Episode XI

of

THE PATTERN OF INFINITY

By J. Kel

He had chosen to entertain the illusion, to maintain it, to push it for all it was worth that he was the Commander-in-Chief for the patchwork of forces that made up the raid. He was not. Never came close. He was just an independent functionary, and only for a few hours. Did he ever know it now! He was just one more soldier desperately trying to complete his mission -- as he tore through Servalan's underground apartment -- and get out alive!

It was completely dark. Good. He told the others the power would be down for thirty seconds at most. Their strike could not possibly disrupt the power grid for any longer and if the grid came up before they teleported out . . .

Night vision cameras tracked him. Warnings blared at him. He was under surveillance every moment. The emergency lighting . . .

Locate ORAC.

Ahead of him was a door. The teleport coordinates given had been close, not quite accurate. No matter. He quickly burned through it. Twenty seconds.

He had isolated himself from the crew. The meals he took, infrequent, were delivered to his cabin. He focused on logistics, supplies, weaponry, and after everything else, strategy. He communicated only what they had to know. The orders were to be obeyed without question, without hesitation. Everyone on board had adjusted. The result: Dayna was perplexed, Cally resentful, Vila relieved. Or some such order. But they accepted! He was in charge! War was relentless thought; merciless action. Part of him still resisted; part of him exulted at being drawn ever deeper.

Fifteen seconds. He threw himself against the door and it crashed in. In the corner was the box, lights blinking, as if festive for the holidays. ORAC-the-original beckoned. He got out the proximity bombs. Ten seconds.

Each of them had gone his own way. Not quite the team approach he envisioned, but given their history, understandable. Vila, "Admiral Vila" of the mine-layer as he was chided, and Dayna and Cally were all on separate trajectories. There was no future for any of them, only a present of alternating and unending tasks.

Despite his isolation, he watched them. Sometimes he would find one of them napping, in such a light state there eyes were virtually open. He would let them sleep. He himself seemed never to need it.

He listened. Each made promises, boasts, to the others. Dayna vowed never to be captured alive. Cally vowed that this would be her last mission. They all said they would say good-bye to the Liberator forever. They accepted what had to be done. But after the raid, they would keep on going, never to see each other again.

He placed the tiny bombs all along the device. One, two, three . . . Then put in the key and the device came to life. "Meet your equal," he said. He heard running sounds like a machine gun. The lights were beginning to flicker on. Five seconds . . . "Teleport now!"

ORAC awoke complaining, shrieking, bitterly besieged by overwhelmingly conflicting, shall we say, feelings? Tarrant vanished as shots filled the room and rude people burst in and the bombs came alive in a hellish chorus. "We're proximity bombs! Better get away! We're proximity bombs! Come back some other day!" They hesitated. They stopped. They got.

Back on the Liberator, breathing hard and loving it, Tarrant watched the flow of data into ORAC-the-Copy. He had no idea if the armada had arrived on time and for the moment he did not care. His time was everything; the allies could fend for themselves.

He glanced at the clock. Seconds to go if they succeeded.

What was he overlooking? For each second of his life he wondered. He lived now moment to precious moment. They had been chained to the past, their time without future, one rushed instant after another. He had broken free. Either he would remain alive this instant -- he saw the teleport calls come in as the automatic retrieval began -- and make the next -- that was all that mattered -- or he would not. There was nothing else to say.

Fifteen seconds. He stood as if ordered to attention. Nothing mattered. Yet when he saw the five of them materialize, he breathed enormous relief.

The first thing that hit Cally when they teleported on stage was that everything was tar black. That is what they planned (of course!) with the night vision equipment, but it was as if they had been thrown into a pit of raging demons . . . and that was the second thing she noticed . . . the emergency lighting had not yet come on . . . and now there was the overpowering sound of vengeance coming from the crown. At first the crowd had been stunned but in seconds, fear turned to terror, terror turn to fury and by the time the two women had reached the three prisoners, the stage was being attacked; waves of people, breakers of them. They roared and screamed at whoever it was who had cheated them. As Cally and Dayna rushed to the prisoners, great claws of sounds tore at them. Cally pitched a gun to Avon, hoping he would find it in the dark then she worked feverishly to release Jenna.

Dayna returned fire at the guards. They were hesitating and that is what enabled the rescue. Killing a single Auron was one thing, but did the Supreme Commander want all the prisoners killed as well? Each of guards was unsure.

Once Jenna was freed, Cally gave her a gun. Fine, but then Cally tripped and fell almost on top of her sister. Both Avon and Jenna were returning fire over her head. Cally got up, but not too far. The shots increased in number, their aim was getting wilder. She put a bracelet on Li's wrist.

Steams of people were trying to run up the stage stairs. The roiling mass of confusion and hatred was surging closer, a flood tide of rage. Dayna handed a teleport bracelet to Jenna. Everybody's aim was starting to improve. Dayna felt someone behind her, turned quickly, saw an open hand thrust forward. She handed the last teleport bracelet to Avon. They were all hugging the floor, but with bracelets snapped on Cally, holding onto Li's wrist let out a cry of "Teleport Ready!" for it was time to get out!

Around them a circle of shadow shapes closed in, wary in the dark, shouting for them to . . . someone broke through, rushed over; Dayna turned, but Cally saw him first, shot, taking him down. She gave the command again. "Now!" Nothing. "Teleport now!" she yelled and swore and finally they were gone.

They were back on the Liberator. Li stood up in her great flowing dress, looking dazed. Jenna looked furious, angry like she had been cheated of a fight, disgusted and frustrated together as only she could manage. And Avon looked, well it was hard to read any meaning into his face as he stepped from the chamber, looking ridiculous in his suit.

Tarrant was, however, looking pleased, He stepped forward and made his greeting. They all turned to him. It was the first time anyone had seen him looking relaxed since the planning had begun. If action had a name . . . he was at ease with himself, if breathing roughly. The expected result, he seemed to say, had been achieved.

He greeted each of them in turn. He first took the hand of "Li? Molli?" "Li." She looked at him curiously, saying nothing but her name. He thanked her for her crucial intelligence and told her firmly she was still very much needed. She nodded slowly, but did not look any less distraught. He went to Jenna, spoke to her solemnly, then Cally.

Then to, well it could not be avoided, Avon. Tarrant's relaxed manner had begun to fade. He stood there before him, imagining pulling out his gun and plugging him without ceremony. Their eyes locked for a moment. He directed Avon to a bench by the teleport controls, pointed out the large monitor above them (as if it could have been missed), explained what has happening. He indicated ORAC and mentioned in passing a few things he hoped to learn from the device. Soon. Then as his clipped efficient phrasing came to an end, urged Avon to have a seat. Did he require anything? No. Good. They would need to talk.

His purpose he feared was wavering, denying him authority and control when he needed it most. He should decide now about this, but for the life of him, Avon's life actually, could not. The two men sat. Thirty minutes until phase II began.

Tarrant focused on ORAC, telling Avon to watch. Any second now . . . then it happened. "Psychological warfare," he said, beaming.

When Servalan reached her apartment and saw her people running from her room she went into a frenzy. She seized a gun from one of them and stormed past the broken door and got a clear shot. The tiny bombs went off and she fell back as plastic, wire and smoke, poured out of the room. The box flared, singed, melted and vaporized. Coughing, disgusted, she hurled the weapon at the man she had taken it from, and screamed "her companion" was dead. They helped her outside to recover.

So as Tarrant had taken Avon to the side, and things had started to calm and it was beginning to look like everyone could talk again, not to mention actually hear what the other person was saying . . . it was out of the corner of her eye that Dayna saw Jenna grab for a gun racked against the wall. In one deft movement she got there first and blocked it being removed; catching a blast of icy fury from this woman in the process. She had never met Jenna, who was only another of Blake's legends, possibly more terrifying than most. Dayna put the gun back, keeping an eye on her. With this woman you took no chances. It was vital to establish authority on their ship: it was Tarrant's and Cally;s and hers. Nobody else.

Dayna had never felt a crippling fear against any opponent, but here for the first time she knew she had met her match. The woman commanded instant respect. But it was territory. It was life. Jenna was the past. They were the future.

"Hello. Forgive me, my name is . . ."

"I know who you are. Don't ever do that again."

Dayna tightened the grip on the gun, but did not move away. She said calmly, keeping her voice low, almost to a whisper. "Mind if I get you out of those wrist cuffs?"

Jenna glared at her. The remains of the cuffs were still dangling from her wrists and ankles

"I'm not quite as good as Vila . . ." Dayna continued as she took out a simple tool and disengaged the cuffs. "In some respects. There. I hope you feel better. You are welcome here, but you need to understand something. The gun is ours; this ship is ours."

Jenna crossed her arms. "I was on this ship years before you."

"I'll be taking Li to the Medroom," Cally interrupted. She went to tend to her sister.

"Yes . . . Please" replied Dayna, then turn back to Jenna. "Forgive me. This is not your ship. It just looks like it. Remember the Sword of Auron?"

"What do you know about that?"

Dayna shrugged. "Enough. We don't have a lot of time. You need to get suited up. Are you with us?"

"Tell me your plans before I agree to them."

Dayna nodded. Though she had never doubted it, she was profoundly relieved: Jenna had shown interest. "Actually Tarrant will do that. In about, oh, five minutes. Would you come to my room, or would you prefer to change here?" she asked blandly.

There was about this woman a terrible smell of sweat and rage. Dayna was as repulsed as she was in awe. Jenna moved away from the gun rack, saying nothing. Dayna continued. "You will be issued a uniform and weapons. Why not decide after Tarrant's briefing?"

Jenna smirked and said too loudly. "We have what we need. Li, the 'messiah'" . . .

"Shut up!" Li had not quite left the teleport room. She turned around violently. Everyone looked at her, astonished. Cally tugged at her sister's arm, urging her to the Medroom. Dayna waited for the expected explosion but Jenna said nothing. Her look was devoid of emotion. But she shut up.

As they walked back to the Medroom, Cally watched her sister with alarm. Li, it was clear, was more than distraught.

"All right," Jenna said. "I can take a hint. And I have already received two. At least until Tarrant has said his piece." And with that, Dayna directing, she quickly went down the corridor to her cabin to change.

Tarrant stared relieved at ORAC, watching the pattern of the lights, occasionally glancing over to Avon, who sat there looking like he was posing for some moss-and-bird covered statue entitled "Utter Defeat." Curiosity compelled him. What had happened to the man? The pattern change in ORAC's lights took place: the lights froze, blinked, then resumed their normal random blinking, though more slowly.

Outside, the rush of atmosphere against the hull caused a thin whistling sound to enter the ship.

He turned to Avon, his hand near his gun: "She killed her companion. One more thing to upset her terribly and muddle her thinking." He paused: "What do they know?" By "they" of course he meant her.

"Nothing. I added nothing."

"You can do better than that."

"They know all they need to know. Look, call this off."

Tarrant eyed him. "That's better, but not much. Not a chance. Why?"

"They have a version of . . . a pathogen . . . similar to the one used on Auron. It is to be spread at midnight . . ."

"Time zone?"

"Her city, of course."

Tarrant took a breath. He was starting to get a glimmer. "Continue."

"Over every inhabited world. That is all she told me."

Tarrant looked him, neither shock nor disbelief registering. The Combined Fleet. "But what does she know? This ship?" He gestured. "Surely . . ."

"It is no longer a factor in her thinking."

"And so she does not fear the fleet above them." He pointed upward with his index finger.

The whistling sound began thinning. The ship was moving into to near space. Finally, the sound stopped.

"They have known of the invasion for weeks. She does not care. Planetary defenses are sufficient to keep you at bay until her purpose is achieved."

"And you want me to call it off?"

"That's what I would do."

"Well, there's a sterling recommendation if I ever heard one."

Acceleration remained constant. Tarrant estimated they would be with the main group in five minutes. Protection enough for the moment. He resumed. "Our allies will have to be warned," he was trying to sort it out. "But not yet. Once we are out of here . . ."

"You truly mean to go through with this?" Avon was incredulous.

'Yes, I truly do. It is your agreement we are carrying out. From where will this pathogen be launched?"

"Probably from her city, but it could be any number of points. She will take no chances."

Tarrant thought it over hurriedly. Perhaps ORAC had that information as well, but it would have to wait. He eyed Avon. Despite the source, he was actually inclined to believe it. The opening they had found for the raid was not the result of a baited trap, but of irrelevance. She had other goals. The Combined Fleet scattered throughout the Federation spoke most eloquently of that fact. It was starting to make sense.

So why am I asking him? He thought.

"I am told she can see into the future," he said offhandedly. "One presumes not only the invasion, but the rescue operation as well. What do you know about her abilities?"

Avon hesitated. "She never discussed or mentioned the children. If she knows about a rescue attempt, she kept it from me." He shrugged. "Or again she doesn't care. I do not know."

"Or perhaps she doesn't know everything. That lack would make her unique in the Federation leadership." He tossed that off, looking for a reaction.

Avon glared at him.

"You really will have to hold up your end of the conversation."

Avon rattled it off. "She knows as much of the future as any of us do of the past. Which is to say, less than you might think. There are gaps in her knowledge. There are confusions and misperceptions. She had god-like powers, but she is not a god."

"We certainly can be grateful for that." He returned to ORAC. In truth, he did not like looking at Avon. "What did she do to you?"

"What she would do to any prisoner."

"I highly doubt that. Let me rephrase: how worried will she be now that you are in our hands?"

"That's what I meant. She told me nothing beyond what she did not mind me telling. Care to know how I survived?"

"Not particularly. Why would I care?"

"I survived by ceasing to care."

"That must have been difficult. Then we should work well together. Will you fight?"

"I will follow your orders."

Tarrant considered it. That isn't exactly what he wanted to hear, but it might suffice. Avon had told him enough to keep him (Avon) alive (for now), so round one to the bastard: you live. His hand dropped from his gun. "Here, do me the honor," he said, all brisk business as he handed Avon the key. Avon leaned over and placed the key firmly in the device.

Tarrant spoke as he did so. "Let it clear itself, but only briefly. It has a lot to sort through. Give it, say, two minutes."

The ORAC device started at once, blurting and shrieking, confused, and terrified. #The other is near . . . It is back . . . I must understand . . . I am fearing . . . correction. I cannot find it. It is gone . . .#

Avon reached over and turned down the sound, but they could still hear it going, like a drowning victim or a victim of mob violence, pleading for rescue, pleading for identity.

Tarrant looked over at him. "Good God, that's enough. ORAC! Item 1: give me the coordinates, deposition, details of the camp where the Auron children are being kept. Feed the relevant information into the ship's battle computers. I will download what is needed from there."

#I have better things . . .#

"You have nothing better if you wish to remain intact. Remember your twin. Item 2: from where and when will Servalan launch the pathogen -- Earth specifically."

#She has identified eight prime locations. On her command they will be . . .#

"Thank you. We'll track later. Just load the information with the other files. Give item 1 priority."

Tarrant looked increasingly concerned. "'On her command' . . . That tells me if we can kill her, maybe we can stop it. And likely the only way to kill her is with a mine . . . Oh, I forgot. We have a couple of mines circling overhead, ready to use."

Avon let the implications hang in the air. Tarrant decided not to mention Vila. He pointed down the hallway. "Well, think about it. I will be eager to absorb your counsel," he said dully. "I presume you can still find your way to your cabin. Go there -- something I have always wanted to say to you. You will find the combat suit and the weaponry you need, should you desire any such a thing."

Avon got up. "And Avon," Tarrant added. "We appreciated the help."

Avon did not look at him, nor respond. Acknowledging internally the shifting borders between them was enough, he got up and left. Tarrant noted, with satisfactory speed. At least the thought of conflict stirs him.

In the quiet of the infirmary, its white walls flowing around them as confining as they were sterile, Cally invited Li to sit on the examination table, but her sister was still shaking and at first refused to do any such thing. "It would make my job easier," urged Cally quietly. Li said nothing, but finally sat as requested. "I am sorry about Mykal," Cally continued. "None of us anticipated what he was going to do."

Li seemed to be getting under control. Cally reached over for the medical recorder and positioned the thick scanner arms around her sister. She was staring off into the distance; watching Mykal die, Cally suspected. "Try to get your mind off it. You are the leader of the Auron Community in Exile now."

Li began to tremble once more. She looked ashen. "It's a position that should be retired. I refuse it. I won't!" she said harshly.

Cally went through each of the readings in turn. Then Li began to speak, her voice steeped in sadness. "Mykal died a brave man. I think that is what he wanted, more than anything. And he was right, you know. These are the last days. And Avon is our leader."

Cally stepped back, checking the readings. They looked close to normal for the most part. Li had lost weight, but so had she. Li seemed well and strong, and her eyes occasionally showed both fire and determination. Not to mention her voice. Still it was an uncertain mix. They both needed to steady themselves. This was the first time they had met in -- how many years? But the poignancy of the moment was lost. And the evening was still young.

Cally quickly pushed the arms away. "I think you will be all right. No one would blame you if you declined, however, but we will need you."

"For the rescue?"

"Yes. The raid, the mission, whatever -- on time and on track," she said brightly.

"I will be ready. What is being planned?"

Cally looked at her. "First things first. You need to get out of that dress." She gestured to the combat suit draped over a chair. Li shrugged, leapt off the table and began changing.

Cally watched the bruises revealed, then scars. "Was it as bad as it looks?" she asked.

Li did not face her. "It's nothing I want to talk about. Whatever happened to me, Mykal experienced much worse."

Probably true. Cally felt miserable. "I am sorry I did not dare tell you more. I could not. If Servalan had guessed . . . The plans continue to be worked on, right up to this moment. If Tarrant gets the information he needs, and we will know when we get back, then he will brief us."

"Get the children out, all of them." She muttered, pitching aside the dress.

"Yes. Bring them back to Terminal. Then . . ."

"Then what?" Li turned to face her, the combat suit partially on. She stopped, then hung her dress carefully on a hanger.

Cally placed the medical recorder on the table beside them, its colored arrays of displays blinking rhythmically. "Let's try to be optimistic," she said. "We will have the technology. We will be able to defeat the Federation. Everyone knows they won't be truly defeated until their fleet is destroyed."

"And Servalan is dead."

That seemed obvious enough but Li's emphasis on that fact was troubling. Servalan's death was only a part of their plans. "A war has started. What more can I say?"

Cally gestured her to come over. "Here, I need you to get your suit ready. I won't bite." Li looked over at the dress. "I liked it. It reminded me of a life I once had."

Cally ignored it. "I'm your doctor, and your squad leader. First I examine you, then I suit you up." Li stepped closer. Cally began checking the suit, oddly shimmering in this light. It tightened about her, like a diving suit.

Cally was all professional, displaying her own suit as a match for Li's. But she was becoming increasingly uncomfortable all the same. There was so much that had to be said. "The final decision is yours," Cally repeated

"Thank you. I do like making my own decisions."

The suit was form fitting, snug, its colors changing in the shadows. Cally examined the back, checked the sensors, finally powered it up. She confirmed the internal ventilation and temperature controls were operational. She checked the suit readings to see if they were within limits. They were. Then Cally placed the cowl over Li's head, explaining as she went. "We got the suits from a group that has found them to be highly effective. They are battle tested. On any terrain, in any climate. There is a transparent 'mask'," she lifted it up, "keep it adhered to cowl at all times. It's made of a special material, don't ask me what, that will keep extremely cold air molecules out, letting in only the warmer. Even in the coldest temperatures, it will let enough through for you to breathe comfortably. The suits are tough enough to keep the occupant alive against most primitive weapons, though I wouldn't bet too heavily against anything more sophisticated. They camouflage continuously, against any lighting and surroundings -- you can still be seen by night vision equipment, but your profile is greatly reduced."

