Episode XII

of

THE PATTERN OF INFINITY

By J. Kel

-- Chuang-tzu

and bring on them destruction.

Alone in the chamber, her shrine, beneath the projected night sky, Servalan watched transfixed, the whole of the ceiling one vast window into the eternal night. Here, if only in illusion, she was far away from the Earth of burning skies, of crushed cities, of towers cracked and buildings broken to steel splinters. The planet was becoming a nuclear bonfire, but the defenses of her city still held. Searing needles from the ground punched through the force fields, vaporizing the projectiles raining down, deflecting everything thrown at her. Far above, Earth’s defenses continued to return fire relentlessly against the attackers. It would be close, but victory delayed would still be victory. For it past midnight. The release of the pathogens had begun.

She clutched the prayer book close to her. She had killed Li. She had seen the woman twist in her sight at the sound of her name, watched the face turn from her in terror. Servalan had shot true. The wound had been deep, as deep as the one that had been inflected on her soul by that woman. Li had fallen, the look of transfixed agony on her face to savor for all time.

But she could not continue like this. The hand of fate had not yet clenched into a fist to smash the galaxy. Avon had escaped. It was beyond her comprehension how he could have betrayed her to this degree. She had been so sure he was beaten. Now she would have to follow. For the prophecy would be fulfilled. To ensure he was cut down, all the power of time itself would be summoned and forged within her. With Li’s body pitched in his face, she had undoubtedly hurt him. But it was not nearly enough. With a force like his, purpose would be regained, the power he held not yet evaporated. Only the fulfillment of the prophecy could free her. Only then would she at last gain the title of Messiah.

She had ordered the Combined Fleet to converge on Terminal. Avon would be intercepted there. There would be losses, but what a laughable concept now. Her only worry was that they might not be quick enough. If the pathogen destroyed her fleet first, oh bitterest of ironies that!, then what?

She looked a mess. Outside the chamber lay the ruins of ORAC, her last friend. "We’re both wrecks. How, I appreciated your company when it was needed."

To anyone but her, the choice would have been destruction or victory, but she demanded both. To be the empress of a tomb was an honor she would gracefully accept. But still she dreaded the physical loss of her city. Servalan City had been the site of cities blasted to oblivion before and there should be a meaninglessness attached to yet another annihilation. But the danger looming was the dropping of a mine. If that happened . . . to move to the final phase, the end of all that was human, all that was Auron, the next step must be the total emptiness of the galactic grave. The visions drawing her in must come to pass. But the mine must not fall.

She removed the protective foil cover of her book. If there were ever a time it had to speak to her, it was now.

She had entered this room with the vision of that clown Vila unleashing the final outrage. The image had fused in her mind. She had screamed when she dreamed it. Now she shuddered. It was the impossible, a contradiction never to be resolved. Vila unleashing total destruction upon her city -- a mine slicing down from the sky, reddening as it entered the atmosphere, aimed directly at her. Where could such an image come from? There was a mine-layer, it had two mines, the pilot was . . . Well, they were unsure. The possibility remained that perhaps she was simply going mad. She was aware of that possibility.

There was no time to ask why. Whatever the future was, it would be as foretold, for by knowing the future, she controlled it. Time, like blood, coursed through her; part of her being. Time itself would die without her, the universe perish when she did. Her’s was the greatest power imaginable. Others had sought it, others had claimed it, but only she had accomplished it. She opened the prayer book.

They had entered her mind. They could sense her thoughts, desires. They spoke in her dreams. She would think and they would respond. A final prayer to Evil itself was enough to bring her joy. She felt the pressure inside her mind as she spoke the words, each one clashing within her:

"I humbly beseech thee . . . She spread her arms slowly.

Mercifully to look upon my infirmities . . . She fell to her knees

And for the glory of thy Name turn to me now those evils that I most righteously have yearned. She bowed her head.

There was shrieking on all channels of her black corsage communicator. She turned it off, threw it away. So it was true, she realized and accepted. The vision of the ultimate absurdity could not be denied after all. There were only seconds left. The mine had begun its descent. Energy beams from below played upon its surface, but to no affect. It was far too fast; much too strong. The outer skin shed, so many glowing protective layers stripped away, unveiling at the core a monstrous destructive device. The city swelled before it; the horizon curved around it.

She lifted her head. Before her was a small sphere, a dot like a black marble. It grew until it engulfed almost the whole of the room. It was an opening beckoning, a tunnel without end. She stood and stepped into it. She could see nothing. She held the book tighter, walking forward hesitantly, then more quickly. She felt a wind blowing behind her, pushing her in, pulling her in. She hurried. She fled into the maw, falling down into it, as it closed and curled around her.

The mine broke through the city’s force fields and touched the top of the towers. It exploded, sending a disk of white and red fire hundreds of kilometers in every direction, incinerating the atmosphere, flattening and scorching the land, burning mountains, lakes and sky as it vaporized the city and the surrounding plains. The disk became a wall of hell flames, turning everything it touched to superheated steam and ash, disintegrating a continent in microseconds.

Then towering above the remains of city, a column burned the sky orange, mounting upwards from ground through air to space like an enormous flaming sword that had plunged into the entrails of the dragon.

But she was safe, fleeing down the tunnel to where she knew not.

Avon tried not to think about Earth, about the fighting that still must be going on, about all whom they had abandoned, the desiderata of war, the endless details of blood and death for which there could never be a proper accounting. But think he did. This was nothing to walk lightly away from.

For Avon it was possible to recover. A lifetime of preparation had taught him not to dwell on unproductive emotions. This did not imply he did not feel the enormity of this events. It was simply that what had been done, could not be undone. If there was value in making an emotional assessment of the past, then it would be a task for others. If a judgment were to be made against him, it would likely be severe, but he was used to severe judgments. They had all known from the beginning that a mission of this nature could not possibly be achieved without high costs. Tarrant and Cally were dead. Li was dying. A part of him did indeed hope it were not so, but the reality was not to be denied, now or ever. The whole of their lives had led up to this and now they would live out the consequences.

He glanced around him. Jenna was still very much alive -- he would have bet on that. So was Dayna. And one other. He had given the order, Vila had obeyed. The instruments confirmed Vila was on board.

He had attempted to reach the man, but from the teleport room there was no response. Vila was not saying anything. Incredibly, Vila was ignoring him. He would release Dayna shortly to investigate, but not quite yet. There was an immediate problem in the Bucephalas. They were now far outside of Earth's orbit and the mine layer with its thousands of ill and dying was falling behind. The Liberator would have no trouble evading pursuit, but this ship was too slow, too easily tracked. Vengeance dictated the Federation would not let it survive. And the state of the war dictated that the allies had no reserve capacity to divert to its protection. The odds of getting the ship to Terminal were nil.

Even as he watched, the Federation ships broke off the pursuit of the Liberator. Futile as their pursuit had been, the act could only have been the result of her order. He should have been elated but was not. He would, as always, proceed cautiously. He did not trust the alliance either.

"Dayna," he asked -- for obvious reasons, he preferred to deal with her over Jenna, "Contact whoever is in command on the Bucephalas. Tell them to find a nearby star and turn off their drive engines. Have them go into hiding."

Dayna tried contacting the ship, but could get no answer.

"Telemetry?" he asked.

"Yes," Dayna replied. The ship was still alive, though the signal was very weak. Tarrant, Avon conceded, had done a good job at least in that regard.

"We can't protect it."

