do you love me?"

He rolled away from her and onto his back, stared at the ceiling.  The
blanket was keeping him warm.

"I don't know."  He was not sure, only that he had never felt this way
before.  Maybe once, long ago, as a child.

"Because I love you."

"How can you?"  Now that the rush of sexual elation was over he felt
wounded, and as hollow and empty as a man can feel.

"I don't know.  But I do."

He took her hand and held it, against his leg.  The motion was
mechanical, without feeling.

"You sure it isn't something Freudian?"

"Don't be stupid, Morgan."

"I'm sorry.  He looked straight at the nothing.  But something stirred
inside him.  "I care for you very much."

She studied him in the half-light.

"Are those your own words?"

"No.  I think Lawrence said them."  Nothing.  "You see what a waste I
am."

"No.  I don't think so.  But I wish you would kiss me."

He rolled back toward her, felt her long and beautiful beside him.  He
began to kiss her, felt something warm at the corner of his eye.

"Why do you have to go?  Haven't you done enough already?"

"Apparently not."

"Oh, of course.  The Belgians and Swiss, and now the Commonwealth.
That was your fault, too."

"You don't understand, Elonna."

"What am I supposed to understand?  That your father was a racist
bastard who didn't love you, or any one or anything else?  That you
don't know how to deal with your guilt?  God damn it!  Are you going to
sacrifice everything we've found, just to satisfy your pride?"

He tried to glare at her, turned away and faced the window.  "I'm so
glad I could trust you."

"Don't you say that to me!  Don't you dare pretend that you don't care
about me.  You didn't bring Johnny and I here just to satisfy your
conscience and have an exotic fuck."  He was silent.

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you to stop KILLING yourself."  The emotions of a lifetime
seemed to be trying to push their way through her throat, the back of
her eyes.  "DAMN you.  Aren't there enough things out there to destroy
us.....  I want you to find another WAY to fight them."  As he weakened
she started to go to him, checked herself. 

"Listen to me, Morgan.  One more raid isn't going to make a difference
in this war, one way or another.   It's too big for that now.  But if
you're killed it will mean everything to you.....  And to me."

They stood in silence.

*


Again they stood within their chambers beneath the transparent dome on
the planet Alba:  early night.   Morgan was preparing to leave.

"Please don't go."  The tears flowed freely down her face.  "I could
never forgive you."  The boy, standing by her side, looked at him with
an angry, puzzled expression.

He started for the doorway.  Reaching it he stopped, and stood
perfectly still.  As the battle raged inside him.

"Morgan, please." He turned to face her.  She was love and loss
personified.

His shoulders went limp, and the rifle slid halfway down his arm.  He
had never felt so empty.  Twenty seconds.

He lifted the strap of the rifle, leaned the weapon against the corner
by the door.  He walked past them and into the bedroom.

Un-shouldering his pack as they followed him in, he unfastened the
flaps at the top and took something out of it.  Steel hoops on a black
chain shone silver.  The man placed one cuff around his wrist, hooked
the other to the metal bedpost.  He took a set of keys from his pocket.
. .and threw them across the room.

He slid to the floor, cover

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