Li nodded, taking it in.

"Now, you will be supplied with the usual assortment of weapons, to be explained shortly, plus, of course, night vision goggles." She indicated near Li's ears and mouth the communication equipment; told her how it was low power, good for several kilometers and several days. "Use it." Li took it all in, but remained sullen.

Cally stepped back to admire her handiwork as Li threw back the cowl. //I admit it's comfortable, but I won't need . . .//

Time to get serious. "Li, please listen to me. Don't telesend unless absolutely necessary. We will both be in a highly emotional state. There is danger of what is called 'psyche-lock' between two people who have closely matching mental patterns, as we certainly do. It means that one can be caught in the others sensory perceptions. It will leave you extremely vulnerable. It should only be temporary if it happens, but even a few seconds in a combat situation can be deadly. Understand?"

Li nodded quickly, comprehending, annoyed, her mind on other things. "Will the Entity turn the technology over to us?" she asked, concern rising in her voice. She hated her sister's calm. She hated being unable to wipe the image of Mykal dying from her sight. Most of all, she hated the now silent Entity that had betrayed her.

"It has been promised," Cally said. "Promised to Avon. That is all I know and can say."

"It promises lots of things! I am beginning to suspect it doesn't always deliver."

"Li, I have dealt with it more than any of us. I honestly think it means to keep its promises. It is on our side! It wants us to win. Please believe that. I am confident it will help us at the appropriate point."

"Which it will decide." Li looked off into the distance, to the direction of the teleport room, her eyes and expression a mixture of anticipation and regret. That was not the solid "yes" answer Cally wanted. Cally knew that look of skepticism only too well, having seen it in the mirror more than once.

"It promised me," Li said, pleading more to herself than to her sister, "that it would teach me how to alter the 'picture of reality'. I would be able to make things better, change them, by thought alone. I would be able to wish these things into being." She was near tears.

Cally was stunned. The nightmare she had long dreaded had now arrived. "Very well. There isn't much time but let's discuss it. Do you remember the message that was first sent to you: "Belief lives after knowledge errs"?

Li nodded.

"It was a message both for you and Avon. It meant first that Blake was alive, though in a way no one outside Terminal could understand. It also meant something very special. Something I myself did not understand at the time. Between belief and knowledge, wish and fact, are worlds, membranes of possibility. The Entity calls it 'para-reality.' It has never been explored. There are records of people who possibly had the power to alter or shift reality, at least locally; at least to a slight degree. But it is more myth and legend than science. The Entity believed you might be on one of those people. It made you half myself in the hope that your power would be boosted sufficiently so that you would be a match for Servalan -- if all else failed. She senses you are a threat to her, but does not understand how."

"You're telling me! Did you know this?" Li asked incredulous.

Cally looked embarrassed. "No. Not all of it. Some of it came to me in a dream not too long ago. I had help interpreting it."

Li rolled her eyes; Cally went quickly on. "My sense is that Servalan thinks it involves Avon as well, and it does, but there is much more. The power latent in you, the power of the Wish could, if sufficiently developed, defeat her control over time. And in so doing, free humanity from her grip. That was the promise."

"I don't have that power!"

"Let me put it this way: if you do, you have only the beginnings of it. It is not developed. The self copy I gave you was unable to push the potential over the threshold. I'm afraid it was not to be. The Entity told you it would enable you to fight and so it has. I am sorry. That is all I can give you."

Li was livid. "So the whole rotten bunch of you abandoned me! After your experiment didn't work out, it's so long Li!"

Cally answered as evenly as she could. "You were our backup; a pawn, I admit. I have to be brutal about this now. Li, I honestly did not know. All I was told was that Servalan had great powers and you might have powers to match. I believed that. We had to try everything. I never questioned the details. What the Entity said is . . . I don't know if it is true. But for you it was never to be. If the Plan failed, you and Avon together would have been all that was left to stop her. Avon, as I hinted, has the power as well . . ."

"How?"

"We don't know. It is even less developed."

Li looked at her stunned. The implications began streaming through her mind.

"You're not telling the whole truth even now! So that's why you manipulated me to fall in love with him! My God . . ."

"Li, no one can manipulate anyone to fall in love . . .

"But you grafted your feelings on to mine. Everything. And I let you. Those feelings are now mine! In addition to my own. Don't you see? I do love him! I mean, I am in love with that man as fully as anyone can be. With a power and intensity you can never match! I want him and will have him. And now you tell me I have no choice in that either!"

Cally, dejected, noted the time. "If you can ever forgive me, for what I did . . . I felt it was right and now know I was terribly wrong. In the end, Servalan will be defeated by brute force if she is to be defeated at all. There will be no magic in it."

Li raged at her. "Damn you!" she said, choking. "Lied to me by my own sister! Lied to . . . " Her hand slapped against the table. "Forget it! Since altering reality is not an option, just how do your propose to defeat the greatest military force in history, led by a woman who can foresee the future!? This ought to be good."

"Have you ever read Macbeth?" Cally answered quietly.

"Of course I have! What does that have to do with anything? I played . . . I was an actress, remember? In addition . . . " Li stopped, her fury replaced by a growing look of horror. " . . . Oh, my god. No. You can't be serious! I'm sorry. This cannot be correct. Ignite an interstellar war and your master strategist is a playwright who has been dead for over a thousand years!"

"I am afraid he will have to do, unless you have a better suggestion."

Li was too stunned to continue. Cally continued. "If the Entity promised that you were certain to have the power of the Wish, it did indeed lie. It is not possible for any of us to alter reality; past, present, or future. Time remains a prison we can never escape." She sighed, almost like a sob. "Maybe it's a power we are never meant to have."

"I could undue Mykal's death!"

"Stop it! Please. You cannot bring Mykal back! The power is not there! It was only a possibility." She hated this quarreling. She was desperate to get back to the teleport room. "If anything happens to any of us tonight, you will not be able to undo it. Please forgive . . ."

"You don't understand!" Li said, her frustration unyielding. "It showed me a taste of what I could do If I only knew more . . . You talk to me as if I were a child! I'm your sister; half you for the love of God! It showed me a taste of what can be done! I felt it! It's a power Servalan could not match. I could change reality! There is so much more I have to know, so I can use the power and use it wisely . . . But you both abandoned me . . . just one more failed weapon against our invincible god!"

Cally wanted to hold her, but saw the hollowness of comfort. Her arms hung weak, unmoving. She said nothing, not wanting to argue the point further. She noted the time again. They had to get back to the briefing.

"I am ready for whatever happens," Li said abruptly. Cally looked at her startled.

"Yes. We need to get back," Cally said.

"Then you had better finish with me fast." Her voice was cold, attentive.

Cally continued the inventory, explaining the weaponry, suit features, communication links, system backups, the raid plan as she understood it but again it would be Tarrant who would fill in the details. Completing the list she said: "These are flash grenades," holding out several small, yellow spherical objects. "And these are glow cubes," she held out something about the same size, only cubical and orange. "Don't confuse them."

"I'll try not to," she said dryly.

"You would be surprised what people do in the heat of battle." She tucked them in Li's kit.

"I will be the first Songmaster to go into battle," she said wistfully.

"You are not a Songmaster anymore," Cally reminded her.

That was a mistake. Li flared at her again. "And I am not a fighter either, in case you haven't noticed. My sole combat experience consists of punching Servalan in the face!"

"That's a start. More than most people have done."

"To hell with them! I will be what I want to be!"

Cally gave up. "I am sorry I offended you. You are not a child. You are in every way my equal. Look, we have to work together." Li glared at her.

"And speaking of Avon," Cally tried a weak smile. "Keep your distance. Tarrant and I have made a deal. We will keep him alive for now, but we don't know for how long. With Avon one can never know what he might do. He has a lot of enemies, a fact I am certain he aware. At root, he is a man, nothing more; to his credit, nothing less. With all that will happen tonight, you mustn't take Mykal's gesture, heroic as it was, seriously. Whatever our devotion, or in the case of some of us foolish enough to love him, none of us like or trust Avon. It's just that none of us have ever found a substitute. Even Blake admitted that. If you hadn't relayed what had happened when he kissed you," Li looked at her angrily, "we were prepared to take him out at once. Sorry, I had to tell the others. It saved his life."

Li calmed, but her breathing was still rapid.

Cally continued. "Your faith in him persuaded us to let him live. Tarrant says the issue will be decided later, but for us it has always been decided. We are bound to him, no matter what. Whether he earns the faith we give to him tonight, I do not know. This is his home, the world he loves, if it can be said that love means anything to him. Who knows how he, or any of us will act when the crucial decisions are made?"

"And the point being?"

"Focus on yourself and the mission. Leave Avon to us."

Li pushed past her. She opened the door and said, "He loves me. I know it. I felt it that moment when we were forced to kiss. And as I have already said, though you insist on ignoring the fact, I am in love with him as well. That love will survive tonight, whatever happens. At some point, I will speak with him and then we will decide together. Without you, or Tarrant, or anyone else in the whole . . ." she used a word she had never used in her life, " . . . universe."

Cally, desolate, empty, alone, moved towards her sister. "Li, please . . ."

"Go to hell!" and she stormed out the room.

Cally followed, muttering, "I am already there. We all are."

When each of them had returned, there was a collective air of acceptance that permeated the room. Li seemed to have steadied. Jenna stood in the corner, as resigned as she was imperious. Near the monitor, Avon, now dressed for the occasion continued to speak with Tarrant. The other scattered about the various couches that were part of the room, silently waiting. The moment had come.

Tarrant entered some commands on his recorder and diagrams of the camps appeared on the overhead the monitor. "It works," he said, to no one in particular.

Avon asked, "What have we found out?"

"We're about to discover."

"Sorry to interrupt, but what are we trying to accomplish?" asked Jenna loudly.

"Just wait for a minute," said Dayna. "And to all of you, let there be introductions. The opportunity may not come again. Jenna Stannis," she thought it best to keep on a full name basis, "this is Del Tarrant, commander-in-chief of the raid. We are temporarily acting independent of the forces attacking Earth. However, that is subject to change."

Jenna relented slightly, shrugging. "Are explanations in order as well?"

"Soon . . ."

"I was just about to ask that myself," said Li sitting by Cally. The mutual resemblance of the two, sitting together dressed in identical combat suits, was fully anticipated and was still disconcerting, surreal in a way. The only difference was that one sister appeared to have been on a more stringent diet. Li continued. "I just watched my friend, the leader of the Auron Community in Exile . . ."

"A position to which you have now ascended," reminded Cally.

"A position which I decline. That part of Auron history is finished. As I said, I watched a friend die. Bravely. For a cause you were all a little late in advancing."

Tarrant stood, looked up at the monitor than to each individual in the room. His look was cold. Dayna recognized it at once. He was getting into his "icy commander" role. "Thank you for you frankness. That will be needed if we are to succeed tonight. I will now do by best to explain."

Behind him the wall monitor showed the trajectory of the Liberator as it had flown west, then arched out of the atmosphere to join what looked like a swarm of angry bees orbiting a couple hundred kilometers above Earth's surface. A blinking dotted line then followed down to the polar regions of a large continent, several thousand kilometers distant from Servalan City.

"Continuing with the introductions, I am Del Tarrant. I am in command of this part of the operation until the surface invasion by the Lindor Defense Forces begins. Cally is my second should anything happen to me. On the basis of what ORAC discovered during the time it merged with its lamented twin, we now know the exact location of the camps we seek. That was vital or else our part in this operation would have been terminated." On the monitor, a white-bordered rectangle appeared. In a progression of enlargements, the camp diagrams opened before them, being shown in a rapid series of different perspectives.

Tarrant glanced at Jenna. "Please be seated." She grudgingly did so. "The only one who is not here is Vila." A red light shown in the middle of the swarm and a pointer arrow marked it. "No introduction required. He is flying the mine-layer that will serve as our means of transporting the children out."

"Vila can pilot such a thing?" commented Avon, not believing it. His reaction was mild compared to Jenna's.

"Stranger things will happen over the next 24 hours, I assure you. Now, to make this quick. I regret the loss of Mykal, the first failure tonight. I can only hope the rescue of the children and our reward for it will make up in some fashion."

"I would like to know that what happened was not in vain," Li replied. Cally was grateful she seemed to accept Tarrant.

"We also now know why the Combined Fleet is busy elsewhere. The reason will be explained later, because it does not affection this operation. At this time, I want your full concentration here." He pointed to the camp detailed layout.

Within the area there were four circled and highlighted segments, each labeled with letters, A through D. The pointer singled out camp C, then B. "This is where we will hit."

He paused and noted the time. Twenty minutes left.

Dayna spoke up. "There is much you do not know. While Cally has been in contact with Li, all three of you have been out of the loop. Some of that was for security purposes. We dared not tell Li too much about what was being planned."

"If Servalan had suspected . . ." muttered Jenna, curled in the corner, shifting restless and angry.

"Yes," replied Dayna firmly. "Only she 'knows', never 'suspects'. What none of you were informed of, is that a massive assault on Earth and Luna has begun. The Lindor Defense Forces, along with as many bandit, rebel, criminal, and guerrilla groups that could be gathered, more than a thousand warships total, are simultaneously attacking both targets."

"That's suicide," said Jenna flatly. "You don't have enough of anything to win."

"I was getting to that," replied Dayna with an edge in her voice, as she looked over to Tarrant who for the moment seemed to be enjoying this. "What they do not know, however, and let there be no misunderstanding on this, is that regardless of the outcome, these operations are only a cover, a distraction for our real mission which is independent of them."

"You wouldn't mind telling me what you are talking about?" Jenna stopped, then stood. "Wait a second. Now I know. Of course. This ship. It was made just like the Sword of Auron. Sorry, I slipped." She moved her hand, as much in awe as anger, across the metal fabric. "Perfect. That's what it offers -- perfection. I'm a fool. I'm so relieved to have company. You are being offered the technology. You were given this ship as proof that it exists; that it is ready to be used. Don't you see? You are the ones who are being used. It, they, whatever, will never deliver! It will dangle this before us, and then take it way when we need it most. I'm on a ship of cretins. Abort this mission! Get us out here! This is all your going to get!" She slammed her palm against the wall.

Dayna glanced over at Tarrant, a look of alarm, but Tarrant was in his element. He was in charge, and he was ready, though it seemed he wanted to let this play out.

"Tarrant," said Dayna, rapidly, decided to side step the matter with as many irrelevancies as she could muster "has been in charge of planning from the beginning. All logistics work has been his. Diplomatic liaison work has been a responsibility shared with Cally. My understanding is Blake's people, despite their reputation for aggressive independence, come together when the cause is sufficiently imperative and the odds not impossible. Tonight we need to come together."

She looked back at him, but he was over by Avon, discussing who knew what.

Finally, he returned, addressing Jenna as smoothly as he could. "I share your concerns. But the mission will not be aborted. If all goes well," Tarrant was directing a pointer beam to camp C on the monitor, indicating a central building, "and we have no indication otherwise at this time, the six of us will attack here," he moved the pointer, "Camp C (Children), and here, Camps B (military), simultaneously. Our goal is to release and evacuate the 5000 Auron children. The other prisoners will provide sufficient force to guard our exit."

"That is our part of the bargain," he continued as Dayna sat, exhausted. "You have heard Jenna's opinion as to the outcome. However, this ship, this mission, remains under my control. Jenna's concerns are valid. I have overruled them."

Jenna looked at him, then shook her head. "Don't mind me. This is a suicide mission. Do what you please."

"Have you joined us?" he asked pointedly.

"Is there anywhere else for me to go? But you are asking my conditions and I will tell you my decision only if my questions are answered."

"Questions will be addressed. After the briefing. Just to assure you that the details have been taken care of -- the children will be placed in the spheres of a mine-layer. There is sufficient food, water, blankets to sustain them back to Terminal." An image of the delta craft, looking like an arrow head, enlarged upon the monitor.

"That's not what I meant," Jenna said coldly. "I suppose a mine-layer has a certain cachet about it . . . if it had mines." She hesitated, appalled. "Does it?"

Right to the point. He could see why Blake liked her and even Avon respected her. "Think of this as the knockout blow against the Federation. Another deal we have been required to make this possible." He looked over to Avon, who seemed almost amused.

He continued. "Two mines to be precise." He saw the remaining faces around him. Li's was in shock. "This night has already been traumatic, and it is only beginning. The allies we have gathered are fighting with us because they believe we will use the mines -- if it becomes necessary. We will do everything we can to avoid that eventuality."

"You will have no choice," Jenna said flatly.

"There is an issue of choice and intention, to be sure."

"For God's sake . . ."

Li spoke up desperately. "We can't use them!"

"We can and will unless the Federation capitulates," said Dayna.

"Get on with it," said Jenna, irritated.

Cally stood. "Tarrant and I will decide jointly. This will not be done rashly," she said, with all the strength she could muster.

Jenna looked at Cally. "You expect me to believe that?"

"Yes I do. Is there anyone who does not?"

"I want to hear . . ." Li started to say, then stopped.

Tarrant looked back at the monitor. "Good. We fight together or," he smiled, "we fight amongst ourselves. Everyone is vital. If you agree, you are under my command henceforth."

Silence. Tarrant accepted it. "You are right, Jenna. We are being manipulated. It's a bad situation. Our only hope lies in making it worse."

"I'd honestly like to hear what Avon has to say," said Li.

But as was his way, the Messiah only smiled slightly. Jenna looked away in disgust.

Of the numerous human activities that might be deemed worth observing, a space battle has to be among the dullest. To Vila, who after all could only watch instruments on the Bucephalas, there were in the 3-d hive where his ship resided, no sounds of explosions, no energy beams like multicolor search-lights ripping through the sky, no torpedoes of any type or description. Occasionally the launch of a rocket might be visible, but it was for affect, something like a tracer; a way of testing defenses and was invariably blown from the sky long before it reached its target. Overall, the configuration of the fleet remained unchanged, except occasionally a dot on the screen would vanish, but you would not have known that unless the software specifically pointed it out.

Only one ship had his attention, for its movements were not with the fleet. The target identified, the coordinates determined, the Liberator began moving from the protective covering of the main battle group to descend for attack.

Even those closest to her had never seen her so confused, one dared almost say, distraught. Except for the flare of temper, the brief focus of rage when she vented her fury and fled from the room after destroying ORAC, she sat in the enormous chair in her office saying nothing. Power was back on, ventilation was going, but still the awful odor permeated the complex and refused to go away: a plastic odor as awful as burnt hair that even here, far from her room, could gag a person. What those around her did not realize was that for this woman it was much worse than losing her companion for so many years. She was in shock, utterly uncertain in mind and emotions, not knowing what to do, what possible order to give, who even to give it to.

Because the future had lied to her, misled her, betrayed her. It had slipped out from under her grasp and bit her viciously on the hand. And because of that, the turmoil of her emotions were blocking the visions. She had been so certain! She was the Messiah, destined to liberate the whole of humanity. And now the great vision was in ruins and her life with it.

The visions were a drug. She had to get them back.

As she sat stone silent on a chair, her aides ran about, trying to make sense of the situation. At one point, she slumped forward, a posture more terrifying than any burst of unstoppable temper. After years of taking her orders, no one had any idea what to do without them.

They wanted to approach her, but could not. They wanted to flee, but dared not. They were almost vibrating in apprehension, waiting, expecting, that she would pour forth a volley of commands that would sear and shock anyone near and with that summon the full force of the Federation to smash the attackers. But still she sat, dejected, idly moving her black corsage in her in her fingers, until someone dared ask . . .

"Madame . . ."

"I know!" she stood, her face lit up, wild, her dress covered with black flecks and residue which fell from her like a devil's snowfall. In the distance they could hear, more feel than hear, the rumble of explosions, the thunder of man-made lightening. The city, her city, incredibly was under attack.