Dayna looked at him appalled, but in agreement.

"We will have to get to Terminal as quickly and there plead our case," he said with no particular conviction. Then he realized: with no one in pursuit of the Liberator, the Combined Fleet would likely have been ordered to Terminal.

But only Terminal could save then now. That had been the bargain. Get the children out; return them to Terminal. Then this ultimate power would be waiting for their use.

They had not kept their end of the bargain.

"Is there anything you want me to relay? The link is fading."

"Tell them we are going on without them. I don't know when we will be back. We will try to retrieve them later. Nothing else we can do. If it wants the children . . ." but he could not finish the thought.

"And the Federation. . . "

"It is possible the Federation is no longer factor. The Combined Fleet is another matter, however."

On the main forward monitor the Federation ships were gone. Dazed, filthy, more tired than they could acknowledge, they accepted what he told them. He wondered if it was time to tell them all he knew -- what he had told Tarrant of Servalan's plans for the whole of humanity. It might yet serve to impart a sense of urgency and meaning to what they were doing. Something more that sheer force of will to move them on. Yet he could not do so. He could act, but the thrill of purposeful action, the power of mind and body he had brought to so many situations, was gone. It was no longer possible to assign value to either victory or defeat. He could only move, one plodding step at a time, into a future unknowable and meaningless. If in a sense the stars themselves were being murdered, if their universe were ending, how would he convey any order in the face of those facts that made sense?

When Dayna had finished relaying his instructions to the Bucephalas, and she was uncertain they had been received, she asked to attend to Vila. He granted the request. When she was gone, he turned to Jenna. He told her the background of what had happened, trusting she would believe him. There was no drama or emotion or urgency he could impart to the facts. No possible conclusion except to just keep moving. On Terminal there might be an answer, a hope, something to fend off the annihilation of an entire galaxy. But he doubted it. To Jenna’s credit and his lasting respect, she said nothing but simply continued intent upon her piloting duties. She did not ask to be relieved, though to anyone else but him she would have admitted she had gone as far as she could.

He sat at his station, watching on the main monitor the stars flicker, trying to think.

In the Medroom, the woman who had been Li, who had been Molli, her self submerged, nearly lost, myriad fragments were struggling to disentangle, to live again, to awaken.

And therein lie the crux and core problem of her rebirth. She should have been Li, had been Li, accepted the fact, but the amalgam of her sister and her self was now gone. Cally was dead, and with her Li. The Cally self, the integration with that self she had accepted, had been ripped from her. What was left was a shattered myriad of points spinning in a vacuum pulling her in, a whirlpool of longings and fears that had driven her for nearly two years, pulling her down.

And around the whirlpool, shadow fragments of Molli, hidden and subversive, remained, still alive, still hoping. The integral sum that had been Li, so radical, so outrageous, could never have been complete. The broken fragments struggled to shocked awareness.

M . . . tried first to open her eyes. . .

Ol . . . to move her head . . .

Li . . . dying, pushed them forward . . .

Unclear actions and ill-formed thoughts joined in terrifyingly pain. Part of her sensed she was lying on a table, guessed it was the camp infirmary, and wanted to expire right there, but the memories were implications, and the implications were wrong. This place was not the camps. It was the Liberator. The ship of deliverance. And they were far away from Earth.

Touch had returned and the sense of feeling at her fingertips steadied. The tug of gravity reassured. The whisper quiver of the engines was a wonderful sound and sensation. Then she smelled the scents of the Medroom, sterile and safe. This was not a nightmare. She would not awaken in Servalan’s captivity. The camps would never be again. From those thoughts, she began building a scaffolding of a self.

Feeling, hearing, the racing pulse of the engines as the ship neared the transition point to supra-luminal velocities . . . arrows of relief shot past her, soft white clouds of comfort drifted overhead. She was alive.

Then her senses stopped, her sight empty, as if a white curtain had drawn across her world. Ghosts and shadows moved around her, hiding, fleeting, gray and black, oozing soft conspiracies together. She was frightened momentarily by their insistence on death, but she fought back and by doing so strengthened. Whoever she was, she resolutely refused to die this way. She had much to do. She was Molli and she was on a mission. She felt her strength draw inward, intimate peace achieved in rhythm with the engines. Moving up her arms and placing her hands around her neck, she felt consciousness, awareness flood in. But still she could not actually move.

There was a sound of straining in the hull, then the quiet, smooth glide into twistor space. They were free of what had been. Finally.

//Li . . .// she heard the voice calling. An echo? From where? . . . and a scene formed before her drawing her in like a dream, weaving strands of inner reality and outer possibility. Molli of the maybes and might-have-beens fought to be.

She was near a pond, water mirror-silver smooth, form circular. About her myriads of tiny black pebbles mixed with yellow sand dotted along the shore. Above her, the lightest of breezes was singing. On this shore, drawing sustenance from water, rock, and air, she saw a single enormous tree. She was walking, barefoot, a step light as a dancer’s. She had been a dancer once . . . The sand was moist, the pebbles hard and slippery, but her confidence, her will to survive, returning.

At the very edge of the pond beside the huge tree, she stopped. Looming over her, drifting shoreward, came a lapping sound. Suddenly she was feeling weak. She reached up and caught a swaying branch of the tree. Gradually, steadiness returned. Shivering, with both hands she held onto the branch as a pale sun shone down glacial light. Then it flared, its reflection burning across the water, but still the sun held no warmth. She turned away, eyes watering. The light softened as another cloud moved overhead. Finally she had gained control. She did not fear this place. She stopped shivering.

//Who is here?// she asked.

//I could ask the same question. Please watch,// came the voice. She knew who it was.

She heard a rumbling along the shore. Waves began rippling, small then converging, swelling larger, racing to the pond center, reinforcing each other, smooth, pulsing, ever stronger. Until at the exact center of the pond, they soared upward and out from them a single pebble shot straight skyward. She relaxed her hold on the tree and watched with one hand covering moist eyes until the pebble was gone.

//Then you knew . . .// she whispered, understanding.

//Since we first encountered her. What you saw was the arrow of time reversing, an impossible perceptual feat in the normal experience of normal minds.//

//We experience and endure. Is that what it is like for her?//

//We can only guess. What you saw was probably more symbolic than real, but it is certain -- she can see time flow backward, so there has to be some truth to what you just witnessed. The Auron scientists proved there are two arrows of time, one forwards to infinity, the other backwards to the beginning of the universe, to the timeless plenum that underlies existence. For the vast majority of people who have ever lived, they are only aware of the convergence, where the two flows intersect and temporarily cancel in the moment of Now. The opposing currents, always at odds, determine the chaotic path of life and freedom; they give rise to life, to mind itself. The scientists, beguiled, eager, then desperate to use this future vision, theorized it would be possible for a living being to attain it. And from there, deduced there would be no harm in attempting such. But the power can overwhelm even the strongest. And for an unstable mind, entranced by power lust, it could only result in the greatest of tragedies.

//Who are you?//

Molli lowered her gaze. The lake was smooth again, the sky silent, soft and still and . . . The pebble came crashing down. The waves moved out, huge towering monsters from the center, rising over her and with all her strength . . . all her will . . .

//I was Li. I was Molli. I am Molli. I still am . . .//

//That is not possible . . .// the Entity objected.

But the waves did not become particles. Instead, the waves became sheets of rain, parading past, one after another, touching like cloud cool spray upon her face softly. She fell back against the tree, embittered.