"I need to get to my Command Center!" She began moving forward, all of them following. As she went, she gave orders, hesitantly at first, but with gathering strength. She summoned her officers, those in charge of the local defenses to be ready to review the situation. In truth, she did not know what to do any more than they. Her strategic commands would have to wait. For now, she would have to be satisfied with simply knowing more.

For days they had been warned this fleet was on its way, but she had ignored their pleading, promising them it was of no significance. Now the confusion of the evening, the denial of all she had foreseen, the cruel twists in her perceptions, had undercut that assurance. Simple, direct, ruthless responses of the moment, to bring this monstrous insulting nuisance orbiting above her down to its knees, eluded her. Perhaps she truly had been mistaken. She looked at them as they rushed down the corridors beside her. None dared criticize. But the irony was that for once, she might have accepted a scolding.

She was struggling to regain her purpose. Should she unleash the pathogens now? That seemed too easy. She had to know more. What had she blocked? The visions had seemed clear enough, but now, sitting at her desk in the command center, she stared incredulous at the image of the Earth under attack. The hive swarmed around it. There were numerous lights where there had been strikes; red and yellow lines were there were counter blows. Some of the news was tolerable. The ground defenses were holding for the most part, the orbital forts were maneuvering into position, but it would take at least an hour before they would have an impact. The defense response she could see was uncoordinated. Why was this happening? What was it telling her?

She looked at her reflection in the table top. In the rush to get her away from the stadium her white dress had come askew, her corsage barely adhering. She moved to correct it, embarrassed by the unsightliness, as everyone in the room averted their eyes. This casual acceptance of her destiny had led to a profound overconfidence, she had to admit. Tonight was a warning. It was still possible to achieve her goals, but they would no longer be handed to her. She was beginning to fear the future.

She looked around her office, observing those who were waiting to report, on the monitors or present in the Center. It had only been a half hour since it had crashed down about her. This was to have been her night! She seemed transfixed. Her hopes, her triumph, in the bloodied remains of one man had come crashing down. An Auron. She had been warned her not to trust him. How right they had been! At least the prophecy of his public execution had been fulfilled.

She noted the time: it had only been 35 minutes since the fiasco at the stadium. On the FNN monitor a program of symphony music was playing.

She had to regain control. The certainty that had guided her effortlessly in the past had deserted her only temporarily. She would sort through possibilities that once seemed solid. The disaster of her miscalculation was spreading around her, in widening waves of humiliation and defeat. It would be stopped.

She slumped again. The Messiah had been proclaimed, true enough. She had helped find him, just as she had foretold. But in the end her teacher had been right: it had not been her.

She stood angrily. For the first time in her life she wanted to summon them each forward to apologize for her blunder, but all she could say was "Report." Her voice steadied. She still had time to think.

The danger of prophetic power is that it moves beyond guiding to propelling one into the future. With each fulfillment, one becomes more confident, more reckless; one is rolled forward on a trajectory of which no escape or deviation is possible. Mind is fused to time and in mutual descent head for a fatal collision. The ultimate power becomes the ultimate slavery.

She was the Messiah. Her teacher was wrong! What had happened tonight was an act of blasphemy, but once she killed Avon, and she realized now that is what the vision of him falling before her compelled, she would at last achieve her destiny.

In the meantime, the work must go on. She listened to each of the desperate reports in turn, certain that just by standing there unmoved, it would have a calming effect on everyone.

" . . . Attacks continue against a wide range of targets both on Earth and Luna, the attacking forces divided roughly 2:1 against the two main objectives. As far as can be determined, no other area of the Solar System is experiencing significant attacks . . ."

"Luna status?" she asked weakly.

"Defenses holding for now. No immediate danger to the weapons factories. However . . .

"How much longer?"

"Unless the attackers withdraw, projections indicate six hours. At most."

"Perhaps we can still recall some of the Combined Fleet?" intruded another voice. The question was asked with great trepidation.

She wanted to destroy the voice, but could not permit herself the luxury of anger. She told them calmly that none of the Combined fleet would be recalled. That was that.

"Earth/Luna defenses shall continue to hold," she said wearily. "We will simply hold our positions until enemy losses force them to retreat." Enemy losses would be huge, she told them, and on this she was correct.

The man's face was anguished.

"The Combined Fleet is on a mission that cannot be interrupted. The local defenses are adequate to the task," she concluded.

Another broke in hurriedly: "The bulk of the enemy fleet remains in compact formation and shows no signs of dispersing. It continues to surround and protect a large craft believed to be a mine-layer . . ."

"It is a mine-layer but they will not use it," she said abruptly. "It is a bluff. I want more attention to be focused on the trajectory and purpose of the ship that attacked my city. Who is tracking it?"

The Liberator. How that galled her! But she could not dwell on it. What was its destination and intent? That is what she had to know. The possibilities were . . . numerous. An enormous projection of the ships engaged in the attack appeared on the main monitor. The Liberator was still within the attacking swarm, but was beginning to descend. If only she knew where. That was the key. Know what the Liberator was up to, and an overall defense strategy could be formulated.

"We are tracking the enemy vessel," came the urgent voice of the commander of ground defenses. "It has began to depart the protective . . . " but she would not listen to the obvious. She switched over to the large cylindrical monitor. Now they saw clearly the trajectory of the Liberator as it began curving downward. She saw the projection of the most likely destination. And it made no sense.

She left her desk. Those were the prisoner camps. Millions of people were confined there, but attacking those camps served no military purpose whatever. Even if the defenses themselves were poor to non-existent, the Liberator could not rescue any significant number. So why? The voices carried on around her. She tuned them out.

She examined the data an both monitors. Both projected the same location. For the moment she ignored the mine-layer. A report had come in that it did indeed have mines, at least two. That meant eight empty spheres. A lot of useful space . . . why?

"There are no military targets in that region," she said flatly, more to herself than the room.

"Correct, Supreme commander," someone agreed. "There is nothing but research outposts, some scattered villages, and of course the quarantine areas for the . . ."

Her eyes froze on the monitor. He stopped. The phrase "quarantine area" was the only allowed way of openly referring to the camps. She spoke very slowly, pressing her finger firmly against the marked destination. "Which camps are here?"

But before he could answer, she shot up her arms and let out a high-pitched shout. "Show me that plot, all the detail you can give me!" She knew! Now she knew! The whole mood of the room shifted.

In a few seconds, as her fingers jabbed angrily into the screen, it appeared. The loop surrounded an area near the Arctic circle. A red line, the Liberator's trajectory, went right into it. They watched for a few more seconds. The attack force would pass over that spot, every hour and a half. She returned to her chair, almost throwing herself into it. She looked at them and slammed her hand on the desk. She wanted to scream: Don't you see! But she was so overwhelmed by the revelation she was experiencing she could scarcely speak herself. She fought for words. It was a spectacle that none in her employ had ever seen.

She opened a connection to the Special Services officer in authority over the camps. The woman was roused irritated from sleep, but she snapped to attention. A call like this was always a possibility, but never had she imagined . . .

Servalan spoke rapidly. "The Quarantine Camps under your jurisdiction are about to come under attack -- Sector 417, camps A through D. You have ten minutes -- make that five -- to alert your people. Sound the alarm, get them out, leave a few behind as a nuisance force. Your top priority will be to assemble two strike forces, three companies each, to counter-attack the designated camps from both sides -- on my signal. Stage some distance away. What is the local time?"

She looked at the clock and blinked. "Oh-four-hundred."

"Be ready to strike in three hours."

The officer gulped; managed a salute. "Plans for such a contingency have been formulated, Supreme Commander (actually they hadn't), but assembling such a force in the time and location presents extreme difficulties. Given distance, weather conditions . . ."

"They are of no concern."

"Of course. The earliest an attack can commence is at least four hours."

Servalan sat back triumphant. Nothing would stop her now. "You have your orders. Make it three. Tonight is a night of miracles. There is no time to lose!" She broke the connection.

She turned and faced the assembled in the room and to them she said, "The enemy purpose is clear. They intend to free the Auronar, to spread their contagion throughout the galaxy. Stopping them is our top priority. Earth and Luna defenses will have to keep attackers busy until this threat, our highest priority, is removed. To victory!"

They saluted, hands snapping to foreheads, in triumph, in relief.

For the detailed part of the briefing, Tarrant lowered the lighting as a diagram of the second of the camps in question enlarged upon the monitor. The four circles were present with their letter designates, but only one dominated the screen now. Jenna looked ill-tempered, but interested, much to Dayna's relief. Cally, Li, and Dayna, spread equally around the sides, watched intently. Alone among them, remote and removed, Avon looked somber. It was as if he already knew what was coming and dreaded it.

With the intelligence data gathered, they now had the location, deposition, indeed most, though probably not all details of the camps they would be attacking. Above, the Bucephalas was ready to receive the thousands who would be teleported up.

Passing the peak of its arc, the Liberator began its fiery descent.

Tarrant's voice was brisk. "The camps of the target area are all that concern us: here," he pointed to the central image, Camp C circled by dotted lines. "Camp A is for Auron prisoners; B is for military; Camp D is for politicos, and so forth. Camp C is our prime objective. In that camp there are approximately 100 barracks-type buildings holding, we believe, about 50 children each. The staff consists of two Federation functionaries/building, plus a few dozen more who work in what is termed the Hygiene Center." The letters HC appeared on the screen as he pointed out a large Oval two story building in the center of the Camp. "Other support personnel bring the total opposing force to at least 200." He let that sink in. "Once the Liberator completes its strafing run -- knocking out the power plant, teleportation facilities, guard towers, along with punching as many holes as it can in the parameter fencing --," he pointed out each in turn, "the ‘Valkyrie’ . . ."

"Tarrant!" Dayna protested, as the other women groaned.

He continued unperturbed, " . . . will teleport into that camp. Dayna and Jenna to seize the Hygiene Center as a command post. Cally and Li will scout and confirm the location and condition of the children. The four will also gauge and report the strength of resistance."

"Simultaneously, Avon and I will teleport into Camp B." The layout of that camp now dominated the screen. "Weapons, blankets, shoes, will be teleported down. We will have the task of organizing a defense force.

"Teleport bracelets will be sent into the evacuation center of C once that building is designated, probably the HC but we cannot be certain. If resistance is strong, as point to be discussed shortly, we will have to wait for the second pass before the evacuation proper will begin.

"Once the HC is seized, it will be the task of Cally and Li to funnel the children up to the Bucephalas, while Jenna and Dayna continue to patrol. We hope to release up to 500 of the released military prisoners to assist with the children. The remaining military will be positioned to defend the camps against the expected Federation counter attack."

He paused, looking grim. "This center building, the HC, is a concern. There is not much information on it. My initial thought was to destroy it, but it may have children in it. It may in fact be a hospital. There are some details ORAC does not know. It will be the priority task of Jenna and Dayna to clear this building of hostiles. If the resistance is too strong, will we bring help, but it will take time."

The camps vanished from the screen, to be replaced by the overview of the ongoing space battle. "The armada orbits overhead approximately once every hour and a half. All objectives must be secured by the end of the first past, or we abort. By the end of the third pass -- we only have 45 minutes each pass to send the children up -- the camp must be cleared of all children. At the end of the third pass, and absolutely no later, we leave.

"I am anticipating Federation forces will be too occupied with allied operations to interfere significantly with our mission, but I could be mistaken."

At the base of the monitor the clock showed there was less than five minutes remaining. "Finally, we do not know," he continued, quickening the pace, "the quality of the resistance we will encounter. I think most of the surviving guards and service personnel will not put up a serious fight. These are the lowest orders of the Special Services, their morale is poor, their training minimal. But that assessment and implied conclusion could be in error. The element of surprise should be with us, but how long we can exploit it is unknown. It is my belief that everything depends not so much on what Servalan knows, but what she cares about.

"The people of Camp B, now armed, will clear any remaining internal resistance and form a defensive barrier surrounding the camp. As with the enemy, we do not know the condition of these people, either physically or in terms of their morale. We are counting on them hating the Federation, but that may not be sufficient. They may be broken, in which case we can only hope the people of the other two camps, who will be delivered weapons on the second pass, will be able to help. The situation could degenerate quickly.

"I cannot emphasize enough: once the children are on the Bucephalas, we leave. If it becomes too dangerous, we leave. With only six of us, I can tolerate no more than two casualties. Or we leave.

"One more thing: as noted several hundred adults will be recruited to help with the movement of the children and to assist once on board the Buchephalas. Cally and Li: grab whoever looks able-bodied and sane-minded. The rest will have to be left behind to fight the Federation. Night is long in this location this time of year; a counter attack no later than dawn is certain. Destroying the main teleport chambers will delay but not prevent that. The Special Services are the most fully-equipped combat units in history. By dawn at they latest they will be ready and eager for a fight."

He turned off the projection on the monitor, leaving only the time counting down to zero. "This plan has a chance only because our allies should be making things difficult enough for the Federation to keep them occupied. For those inclined to offer a prayer for the success of this mission, offer a prayer for them as well. Questions?"

Jenna: "How are the two ships to stay together if there is a serious pursuit?"

Tarrant: "Already thinking ahead. There will be and they can’t. If our allies prevail or at least hold on to delay the Federation, the Bucephalas can be left temporarily in deep space once we are far from Earth. The vastness of space itself will hide the ship until we can retrieve it. That is the hope."

There was silence. One minute remained. "I will now address the questions nobody asked." Tarrant beckoning Avon to stand beside him.

They heard the charging of the energy weapons, the loading of the rockets, shudders through the ship as the whine of atmosphere slashed over the hull.

"We cannot let anything slow us down. There is no time for prisoners; no time to even scores; no time for anything except the mission. Once we have the children out, we are done. Do not wait for an order to leave. No heroics. I mean it: anyone who does not follow the plan will be left behind."

The others stood. "You must assume that every Federation operative you meet is capable of killing you. It cannot be ruled out that we are going into a trap." He resisted glancing over at Avon. "It is also possible Servalan is blinded by her own omnipotence. My wager is that given the shock of tonight her state will be somewhere in between. But in any case, prepare for the worst. Shoot as necessary," he smiled, "but try not to get so trigger happy that you shoot your own people."

He glanced back at the clock. Less than thirty seconds. "One final thing. To anyone who does not return, it has been my honor to have served with you. Blake chose well," he concluded. It was as far as sentiment would permit him to go. Dayna for a moment was near tears.

Seconds from zero. They rushed into the teleport chambers. Avon and Tarrant in the first; the four women to the second. Avon looked at the two sisters, they back at him.

The last thing Tarrant heard was: //Good luck.//

The last thing Avon heard was: //I love you.//

"Stand by," Tarrant said.

They felt a tingle over their skin, the rush of electricity, their forms shimmered and they were gone.

There is a constancy to the arctic wastelands. Not only the cold that hits with the force of a hammer against skin and soul, but also to the people who are drawn here: those to order, to destroy, to torture, to kill. For this is the place of the camps. Camps like these were once here centuries prior, and given certain human constants there was an inevitability that over the jagged course of time they would come forth again. The people who came here are those of such bleak and utter emptiness that they could never go anywhere else, live or die anywhere else. These people, who patrol the barbed wire fences in black sheepskin coats, who stand watch on the guard towers looking like enormous flies, who watch the prisoners with soul-filling hatreds and infinite disdain, were people who had driven from themselves every emotion except the determination to inflict every agony they could conceive.

In the Arctic camps, hatred, like the cold, is as much thought as felt. There is no empty hatred here. For in such emptiness would come relief, and a momentary relief would make the job intolerable even to them. The Arctic is a prison of existence, a vise of nature, jammed solid between black sky and white ground, white sky and black rock, where humanity is pressed down to its rawest elements. Shouts and screams that each moment shatter the air -- these were the base elements that defined the foundation of this lowest form of existence.

Winter was a blessing. In the winter, there was no decay, thus no smells in the open winter air. Merciful cold killed smell and taste, leaving only hearing (of pain), seeing (in agony), touch (in horror).

There was technology here, but other than the devices mandated for keeping the prisoners under surveillance, the old ways were preferred. Now, as they had been centuries past. Never forget, this was an old place. Ancient as evil; old as human death. It did not want to change.

The guards who walked the fences, who inspected the wooden, draft tormented buildings each night and rarely looked above, were of the same type who haunted it long ago. When centuries before, after most life on Earth had been expunged, the curse of death still remained here, waiting to feed again. When Earth was repopulated once more, the draw to their souls called them to return.

For a long time, the call had been resisted. Governments prior to the Federation preferred to exile their prisoners and trust that they would continue ever onward into the depths of space to trouble them no more. But the Federation discovered, in more cases than one, that exiled prisoners had a bad habit of returning, their prior ways unchecked, occasionally even fortified. With the ascent of Servalan, President and Supreme Commander, her full power unleashed, the northern camps flourished once more. Criminal and resistance elements would be sent and henceforth to remain on Earth.

So in they came. People sent to die, the speed to vary, the efficiency in degree, but always with the same intent. She who saw no other use for people, never came here. Slow death, long and taut like a hangman's rope, drew them slow to the grave, or fast, a red hot wire garroting them. The end was always to be the same. But she never saw it.

The camp guards were the lowest of the Special Services operatives, who had no hopes or desires beyond an existence gladdened by a sudden cruelty. It suited them. Ask of freedom and they would tell you freedom could only be found in annihilation. Their freedom; a freedom they rubbed like ice into the wounded faces beneath them.

But this night, as cold and wretched as any arctic winter could be, and in this camp, there was to be a frantic break in routine, one never before experienced. They had heard of the battle raging overhead, of course, but had found little to interest them -- until the order came for all but a few to abandon their posts at once. Confused, most obeyed -- though they were used to ignoring orders when it so suited them. The enemies orbiting overhead they reasoned could not possibly have any interest in these captives. But the warning, so sudden, so intense, was not easily ignored. The few who stayed behind grabbed their weapons, unsure what to do. Harass the enemy when he showed? How would one do that? The denizens of the towers, or the nighttime patrollers, knew only that someone thought an attack was imminent, even when all history ruled against it.

A few continued to man the towers and patrol the fences. They jostled each other about their comrades who had fled in such suddenness, jokes uttered in ice crystal breaths that stopped dead in the air. What a sight! To the ground vehicles the others had run, to the warmth of the teleport chambers, and it was all very comical and there would be crude laughs a plenty afterward to be sure.

They watched the frozen, featureless plain surrounding this cluster of camps. There was only light sufficient to view arctic imaginings; silence to hear phantoms. They had been warned to watch above. They looked, but it hurt their necks to do so. Their instruments told them nothing. Once they saw something on the horizon like a meteor fall and it made them uneasy but only briefly. They glanced at each other and looked above into the night sky blazing with angry stars and saw nothing to fear.

No one thought of the frozen bodies, stacked like cord wood, waiting for a spring burial for no one above could possibly care.

So they probably never actually saw the attack coming. They might have seen something approaching had they been looking in the right direction with the right instruments -- a furious plowing of snow in the night, a wave of white, like an avalanche beam directed straight at them, coming faster than sound. They could not see the ship; did not hear it. The attack would only be felt, and briefly.

The Liberator swooped in low and fast. A speck against an icy horizon, then a knife ripping out from a white terror, some monster surging over an ice ocean, and in a moment was upon them and roaring up into the sky. It sent down its attack.

The towers were the first to go. Beams hit them like a fist smashing down a toy of match sticks. Then the fences ripped up, twisted, tore and were thrown violently into the night. The generators went after that, exploding in orange ball bursts with sounds that shrieked like cries of vengeance. Then the staging areas where the main teleport chambers and the motor pools resided. Those were hit most of all. Garish, hideous, in the aftermath, the fires burned white hot causing fragile metal to steam and vaporize, causing wood to char and disintegrate.

It was over in milliseconds. The Liberator shot up, depositing its living cargo as it did while the last of the rockets rained down. The remaining supports of the camp crumpled, exploded and fell crashing and sparking to the ground. The barracks of the guards, timber and glass shattering, puffed out, pieces raining from the blasts The Special Services barracks were the last to go.

The buildings of the prisoners were spared, as was the Hygiene Center.

This camp, whose purpose was isolation and death, had seen that purpose realized over the years: the three Special Services survivors of the attack were isolated, cut off, worried they would soon be killed, or worried they wouldn't. Of the Special Services camp structures, only the single oval building of the complex, the HC, remained standing. The nearly two hundred who had guarded the complex were gone: fled, shocked, in disarray, expected to regroup when they arrived at the staging center. Per orders, they were summarily arrested.

The three remained in the HC, staring out the windows.

There were no windows in the prisoner barracks. Windows were an impossible luxury no prisoner was worthy of. Only on the second floor of the Hygiene Center were circular, darkened windows to be found. They were blast proof. They survived the attack.

At the moment the attack ceased and the Liberator slashed up into the sky to rejoin and defend the Bucephalas, the six raiders split into two groups. Four hit the parameters of the Camp C, about a hundred meters from the building. The other two landed within a barracks of Camp B -- military prisoners.

The four women hit the ground at once, then crouching low began fanning out and moving forward. Near them they could see only the fires illuminating their destination. The ground was like concrete. The wind was worse. The dared not breathe the wind. It was like an ice iron sledgehammer hitting the throat. So much for the miracle suits.

To find shelter was to feel warmth again. They were determined to do that quickly. As they advanced forward, Jenna and Dayna separated from Cally and Li.

They were scared, as any rational person would be, for they had no idea what awaited them. They were just as determined, as would few rational people that there would be no losses, no casualties.

Arms at ready, Jenna and Dayna ran forward, each using a separate barracks for cover. Night goggles were a hindrance, for vision was overwhelmed by the fires, as was hearing by explosions. They kept low, but no one was shooting at them. From one barracks to the next they went, moving closer to the HC. Things began to quiet. When the two were close enough for a good look, the fires were beginning to dampen as well. They searched, saw but nothing. There might be no one in the building. Jenna sent a beam at the upper floor, low power, to pierce a window and see the effect. Nothing. No shots, no grenades pitched out. No one ran into or from the place.

Stopping briefly in the shadow of a nearby barracks, she crept closer. She spoke to Dayna, who she could see now.

-- They were warned . . ." Jenna paused. "Most are probably gone.

Jenna spoke into the mike, gesturing Dayna to listen in:

--Tarrant, can you hear me?

-- Yes. Are you okay? he replied.

There was static in the connection. Tarrant's voice, cool as he could make it, came back in a few seconds. -- . . . warned. No other possibility. Which means there will be sleepers."

--Understood, she replied. Gunning for us.

She heard a roar of static as the connection broke. She motioned Dayna to join her while she kept her eyes on the building.

Tarrant was speechless. The moment, the situation, the overwhelming cry of human despair before him grounded him and abandoned him at the same time. He was on auto-pilot now; all illusions of control vanished. He had called to Vila, told him the status as soon as the he and Avon had teleported into this building. He had been informed that everything was ready. The Liberator was now back with the fleet, weaving through the tangled nest of ships, another defense for the Bucephalas.

For a few moments all went silent.

Tarrant gave the code signal. The transfer of material began at once; first to the building where his signal was originated, then to the surrounding structures once the coordinates were fixed. All through the camp, the material of war and survival began falling.

First came light cubes to bring light, a soft subdued glow. Hands rushed forward to grab them, to hold them, to feel the warmth. Then blankets, footwear, clothing of all descriptions, shoes, hats, gloves, came raining down. Eyes watched in awe. The articles fell to floor and kept on falling. Then came paper bundles -- stand back! For the items that had fallen formed a cushion for what was to come: weapons, of hope and hate, of death and deliverance, of freedom and fear -- pistols, guns, rifles, grenades, modern and primitive, everything that could be grabbed, falling abruptly, clanking and spilling onto the floor. Into the spaces of despair, into the darkened corners of grief, weapons for hand and arm were raining down. Hands held up the cubes throughout the length of each of the barracks to see.

Then legs ran forward, and hands furiously grabbed at the weapons and the clothing, clutching them away. There was enough, he had calculated, but it quickly became obvious there could not ever be enough. Were there were no locks, they threw open the doors. Were there were locks, they battered them down. Despite the cold, everyone rushed outside, wanted to see what they had heard, what a few had already told them: the proof of the explosions, the fires burning, the night of liberation at hand.

Soldiers in the adjacent camps held up the weapons, pointed them at the burning ruins of the towers, and fired in every direction -- until the were brought under control by their officers.

Astonishment settled. After the initial excitement they did not know what to do. That was not unexpected. But in this one building on this one floor where Tarrant and Avon had materialized, the prisoners stirred slowly from their bunks, put out their hands as if to angels, moved upon the weapons and clothing, felt the things, knew what they were, understood what they meant. The stuff of war; the price paid for freedom. They absorbed the items, that was how Tarrant saw it. They hardly glanced at the two strangely dressed men before them. Even with time pressing upon them, the two could not help but be struck by the moment.

Tarrant tried again to speak when he heard the voice on the communicator. He responded, then he leaned over, picked up one remaining weapons and said as they slowly crowded around him, "If you don't mind, I think I will keep this for my own."

He grinned and what Jenna heard was cheering. It was like an avalanche coming down a mountain.

For the moment Jenna thought hand signals were safest. She did not want to use the com-units, not knowing how secure they were, unless no other option was available. She gestured Dayna to go around cautiously to the opposite side of the building. The meaning was clear enough. They would attack from both sides, entering though two opposite doors; work their way into the center of the first floor, then to the one above. Experience said that whoever was in there would move to the side when they attacked. That was were the danger lay. Not in the center. Dayna acknowledged, ran off. She hid in whatever star lit shadows, sharp as teeth, dark as a grave afforded cover. She was eager. Anything was better than staying outside.

After confirming it was empty, Cally and Li had burst into what looked like one of the children's barracks. It was abandoned, however. After they had listened to Jenna speak with Tarrant they had pushed the door open, rushed in, and fell to the floor. But there were no defenders and no children. They slowly stood. The barracks looked like it had been deserted for some time. Even the bedding and tables were gone.

They set up glow cubes in the corners of the room, then Cally called up to Vila who sent down heating tubes, many more blankets; everything except weapons. Guns at ready, they continued to search. But there was nothing, only a dull smell. Even in this cold, it was like decay.

"I guess this will do," Li said, unsure.

Cally nodded. "Stay here. I'm going to find and alert the children. I won't bring anyone, however -- until the camp is secured. Just stay here. Wait to hear from me."

Li nodded, moved to a corner away from the door, supporting herself with her rifle, trying to relax as Cally rushed off. Then she slumped down resigned, wondering how to absorb what was happening. She picked up a glow cube, then pitched it lazily away. She waited, listening to the sporadic conversations. Things were now quiet. Her eyes adjusted. Soon it seemed almost too bright in this room. Even with no windows, Li was starting to worry this building might become a target. Defenders had to be out there, but if the strike had been successful, and what they had seen outside certainly seemed a success by war standards, there should be no immediate threat. They should be able to secure the place and move the children out safely.

After several minutes of uncomfortable quiet, Li called up to Vila. Any voice would be reassuring, but she had not kept track of the time. After several minutes waiting for an answer she gave up. The Bucephalas must have moved out of range. That meant it would be at least a half hour before it returned. But then everything should be ready: position, people, process. That was how Cally explained it. In two passes they would get the children out. They would be teleported, "lifted", up to the Bucephalas, into one of the five cavernous spheres of the ship filled with blankets, food, water. Three of the spheres had already been emptied on the first pass, the ones that were "weapons enriched'. But she did not want to think about the weapons. She tried instead to visualize the children safely up in the ship. All that they would have to do is grab a bracelet, place it on a wrist or ankle, and continue to do so until upon the signal a dozen children would go up. Up they would go, twelve at a time, every ten or so seconds. One a second on average for about forty minutes. In two passes it would be done and all it would be fine. Peace and safety for everyone.

It had been little over an hour since she had strode onstage with Jenna and Avon. That was as far back as her memories could go. There was nothing of her life she could remember before that.

Before her was a sack, a net really, of several dozen teleport bracelets. Not wanting to leave her corner, Li first moved her foot over to it and dragged the thing over. She began skidding the bracelets along the floor to keep away the boredom and the terrible silences. She dreaded falling asleep, though that hardly seemed likely. She kept moving the possibilities among her head, increasingly anxious to get the evacuation started.

She hated it all she realized: the uncertainties, the impossible decisions, the merciless time constraints, the endless prospects for defeat, degradation, death.

Cold as it was, she wanted to go outside, but she stayed where ordered. She listened to the electronic voices; she wondered what Avon was doing. As near as she could tell, he had not said anything.

Once she thought she heard movement, a crunching sound like footsteps on the snow. She grabbed her rifle, but nothing came. She checked her watch. It had been all of ten minutes since Cally had left.

On the Bucephalas the bracelets would be removed, gathered, sent back down, the cycle to repeat. She shivered. It was going to be a long night.

Now that the initial excitement had passed, the two men worked together to get the prisoners moving. The prisoners covered themselves with blankets, warily left the buildings, then spread the word amongst themselves and those in other buildings. A chain reaction was starting. None of them wanted to go into the cold understandably. They still feared the guards, but they dreaded the winter night. Nevertheless, the military people were leaving. Both men continued to coax them out.

Once the freed prisoners were moving out of one building, Avon would go to the next. Frequently he would find some outside, watching the sky, or trying to understand the ruined fences still sparking sporadically around them. A few would cheer when they saw him, and that would bring out others to look. In wonder and as much as confusion they began huddling together, clinging to their weapons and blankets with equal ferocity and slowly moving in the direction indicated.

At one point, Avon stood on a pile of frozen debris, covered with broken wood and wire. He gestured to a group moving like some dying tribe across a plain.

"Follow them," he shouted, pointing to a twisting line barely visible in the distance. He threw back his cowl, shouting into the cold again and regretting it. But it was working, his presences was having an effect. After the shock of seeing who he was, the sullen nods became stirrings, the icy stillness the shuffling of feet. He moved among them, using gestures whenever possible to communicate. Get going! He pointed to the Hygiene Center. Your goal!

Resembling more a defeated army than freed men, they moved forward.

He went to the next building; Tarrant to another. More were coming out, more were joining. As they guided them, the two men gradually separated. Their voices were harsh, ringing and cracking in the still night. "Follow them! Keep moving!"

Sometimes one would ask, "You know who I am?": meaning, do you trust us? There was no reply.

"Keep your weapons at ready," one of them would say. "Keep moving . . . There will be shelter. . . There is work to be done. Keep moving."

The cheering had ceased. Tarrant was caught in the flow of the people more than leading it. He was busy enough trying to bolster his own morale, let alone inspire others. Like Avon, he would find a spot to stand, a broken box, a pile of wood and point, like some statue of a wayward pioneer, in the direction of the Hygiene Center, gray and dark and looming before them. No one said anything, but he sensed they did not like where they were going.

Whenever he made this gesture, people would stop and look at his outstretched arm, their eyes moving to his hand. This fixation struck him as odd at first, but finally he understood. They were looking at the teleport bracelet. They were envying him the freedom. He tried hiding the bracelet, using another arm, but nothing worked, nothing was effective in diverting their attention. He could not take it off. They looked at it, staring like a starving man, at a free and expansive meal.

He stopped and called Jenna, but there was no response.

With Dayna now in position (they had decided there was no avoiding the use of the com-link), Jenna ran to the closest entrance of the building. She burned out the lock, pushed the door open, and almost fell down several steps. She was not hurt, however. No one fired. It was pitch black and so cold even the infrared barely registered. There was no movement. She was breathing hard, moving carefully among the boxes and abandoned equipment. She called to Dayna, whispering.

-- Can you make a racket when I tell you? There was an ugly smell of disinfectant here, seeping down from the floor above. Her anxiety increased.

--Say the word.

Jenna looked at a pile of large crates and a stairwell leading up to a door that did not look too solid.

--Three seconds. Starting now. Three . . .

Jenna moved over some boxes, then rolled on the floor to the stairwell, and stopping, aimed a blast on the door.

--Two . . . The door handle splintered. She rushed up. --One . . .

As she jumped through the door frame, she heard Dayna's explosive entrance. Jenna took cover. Shielding her eyes, she pitched a light grenade into the center of the floor. When the light started to fade, she looked around. What struck her more than anything was the primitiveness of the place. Walls of corrugated iron. Rotting wood everywhere. She could not believe it.

She heard a scratching sound coming near. She drew back, moved her gun to readiness. She was now completely silent. It could not be Dayna. She was moving in silence. An iron sheet was Jenna's cover. One at least, maybe two, were coming from the floor above. The grenade light was gone.

Two at least, she was certain now. They stopped. In the shadows she saw them moving carefully forward, one behind the other, then quickly coming down the stairs, trying to stay away from the door Dayna had entered, moving right towards her. They were dressed for the cold. Both were heavily armed. In the shadows neither saw nor heard her. They weren't looking. They just wanted out. Dayna began shooting.

They turned from Dayna's direction, hurrying away. Jenna did not know if they saw her but they stopped, hands moved toward her. She shot in rapid fire hitting both. They collapsed on to the floor, one screaming briefly, just as Dayna broke through the other side shooting at something. Jenna shouted at her. She stopped, then rushed over. Both crouched on the floor.

"You got them?"

"Yeah. Got them both."

"But I didn't!" Dayna swore. "There was another one. I think I hit him, running out the other exit, but I didn't bring him down!"

"Did you warn Li and Cally?"

Dayna nodded slowly. Then she looked around her and waved her hand by her nose. "What is this place?"

They both stood cautiously. "I don't know. Upstairs," she looked up. "They were coming down from there. I don't think there are any others."

Dayna looked alarmed: "Can we count on that?"

"No," said Jenna, "I phrased it badly. Look, we've got to go upstairs."

Dayna looked briefly alarmed, then quickly calmed.

"Don't worry about it," Jenna told her. "You did well. You can't expect to shoot 100 percent."

Dayna shook her head, resigned and disgusted with herself. "I should have done better." She looked around then down at the two corpses on the floor and shuddered. "You're right. Let's go."

Li had just received Dayna's warning. She was back in the corner, holding her gun when the door crashed open. The figure shot at her but it was wild and he fell back against the wall and then to the floor. He did not get up but he was still alive. He was covered with a red smear, as was the wall behind him.

Li's gun pointed directly at him. In the soft light she saw the blood was coming from a shoulder wound. He looked at her, beaten, furious, then incredibly managing a look of contempt.

"Who are you?" he struggled to ask in a thick accent.

Li did not know how to respond. She kept the gun level at him. Tarrant had said . . . "Pitch your weapon away. Now. We don't take prisoners, but I might make an exception."

The man smiled hideously and sighed and tossed the gun away with his good arm, but not far enough. She moved beside him, keeping her distance, and kicked it to her corner. "Any others?" meaning people.

"No," he lied, meaning weapons.

She stepped back. It would not be easy killing a wounded man, even in this place.

"I ask again. Who are you?" he struggled to say.

"None of your business. We're here to get the children out."

He shook his head. "No, no, no! Who do you work for? Some rich Aury bastard I bet. You don't want to talk? Fine. Now I know! How much you paid?"

Li looked around, could not see or hear anyone else. She got on the com and told whoever might be listening that she had a prisoner. But no one responded. She turned her attention back to him and decided to play along. "More than you can imagine. You'd be amazed at how much money they have. Look, you need to conserve your strength."

He tried to laugh but the pain was too much. "I knew it! I told them but they don't listen! They laugh . . . we do things our own way here, you know!"

What did that mean? "Does Servalan know that?" she shrugged.

"Servalan kiss my . . ."

"You're not man enough to tell her that."

He spat. "She does not care to know. Her attention, elsewhere. We are free here! Paid bad, but free. The camps are freedom. De-centralized freedom. We act independently. That is the essence of it, no?"

"So you do things your own way. Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"Yes," he nodded. "That's right. No one cares. But . . . ," he grinned. "You paid up front? I hope so. You're late. Mmmm, maybe a few make it."

She tensed. "What do you mean?" //Cally!//

"You out," he laughed, but the pain stopped him. He was coughing blood.

She pointed the gun square at him. "Tell me!" //Li. I told you . . .//

//Cally. My prisoner. He's talking.//

Suddenly she could see through Cally's eyes. She was in a room, all gray and shadows moving slowly. Limbs. The lights grew brighter. Cally saw; Li screamed.

She fell back, unable to move. Her prisoner looked at her oddly, then saw she was not noticing him, her eyes staring straight ahead. He began pulling out a gun. Slowly, as the pain was unbearable. Li was breathing wildly. She could see nothing of her own, only what Cally saw, limbs quivering, starving, dying, skull eyes looking back darkly, empty . . .

He groaned as he tried to aim. She did not hear. His hand was unsteady. He tried to pull the trigger in agonizing effort. And inside her mind Cally shouted //Li! GET OUT!//

She blinked, saw in horror the gun drawing aim, rolled away then turned back as he tried to move his arm, aimed with her rifle and shot.

She could scarcely breathe. She tried the com. --Cally! What did I see?

Cally's voice was faint. -- You all right?

--Yes.

--You don't sound it. What is happening?

The images were chaotic, horrifying, worse than anything she could imagine. She had been inside Cally's mind, seeing through her eyes.

--I told you not to telesend!

--What did I see?!

--Stay where you are.

Li went over, searched the body, removed the ID. She was still shaking when Cally called again.

--There's been a change of plans.

--Where are the children? Li asked. She had expected the transfer to begin any moment.

--I'll be with Jenna and Dayna.

What the two women saw when they entered the room on the second floor was something they could not describe, yet it as old as humanity. The room was dark, except for emergency lighting. There before them were shadow sticks, all but motionless, those that had been children once. It is at such moments that the mind must turn to the momentary practicalities to maintain itself and to function. The two were strong; they had been through much grief in their life. For Jenna the first thing that occurred to her was that they had to restore heat, then get Tarrant over. For Dayna, the first thing was to clear the debris scattered about the floors. They would need help. She contacted Cally. She was already on her way.

Jenna looked for a backup source of heat. She found the controls but they were not functioning.

There were blankets near the beds. The two referred to them as "beds", though they were more crude tables built of wire and wood. Some with glass coverings, though air could presumably get through. They had to get the ventilation system working, but that too appeared to be broken. She checked; on some of the glass covers Dayna could still see breathing. There were sensors attached, but without electricity the instruments were dead. There was no way to gauge the extent of life that remained. Both had some medical training, but nothing resembling the kind of specialty knowledge required here.

Dayna went looking for a source of auxiliary power, but when Cally arrived, Jenna ordered everyone to stop. All three were now going from bed to bed struck by the fact that for one of the few times of their lives, they did not know what to do. Perhaps for Cally it was the worst. She wanted to walk out the door and never come back. She did not want to see a human being again. She did not want to live beyond that moment of leaving. But they continued, checking, searching, listening, doing what they could to formulate a plan of action. The dread of the incoming cold was overwhelming. The went to one of the circular windows, saw the inside temperature was dropping fast. The building appeared to be better insulated than most in the camps, the temperature was still above freezing, but nothing could withstand the relentless pressure of the outside cold. When they stopped after several minutes, in the silence they heard the wind like whispers of the damned in eternal despair.