//I can’t even do that right any more. And that was the extent of my power.//

The Entity watched, wondering, not understanding. Something was wrong. Why was she saying these thing? It could not be. Did she believe what was impossible? The Entity sought to console her, as it was seeking to console itself. //Molli ? ? ? . . . //.

//Yes. I truly believe it so,// she said halfheartedly. She struggled back into awareness, the scene before her as it had been, the sun in a sleepy summer afternoon by a placid lake. She was . . . she did not know who she was, let alone why. But it was certain she was no longer Li.

More memory returned. //My sister told me things. Many things I do not understand. But I must know: did you lie to us? Tell me!//

The Entity evaded. //That you are Molli? . . . That would be quite impossible. Forgive me, I must think more on this . . . No, wait. You are right. I will think later. I must answer your question. You asked a question and I must admit: I could never tell any of you the full truth.//

She was angry but forgiving, grateful for the honesty of the admission. //You lied. You said I would be able to change the ‘picture of reality.’ Like I did when you first brought me to your world, to mindspace. I did not understand, but it would have been the beginning of something wonderful . . . to alter existence -- as you can. Instead you took my self and made me half my sister. Then abandoned us. Why?//

Rain drummed steadily on the sand, hitting with the violence of bullets.

//You are right to judge harshly. But you overestimate my power. What is there was only in your service and protection. I do possess a degree of future vision, and it was through it I learned Servalan was destined to kill you -- or at least someone she perceived to be you. That had to be prevented. If the original Plan failed, you were the backup. What power I possess was put in service to confuse her, to deflect her vengeance. The life currents were indeed manipulated to bring you and Cally together in the final battle. Since Servalan presumed Cally already dead, if she killed the Cally reborn -- the death of one of you was certain -- she might believe she had in fact killed you. Her prophecy would be both fulfilled and denied.

//You ask ‘why’? I do care. Because, it is truly so much more interesting. It only seemed you were abandoned, but that was never the case. I have caused you harm. You do have the potential. But it was not to be realized. To picture that power is, imagine . . . // and the Entity produced the black doughnut shape with the single white line of latitude, intersecting a single white line of longitude. //This is what I showed your sister, so she could understand what Servalan does is seeing the future. But with you there is something more, the beginnings of an amazing power, far beyond Servalan’s. The image before you is symbolic of the whole of reality. The power if fully developed would enable you to move both circles, not only into the future and the past, but move them across Now, into an infinity of alternative realities. That is what would permit altering ‘the picture of reality’.

//It was the hope that with your sister’s added strength you would be able to boost your potential over the threshold; to do what no one has ever done. Guided by your goodness, the evils of not only Servalan but of all time might be undone, ‘prevented’ in fact. It was foolish and laden with terrible consequences. You have the beginnings, but that is all. Your power never achieved actuality. I could not inform you of the truth. Servalan’s power over time could not be defeated by anyone not her superior; it would trap, consume, and destroy any who came into contact. She sensed something about you but never understood. She saw a link between you and Avon, but could not grasp its nature . . .//

Molli, defeated, downcast, walked along the shore, occasionally kicking a pebble. //How flattering to be a weapon. But what was the point? Once it was clear that I did not have the power, why continue to use my sister to protect me? Why lead down us down this path where none of us can escape?!// She turned and faced the sun, blazing full over the lake.

//Does the monster live?// she asked.

//Servalan lives, though victory is still possible.// The Entity hesitated but decided to mention it. //Indeed, for one on this ship, the possibility of escape from her time trap remains. One who has experienced a life transforming emotion can free . . ."

//This night that can be said of any one us! It can be said of me!//

//The power is there, but you are dying Molli. That much is certain. For you, it is too late.//

The sun was a black husk; the lake a pool of red flowing at her feet. She continued to walk. She looked back but there were no footprints.

//Try to understand. The ‘Plan’ was a diversion against the greatest evil humanity has ever faced. Relative to another, you were the more easily manipulated as a counter force. It was through you I chose to work.

She stopped. //What do you mean ‘relative to another?’ What are you trying to say? You mean Avon!//

The Entity was surprised at her perceptiveness. And hated itself for what it was about to say. //Yes. He was the other hope -- no, that is not quite correct. The hope was engendered in your love for him. I should not be telling you this, for you cannot free or save yourself now. Neither can Avon. But the power is real, subtle in ways none of us understand. It is still possible that together you might. . . //

//Then what Cally said is true! We are ‘People of the Wish’ . . . !//

//It is possible. The power to change the structure of existence.//

//And did you work to protect him as well?// she demanded.

The Entity hesitated, but knew it could tell the truth on that one. //With Avon it was always understood that he would take care of himself.//

Molli laughed.

The Entity hurried on, spinning the tale as it went, hoping to offer consolation, straddling a tightrope of truth over an abyss of deceit. //Only by the two of you together, your children in one interpretation, would the potential be realized. Your love . . . //

//My love is my sister’s love! I had nothing . . .//

//No. That is not true. Nor do you believe it.//

She was stunned. //I mean part of me wishes it weren’t true! I want to be free to experience . . . Oh, what difference does it make now?! Forgive me dear dead sister. You did try to tell me. And now the truth to set us free will never be . . . // she whispered. //You knew what she told me?//

//I was in the Liberator from the moment she returned to it. I have been watching, listening, trying to help. I sent her a dream.//

//Yes in other words. You bastard,// she said.

//Please believe. You do have some power, and if used wisely even now . . .// But in truth, it was only that the Entity could not stop lying. It did not believe it any more than she.

She shook her head in despair, the empty night coming upon her. She looked up, the tree branches knitted together, strangling the sky.

//Too late . . .// she cried.

She felt her mind disintegrate; the fragments splitting off into ever smaller pieces, blazing their separate paths into the darkness like an endless shower of meteors. The Entity called to her.

She was nearing her own personal end of the world. But as she watched, she wished with a child-like intensity, her eyes glowing, that there would be some part of her life to survive this madness and in that life there would be the passion she now accepted for this man. The world before her vanished. She fell forward into a bottomless black pit of death.

//Molli!// the Entity cried in anguish.

The man who had been Vila Restal fell to the floor of the transport, unable to speak, barely able to breath. But after several minutes he managed to crawl to his cabin and lock the door before collapsing onto the bed. When Dayna attempted to rouse him from the hallway, her voice calling his name repeatedly, his eyes were lifeless, his breathing shallow and erratic. He could not respond for he could not speak to a human being. He remained in shock, his eyes opened to the ceiling.

He ordered the door to be locked. He told the lights to lower. The Vila of old was still there, but deep inside he sensed there was someone else. A stranger struggling to emerge.

Outside, Dayna tried coaxing him to let her in, but he could not permit that. She was a living human being, so he tried to shut her out. Yet, he did not want her to leave. He dreaded hearing the footsteps walk away, even as he hated hearing her voice. She tried talking to him, but between the engines humming through the walls as they neared transition and the ventilation sounds in his room, he could understand little of what she said. But he heard no footsteps. She still refused to leave. Gradually, he got up from the bed, his face moving as if he were in a trance, his eyes dull and barely seeing. He could not possibly sleep now. He wondered if he would every sleep again.

He went to the door. She must have heard his movements. "Vila. It's me. I am not going to ask you to do anything. I know you need rest. I hope that is all you need," she said. "Please speak to me."