Jenna turned around. She wanted to speak to Dayna. But she could not avoid Cally.

"The children are dying. All of them," said Cally.

Jenna said nothing. Why didn't I expect this? What is wrong with me?

-- Tarrant! she called. She had forgot to report in. He answered at once.

-- Report, he said calmly. He was still directing his "army" along the length of the ruined fence of Camp C, evenly spreading them, having them build shelters and defenses, anything to keep warm in other words, telling them they had to be ready in one hour.

How bad did she sound? She motioned Cally over. It was the only way she could explain. Indirectly. Let everyone listen in.

-- Can Avon take over what you doing? Incredibly foolish question. This is critical. We need you here. Cally, tell them.

Tarrant contacted Avon on a private channel then after a few seconds responded.

-- Understood. Avon is taking over the camp defenses. Let's try and stick to the plan. We're going to do this as fast as possible. Are you at the Hygiene Center?

-- Yes! We need power! It's getting colder by the minute in here! The building has been damaged but we don't know how severely. It had to have been a wreck before we got here. If we can get the power back on . . ."

Tarrant reopened the channel. -- Avon. See if you can find an electrician. Several. Main camp generators are confirmed destroyed . . . Backup power?

-- I will see whom I can find. Over. That was Avon, the first time anyone had heard his voice on the link.

-- Tarrant . . . Knowing what she had to say was among the worst that a human could say, Jenna's voice was steady. She looked around as she spoke.

-- This is a laboratory. It appears they study the children, dead and alive. There are instruments, wires, everywhere, crude but I think must have been functional at some point. I see things I cannot describe. Li, if you hear me, stay where you are. Tarrant, scrap the plan. We have to determine how were are going to do this. If there are any medical personnel, get them here.

-- Roger. I'm about a kilometer from you. I'm on my way.

When Jenna finished, Cally asked of no one in particular. "Will any make it?"

"Not in this building."

War is part of the human condition. As such, it is also part of our imagination, of our thoughts and lives. It is the realized violence that springs from the unending agony of the human soul. To endure such a horror, we mature. Maturation consists of knowing and accepting that death and suffering are never far from us.

In every culture, in every time, there have been attempts to understand the why of war, and by those few gifted or cursed with power or intelligence (the two seldom go together), to either foresee and possibly avoid it, or to risk controlling it for their ends. More likely to die and suffer from it. When the greatest philosopher of the ancient world asked: would there be a sea battle tomorrow? it was meant not only as a spring board for an inquiry into modal logic, but as a fundamental question addressed to all time. For the question in one manner or another would always be asked, as it was on this night. Would there be a battle tomorrow?

Before there was the logic of war, there was why. Before there was the language of command, there was the existence of armed masses. It was always understood that was the way it had to be. Somewhere, at some time, in some form, there would always be a battle.

In the course of history, war had moved from Earth into space where popular imagination would early on depict the analog of sea battles past, when great navies converged in fierce encounter, where flaming arrows, guns, rockets, torpedoes, and aircraft would signal one closed chapter of history with the terrible beginning of a new one.

Yet in the history of space warfare, there has been no encounter in the stellar depths analogous to the carnage at sea. Two fleets of space warships intent upon such a purpose would have had a difficult enough time finding each other, let alone engaging in a battle. Smaller incidents, with one ship or a few in pursuit of another ship do on occasion occur, but these encounters are invariably brief and almost always inconclusive. Prolonged mass battles in the depths of space are as likely as starships attacking each other with musket fire and grappling hooks.

What happens instead is that navies converge upon their planetary targets, seeking out the advantageous orbit, the one that will permit them to transform the intractable three dimensions of space into a two-dimensional equation of maximum destruction, one that can be approximated on an orbiting shell mapped onto a planetary surface. The classic maneuver the Lindor Defense Forces and their allies were using had in fact been conceived by military strategists centuries before such battles took ever place. The maneuver is known by the innocuous phrase, "peeling the apple".

Here's how it works. The fleet orbits in a tight defensive ball; i.e. tight by space standards -- about one ship for every thousand cubic kilometers. It orbits no more than two or three hundred kilometers above the surface. Robot ships, for defense and offense, are placed on the outer shell. These ships are the smallest, fastest, cheapest, most expendable. Larger warships, less expendable, reside in the inner layers. Finally, at the center are the enormous command, communication, and control ships without which the battle ceases at once. Despite the power of modern weaponry, the arrangement is surprisingly effective. It serves both defensive -- to keep the fleet from suffering too many losses -- and offensive purposes -- to rain as much destruction as possible on targets military and otherwise, preparatory to ground assault.

The ball orbits every hour and a half as the target planet rotates below.

First pass: the attacking fleet probes for weaknesses. Goal: scan for surprises, hit a many high priority targets as possible.

Second pass: the formation loosens. Goal: hit and soften ground defenses preparatory to the invasion. Note: simultaneously, it will distribute, by the thousands a network of satellites that will continue the detection of enemy movements and actions as well as service the vital communications link. A communications break at any time would be fatal. The satellite network makes that less likely.

Third pass: the planet is now covered by the network of satellites, the invasion begins. Goal: the defender sufficiently weakened (the attacker hopes), the swarm disperses and attacks every vital target over the whole of the planet. The swarm breaks into clumps of ships, "meatballs" in military jargon, that beat down the remaining defenses to ensure the surface invasion has a chance for success.

Modern warfare had begun with Napoleon almost exactly a millennium before. Over the centuries it quickened, expanded, but its goals remained unchanged: rapidity, totality, annihilation. It is no longer adequate to destroy the armed forces, armies, navies, whatever. One must destroy what feeds, supplies, and supports the armed forces. And ultimately what feeds and supplies and supports them. Nothing is to be spared for nothing can be spared in the totality of war.

As the second pass of the allied fleet approached, the defenders assured themselves the enemy ships were not ready to disperse for full attack. And they assured the Supreme Commander that these ships would never have the opportunity to do so. Most of all they assured her that Servalan City, impregnable Capital of the Federation, remained far too deadly for anyone to approach.

Give them their due. They were for the most part correct.

Admiral Karlsyn himself concurred with this assessment (though it is presumed Federation forces did not consult him). As he had feared, he was already in danger of losing far too large a part of his force to invest Earth with an effective strike. The capture of the Capitol would be prohibitively costly.

But upon its destruction hung the outcome of the battle.

To the four people gathered at the top floor of the HC, the war (they had ceased to talk of it as a "raid"), had taken on a dimension that they knew from history, but none had ever thought to experience. And like all people caught in such a situation, even with limitless precedents, they did not know how to respond. What could they do? Think, but what thoughts? Act, but what could the actions be in the limited time allowed?

The mind could not code a solution in this instance, nor define the boundary conditions, for there were no boundaries here. It could only identify the obvious: violence is always in life; and life is always inseparable from violence. Now what?

The one man whose advice might have been the most valuable, they could not bring themselves to consult.

And what of Avon in this night? He had taken Tarrant's orders, found a raised spot where he could observe and confer with those still holding some authority, for there were always those who possessed a natural authority who would seek him out, here as anywhere. He located technicians, electricians, maintenance people and in a short time had sent them over. He found two people who had piloting skills, notified Vila, and arranged to have them transported up. This was a detail Tarrant had overlooked.

Here he stood upon the remains of a wooden scaffolding covered with drifting snow. The heavens blazed overhead in a sky as cold and clear as crystal, and around him was moving this vast swirling mass of humanity, moving from what he knew was one doomed location to the next. Ignorant of destiny, very much obsessed with practicality, they were looking only for relief from the knife wind. Wind was death here, but it was only one of its many forms. A few were thinking of where their jailers had escaped and surely would return. Yet, destiny matters and always their eyes returned to this man. Watching him, expecting from him, something in them responding to the promise of hope yet unfulfilled.

His whole life had been like that. He did not spare or pity himself, but for once he could pity Blake. These people watching him, trying to draw warmth from his fire, strength from his determination, to take inspiration and in some obscure way find redemption from his very life, what could they possibly know of him? These were religious people, in a place where God had long since ceased to exist. That they would seek sacredness in any act, in any living being, was understood, but him? How could he have come to represent such a sum for humanity, the solution to a vast integral equation over all the whole of time, a sigma from universal beginning to chaotic end -- well, it was something he could never understand. Here he was reduced to action alone, the great mind as numb in the cold as anyone else. Here he would stand, would point, gesture, occasionally shout. Damn it, there was a mission to accomplish, a war to win, a reward to be collected! Why could they not be satisfied with that? Could he? For if Servalan had obliterated her past and lived only in the future as her method of surviving, he grudgingly granted there may have been something wise in her choice.

The black and while contrasts which had moved him once years ago as a vision of a simplified world that he could survive in, here closed upon themselves in empty shells, forever without meaning or hope. He could live without hope, he realized, but not without meaning.

He no longer sought simplicity. He distrusted it. It was another thing he wanted to be free of.

Once as the long lines snaked around him, as gusts of winds and snow stung the air, a female soldier -- that is what he assumed she was -- trudged near him. She was carrying a bundle. He glanced down at her momentarily and then he realized: it had to be a child. How . . . he did not want to think. She stopped and risking exposing the child's face briefly, just to see him. She said, and he heard her perfectly: "There is the man who rules the universe."

Heat had been restored, partly, along with electricity. There were people running up and down the stairs and it was, Tarrant realized, a start but still just the beginning of all that had to be done this night. He stood by one of the windows covered with condensation, unable to see out clearly but having to look. The sheer volume of the activity, inside and outside of the center amazed him. And to be at the nexus of it all . . . that felt right. The allied fleet was now into its second pass, the Bucephalas in teleport range, the medevac was about to begin. His com-unit was overwhelmed. Requests were coming in from all directions.

He had set it all in motion. In the meantime, he needed help.

He was watching one man, obviously a former officer of some type, giving hand signals that were keeping everyone moving. Tarrant was intrigued at once. For all Tarrant's lust for action, he wanted of himself something more, a style and grace of command that always seemed to elude him. This man had it. He gave an order to have him brought up.

In the meantime, the only immediate course of action he could order was to have the Auron children triaged. Those with the best chance for survival would go first. Those with indeterminate chances would go second. Those with none would be left behind. The strongest were being moved now. He watched as the long lines curved and flowed around the HC to the makeshift transport center in the abandoned barracks Cally and Li had originally secured. The triage was being conducted all over the camp: Jenna, Dayna, and Cally assisted by the any medical people that could be found. Li was in charge of the lift up to the Bucephalas.

It was far from ideal but it was close enough to his original thinking and it might work. The HC had become his command post. From here he would achieve some degree of control over a situation that was rapidly deteriorating. Everyone else was too busy to think, too cold to stop, and they had to keep moving. Command would be left to him.

He was making mistakes and he knew it. With the heat back on, he had originally suggested that this building serve as the lift point. But he wasn't thinking. Even in their gravely weakened condition, the children fought ("protest" put it far too mildly) en masse against coming to the Hygiene Center. The option was dropped.

He gathered work parties to tear down the units as they were emptied, use them to build additional defenses. It appeared it might have some utility, but the work was slow and the people uninvolved. How much use as a defense would this have? None. He wanted to be pleased with his actions so far but he was not. At every stage where their had been a crisis, he had figured out what to do, but he was reacting, not leading and the solutions were getting worse, not better. He saw the need to constantly be on the move but to where? He could go no further than this building. He tried cleaning the window with a cloth (didn't these people ever clean the place?), observing the activity of those rushing to do his orders, but as he watched his doubts deepened. He needed something more in the way of action. He did not yet have the feeling he had pushed himself to the limit.

The window was no cleaner. He was still peering out that the man, in a way of saying that his spirit had not been crushed, came bounding up the stairs and announced he was looking for the officer in command. A statement that bothered Tarrant that he was obviously the only one there. He gestured the man over.

"You've been here a while?" He asked.

"A couple of years. You in charge?"

"Yes. I was watching you. Let's get to the point. Do you accept my authority?"

"Sir!" the man saluted.

"I presume that is a 'yes'. Very well. What do/did you do?"

"I was a top sergeant; master sergeant. Military, not Special Services. Career. Sir."

"Your name?"

"O'Kir."

"I won't ask your serial number. I hope you can assist me, Master Sergeant O'Kir, but I would like to hear your ideas?"

"Sir? I came here looking for orders."

"You will find no order here, Sergeant."

"'Orders' . . . Sir?"

"Let me rephrase the question. I need to know something before you can assist me. Think it through. How did you do it?"

The man paused. Looked around; saw the tables, finally understanding. "Survive, sir?" What could this man be asking? "An odd question at this time."

"A good question at any time or place, but especially this one. Yes, that is what I want to know. I was watching you. You seemed never to falter. Always acting or," he smiled, "was it acting? Either way, I was impressed. Few around here are like that."

"It is forgivable, sir. One moment follows another. Always had that -- what I told myself, anyway." He shifted position, as if remember. "Forgot about the future, give up all remembrance. Don't seek direction; you will never find one. A man I know flipped a coin, who knows how many thousands of times, to keep sane by confirming probability measures. He had the right idea."

"That was it?"

"It was a start, for him, and for me."

"How far does your authority extend?"

O'kir looked at him oddly. "The general staff, higher officers, are all gone. Surely you know that. Is that your meaning?"

Tarrant nodded. "Part of it. Do you know the rest? Can you recognize them for their worth?"

He nodded gravely, understanding now. "Yes, I can do that."

"Then here is your assignment, the order you seek. Round them up, man!" he pointed to the surrounding courtyard. "I will need hundreds; as many as you can get."

"Yes! Sir! For what? The attack?"

"No, Master Sergeant. Will they follow my orders?"

"If you can get them out of here," he answered shrewdly.

"That I can do. But not all."

"Fighters . . . do you want fighters? I'll get the best."

Tarrant shook his head. "Fighters stay behind. They are needed, but I have others looking for them." Tarrant sighed. "I need survivors, people who can serve as caretakers." he pointed his index finger upward, "I have thousands of sick and dying children on my hands. I hadn't planned on that. And I have the terms of a deal that must be met."

"The Auron children?"

"Yes, them."

"We heard rumors . . ."

"Then you know that rumors in a place like this are almost invariably true. I need people who have seen everything, but can continue to act regardless, to handle this assignment. And they will need a leader."

O'kir slowly saluted. That was what the man was driving at. How did I survive without hope? I must not consider hope in this assignment, either. But I would be free and on my own. "Understood. Sir?"

"Are you that brave?"

"Yes sir!"

"You will be in charge."

"Full command? I was a fighter . . ."

"Correct. You were. Now you are a medical orderly. Ever handled a medevac?"

"Yes."

"How large a scale?"

"During the battle for the Citadel, I . . ."

"That's enough. It is not necessary for me to hear the rest. You pass. Congratulations on your new new assignment."

The Sergeant saluted, but the spring appeared to have momentarily gone from his step. He turned to leave.

"And Sergeant, you will need a liaison between my people and yours. A woman named Li is coordinating the evacuation. She's Cally's sister," he added, not entirely sure why.

O'kir stopped for a second, recalling a woman who fit that description, though the name was different. "Is there a problem?" Tarrant asked.

"No. It's just that I may have met her once, after a fashion."

"Well, get with her," Tarrant said. And O'kir ran down the stairs even faster than he had arrived.

For the next forty-five minutes, as the Bucephalas orbited within teleport range, the transferring of the children began. Tarrant stayed in his headquarters, monitoring the evacuation and the reports he was getting from his forward observers on Federation troop movements. In a buildings to the east, abandoned, virtually ruins but for some reason no one had bothered to remove or rebuild, his observers had poked holes through the decaying walls and with night scopes were watching the movement of Federation soldiers and vehicles, as yet with no clear purpose or intent. These observers were frightened and unsure, their reports confused, often contradictory. What Tarrant gathered was that on both sides of the camps, to the east where a frozen lake bed separated them from the main Federation staging area, and to the west, where the tundra seemed to go on forever, he was hearing reports of increasing Federation presence. Vehicles, mostly ground, but some air were moving in. Well-equipped troops in ever increasing numbers were being spotted. One thing all observers agreed on were that these were the Special Services elite troops, the Federation's best fighters.

He should have felt honored. Respect had been achieved. He listened to the reports, sometimes several at once but finally at some point told everyone to shut up. He had to think.

A Federation counter attack was certain. However busy the bulk of their forces might be fending off the massive assaults on Earth and Luna, this particular defeat would not go unavenged.

Prudence would have dictated other strategies, such as getting out as quickly as possible. But as Tarrant struggled in his command post alone to analyze alternatives, he found himself increasingly wanting to stay for the coming fight. Nothing was compelling him to make a decision right this moment. There were still far too many children to send up in an operation that was as demanding as it was distracting. According to Li, the more help she had, the more was needed, but despite everything at the end of the first pass close to two thousand had been gathered and sent up. Twenty-five hundred remained, but it was a very real question how much he was needed.

The medevac lift was slowing everything down. The increasingly real possibility was that they might not get out in time. And if the Federation attacked their defenses? Fortifications built from the fragments of the original strike: timbers and iron, barbed wire and sheet metal, cemented with rock and ice. They would rip through it; tear it to shreds.

Was it his problem? He had not come here as a liberator. He had merely provided weapons for defense of his operation. The rest was up to them. In a few hours when the main Lindor forces invaded the planet, perhaps some allied troops could be diverted . . .

But it would not happen in time. And then there was the business of Servalan's biological weaponry. His options, which had seemed unlimited but a few months before, had narrowed drastically. By one of the round windows oily with dirt, with frost along filthy edges, he watched, numbed. it was like looking out the porthole of a doomed ship sinking into the icy depths of a sea of infinite evil. He hated being here. He wanted to get this over with, yet he was, despite all his efforts, being drawn to the plight of those who would be left behind. Here was where he was truly needed, and that inappropriate notion would not leave him be. No one else would help these people. If only he understood why he cared.

He turned from the window, allowing the flow of reports to enter his consciousness once more. Enemy troop movements continued, the threat of the Federation undeniable. Their vehicles especially worried him. They had armored and armed personnel carriers. He had no means to even slow them down.

Finally, he called Avon. He needed a second opinion.

The vehicles were large and blazed with lights (Tarrant could see that even from where he was). They were making no attempt to hide themselves. Avon described them (he must have been with the observers): ground effect, fast with enormous destructive potential. And the soldiers? Shock troops: assault, special units, highly-trained. In number, as far as could be observed, hundreds certainly, thousands likely.

From both sides of the camps, the reports did not vary. They reported hearing the sound of engines, a continual rising and falling high-pitched whine that ate into their nerves. It was as if the attackers were ready to leap forward at any moment. It was all for affect, had to be, he told himself. These vehicles were perfectly capable of being absolutely silent. And an attack could not be immanent.

The Special Services commanders wanted their targets to be unnerved. They wanted terror, demoralization, minds broken, then crushed and atomized. Total victory. For like all tyrannies since the beginning of the 20th century, the Federation saw the mind as the target of war, not the body. These people struggling out there were in no position to resist.

Other observers reported the sounds were coming from all sides, even above them, and were growing louder. In great hellish waves came the sounds: of animals being killed slowly, then screaming infants, then the shrieks of people pleading for mercy, all fusing together into a crescendo of torture, a burning cord being pulled through the brain that reaches into the guts and scorches the emotions of even the strongest in revulsion and nausea.

But what could he do?

After fifteen minutes of these desecrations, a second step was taken by the Federation which sealed the matter. A rocket streaked up, flying low and loud and to everyone watching it, it was like a devil's comet. Within seconds it exploded into a packed building. He heard the explosion and returning to the window, frantically trying to clean it, watched helpless. The walls broke, collapsed inward, and in a void a fireball ripped out into the adjacent buildings. Soon all the adjacent buildings were all on fire. From all over the camp people ran stunned to see what had happened, what could be done. But the mounds of limbs and freezing blood presented a horror that could not be grasped let alone dealt with. There were no survivors.

He had felt the force of the explosion against the walls. He checked with the Avon again. The man was uninjured. Cally, Dayna, Jenna? Unhurt. Li? Not responding, but far away at the time and presumed unhurt.

The rocket changed everything. He had to act.

There was no place any of them could run. It was a raw demonstration of power, not of military purpose, and that was unforgivable.

He summoned his staff from the floor below. He showed them the building burning, the crowds watching. He gave them the orders. Clear the wood and wreckage; get and keep everyone out. He explained: the missile was sensitive to concentrations of body heat; had targeting the warmth of the building at random. It had thus crashed down on a target both random and optimal. There were many other potential targets.

They could not wait outside in the cold, came the objection. Even the people dressed for it could not stand the cold outside for long.

In here the smell of prolonged death, blanketed and subdued by the intruding cold, lingered. The smell outside coming from the attack, entering the building, the burning, sudden and shocking, was much worse. He told them he would answer the objection.

They left the building. Outside he felt the ground hard as iron beneath him, painfully hitting his feet even through his boots. The others followed, but kept their distance. The seemed to fear him, to be uncertain and wary. He gestured angrily for them to come closer. They approached, worried of what he might tell them. They were mesmerized by the fires, stunned by the screams. He knew they were watching the event, but were not a part of it. That would have to change. The distance of a few hundred meters amounted to lightyears in this place. The look of their faces told him they thought he had given up too. He waited. Slowly they gave him their attention.

For Tarrant had a quality of energy that drew them in. He slapped his hands. He gave orders clear and straightforward. The look of hopelessness eased, the look of determined assent began to replace it. They would be part of the events after all. They would act. He pointed to the fires, thrust a gloved fist at them, then made a sweeping gesture encompassing the whole of the camps.

"Divide your people into two groups, one to form here," he made a circular gesture, indicating the area surrounding the HC, "the other to burn every other one of the buildings. The buildings are numbered. Destroy the even numbers. All of them. Get the people out, then make sure the buildings are alight."

They looked at each other. The thrill of getting orders was one thing. "They will freeze. Few of them have blankets." He knew the objections as well as they.

"Share! Look, the attack will begin shortly." That much was certain. It all made sense now. "They will send more rockets, several more unless we do something. Set the fires to confuse the sensors."

"How will that help?"

"Delay them," he said with a shrug. "I intend to attack first."

That silenced up.

"Otherwise, we wait and they hit us on both sides," or he pointed to the fires, "or sit back and they pick us off, one building at a time, several at a time, until we are in a state of complete panic. If we throw it back at them, we have the advantage. We have a chance."

"Our attack?" one asked.

"Thirty minutes." He knew it would take longer.

"Their's?"

"An hour. Perhaps less."

"And this?" one of them gestured to the Hygiene Center. They all turned to silently look at it.

"Thanks," he said. "I almost forgot. Burn it last."

Still they hesitated. Terrible as the camps were they had been their home. For many it had been their home for years. If they burned the camps, and in their fantasies they had always wanted to, there was nothing to go back to. There is a border, thin and wavering at times, between heroic action and suicidal despair; never was it thinner than in the camps. They had seen rebellious prisoners dragged off in the night, tied to a post to be viewed the morning.

He cursed at them and the spell was broken. The border was crossed. They saluted and ran off and in a few minutes he could see the fires spread. The buildings one after another began to burn, slowly at first, the smoke white and weak, caught in bursts of wind and snow. Then orange flames broke through the walls and ceilings and began devouring them. People were pleading for the burnings to stop, but it was unstoppable, a chain reaction that was devouring the camps. In a few more minutes, he greeted the people coming back to the HC, holding their weapons aloft. A few cheered. He smiled back.

Then they set the Hygiene Center alight, shooting out the windows first, then pitching in grenades. They asked if they were to build more barriers, that is, save the wood? He told them no. He had no intention of dismantling any of the remaining buildings. It would take too much time and there were plenty of wood piles already. They had done all they could in the way of defense. Henceforth they would think only of attack.

With the HC burning, he ordered them to the eastern line a few hundred meters from the frozen lake. He walked quickly, almost running, as he explained. "We will attack there," he said shouting as they moved, pointing across the lake. "It's our best chance. Get ready," he exhorted.

He felt much clearer now. He should never have gone into that accursed building! The warmth had betrayed him. It had affected his thinking, made him weak.

As he came to the lake bed, he found a place to speak. Right in the open where everyone, especially his troops, and that is how he wanted to think of them, even the enemy could see him. He waited as his people began arriving in groups. They pushed aside timbers, sorted out weapons, the officers giving orders, everything being done as quickly as possible. And for good measure more fires were set.

A long line was forming, then several lines, starting a few meters behind him, moving back deep into the camp. He abandoned his perch for the moment and walked along the forward line. He wanted to be close to these soldiers, watch their eyes, banish their fear, shake their hands. Some were gloved, but many hands were simply covered with paper.

Along the line he moved. It was as if a long dragon had moved astride the camp and he was tracking its body. When he was done, he returned to the crates, piled haphazard. He checked his footing. A few he knew were suspicious of him. They kept staring at the teleport bracelets as he stood in plain view.

The wind had lightened and heavy smoke was drifting low from the fires. All up and down the line he had scarcely used his voice. He trusted his personal magnetism, his vitality. He would use them without hesitation. The people before him would think of nothing but the battle and they would think of him as the only man to lead it.

He motioned for silence. He was alone now. Standing here, he had distanced himself, but only for effect. On the makeshift platform he found his footing. They quieted. He would speak.

But just as he was about to, he heard something. He glanced back at the HC, still burning. and saw groups of Aurons -- he knew that because they had reflective marks on their clothing (to make them easier targets). They had gathered around the building as the flames ate into it. There were also humans with them. Despite the urgency of the moment, he stopped. Everyone stopped. The only movement was the defiant thrusting of guns into the air, but even that slowed, then ceased. The flames ascended until they cut through the roof, and the Aurons first, then everyone it seemed, began to sing.

He was amazed. He could not stop it and he did not want to. It was the right thing for the moment. Those nearest him, his lieutenants, were watching him for a sign but it did not come. Instead, he nodded to them and began moving his hands quickly. They understood and joined with the singing. Time was precious. No moment could be wasted. Yet they sang. They had to. The moment insisted. . .

They all knew some of the words; some knew all of them. Aurons had sung many songs in their confinement and the songs now belonged to them all. They sang. The flames soared and the charred filaments fluttered upward like black banners disappearing into the night, and the sparks joined fitfully with the warring stars.

For Li, it was the singing that was her breaking point. Up until that moment, she had been able to shut out the horror. The children in blankets kept arriving, carried in by the dozens, then the hundreds, ultimately thousands. The volunteers she organized took the bracelets, fastened them on legs or arms, teleported the children up and then processed the next group. She did not see children. She saw "batches of gray limbs". That was how she applied words to what she was seeing and the words were her only shield. They were hollow words, lifeless and blurred, but they helped a little.

After the triaging, the process went fast, one bundle after another. First the children waiting outside, then those in the buildings that were being burned, then the remainder. For Li it seemed to go on without end. She had entered into that state the military called "drone mode". It was another phrase that helped her maintain her sanity. She began to see how they survived and she respected why it had to be so callous.

After groups of children had been sent up, typically a few dozen, she would direct volunteers to go up as well. She could not blame them for looking relieved. Or for them to look at her with pity. She was as desperate as they were to get out. Those who stayed behind were certain to die.

Once a man exuding authority and energy came in and spoke briefly to her. He seemed to recognize her but she could not place him. He said his name was O'kir and that he had orders. He was a jaunty type with a thin mustache on his face that gave him an air of having a second smile. She trusted him at once. He took over the organization of the volunteers while she stayed with the children. When she looked for him again at the end of the first pass, he had already teleported up, another taking his place.

The mathematics of the transfers was straightforward. One volunteer per every ten children. Approximately sixty children a minute, forty five minutes per pass. There would only be two passes.

She drew on every source of strength she could find. Her great source of encouragement (as she was to him, but she was never to know this) was her connection with Vila. She never saw him, but she could hear him -- she gave him an exclusive channel. On the Bucephalas, he was the only one she dealt with. She could not have endured this night without the words of this man who had existed in her mind as little more than a vague myth. Together their conversation forged a lifeline, a bond composed of the details of the evacuation, where numbers, times, ratios, came together against the face of unalterable horror. There was no banter, no humor, no pathos among them, just a long string of numbers and words stretching across the thousands of kilometers between two people overwhelmed by what was happening.

At the end of the first full pass, as the Bucephalas passed out of teleportation range, Li almost fainted in exhaustion. She sat down, and could scarcely get up as a hundred questions descended upon her. She looked up at them blankly. The children kept arriving. She had to . . . finally someone had the sense to temporarily stop the process.

She recovered in a few minutes, more quickly than she would have thought. She was brought food and water. She refused both and summoned her strength, then stood, everyone in the room watching her. She gave orders for preparing for the next pass and asked to be excused and went outside to regain control. The freezing air was bracing. The cold which had so shocked her, now was an ally.

She called for her sister, remembering not to telesend. She called for Dayna, Jenna and above all Avon, but heard from none of them in reply. Outside hundreds of eyes reflected the fires and silently watched her. The force of human need was like a weight buckling her. Finally Cally responded, asking if she needed help, but by now Li was fine. She remained outside, watching as the time closed to the next pass. Please make it go quickly. She looked up, trying to find traces of the battle overhead, but could find none.

When she returned, she saw that too many people were crowding into the barracks; people desperate to get out. She had to get them ordered, get them in place, quiet them. The bundles of gray limbs soon began arriving and the process start again.

By the time the Bucephalas was in back range, she was ready. She could endure anything now, she told herself. Even being called Cally did not cause her irritation. If they thought she was Cally, so be it! An honest mistake, one that anyone, especially someone who did not even know who she was any more could make herself.

She could exclude this vast sea of broken humanity from her thoughts, turn off the emotions welling within her, and do so effortlessly, she was that strong. All she required was a human voice somewhere and Vila provided it.

The count of missing and dead she handled well. Even if she had wanted to cry about it, she could not. A single life lost would have been unendurable, but here, where was one to go with such a sentiment when the number was in the hundreds? She noted a few more had died in the minutes before the second lift. Calmly, she ordered the bodies taken outside. She told herself it made no difference as long as most made it.

But as the last of the children went up, as the second pass neared completion, she heard the singing outside, and her illusions shattered. She looked around her, saw the hopelessness and fear on the faces and had to leave. There was nothing more she could do. Leave the building. Go outside. Stay there. Even in this cold? Yes.

So she went outside. She had others take over her duties. Many pressed upon her, asking if they would be going up and when. She could not answer. How could she know? Others protected her from the questions, opening a path as she exited the building.

But she knew. She walked desolate over to the Hygiene Center, still burning. It was surrounded by solemn people crowding together, motionless, though their shadows seemed to dance with the flames. Hesitant, she joined them, standing with them as they sang, but her voice, the great trained voice of the Songmaster, was silent. She could scarcely whisper, let along sing. When it came the time for the closing of the closing hymn, the words she had known since childhood, she could not join them. The words were part of her very being as a Songmaster. But she could not sing them. Her voice was lost. And she could not cry over even that.

She had walked over thinking that even these mournful songs were a boost. Music at least offered something for a person to hold onto in the worst of places. The song brought forth the emotions, and the emotions overrode the anguish of despair. That was what a Songmaster could do. The songs had been the strength and the meaning of her life.

If she could not sing, she could at least encourage. Keep the songs coming! Do not stop, she urged, but her voice was breaking. The people looked at her oddly, but they complied. The singing went on.

(She did not realize that she had left open the connection to Vila. As the end of third pass neared, it was the singing that he heard as he shut down the teleport connections of the Bucephalas and began preparation to leave orbit. After a few minutes, he called for her to thank her, but by then she had remembered and closed down the link.)

There was so much left to do. She had to be part of it. If she could only take back some of the honor that had been her life.

She stood there silent. From time to time people would look at her, wondering, as they began leaving. The fire was nearly out. Her volunteers were leaving the evacuation center, running to join the fight. She did not want this moment to end without her doing something, at least make a gesture.

So Li took each of her flash grenades in turn and pitched them into the fire and she made a wish each time she did so. And as each grenade erupted in a ball of white light, she made a wish. To be a Songmaster once more, to be Molli again, and to be in Avon's arms. That is what she wished. When the last grenade was gone, she looked about her and smiled at the few remaining. They applauded her, their hands hands coming together in muffled sounds like whispered breathes.

You are hoping we will take you next, that we will all be rescued. But it cannot be.

She turned to leave. The singing had ended and the last of fires had died, but she stopped. The crowd had lifted up its arms in unison, the ragged hands of each covered in cloth, in paper, some even bare, turned palm up to the heavens, as if acting in the release of thousands of butterflies. It was the Auron gesture, not of a plea for deliverance, but of a prayer for redemption. And as she stood there, transfixed, she wished for that as well.

On the western side of Camp C, the two groups watched each other across the distance of a few kilometers. The cold had penetrated everything between them, encasing them in black blocks of winter night. The electronics of the night vision equipment were adequate to the task of seeing the enemy, and the weapons were such that to kill, all one had to do was see. But both sides were still leery of a night attack. Too much psychology and history went against it. Even the Federation commander hesitated, knowing full well that the Supreme Commander herself (Servalan! My God!) would soon be here to insist upon it.

She would expect to see the situation in hand, her people fully armed, equipped, and well, doing something other than waiting. This force had been pulled together in remarkably short order, but opposite him were the prisoners, and they were armed. That worried him. He had not been told anything beyond what his eyes could see. That had always been the of his superiors, but this night it was particularly galling. What would she say when she saw these mad people destroying the camps -- in the dead of winter destroying their only shelter and singing as they did so? What would she say when she saw they were armed and his people had no idea of their capabilities? Who could have expected such a turn of events? The single rocket hurled at them should have been sufficient to break their will, send them panicking, while his troops, several companies in all, hunted them down and herded them back where they belonged. Before the rocket, he had used sounds packaged by the Psychological Division, sounds which even got on his nerves, and which should have pushed them over the edge. That too should have been enough, but they did not break. Who was leading them? In vacillation, he feared and worried equally about her and the enemy.

Opposite him, in the camp itself, Tarrant faced a different dilemma. He had to act as soon as possible. He would monitored the enemy but ignore their numbers and strength. Except for the lights they glimpsed on the assault vehicles, a line of lights that defined the Federation force, his people could see little. The enemy was waiting; what more could one say? Only an occasional silhouette could be seen against the lights. And it would quickly vanish. With the singing stopped, it was time to get this over with.

Of the two forces, his was probably the larger. But to make use of that advantage, they had to attack now. The numbers behind him were swelling; more than he could have hoped for. And in final preparation for the attack, as Li informed him there were no more children to send up, he gave the order for the his people to return to the Liberator. Their job was complete.

He received confirmations from everyone except Cally.

His "troops" lacked proper clothing, weaponry, supplies, and only for the moment did they have spirit. The singing had helped. So had the hatred, but together could they form a cohesive fighting spirit? And how long would that spirit last in the terror of the attack?

He would neither spare them, nor himself. He had wanted to lead this raid to its conclusion and now, as many did with him in their expectant and eager faces, he would accomplish his personal mission.

In a loud voice, ringing into the night, he told them they could not avoid battle. The Federation had moved in too fast; they would hit hard and there was no way a defense of the camps could be maintained until the allies above were victorious. Frontal assault was the only acceptable strategy.

He would personally lead the attack. They would cross over the frozen lake bed, he gestured. They would break through the Federation line, seize their equipment, and carry the attack forward. Everyone would follow once a bridgehead had been achieved. By sheer force of numbers, they would win. After the breakthrough, to defend their rear and flanks, they would throw behind a retreating defensive screen.

They could not hit both positions at once.

At worst they would be able to establish a defense position long enough for help to arrive. The force overhead was winning. That is what he told them and of course he would have conceded it was a lie. The Lindor Defense Forces, with all the caring and nobility in the universe, had their hands full. A rescue operation soon was not in the cards

As he concluded his remarks, he looked up, as if in prayer. Somewhere up there was the Liberator and the Bucephalas with its cargo of several thousand Aurons, among the stars that had never seemed more remote. He had done it. And he had never felt more of a failure. Somewhere up there was Grand Admiral Karlsyn who had just sent word that he had not alternative but to commence the invasion, thus assuming command of all aspects of the operation. There was no chance to acknowledge and by now he had forgotten about the pathogens.

People were stamping their feet to keep warm, some screaming in pain. Karlsyn might as well be in another galaxy.

"It would take minutes to cross," someone shouted. "No one will make it. They would cut us down like dogs!"

The enemy might not act as feared, he patiently replied. "My guess is that most of those vehicles we see are transports, most of their heavy weaponry is to their rear. They are not expecting an attack. If we can get over there, we can disrupt their entire plan."

"Casualties?" Another shouted.

"Many," someone answered for him and there was rough laughter.

"But not you!" someone else yelled at him.

He looked over to the man. "Raise you arm," the bastard shouted, show them your escape ticket! You'll get out! We'll be left to die!"

There was ascent; mutterings of crude agreement. Tarrant was disgusted. He had not intended any such thing, but how could these people know? It was time for a gesture. He took off the bracelets as he spoke into the com: "This is Tarrant. You have your orders. Signing off."

He took off both bracelets, raised them so all could see, and threw them down, smashing them against the ground before his accuser. The man looked around, leapt for them, then moaned as he pulled up the broken pieces hanging limply together. He screamed at Tarrant. "Now, what good is it? Now we all die!"

"Now there is no turning back. All of you, listen! The die is cast. If there were any doubts about my leadership, there is your answer. That is how I intend to lead. Follow me, or wait here for them to kill you. I don't order retreats! Look around you. There is no place to hide."

There was silence. "Who questions my command?!" he shouted.

No one spoke, their breathing in bursts like steam as the fires glowed behind them.

"The decision is made. Follow me to the barricades."

He jumped down and advanced quickly to the front of the line, running once more. There there was already the sound of sporadic firing. The hundreds of soldiers behind him broke into clusters, the clusters into small groups, following him, determined not to be left behind.

He took a pair of night vision glasses from one of the forward observers and studied the opposing force. They still appeared to be waiting. Confident, but not knowing how to proceed. Whatever they were expecting, it could not be an attack from the camps.

Thousands of men and women, and more joining, were waiting for his signal. The moment was now; no time for a coordinated plan of attack, no time for strategy, command, communication, control. Just get to the other side. Beat the bastards! His arms shot up as if in triumph. He showed the bare wrists. All eyes were watching him. "Are you with me?" he shouted.

A moment of hesitation, then a supreme "YES!"

He was not satisfied. "Louder!" he commanded. "Let them hear you!"

And the Y E SSSS stretched and sliced into the night,until it became a scream transcending pain.

He looked at them for the last time. He lowered his arms slowly and saluted them. And in a gesture as old as war itself, his left arm shot up and a roar lashed out. With the swiftness of a guillotine, the arm came down. They charged forward. The ground attack against the Federation, beating Karlsyn's forces by minutes, had begun.

When Servalan arrived at the main base of Special Services, her mind was primed only for attack. She had to regain the feeling of triumph. She was ready to celebrate the death of her enemies, the death of all humanity, the end of existence itself. What was stopping her? It was only this one matter, something as absurd as a tiny uprising in a single cluster of camps, that threatened to deny her will this night. Once she had understood what this new gang on the "Liberator" was up to, she was absolutely determined they would not escape with the children. That was final.