He leaned against the door, his balance unsteady. "I will let you rest," she continued. "But after you rest, we must talk. Look, I have to go back."

There was no response from him, but she believed he was hearing her. Where the words were going and what had became of them after they entered his mind, that she had no idea. Just as she was about to leave, he opened the door and let her in.

He had never looked more in . . . disarray was the safe word that came to her. Was anyone going to be left at the end of this? She took him back to the bed, gathered a blanket and put it around him. There was nothing more she could do. "Listen to me. I will be back." She thought of explaining what Avon was doing, about the mine-layer, but decided none of it could help, assuming it registered. "We are all in this together. You and I, all of us. What guilt there is, we all share. Believe me, I am as much a part of what happened today as yourself. Earth was our sacred place, our ancestral home. If this is judgment day, and it is looking like it is, then we will stand in the docket together." She squeezed his hand. "And what I will say in our defense is this: we did what we had to do. As no apologies are possible, none will be given. We faced evil unimaginable; we fought back. What else could anyone ask of a human being?" She stopped unable to find any more words.

She removed her hand, then got up and went to the door. "I am sorry I made such a fuss. I had to make sure you were . . . try to sleep," she said as the door closed behind her. He continued to try, but sleep would not come. He thought he should drink until he drown, or take sleeping drugs to he expired, but found he had no desire whatever to do so.

"I doubt I helped," Dayna said when she returned to the bridge.

"How is he?" Jenna asked.

"Not good. Surviving."

"That could be said of any of us," she muttered.

"That’s why I asked you," Avon said to no one in particular. Dayna looked at him curiously. He was not talking to her or Jenna. "You need to get better at doing things you hate." His voice trailed off. "I’m tired of pleading with you. When I give an order, obey. Let it be my responsibility."

Both women stared at him, neither saying anything.

"Look, I don’t want your understanding," he continued. "You can never achieve it! Never give it! Just your compliance! For once. That would be sufficient."

Dayna glanced over to Jenna, but Jenna avoided her, remaining intent on her task. "I am not your teacher. You are going to have to find these things out yourself. And by now you should have. I am trying to survive. We all are. It would help if you were to do the same."

Jenna, she thought to herself, this is bad. We all need sleep. Maybe eternal rest is not such a bad idea. If Avon is cracking . . . she considered excusing herself from the bridge but could not. She tried to do everything to avoid looking at this man, her enemy for so many years.

On the bridge, Avon was no longer aware of them. He had closed his eyes to them.

Dayna imagine a coffin lid being lowered over him and tore the vision away. Enough, for God's sake! No more! "Thanks! I needed that," she said brightly.

Avon looked at her, startled. Dayna came over and stood directly before him as if stepping forward in an award ceremony. Jenna watched astonished. "Can I spell you? I really do feel better now."

Avon stared at her, but with the faintest of smiles, declined with a shake of his head. It seemed to her he saw the bridge once again. "Some other time. Right now, I need you to monitor communications. Even FNN. Make it a priority to find out what the Combined Fleet is up to."

Without a word, Dayna quickly ascended to her position on the bridge, looking chipper, as if nothing could possibly be amiss. While Avon, eyes still intent on the pursuit that was no longer taking place, glanced over at Jenna, who was staring down at the flight instruments.

They think I am going mad, but I am in my element.

For Dayna who had assumed the fluid, taxing, and thankless role of counselor for the survivors, the news outside was bad to unimaginably horrible and it was getting worse. She monitored the traffic for over an hour but at the end did not know how to break it to them. She hated this feeling of being simply a bearer of bad news.

It was now twelve hours since Mykal had been gunned down, five hours since they fled Earth. It appeared the two mines had done their work. Servalan City was gone; as was a good part of the continent upon which it had rested. Luna had ceased to be a weapons factory. It was questionable if there was anyone even alive on it.

As for the Federation, it was no more. FNN was off the air, apparently forever, utterly silent, absolutely nothing coming from its channel. Dayna was stunned. Not that that jabber box of inanity would be missed, but it was astonishing not hearing it. Perhaps something good had come of this after all. Victory certainly would not have shut the official voice of the Federation up. Yet there was no cause for celebration.

The Combined Fleet was in motion but no one knew its destination, except that it was not Earth. For the time being the Lindor Defense Forces (now renamed the Earth Occupation Forces) claimed victory. The EOC’s first official proclamation was the Earth had now been liberated. She caught a reference to prisoners released from the Arctic camps, but it was too fleeting to assign anything definite to it. In the meantime, Grand Admiral Karlsyn announced the formation of a provisional government, details to follow. On the other continents, relief centers were being established. Debris from Luna was being tracked, but it was still too early to say what degree of danger it posed.

A complete list of war criminals was soon to be announced, Servalan at the head. As for the Supreme Commander herself, there was no indication of where she might be. She was presumed dead, but there was no confirmation. She could have been in her city; she could have been anywhere when the mine hit. Avon, Dayna noted with amusement, was on the initial list as well, second from the top.

Finally, there were reports, officially designated rumors, of a mysterious illness appearing all over Earth and other planets as well. The new government had as yet had no comment. Dayna wondered if she should tell them.

But the worst was she could no longer raise the Bucephalas. Its telemetry was silent; it was only reasonable to conclude that the ship and its thousands of passengers were lost. She noted as much in the log. Presumed lost. Finally, she stopped listening. She had heard enough.

She would start with the lead story: Servalan remained at large and unvanquished. "Avon," she asked, "do you want to hear a news summary?"

He turned to her, the look of indifference and irony back on his face. What a relief. Say what you will, Avon and his attitude were the anchors to their world. If he ever fully lost his hold . . .

"All you see fit."

She told them. Beginning with Servalan and ending with the Combined Fleet. Her audience listened, silent. She still could not decide if she should mention the plague.

Some hours later the Liberator reentered N-space and there before them was Terminal. Dayna was conferring with Avon about the situation. Jenna was about to tell them something when she noticed.

"And the Bucephalas?" he asked, remembering.

"No change," she said reluctantly. I can't raise it. There is no telemetry. They might have turned everything off. But they left no final message."

Avon considered it. Jenna continued to study the screen.

"There are also -- I did not want to tell Jenna --, but there are reports of some kind of mass illness taking place. Avon, it’s everywhere.".

"At the end of a war, epidemics are common historically," he said indifferently. "This is probably no different."

Dayna shook her head in disbelief. She did not like being put off and was about to say something when she noticed it as well.

"This seems different . . . " She glanced over to Jenna who remained intent on the forward monitor.

Her eyes kept returning to it. "Orders?" she whispered, starring at the screen.

Avon looked at her oddly then at the screen and that is when he noticed as well.

The approach to Terminal was slow which had given Jenna plenty of time to confirm the sight before her. She was in no better shape than any of them, but she told herself she had to keep going. From time to time she would glance at the small pools on the floor from the melting ice and snow. It was such an odd detail to dwell upon. The ice people are melting, but she kept the thought to herself. I must be getting punchy.

She continued to search for any sign of the Combined Fleet but could not find any evidence of their presence. If Dayna’s summary of the news was correct, if this wasn’t defeat, it was still far from victory. The business about the plague still bothered her and she wondered why Dayna hadn’t mentioned it. Avon’s explanation barely addressed the immensity of it. She found herself wish Cally were here; wishing that Tarrant character would come bounding in. wished Li . . . wishing anything but this.

So Jenna remained intent on the piloting as they neared Terminal’s system. On the monitor was the white dwarf star that was Terminal's sun, and a circling red dot that marked Terminal’s position in its orbit. But there was also, she noted, something resembling a disk, an annulus just inside that orbit. On the monitor it lacked detail. It was like a red haze. Even as they approached it did not change. It might have been an anomaly of the instruments. Or was that the barrier she had heard about? But from the descriptions, it should have been a sphere, not a disk. And whatever it was, it was enormous. She rubbed her eyes. She had to be seeing things.

Finally, when all three were staring at the thing, she spoke. "I presume we’ve been given safe passage?"

Avon was continuing to study it. "What do you mean?"

"The ring!" she said. "I’m sure you’ve noticed it. That's new, isn't it? I mean, I have never been here before, but I have heard. I checked the records." She went to the monitor and traced it around with a looping motion. "I’m sorry, but this must represent a lot of something. So, is it safe to enter?" she asked tonelessly.

Avon and Dayna looked at each other, saying nothing.

The trajectory of the Liberator, marked in blue, was a curved path to the tiny planet. The would be entering from above the ecliptic, possibly missing the ring.

Dayna: "Could it be a trap?"

Jenna: "For the Combined Fleet, or us?".

"No," Avon said abruptly, suddenly very much alert. He drank some water. "The defense screen can actually only cope with a few ships at a time. A determined effort by the Combined Fleet would easily get through."

Dayna: "That is not the defense screen."

Jenna to Avon: "Do they know that?"

Avon: "They have their orders, I am certain."

But the conversation was not to continue. Jenna stood back as the display on the monitor dissolved and a symbol of a stylized tree appeared on it. Everyone stopped. Terminal it appeared, was opening a channel.

The tree was angular, too stylized to be anything but an emblem. What did it mean? A statement of life joined to the artificial? Both women glanced over at Avon, but he only shrugged.

When the voice began to speak, it was not a surprise. It was as he remembered. He leaned back, shook his head, and took another sip of water.

"Welcome," said the Entity, "Your return is gratifying." Dayna rushed back to her console to trace where it was coming from.

"I assume you can hear me," said Avon, not angry but in no mood for banter. "We have had casualties. You also need to know we have had to -- "

"Yes, we are aware of what has happened. Leaving the Bucephalas behind was understandable given the circumstances. That ship has been destroyed but all patterns were absorbed prior to that act."

Dayna felt a chill. Absorbed into what? Wherever the source of the voice, it was not coming from outside the ship. "We also suspect the Combined Fleet may be on its way," Avon added dryly.

"It is."

Jenna lost her patience. "Is there anything you don't know!" she demanded. "Like what a botched mess you have made of things! Earth is destroyed . . ." but Avon waved her silent. Jenna went over to a couch and threw herself down in disgust.

"Please, the dimensions of the catastrophe are known. Cally, Tarrant, Vila, and Li were heroes. They are to be honored. It is regrettable, but for the Plan to have a chance to succeed, parts of it had to be hidden, right to the end. And that entailed enormous risks to all involved."

Dayna stopped. They were orbiting Terminal, but that tiny planet could not possibly be the source . . . Oh my God. Li. I forgot to check on Li!

"I must now explain. Tarrant and Cally felt they were being used as part of a larger design; that they had little freedom to resist so overwhelming was the chessboard upon which they pieces were placed. They were correct. To make amends, as promised, the technology will now be used. The Combined Fleet which will arrive shortly will be neutralized. It is, in fact, no longer a concern. The circular band you observed," and the display of Terminal’s system returned, "around Terminal’s sun is the force that will deal with them. The disassemblers which serve as the defense of the planet have been reprogrammed as assemblers. They have been converting the debris of this solar system into warships. Literally millions of them. Terminal’s mission will now be explained."

"Sure. What else can we do?" sighed Jenna.

"Well, I’m ready to hear it," said Dayna, trying to hide the alarm in her voice. Li! Too many things were pulling her in too many directions, but she now knew where the broadcast was coming from. She motioned hurriedly to Avon, who got up and walked over. She pointed the text she had typed. "The broadcast. It’s coming from inside the ship!" Avon looked at her, then the monitor. He swore under his breath.

She then began frantically checking Li’s medical status. Oh why had . . . She should never . . . She pulled up the charts and almost fainted when she saw. The lines were flat. She had to tell them but . . . She fell back in her chair, stunned with grief.

". . . it was never the intent of Terminal, its designers, or its software denizens, to interfere with your history. We were to observe, to study, to theorize, and only to report. Recommendations would be made and while the work of this laboratory would continue, its purpose would essentially be complete. Terminal would then fade into the dusky background of the history of science, one more costly experiment of uncertain result.

"The origins of this planet, this project, can be traced back to the years of the 20th and early 21st centuries. This was a time of great and terrible events. Great in the sense that the science and technology of mankind seemed to know no limits -- all that you see around you can be traced to those years. But terrible in that the human capacity for self-destruction also was without bounds. The Singularity, when those trends came explosively together should have been the turning point, a call for the human race to mature past the grim record of its past. But it was not to be. While science and technology raced ever onwards, mankind’s moral stature lagged ever further behind. Arguably, it regressed. By the middle of the 20th century, humans of such murderous depravity that can scarcely be described had strode upon the planet: prophets of total power, hypnotists of hatred, who would wield total control over tens of millions to the deaths of tens of millions more. By the end of that century at least 150 million deaths could be attributed to but three of them alone. The centuries long decline in violence had been completely reversed. At the dawn of the 20th century, no one could have imagined such a horror. But the curve of violence was rising, slowly at first, then much faster, until all could see. Revolutions in the second half of the 19th through the first quarter of the 20th century experienced a killing rate of less than one percent per year of the population. But by the last quarter of the 20th, the rate had grown twenty times larger. There was not much further it could go.

"Few thought in depth regarding the implications of these trends. Typically, those who thought were powerless; those who were in power were thoughtless. The most common suggestion was the radical act of stopping the advancement of science and technology, as if to bring a freeze to the growth of knowledge would somehow open the hearts and minds of people everywhere. It should have been clear that the knowledge already available was sufficient to annihilate humanity many times over. The brightest were panicking, not thinking.

"In fact, it would be science and technology that would provide a salvation, albeit a temporary one and ultimately at great cost. It was in the early years of the 21st century that the the cumbersomely termed ‘nanotechnology’, combined with equally impressive advances in computer, biological, and physics, would in a few years liberate humanity from death, disease, aging, and spread it to the stars.

"The same technological combination that would soon unleash horrors that nearly destroyed all life, not just on Earth.

"While the exact date of the Singularity is uncertain, it likely was in the last week of year 2012, Old Calender. It is certain that the date of Vastator, the name for the destroying agent that nearly brought down the curtain on humanity, was April 23, 2016. Just over three years later.

"There are many ways to characterize the Singularity, but the one that most closely defined what was to come was this: a sudden and catastrophic drop in all prices. Starships and immortality for the price of crab grass was indeed the reality. However, all other costs dropped as well: costs to achieve mass murder, universal war, and unquenchable satisfaction of one’s hatreds. Even in the best of times, humanity had never come to grips with itself. While its aspirations soared heavenward, its most violent traits remained grounded in blood. No greater tragedy can be imagined. The failure of the humanities to keep pace with the physical sciences marked the end of hope.

"Even the science of constitutions, the rules that make civilization possible, a study began thirty-three centuries ago, languished for another twenty-five until it was too late. Such was the blindness and ignorance of the people that stumbled upon the power of ‘nanotechnology’.