The fleeing guards had been arrested and interrogated. Upon arriving she greeted the Special Services Local Commander and gave the order to have them all executed. She then proceeded to usurp every element of command. She should not have been so angry, but the anger fueled her. Since the attack had not taken place, it would not proceed until she gave the orders. She alone would signal when. She alone would determine how.

It was now an hour before midnight, Servalan City time. The automatic timers were set to release the pathogen at midnight into the atmosphere, simultaneously with the release into the atmospheres of thousands of planets. But before that final action, she would attack these camps and trap and slaughter the lot of them. In twenty four hours, Earth would be a morgue -- to join Luna, the Solar System, the whole of humanity. Only she would survive; but the ultimate victory would give her no pleasure unless she won here.

She hated herself for having neglecting this detail. She had not given any thought to the Auron children, not having any idea of what to do with them. But the humiliation of this night had to be avenged, and this was by far the best way to accomplish it. The thought of the children escaping horrified her. She had ordered the whole of her defense forces to attack and destroy the Bucephalas.

It was an action that would leave Earth unguarded.

Before leaving for the base, Servalan had spoken to the Admiral of the Combined Fleet. "The situation is under control," she said firmly. "I do not want you to return the Fleet here until you have finished your assignment, and even then I may have other orders. Our local forces are adequate to the task."

The man seemed terrified, which concerned her. Did he suspect something? He made no protest. All he could bring himself to say was, his voice shaking, "The doctors have been executed, per your instructions."

"Yes," she said wearily, "they were plotting treason, they were Aurons we discovered, almost too late, but fear not. We substituted; the vaccinations you received will keep you safe."

"Then we proceed with the operation as ordered?"

"Certainly, Admiral. That is what I have said, many times."

"I agree, Supreme Commander," he said mechanically "Aurons everywhere must be liquidated."

"And no one else will be harmed," she added. "Now, do not trouble me again," she smiled. "You have absolutely no reason to."

The memory of that conversation was more irritating than anything else. It was all so routine, so minor, so banal this business, compared to what she would be doing later, such as tracking Avon down and shooting him on the spot. Such as killing Li. But still so vital.

From the main base, she was quickly transported by air to the rear of the staging area, east of camp C. To her dismay, everything was in shambles, her people confused, nobody sure of what to do. They had assembled a sufficient force, but incredibly, were incapable of deploying it! She queried each in turn, precious time wasting. Finally she realized her instincts had been correct. She had to seize control. The lot of them were surly, defensive, slovenly, close to insubordinate. She was furious. If these people did not understand her power, in a few minutes she would correct them.

She no longer thought of Mykal and the nightmare of his speech. She told herself she had recovered from that; pushed it far behind her, all in a few hours time. Yet the image of Mykal’s death was too emblematic of something gone terribly wrong, She had to blot it out. She had foreseen it, yet in a sense she had not. Was her power becoming fallible? Perhaps she was getting old.

She tore into everyone. Where were her reports? Where were her intelligence officers? Where was the competence she had insisted upon always and from everyone? Was the uprising being contained? What if other camps saw it, heard of it? Where they ready . . . then they showed her the images, the burning buildings in the night; then the sounds, the ghastly singing. She wanted to scream. It was all she could do to control her loathing. That settled it. Her best people were incompetent. She insisted she be taken to the front at once. She would lead the attack herself.

She had to calm herself. She spoke with her Special Services officers as she was transported by ground vehicle to the front line. They looked at her fearful but curious, still unable to grasp, given the gravity of the situation overhead, why she was here. It must be the Aurons they decided, and their effort at understanding ceased. She saw their uncertainty and wanted to weep in frustration. They were so pathetic.

The vehicle came to a halt and she quickly exited. She asked if there were any reports of Avon? They looked at her confused. They told here there were people that had landed in the camps of this sector, but they clearly did not know who they were or even how many.

She assembled the officers and told them they would be attacking shortly. They would have to kill the prisoners, but Li and Avon were her's. She brought pictures and passed them around. They seemed to understood. Finally they saluted her but there was no cheering. She should have felt better but the arctic air was colder than anything she had ever experienced. It did nothing to ease her headache which had been growing through the night, seared into her eyes, ripping through her brain like it was being torn in two.

"Supreme Commander!" the major in charge spoke to her. At any other time she would have resented the nerve of the man, but now she was too exhilarated to care. "We have just received word that the enemy force is beginning to move."

She looked at him blankly. Well, of course it was moving. It was orbiting the Earth. She was about to explode, when he pointed to an electronic map of the camps, showing where her forces were concentrated..

"They are moving," he repeated. The map showed a bulge beginning to cross a frozen lake. She looked at it, not believing what she was seeing. The buzz in the background was starting to rise. "Silence!" she shouted.

They had to act at once! "To the camps! Throw everything at them. They must not escape!"

She looked at them as they stood there, paralyzed. They wanted clarification but she had given them all that they would receive! She stormed through them. The vehicles around her roared to life. They heard the attackers coming. Rockets, light grenades, began falling all around her. The soldiers were leaping on the vehicles, running to catch them as they moved forward. She was thrilled. She saw the image of Li dying before her and as her people rushed past, she exploded in triumph, her smile almost lighting up the night.

"Follow me! I will lead," she gave a sweeping gesture. "Take me there!" A ground vehicle stopped at once. Hanging on to the edge, she shouted: "At once! I am your commander now and forever. Follow me!" And her troops did cheer. "I am invincible!" she told them and soon they were racing to the front.

She felt the energy of the counterattack as it swept away the humiliation of this night. The images and visions were in full force, pounding at her, again and again, pulling her forward. Her power was restored. Li dead before her. Avon falling. Time to seize the future once more.

If only her damn headache would go away.

Tarrant watched as Federation fire power erupted as the vehicles lurched forward, tearing huge holes in the lines of the attackers, but still his people kept coming. They were less than a minute from contact, still strong. He glanced behind him as he ran. Only a few were starting to rush back, but all around him people were falling as the explosions began to shake the ground. He urged them on, yelling as loud as he could, knowing full well no one could hear him. He must be lucky, blessed, he thought. More people were falling around him. The firing increased in intensity, cutting down his front lines.

He stopped for a moment, then threw himself to the ground as an air vehicle shot overhead. The force that had started out as several thousand, with only a short distance to cross, was down to a few hundred.

He got up, breathing like he was going to burst and waved anyone who could see him forward. There were explosions all along their rear. He yelled to keep firing. He started to run again. It must look comical, he thought. He could barely control himself! He stumbled and fell. It was then the Federation line opened up in full strength. An overwhelming din covered the area. The assault vehicles began moving forward.

He looked up. Someone came over to help but was shot down before he reached him. He twisted and on hands and knees started to crawl forward. All around him, whoever was left, was down on the earth just as himself.

But they were almost there! Once they broke through . . . he would have to find a way to let everyone know when the objective was achieved.

The lake was covered with bodies; no longer recognizable. Smoke and fires covered the whole of it. He could not see any people moving forward, only the furious movement of assault vehicles rushing past and over them.

One vehicle near him suddenly caught fire. He watched for a few moments, exultant. He got up and began rushing forward again. Only a few more seconds. He was trembling, stumbling forward into the heat and light and sound of battle triumphant and . . . for a moment he heard screams and something swift and powerful sliced through the night finding him and he fell shattered.

"Halt!" She practically screamed the order. They had broken through, breaching what was left of the outer camp defenses, but for a moment she could not continue. She stopped, paralyzed. On the monitors, a panorama of burning was taking place, stunning even her. The sheer immensity of it shocking. What could these people want that would make them do such a thing?

Her attention was torn between the attack and revenge. She listened to the reports. The attempt of the prisoners to break out had failed; in a few minutes, as swiftly as it started, it had ended. That was the gist of it. She braced herself, then jumping down on the ground, screamed again, "Forward!" and the assault vehicles roared into the camp firing at everything.

It was a rout. She was revived! She thought of repeating her order but realized it was unnecessary. She was calm now. As if it were necessary to give such an order to her people at this time. She wanted closure but victory in this petty conflict would not give it. It had to be much more. For the moment she forgot even about Avon. It was Li she had to find.

On the Liberator, Li collapsed onto a couch in the teleport room, her mind a jumble of horrifying sounds and sights, too nervous to sleep, far too anxious to think. She had been the first to teleport up. Avon had found her working with the last of those who would be taking care of the children. He ordered her up on the spot. It was an order he had no right to give, but she obeyed. Part of her was ashamed to be so relieved. Sitting here, watching the silent monitor as it went from channel to channel of war coverage, she starred, unable to close her eyes, unable to turn the thing off. She could not decide which was worse: the smells, the sights, the sounds of carnage, or the lack of them. Perhaps it was the sounds that appalled her most. A silent war might be one she could take. The screams of pain, the hurting that never quit, the begging for solace when none could ever come, when the silence of peace was the beckoning of the grave . . . She never wanted to experience such things again.

Tarrant's suicidal attack and the Federation forces breaking through and the survivors terrified running back . . . she could handle almost everything else. Even the frozen tears on the faces of the children had become tolerable, but the sounds: the crying, sobbing, the sounds that fought beyond language and dragged out of the depths of human anguish. She could not stomach them. In the quiet of the teleport room, she fought against collapse and convulsion. But there was nothing inside her. She was empty. A body cocoon wrapping the void of her self. This is what war does to you.

She looked around her. This ship was not a bad place to die. Where she had been, that frozen graveyard, that ice hell, that was a bad place. But when the others returned, particularly her sister, it would be better. She would speak to her, make amends. The worst would be over between them. But the more she watched the monitor, the more she wondered if this night would ever end.

She tried to compose herself. She had to release both hatred and fear. She remained half Songmaster. She told herself in a chant: a Songmaster did not hate. To hate, she repeated the litany, was to gave too worthy a tribute to the enemy. To hate so deeply was a sin equal to that of loving unconditionally.

Would she be able to regain anything of what she was? Her sister had implied once that the experience of combat had brought Blake's people together. But to Li, they had separated her from not only the others of the crew, but the whole of humanity.

She remembered the dress in the infirmary. She would go to it, wear it, but not now.

On the monitor, pictures scrolled past of the ever widening conflict. The Lindor fleet was dispersing, coming down on Earth in tightening circles of vengeance, hitting everything they could, every base, every port, every city. She could not keep her eyes off the images: the domes bursting apart with fiery orange balls, sparks darting over the landscape, ships disintegrating. It was war to the knife. In a few minutes, the ground war would begin.

Here was the reality of a conflict unimaginable in its intensity. Except after this night it was all too easy for her to imagine it. The horror of it was that it made logical sense. It was possible to grasp the necessity of what was happening at every step. There was a pattern, a reality, a meaning to it all. It followed the rules of hate and history. Bit did that make it right?

Mistakes had been made. It had taken too long to get the children out . . . now the children were a blur, no differentiation from one sick and dying body to the next . . .

If only she could purge the sounds from her mind.

She was becoming aware of herself once more, that she had a continuity, a memory, an identity. A clearer picture began to form in her mind as to what had happened and what her part had been. Early in the evening she had received a warning . . . from Dayna? Someone wounded had burst in. She had been speaking with her sister, no telesending, and . . . she had shot the man dead. She had dragged the body out into the night before they started to bring in the children.

She turned off the monitor and turned away. She had to take care of herself. This was not helping.

She looked at her hands and tried to steady her nerves using every relaxation trick she knew from the time she had been a stage performer, a singer, an actress. She had to bring a sense of calm to the fires raging within her. But her control was not asserting itself. After a few minutes, to her dismay she turned on the monitor again. It was only by watching the screen, with the constant bulletins of fighting and the silent pictures of the erupting cities that she could find acceptance. It was this realization of being overwhelmed by forces beyond her ability to control that alone steadied her. She was in far over her head; she was drowning. Forces had been unleashed . . . why had she let herself be talked into this? Why couldn’t she just have been what she once was, whose greatest joy had been to bring her talents to others?

She would tell Cally when she returned. The two would have to find the time to talk about this. She would stay here in this room until all of them returned.

What a strange young man this Tarrant was! So obsessive, so driven. Was that what Blake had been like? Had all these people become that way, in an effort to cover over the emptiness that was devouring them? Then she remembered Mykal. He had said how over the years this struggle was certain to destroy the best. Cally had emotionally collapsed on the third year of the rebellion. Avon never recovered. And Mykal, her dear friend, was gone forever . . .

She wanted to cry, cry for them all, but nothing would come from inside her. She wished, wished more than anything, for the war to end and to have her life as Molli returned. But wishing had no affect. The picture of reality remained unaltered. The mass killings went on.

Jenna watching through her night scope, saw the initial success of Tarrant's attack, then the swift Federation response and the lake bed erupting then littered with hundreds of dead as the assault vehicles tore huge gaps in the attacking lines in their drive to the camps. She had repeatedly tried to reach Tarrant, but there was no response.

She had also been studying the patterns of the orbiting fleet. The cluster orbiting overhead was dropping its tight formation and separating to clumps. To her trained eye there was but one interpretation. The allies were now going to throw everything they had at Earth. Even she was getting worried. The break up meant there would be no going back. Were they that confident Earth had been sufficiently softened to enable a full-scale attack?

She glanced over to Dayna and said, "We've got to get out of here." But Dayna said nothing in response. They had all heard the order to leave, but none could yet bring themselves to obey. She looked at her oddly, as if Jenna had said something both obvious and impossible. Here or on some distant star, it was all the same. They killing never stopped.

The sound of battle was getting closer. Jenna pointed to the horizon where the sun was just starting to come up. They were done with their work, she implied; there was no point staying here watching the final minutes of a hopeless battle. Dayna shook her head and took over the task of trying to reach Tarrant.

"It's been a long night. It will be dawn soon," Jenna said, as she stopped her.

Dayna looked at her, more pitying than angry, and shook her head. "No. Dawn will never come."

When Cally got the order to leave, it came when she as much as any of them was feeling the satisfaction of the job, among the greatest of history's wartime rescues, eluding her. The interminable noise and lights of battle were pegging each minute like a coffin being nailed shut, but she was determined to see it to the end. She wanted nothing more now than for this night to end in victory. Then she would leave. The thirst and sweat and stench of battle was refusing to loosen its grip. Far worse than anything she had experienced, it still held her unrelenting, but she would not yield.

Around her people were running towards the west, the lull in the fighting about to end, as the last of the defensive lines crumbled before the Federation attack. Walking swiftly among the bodies on the frozen ground, she tried to ignore the sight. She would not think about anything except the carnage that was to come. The fighting was getting closer. She saw endless flashes, then the cries; always the horrible cries. The enemy was closing in from all sides.

She had just finished talking with Jenna. She and Dayna were about to teleport up. Li was presumed to be safely up in the ship. Of that she was relieved. Of Tarrant, no one had heard anything.

The cold was draining her, she realized. Though the suits were everything they could have hoped for, the cold still penetrated, her icy breaths witness to an unending struggle stabbing inside her.

She heard Avon repeat his order -- By what right?! -- sharp in her ear. "All of you. Get out now!" That was her order to give and she would ignore it until she had done all she could. She called Tarrant again.

She was trying to rally some of the people, to find a place where they could fight back, at least slow down the advance. Realistically, there was nothing more they could do. The mission was accomplished, wasn't it?

She ran back to the smoldering remains of the HC. Many were running past her, shouting at her. Guns were being shot at random, in all directions. At the ruins of the building, she stopped, breathless. There was almost no discipline left.

She would not leave until she was certain of Tarrant. I don't want to be left behind! Just a few more minutes.

A defensive line surrounding the ruins of the center began to form; here and there a few stopped and began putting up a defense. Some recognized her; a few shouted her name. They pointed up and over. There were tracer flares being fired by the assault vehicles. They had stopped only a few hundred meters away.

The survivors of the attack streamed past in the dawn light. These were the beaten; their running had ceased. She stopped people, asked about him, but no one knew. She grabbed a night scope. On this side of the frozen lake, the assault vehicles had momentarily stopped. Troops were pouring out from them. Hundreds, easily a thousand. So startling clear in the early dawn light. From where she was, it all seemed so tranquil. She slowly handed away the night scope, stooped down beside one of the defenders, and grabbed his binoculars. There should be enough light . . . Out from one of the assault vehicles she saw a female figure dressed in white emerge and leap to the ground. A figure more diminutive than the rest. It took a few seconds to register, but there was no one else it could possibly be.

A few more began helping with the barricades. The blackened wood was being piled and jammed together, the remains of fences and wire dragged over and pitched on top.

The Federation troops were forming into several columns. The attack plan was now clear: the AVs would break the line, then the troops would pour through the holes and finish the job.

She looked around. To her horror she realized that most of these people were Aurons and political prisoners. Few if any military remained. They were up in the Bucephalas or had all been killed . . . Oh please, Tarrant, respond . . .

They couldn't stay here. She stood up and yelled and pointed. "To the west. Disperse. We can't let them trap us here!" But no one left. It was not bravery. They just did not know where to go.

It was at that moment the AVs began lurched forward and with an enormous shout, the Federation troops surged up after them.

Beams were already burning into the few buildings left standing. They explored and sheets of flame and clouds of smoke poured forth and again the terrifying screams began. A few around her were firing, but most looked frozen by the coming battle only seconds away. As the Federation troops came toward them, most of the defenders now leaped over the barricades and tried running to the rear. But were being cut off, surrounded, shot down on the spot. The AVs roared past, running over anyone still standing. Cally began moving back as a small body guard protected her. For a moment she thought of calling to the Liberator, but could not bring herself to do so. In every direction, people were falling. An AV smashed through the barricade they had just abandoned. Other AVs were circling around.

She ran with the others, trying to find shelter. It was then that one of the vehicles pulled ahead of her. The fierce light of a headlamp found her.

"DROP YOUR WEAPON!"

She could see nothing in the light. She would not drop her gun. There was no one else living around her. Figures jumped out from both sides of the vehicle. A dozen guns must be pointed at her. The woman in white appeared.

Servalan. "You heard the order. Drop your weapon." She was quite calm about it, almost soft spoken.

Cally looked at her, her hands were raising, slowly. She should call now, there was still a chance. All she had to do was trigger the teleport alarm before the moment was lost.

"Drop it! Now! Li!"

Startled, she whirled, shouted "Tele . . . ! " thinking to protect her sister and as she spun was shot and fell back in hideous pain and a red burning that erupted in her eyes, mercifully for but a moment. She twisted and fell back and it was so strange . . . She only felt dazed for it was like the ground was not there it was so soft. She looked up and wondered that despite the dawn, how very dark and starless the sky was.

It was a moment of almost impossible satisfaction.

The figure before her spun. Servalan had held her aim steady and fired. The shot was true, perfect. Li's life ended in that moment. The woman was dead, finally. In her mind, she replayed the scene again and again as her enemy fell back and collapsed onto the rock and ice. Her troops had not done the job for her. She had done it alone just as she had foreseen. She was exultant.

She stood over the body, saw the wound deep. There was not much blood. So quick it had been. Her heart must have been torn clean. Death so clean was surely regrettable in this case. But the prophecy had been fulfilled. Time once more was at her command.

She gave it a kick, turning it over, to look upon the face one final time. She saw the teleport bracelet on her wrist and stooped down to activate it. "Leave it here," she told them.

The fighting continued around her but she was oblivious to it. Unless the Lindor Defense Forces landed troops in this place, highly unlikely, the battle of the camps, an insignificant part of the pattern of total destruction unfolding this night would soon be over. She did not know want to waste any more time on the business in any event. She had a galaxy to attend to. And a man to bring down.

Elation was fading. Everything seemed clear and yet at the same time so unsettled. She stood over the body, waiting for the moment of revenge. She would not be robbed of this moment. The enemy she had fought so hard against . . .

The body vanished, teleported up. A fitting and proper act of revenge. Sending up the corpse of his beloved, perhaps to Avon himself. It was just the beginning.

She shook her head. She had to get out of here. The shouting and cries of joy and terror were getting on her nerves. Were her troops drunk? She checked with her defense commanders. The defenses around the lunar anti-matter factories continued to hold. The cursed mines had not been used, as she doubted they would be. So if "Vila" . . .

It was then she froze, horrified at the realization. What if . . . For if one vision . . . then another could be true! It could indeed be Vila or someone very like him up there and then . . . She saw her people were staring at her. A chill of terror closed in about her. If the mine were dropped, on her city, on her book . . . She had to get back! Get back to her city!

She summoned an air transport to fly her back to the main teleport area. She paced. The craft arrived quickly but not soon enough. She leapt inside, screaming her orders. It lifted at once and banked to the east. She was more frightened than she had ever been. Outside, as the horizon tilted, she saw the fires still bright in the dawn, fallen suns on the ground, burning to the horizon. That this vision had been true in this cursed night should have given her something . . . to take back . . . She had forgot about Mykal's betrayal, but she could not forget Avon's.

Still frozen before the monitor, Li scarcely noticed as Dayna and Jenna materialized and ran past. There was nothing else for her to do. It was not that she was getting desperate, but her own sister had locked her out. She had to be still alive. Li could sense emotions rippling underneath, like waves eroding the walls of a cave. But she could not get through.

Just as she heard the deep hum of the ship's engines coming on, she felt a searing like a red-hot razor through her mind. Stunned, she stood abruptly then just as quickly fell to the floor with a cry. For a few seconds, she struggled to pull herself up, grabbing at the teleport console but could not hold. She could not stand. She could not focus. The sound of the engines became a maddening din in her ears. The light of the room was tearing into her eyes. She screamed again, the breath coming out of her like she had been hit repeatedly in the stomach. What had happened? She could not cry out. She tried to steady herself, to get air in her lungs, and for a few moments that seemed to help. She turned and looked up at the monitor with the ghastly images of war. She blacked out.

Probably neither Jenna or Dayna heard her cry. When she came to, it was Avon standing over her. He asked and she was able to lift an arm. He pulled her up, and helped her to one of the coaches in the teleport room. Then he powered off the monitor and spoke to the bridge.

"Jenna! Get us out of here!"

"Engines are on full power. Who are we missing?"

"Cally."

"I need to speak with Tarrant."

"Tarrant is dead!"

"We can't go without her!"

Avon swore, but just then he noticed the teleport signal was being activated. He raced over to the console and began working the controls. But it was unnecessary. When he looked up the body was in the chamber.

Li turned her head and saw. She had heard the teleport activate, knew that someone was coming up. It had to be . . . She had tried to rise, and so it was with a cry of unstoppable horror that she saw Cally’s body materialize in the teleport chamber. She fell back in grief. The last thing she heard before she lost consciousness was Avon ordering Dayna to the teleport room.

Whether anyone realized it, or anyone understood it, Avon had taken control. He had given the order to break orbit. He had ordered the gravity cut to divert all possible power to the engines. When Dayna arrived, he directed what to do next. No one objected. The two took the sisters, one dead to her room, the other still alive to the ship's infirmary. Dayna placed Li on the surgery tables, taking the precaution to strap her in. Avon placed Cally in her room and closed the eyelids before hurrying to the bridge.

Quickly, Dayna attached the sensors and instruments that would monitor Li's condition. She knew enough to see that at least Li's surface signs were promising. From the infirmary she reported briefly to Avon. When asked about the brain wave traces, however, all she could say was that they were slow, weak, chaotic.

"She is alive?" She tried to give confirmation.

"For the moment. There may be a doctor on the Bucephalas we could bring over. Physically she looks fine."

"There is nothing more you can do. I need you here."

She did not want to leave. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." She attached a tube of saline solution; checked pulse, breathing, skin, and eyes. At this point, her primary concern was dehydration and shock. "I am watching the readings from here. There isn't anything more you can do," he repeated. Of course he was right.

The last thing she heard him say before he broke the connection was the order to the Bucephalas to break orbit and follow them.

When the order came to leave, Vila at the helm should have greeted it with enthusiasm. After all, their escort was dwindled to practically nothing and Federation attacks were worsening. All available Lindor Defense Forces ships and fighters had joined the fighting on the surface. For the survivors of the raid, flight was the only recourse. So Vila complied, but with no joy. (That the order came from Avon was odd, but he also did not question it. This night he would accept anything). As the ship began accelerating away from Earth, for the time being he did simply as told: follow the trajectory of the Liberator. His attempts to contact anyone in the Lindor fleet met with no response. He was grateful he still had a slight escort, however. The velocity of the Bucephalas steadily crept up to 300 kilometers/second.

With his weakened cover, the Earth defenders were throwing everything they had at their hated target. There are no concussion waves in space, but the instruments before him were becoming increasingly wild. Shielding was at maximum, had been for some time, but these explosions were getting close; radiation levels rising dangerously.

It was, he silently agreed, time to get the hell out of there.

He now had two people with some piloting experience, which allowed him to focus his attention on other problems. He was particularly concerned about the condition of the engines. On any starship there were two kinds: the auxiliary that boost the ship near 10% of the speed of light, the practical limit for space travel in normal space; and the twistor that enable the ship to bypass the limits and propel itself through the 10-dimensional plenum. On the bank of instruments before him, the readings of speed and power on the auxiliaries were rising but erratic. He consulted the help files, but he knew the answer already. This was a good indication they had been damaged.

The two anti-matter mines continued to do just fine.

This had to be among the most difficult moments of his life, but Vila was struggling to maintain his cool and for the most part succeeding. The image of Earth was shrinking and that was a relief. He was waiting for a quiet moment. That might take a while, so he put in a call anyway to the Liberator and asked: "Tarrant?"

"Tarrant is missing, presumed dead." The voice sounded like Jenna's.

Vila absorbed it. One more grim fact, no different in kind from engine A has now achieved 30% more power than Engine B.

"I never wanted to drop the mines anyway," he muttered.

But Avon was now in command and responded as if he had not heard him. Perhaps he didn't. "We need to get you in position for the drop. Aim for the inner Lagrange point between Earth and Luna."

Drop?! "I need to speak with Karlsyn," Avon asked him. "Can you patch me in?"

"No," Vila replied. It still hadn't registered. "I've had no luck in getting through myself."

A pause. "I'll see if Dayna can reach him."

"Have Cally help," Vila suggested. It seemed like a good idea. "She might . . ."

"Vila. Shut up. Cally is dead."

It was then that the whole horror of this night started to get to him. He gripped the edge of the console, tried to maintain focus on the engine readings. Think of anything else than the reality of this night. The power was not nominal. The ship seemed to be scarcely moving. He tried a secondary power up sequence as a reset. That helped, but drive B remained sluggish. Things kept having to be rerouted to stabilize the propulsion system. Velocity was now 500 kilometers/second.

"Get the mines ready," Avon said firmly.

"Avon!" he exclaimed, then more calmly. "I'm sorry. I can't do this."

Again Avon seemed not to hear. "I am uploading the drop sequence in . . . mark . . . two minutes. The sequence will be triggered when you reach the drop point. You will then have thirty seconds: you can override the launch program and let the mine's internal computers take over -- if you think the situation is too dangerous. Or let it go automatically. I mention these options because we are tracking Federation ships that are following you. There are a lot of them. Some allied as well."

"Avon!"

"The choice is yours. But you cannot stop it. Understand?"

Vila felt his throat as dry as sandpaper. He sad nothing.

"Vila. I have to go. Acknowledge."

"I . . . " he started.

"Acknowledge!"

"Acknowledged," he shouted and the connection broke.

Dayna listened, but was so tired she had not quite followed. Beside her, Jenna was piloting the craft. Before her, Avon was trying to reach Karlsyn. He turned to her. "I told Vila," he said, "to get the ship into position to launch the mines. All he has to do is let programs take over. We have very few minutes. Can you get me Karlsyn?"

Dayna nodded, stunned. "I'll try. I suspect he's busy."

"Keep at it."

"I’ll let you know if anything happens," she said.

If anything happens?! What wasn’t happening? She watched the tracking of the Bucephalas on the main screen. Its velocity was crawling up, nearly 600 kilometers/second. Coordinates, Earth and Luna, were being fed into the weapons systems. My God, he means to do it.

"Karlsyn, coming through," she said and the man's grim visage was on the main bridge monitor.

He must have seen Avon, but did not react. He seemed utterly impassive, saying nothing for several seconds. "I need to speak with Tarrant."

"Del Tarrant is missing-in action. Presumed dead," Avon replied firmly.

"Then I will need to speak with Cally," said Karlsyn, patiently.

"Cally is confirmed dead," Avon replied. "This ship is under my command. You will have to deal with me."

"Your ship is under my command, but under no circumstances . . ."

"I presume you grasp these are not normal circumstances? We are positioning the Bucephalas to drop the mines. That is why you are talking with me now and that is the only issue to be discussed."

"Explain your plan, before I shoot you out of the sky," he said evenly. He meant the Liberator, of course.

Avon sighed. This was the man he was supposed to warn about the pathogens. Was their any chance of Karlsyn believing him? A chorus of angels would not have gotten through to the man. And what difference would it make in any event?

"The Bucephalas is proceeding to the inner Lagrange point. There, both mines will be directed against their respective targets. It is the ideal spot for both targets to be hit simultaneously. Confirm."

"That is your plan?"

What did he think it was? "No, there is a squadron in pursuit. The Bucephalas needs cover. All you can spare. We will take care of ourselves."

"Good God, man! My people have suffered nearly 50% casualties!"

"So have mine."

"We have no time . . .

"Do you want the mines dropped?!'

"They must be dropped!"

"That is an order?"

"Yes. I have given the order."

"Then I suggest you protect that ship."

Karlsyn fumed but relented. "I will spare what I can. After the drop," he looked at Avon sourly, "you and everyone on that ship are under arrest."

"Your time needs to be put to better use. Ours is."

The Admiral scowled. Not even Sarkoff would have dared speak to him that way. "As soon as the mines are dropped," he repeated, "you will surrender to the new authorities, the Earth Occupation Forces."

Avon laughed. How long had it been since he had had a release? And how he had needed one! "You are fool, as well as a military man. I never would have thought the two would have gone together." And he broke the connection.

To Dayna: "Refuse all future communications from the Grand Admiral. Or any in his employ."

To Jenna: "Guard the Bucephalas. Our 'allies' won't fire on us until the mines are dropped. Our enemies will be less forgiving. Maintain close proximity. We will teleport Vila out immediately after the drop. Then get us out of here."

"Destination?"

"That should be obvious . . . I apologize. You have never been there. Terminal of course."

The vibration of the auxiliary engines was throbbing through the ship, bad enough when it was steady but every now and then a spike would hit that threatened to tear through the hull. Vila had never heard that sound before, a metallic tearing, like rusted metal sheets being ripped in half, shrieking through the mine layer. Nor had he ever pushed the ship this far into its limits, even in simulation. Now he was. On the monitors the surrounding space battle was closing in. Federation ships were converging, allied ships were pursuit. Or was it the other way around? He could not tell.

The Bucephalas was now halfway to Luna and from here he could see brief pint point explosions on the surface of the moon. The war wasn't winding down. It was spreading.

On the Liberator, Avon began the programming to initiate the drop sequence. It was then he encountered a serious problem: he needed a password and within 10 seconds. Tarrant? Cally? He turned to Dayna.

"Password?! Do you know what it is?!"

She looked at him in terror, and in a heart stopping moment swallowed and managed to get the word out: "Nova."

He keyed it in and briefly relaxed. "Thanks."

On the Bucephalas, as Vila watched in fascination, the ship computers began to take over the controls. He checked the log for software entries and updates. The mine control and firing program had been uploaded and activated, just as Avon . . . he absorbed the fact and stood there, stunned, unable to move. Again a call came through from the Liberator.

"Vila," Avon said. "All programming is loaded."

"Yes. I see it from here. Status is go."

"It will activate in ninety seconds. It is now up to you."

"You said it would go automatically!"

"The program will seek out an optimum drop position during the window -- based on what it knows and sees, but you can launch the mines yourself any time during that period. The decision is yours. The flight programs of the mines will compensate for whatever you do."

Vila said nothing.

"Karlsyn's people are getting desperate; for good reason. They are stretched. They may not be able to defend your ship much longer."

"They're getting desperate!?"

"We're counting on you."

"Look, the engines are not responding well. They must have suffered damage, I don't know. Do you understand?"

"If it had been a serious hit, you wouldn't be there. That's why I gave you have the option to drop early and let the mine's control software figure it out. We are tracking. Dayna says your trajectory is not too far from nominal."

Vila was becoming increasingly frantic. "Do we have to do this?"

Ask Karlsyn. "Yes." He waited a few seconds. "Vila?"

Silence.

"You will have to trust that the decision is the right one, because we have no choice."

Vila studied the display coordinates on the grids in front of him. One panel showed Earth, the other Luna.

"You are now close to the launch window, " he heard Avon.

"We are still far from Luna."

"You are near enough. The mines move fast. It is too dangerous to approach much closer to Luna. Their defenses are still strong."

Vila watched the time dreading it as Avon kept talking. "Have your teleport bracelet on ready. You will be retrieved as soon as the mines are launched. I know there are pilots on your ship. I made sure of that. They should be on the bridge now."

"They are." How stupid did the man think I was?

"Turn over ship operations to them. Now. We're getting you out."

"I'm not disagreeing."

One minute.

Vila activated his teleport bracelet. On the console, the red numbers marched down. He told the two pilots to prepare to take over. He would not say anything about the mines; they must already knew. Then he mumbled something about the Liberator being back to pick them up, not thinking for a moment how or when.

He should have comprehended what was happening, but his mind was locking down, refusing to accept anything except each individual moment as the whole of reality. He went back to the countdown. Forty-five seconds.

"No!" he shouted and stood. "This is crazy. I can’t launch these. They’re world killers, Avon! For godssake no!"

Avon, unfazed, had stayed on line. "Continent killers," he corrected. "Not world. Thirty seconds. It's an order, Vila."

"I can see the numbers! I won't." He paused, "Karlsyn's?"

"Mine. One to Luna; one to Earth."

"I can’t . . . What’s wrong with you?!" What a stupid thing to ask.

"They’ll knock out command and control. End Federation war production. Karlsyn's force is beaten. It is our only chance."

Vila was so appalled that he almost missed the numbers count down to zero. He was screaming inside. He was inside a bubble, cut off from everything and everyone, drowning in the noise of the damned. The display letters began to flash: "Launch window open," said a distant voice. "Launchers activated. 30 second countdown begins."

He searched for the pulsing icon, found it, a single screen activation button to push. His two designated backup pilots remained intent on their task. If the ship held, in two minutes the twistor drive would ignite, throwing them out of the Solar System. But the Bucephalas would not make it to Terminal, of that he was certain.

Twenty seconds.

It was just like Avon to do this! To put all the burden on him, while he . . . Why had he asked for this? He just wanted to learn . . . what?

Fifteen seconds.

He could look no more. Options. He could do nothing and tell who ever cared to listen that it was all automatic. He was only a passive observer. It was not him. It was everybody else. He closed his eyes, extended his right index finger. Or he would not evade the responsibility. If he pressed that button, his life as he knew it would end, whatever physical aspect of him remained. Something, everything, would change forever. He felt a vast upheaval inside him, like his mind was turning inside out, pulling him away, apart, sparks hurling down a tunnel that was . . .

Ten seconds.

The voice began counting down the numbers. His left hand felt like a fist. He moved the finger closer to the screen . . . saw shapes gyrate and move and so many things he remembered and felt dear were falling away, with things he dealt fear . . . deargod, forgive me, this day, his vision turned orange, anything but this.

Five, the voice calmly said. Four, and you are dead in the name of trust and whatever honor is left in this despicable act, he jabbed his finder as hard as he could, screaming at the voice to stop and at three seconds it stopped and there was a huge shudder rumbling through the ship, followed by another and he saw brief blinding flares and then they were gone.

The whine of the twistor drive rose. The first mine was going around the moon. He saw a terrible flash, eclipsed by the surface and as the Bucephalas flew past mountain sized chunks were sent hurtling into space. There were flashes all along Luna's equator and just before the mine layer went past light speed he was teleported out.

He never saw the earth.

In her city, her thoughts like knives cut into her mind. Servalan tried to get her bearings. It was almost midnight local time. The Lindor Defense Forces were breaking up, being driven off, so her people informed her. The battle for Earth was over, so she was assured. But she could not believe it.

Her vision blurred and the headache that would not leave her tightened like a vise. For a moment the humiliation of the broadcast returned. She was the Messiah! But how would they ever know? And what difference did it make now?

In her office, her lieutenants and aides saluting, their movements quick, mechanical, she glanced at one of the monitors showing the firing along the parameter defenses. Around the city the devastation was total, but here at least the Federation continued to prevail.

Yet something was wrong. Something she had not been told. Now it was becoming overwhelming, this feeling of dread. Her people seemed nervous, there was an feel of electric burning in the air. With the doors closed around her, far beneath the surface, still she did not feel protected.

Once more she demanded a complete status report from all sectors. The confusion had to stop. The Combined Fleet was on schedule. The pathogens were being released. Over the hundreds of worlds, it had begun. Soon, the ships would be dispatched back to Earth to destroy what remained of the Allied Fleet. But there would be no one . . .

The order had to change! The mine-layer had to be destroyed! She had to stop them. If they escaped the solar system. Destroy that mine layer! On the monitor she saw it moving. Picking up speed, it was heading for the inner Lagrange point.

But the Liberator? In defiance, in rage, in certainty, she ordered the Combined Fleet to Terminal. Avon.

She forgot the reports. She forgot how many cities had been bombed, burning with nuclear fire that had not been seen for centuries. These people were more desperate than she had realized, but desperate men can be defeated that much more easily. One desperate man in particular.

Oh, what could these people possibly mean to him? What had driven him to this? She sat down and again had the feeling that people were staring at her and whispering, thoughts that could never find voice, but were damning her nevertheless. She hated knowing the future. It was robbing her of her life as well as freedom. It was becoming more of a curse with each passing moment.

Then her mind cleared and she saw a waking vision. Before her was a storm clearing and she saw sunlight breaking through dead gray clouds, sunlight terrifying in orange yellow beams that was streaming through like blood, and an awful voice began saying "Forgive me this day for what I have done," and the voice belonged to that wretched Mykal . . .

She shrieked and tuned everything but the monitors out. She was hearing too many voices, strange, scratchy, metallic. Finally, she left the pleas for guidance and orders and direction and walked steadily back to her shrine room. It was past midnight. On Earth, at last, the pathogens had been released. She wanted to sleep, but knew sleep would never come again. Overhead the dome was cold and dark, the stars little cuts bleeding light in the sky. Why had her greatest triumph been denied?

The quiet of the place soothed her. She walked calmly over to where the book was and removed it from the pedestal. She opened it, read it. She struggled to regain control. The voices were incessant. You must leave. An escape has been prepared.

No, she whispered. I will stay here. Avon will come back to me! But she knew that would never be.

She cried in despair and rage.

Go there. The end of humanity awaits you.

She shook her head tearfully. It made no sense. Humanity is already dead.

The voices were like a chorus, an echoing chant beating down upon her. The prophecy awaits fulfillment.