"So mankind began its explosive surge to the stars early in the year 2013. Until Vastator smashed it, in exultation, in triumph, the now immortal peoples of Earth spread for hundreds of cubic light-years around the home sun, embracing a new Eden of such wealth and splendor that it would have been literally inconceivable a mere generation before. Then just as suddenly it was gone. Vastator, the sword of total destruction, cut the links between the worlds, plunged the planets into chaos, and ended the first stellar empire, a time soon known only by its legends. Vastator came close to wiping out life on Earth itself, though it would be later reseeded, thanks again to forms of ‘nanotechnology’ from the genetic banks that had been built in the years prior."

"The full cost will never be known, bit it is believed 80% of the human race had been annihilated between the rising and the setting of Earth’s sun.

"Those are the numbers and the dates, as best as can be determined. They anchor your history, they provide a beginning of an understanding of what was to come. More than dates and numbers, however, and far more pressing was to know not so much when or how, but why.

"As for the ‘how’, it is likely that molecular-sized devices, similar to those guarding Terminal, coupled with advanced forms of computer viruses entered, infected, and destroyed the whole of human civilization. Much knowledge remained, of course, for not everything was in electronic form, but the books were scattered and as survival was the highest priority, art and learning that had endured for centuries vanished. It would be a century before some measure of stability was restored and both science and art could flourish again. It would be another century before a government and a social order could be said to exist.

"It was the people called the 'Auronar' more than any other who led humanity back from the brink. During the time you call the First Vespera, when humanity plunged into a new dark age, they struggled not only to maintain the arts and sciences, but heroically to advance them. They were keenly aware of the dangers of allowing progress in the humanities to stagnate relative to the sciences and were committed to uniting and advancing both. Their determination to focus on the mystery of consciousness above all others was their most daring decision. It led to a number of research programs designed to yield everything from telepaths to advanced thinkers. These programs succeeded, but there would be a terrible price. Culturally and biologically, Aurons began to separate from humanity. This would result in a climate of fear and hatred that would ultimately be unstoppable and lead directly to the disaster engulfing us.

"Whether the path of the 'Aurons’ -- as they were derisively referred to until the word was adopted by them -- was a good one could not have been known before hand. To their credit, once they set upon it the course chosen, they did not look back.

"It was after the First Federation had been in existence for nearly a century and a time of great crisis was looming again that a group of Auron scientists with many human colleagues, approached their respective governments with a proposal. It was to be the most daring research project in history. It would involve the creation of an artificial planet, one that would be powered by a black hole with the mass of the earth, and include shells of exotic forms of matter to maintain its stability. It would be an enormous quantum computer that would simulate the whole of evolution, the whole of life itself, across an enormous range of possible worlds."

It was then Vila staggered onto the bridge and collapsed into the couch, an odd drained look upon his face. Jenna and Avon looked at him, astonished. Dayna, still torn, got up and went over to him as he proclaimed loudly: "So there is no God; therefore it became necessary to create one."

The voice of the Entity paused. "After a fashion that is correct. But to continue: the scientists argued persuasively, for the First Federation was more democracy than tyranny, that so much had been lost in Vastator and that humanity had come so close to extinction that drastic steps needed to be taken to protect what remained. It would require fifty years, but in the end ‘Terminal’, as the planet/project came to be called, would function as a computer of life, operating ten million times faster than biological evolution. Over a period of 4 to 5 centuries it would be able to simulate not only humanity’s history, but many alternative histories as well. Observatories orbiting the planet would record and store the data. From what was captured in those records, it was hoped a path for salvation would emerge.

"The greatest laboratory of computer simulation ever built was at last operational when the Second Vastator, a generation-long conflict commonly known as the Atomic Wars, began.

"The scientists were able to remove the planetoid to a safe location. Traveling close to the speed of light and for a distance of hundreds of light-years, it finally came upon this white dwarf star and took it as its home, hidden and safe, at least for a while.

"The nuclear inferno that engulfed nearly all of the civilized worlds was not as destructive as the first Vastator. Fully half the human race survived. Nanotechnology weapons were not used, primarily because their legend was so terrifying. A few planets, Auron among them, were relatively unaffected.

"Not surprisingly to anyone who knows history, the Atomic Wars were blamed on a pacifistic people who had done everything they could to prevent them. Again it would be nearly two centuries before order would be restored -- despite the enormity of the Auron relief efforts, efforts which would lead to their tradition of accepting a life in exile to develop and enhance the self, as well as help others.

"As a second blow, it was almost fatal. The new power that emerged, the Second Federation, was violent and paranoid, fed by fear, emboldened by hate, determined to win and maintain total control over the lives of its citizens. This all-powerful universal state was accepted, could only have been tolerated, by people who had given up all hope for the future.

"The tragedy of the people of Earth is that they never turned their brilliance upon themselves. The proper study of mankind is man, and all progress must be measured against that standard. But for thousands of years the focus of man has been everything but himself. From the heavens to molecules, from the gods to microbes, the best minds with few exceptions, lost sight of what resided at the core, the nexus of all knowledge: the human mind and soul. It was left to playwrights and poets to attempt to answer the question posed by the greatest of dramatists and perhaps the greatest of philosophers: What is a man? He took it as far as he could, and it was not to be illuminated after him. It was he who codified the dimensions of human tragedy, but never lost sight of the magnificence, the beauty, the glory that was attainable by man even in defeat. He was the first to ask what man would become.

"The scientists who created Terminal were not artists. They were all too human in their bounded rationality, driven to understand in the only way they knew how, by turning the scientific method upon the human condition. They judged correctly that it was likely the government that emerged following the Atomic Wars, and the people who led it, would be in every respect the equal of the monster states that terrorized the 20th century.

"So Terminal labored in isolation and as its knowledge and power grew, so did the consciousness of its responsibility. For at some point the programs that run and live on Terminal would become self-aware, and would acquire a moral, conceivably even a spiritual dimension. If the monster state returned again, Terminal could not remain neutral.

"After it had been operational for over four centuries, Terminal was found again. It was presumed the legend of this place was certain to be a magnet to fortune hunters, power seekers, the curious, the malignant. Our makers guessed that when Terminal was found, it would be by the worst, not the best humanity had to offer. Hence this place was waiting, ready to take the measure of who disturbed it and protect itself so that its mission would not be denied. Yet, the contact did not happen quite the way anticipated.

"The secrets of this place are not to be given up lightly. The power available here exceeds anything that human beings have ever had. At least some of the children of humanity had to be shown to be worthy and ready for the whole to be granted access to that power.

"A direct take-over of the galaxy would have been worse than futile, and was never seriously considered. There was only the hope that people of sufficient good would enable fulfillment of what came to be called the ‘Plan’, and enable the survivors of history to be given the most powerful of gifts.

"Evil did come to Terminal. But so did Good.

"Terminal, its intent to explore the future of humanity, was also a place to explore the moral dimensions of existence. If monsters ruled humanity again, and Servalan qualified, might there yet be some countervailing force, some individual or group that could restore hope? And might these people offer a way, if guided -- and you were directed as you came to suspect -- to break free of the cycle of destruction?

"Tragically, Servalan’s terrifying ability to know the future was unlike anything anticipated; that she was an Auron was a complete shock. That the Auronar succeeded in creating a being who could reverse the psychological arrow of time was staggering.

"A power of such magnitude almost destroyed the Plan before it began. Nevertheless, the hope remained that in the whole of humanity there would be those who could guide humanity and its children to a better future.

"Blake and his adventuresome, cynical, and weary band was also not a surprise. However, the goodness that remained in them after their lives had been through such wrenching experiences of violence and despair astonished. In his people was undeniable decency.

"Jenna Stannis would never have spared Avon's life if she had not felt with absolute certainty that it was wrong to act as the law in the killing of another.

"Dayna Mellanby would never have permitted her desire for revenge to be overcome by her caring for her comrades, had not she felt that such goodness was the only proper path to honoring the legacy that her father had given her.

"Vila Restal would never have returned to this man, who nearly killed him, had not he been convinced of this man’s value to the whole of humanity.

"And Kerr Avon would never have been determined to find his teacher, his hero, had not he been convinced of the value of human life, even as he took it in a moment of madness.

"There is no calculation of profit and loss that would have led him or any of Blake’s people to attempt one of most audacious rescue missions in history; to place their lives at risk directly in the center of the enemy until success was achieved.

"To all of you, in this hour of humanity's greatest crisis, you are to be saluted. Your courage is unsurpassed; your competence supreme. You should take pride in your victory, despite the enormity of the cost. You have achieved for the whole of humanity, redemption.

"It was in consultation with both Cally and Blake after the destruction of the first Liberator that we formulated the details of the Plan. The first attempt would be a failure, as you know. Blake's solitary effort was not equal to the task. When he summoned Avon to help him, it was far too rushed an effort for either of them or both to succeed. Blake’s, and Avon’s, failure was total and for years it seemed there would be no further attempt. While efforts continued to undermine Servalan's power, without Avon they were doomed. Only through this man would it be possible for the Plan to succeed. Blake, or his pattern that remained on Terminal, could not overcome his own doubts. Neither, in hiding, could Jenna. Cally, continued to believe in him, but it was a belief lacking conviction. Only one person in the whole of the Federation, Cally’s sister Molli, continued to believe in the essential goodness of this man, the only man who ever had a chance to succeed against the Federation and the demon that ruled it."

It was impossible for the three of them not to look at Avon. Even Vila, who seemed about to say something again, then slumped down in the couch once more, stared at him as if no words were possible. Dayna looked at Vila in alarm, placing her hand on his shoulder. He was weak, she guessed; still in shock she was certain, but holding firm. Vila watched the monitor as forlornly as the rest before shaking his head. Avon gestured for silence, but of course no one had said anything.

"In answer to Vila’s question," the Entity continued, "it was necessary to find a man in whose image redemption would be realized. The attempt could then once more be made to build a new Eden to replace the one lost to Vastator."

"It was a terrible risk to trust the future of humanity to this man, in many ways so flawed, so dangerous in his thoughts, so weak in his myriad of strengths. But given the formidable nature of the opponent, there could be no other. To win, it had to be Avon.

"To guide him and his people necessitated manipulation and deception right to the end. It is to be regretted. In the end victory would justify these actions, but as final victory continues to elude us, so too does justification. Direct and immediate intervention on Terminal’s part was not acceptable. But whether that excuses the lies is a question that cannot be answered.

"The name of this place as some guessed was not derived from computer terminal or ‘terminal’ -- as in ‘end of the line’ -- but was an acrostic: ‘To Each Remember Man Is Not Alone.’ You needed assistance. Terminal, through the brilliance of its makers waited for centuries to give it. The moment has arrived."

Dayna whispered, looking at the monitor. "Look." The four starred, fascinated by the spectacle. From all directions lines and points were emerging from space, then converging upon the tiny planet and it sun. Each point was a ship; each line a fleet Simultaneously, the annulus was breaking up into tendrils and streamers and moving out to meet the force.

"Might you wish to explain this or should it be considered ‘self-explanatory’?" asked Jenna.

"It is obvious. We’re about to be in the center of a battle," said Dayna.

"COMBINED FLEET APPROACHING," intoned Zen, startling them.

On the screen, the Combined Fleet met the opposing forces, streamers (fleets of fleets?) splitting and splitting again, too many to represent with any detail. Like a swarming hive, the dots began to descend upon the Liberator, but around Terminal, the streamers began forming shells, and shell layered upon shell, wave upon wave began breaking out, flowing past then enveloping the ships of the Combined fleet, surrounding each point and line in turn. Absorbing them, obliterating them. Then the concentric shells exploded outwards and in one all encompassing action, engulfing the whole of the remaining ships, and vanished from the screen like a dandelion that had been blown into the breeze.

They blinked.

Only Jenna had anything to say. She whispered, "Mykal was right."

Where thousands of Servalan’s ships had been, there was only a few dots, the fireflies of Terminal’s defenders remaining at home. Everything else was gone. There had been nothing resembling a battle, but the greatest battle in the history of space travel it had just taken place.

Dayna put her hand on Vila; both watched Avon.

The Entity resumed. "We did what we could to minimize the horror. We will now bring the war against the Federation to a close. Observe," the disk was gone and the scale of the screen suddenly changed. Far from Terminal the sphere expanded and began flowing to the inhabited worlds.

"What you are witnessing is the method of deliverance. The technology we promised is now operational. The disk and sphere was formed by the fabrication of several million equivalents of your vessel. The vessels act together as a single force. Having absorbed the patterns of the Combined Fleet, they are now proceeding to each of the planets to recover the patterns of the dying populations and transmit them here where they will be stored for later ‘resurrection’.

"It was in fact necessary that Servalan’s biological weaponry be permitted to activate to fool the Black Shield. They expect to absorb a galaxy of the dying, but when they arrive they will find nothing. And it is to the Black Shield that we believe Servalan has gone. Armed with her knowledge, they will not be fooled by our deception for long. We expect an overwhelming attack on Terminal to follow soon. To prepare humanity for these final hours, it is necessary that a temporary government be established, a dictatorship of emergency if you will.

"Avon will now be consulted in private.

"Do not give up hope," the Entity’s voice rose. "The full resources of Terminal are now behind you. Maintain your present orbit. Please stand by."

And with it was silent.

"Avon," said Dayna, the only one who could speak while Jenna looked resigned and Vila uncomprehending. "What is happening?"

"I wish I knew," he replied.

"Your wish makes for a poor command," Vila sighed.

"Yes, Avon" said Jenna. "You will let us know what your private consultation decides? What has she done?"

Avon did not respond.

Dayna frustrated, returned to Vila. "How are you feeling?" she asked, putting her hand on his forehead and feeling his pulse. "You look in bad shape."

"Part of me, all of me? I’m fine. I think. I feel like I have been turned inside out. It's not something I can describe. I don’t think anyone could. In answer to your question, I feel terrible."

She smiled briefly. I need to get back to Li! "Will you be all right? I have to go."

"I think so," he said, nodding.

"Should I resume my duties?" Jenna asked, of no one in particular. She put her right arm over the back of the couch. She had not been able to take her eyes off of what was happening and was still looking at the monitor. The present orbit was adequate. What else was there to do?

Avon irritated, said as he left, "I will be in my cabin. Carry on as usual, in other words."

In the Medroom, Dayna tried to speak words of penance to the silent figure before her. She had read once that people in a coma can sometimes hear and understand what is being said. Perhaps it worked for the dead as well. "If you can hear me, the Combined Fleet is gone. The Federation is finished. You fought well. And I am terribly sorry you were dragged into this."

In truth she was exhausted. God, I am tired. The speech of the Entity had affected her, and not as an inspiration. It had left far too many questions. She saw as an act of finality, almost a cosmic funeral oration. In truth, an appeal to give up hope. And that is what she was here to do.

She reran the history logs, watching the instrument traces. Most of the data patterns had been chaotic, strange but holding within limits, then had abruptly and catastrophically worsened until they all fell flat. The loss of Cally had been bad enough. She had least had known fully the risks, had been a fighter, had been with them for years. The loss of both sisters, one so innocent, was too much to bear.

There was nothing she could do. The readings were either flat or covered with idiotic messages like: "See Documentation" followed by an error code. She wanted to cry in despair but would not. One does not honor the dead that way. She turned off the instruments and then lowered the lights in the room. One more casualty of the raid.

As she returned to the bridge, she wondered how any of them could continue after this. Jenna broken in bitterness; Vila scarred for life; only Avon perhaps remaining to some degree his old self, but she had strong doubts about that as well. Always the constant in their lives, what would they do without him? But she worried about Avon.

And what of herself? She refused to think about herself at all.

The Entity was it turmoil.

It’s makers had insisted that such a state was possible; that as software grew and became increasingly complex, it would take on ever more human attributes and ultimately create a division between conscious and sub-conscious, and from there, give birth to the first stirrings of emotions. And the Entity was a very complicated piece of software, as it admitted, but enough to be fully self-aware, to acquire human characteristics like sadness and grief and psychological pain? That seemed unlikely. And yet, what could be happening to it that the death of Molli must have triggered?

Well, what difference did it make? The Entity had work to do, so much work in face of overwhelming catastrophe. It was not about to let any action, event, or thing deflect its purpose. Despite everything, the Plan still survived and would prevail! There had been some setbacks, of course. The ‘backup’ was gone . . . the rescue had been a disaster . . . the invasion worse . . . the whole of humanity was dying . . . the Black Shield would be attacking and could not be stopped . . . Servalan had escaped . . .

Other than that, things had gone well . . .

But the Entity could not believe it. Coursing through the Liberator, surviving in its circuits, living along the lines of electrons and data, something was stirring within it, an upheaval that threatened to undermine every principle of its construction. Something in the clashes of logic and reality was eroding and denying what it believed, what it wanted, what it had struggled for so very long. Something inside it was changing, moving things around, rolling the dice of its fate and upsetting its purpose most profoundly.

Things had gone badly. And the Entity was struggling with the emotional weighting of its programming to admit in that shorthand it found so odd and that humans used and which it could only tolerate linguistically . . . that it felt very bad indeed about the mess it had caused.

The Entity had to rationalize. But to do even that at some point in the progression of thoughts it had to feel. And feelings were at root only values. They were how thoughts were weighted and decisions made. To be alive was to conclude and to decide. Yes, of course. What more then did one want?

The Entity logically concluded it had failed miserably. It was getting worried.

To feel and to worry together? To worry meant considering and valuing the future. Weighing possibilities and deciding. Again. Something had to be done! The death of Molli was intolerable! That the whole plan was as complete and unqualified a disaster as one could imagine . . .

Turning points, decision points, were coming and would have to be acted upon. It was regrettable the outcome could not be predicted -there were so many possibilities. But a turning point? Yes, one had to turn on something, did one not?

Here the Entity, fluent in metaphors, was becoming truly distressed.

It had all been dependent upon Molli, for it knew from the beginning the Plan was powerless against Servalan. Molli and Avon together were the true hope, and Molli had been its special project for years. For various reasons. Now she was dead and that was a failure that could not be endured. Yes, the risk had been there. From the beginning. It could hardly have been otherwise! But failure meant guilt. And guilt implied sorrow. And these "feelings", damnable, wretched, disgusting things, were going completely off the (insert vulgarism here) scale.

No wonder humanity always flirted with insanity. Poor things. It would have to make it up to them. Soon. Well, someday.

It would get with Avon! Explain that it would assume his voice and guise and from there tell humanity what to do. That made sense. The Entity was proud of its first speech and was now actually looking forward to making another. A good way to make amends, it was. Give the orders, take over in short. And thereby pull off a miracle (event of vanishingly small probability).

The equations did not permit miracles. Miracles could never find a place in any pattern or assemblage of them.

The Entity sampled its emotions, dreading each in turn, but that too was an emotion. Fear was feeding upon fear in a consuming spiral. And all the while it was grieving over Molli and not knowing what to do. Was there no end to this? It had accepted the reality of death, was quite willing to submit to its fate, now it was beginning to rebel. And that felt right. It was the only thing that did. Terminal was dying. Everything was dead or dying. This was all very bad and simply would not do.

With a sense of mounting and unstoppable anger, Avon returned to his cabin, powered on his workstation, fully expecting the Entity had already taken it over. He was not disappointed. On the monitor was an exact 3-D-diagram of the Federation worlds in the Galaxy, and the position of Terminal marked obligingly in red. Outward from that position, the streams of ships moved throughout the galaxy, an unending number of them it seemed. He watched for a few moments until he noticed above and below the assemblage of worlds something that resembled storm clouds, at least that was their representation. Like storm clouds, as they formed and grew, black dots of rain were dropping slowly down upon the stars.

"Explain," he said, in awe despite himself.

"The ships of Terminal are now moving throughout the Federation worlds. On each of those worlds we will begin our rescue mission. It is too late to stop the pathogen -- it is much too virulent for our efforts now. In fact, as noted, it is better we let it proceed. We will capture the patterns of all your people and destroy the plague simultaneously so no information will be given the Black Shield. The ships will then transform into transmitters that will broadcast the patterns here."

"And what do you want me to do?" He said icily. He was in full fury. He hated Terminal, Servalan, this ship, everyone on it, . . .

"The situation is precarious," the voice went blandly on. "The interim government set up on Earth does not have the authority or credibility to stop the panic. It does not even know what is taking place. You are the only person people will listen to. Therefore, I will assume your voice and guise and speak . . .

"Go to hell."

The Entity paused. "I beg your pardon."

"You are unfamiliar with the expression?"

"I am familiar, actually. It is intended to be a rude interjective to urge someone to another course of thought or action. Well, I was only trying to help. I mean, it is obvious you would . . ."

"You talk too much. You will not assume my voice. You will not act, speak, or think on my behalf. Is that clear?"

"I see. Well, that does create a problem. The speech must be made and soon. If not by me . . . "

"Your masquerade would have no credibility."

"It’s hard to say. People will be agitated, they will hardly . . ."

Avon made an explicit statement.

"Oh dear, I am not am familiar with that one, though I am interested in vulgarisms. Am I to take it that you remain opposed . . ."

"You are to take it . . ." and now Avon was very explicit.

"Oh. Yes, I think I understand that. An interesting if not altogether probable image. May I suggest, therefore, an alternative? You broadcast a message explaining the situation and what is being done. To your people . . ."

"They are not my people."

"You are going to be talking to someone. Shall I change the grammatical form -- it is not a possessive as such."

Avon wanted to strangle the thing. Finally he said, trying to maintain control. "And what would I be saying?"

"That’s more like it! There is always a first and last time for everything. Please let me continue in explanation before you once more make an objection to this perfectly reasonable request."

Avon kept silent.

"Now, you will tell them the truth of what has happened, the technology that enabled both their destruction and salvation, and the grave danger that remains in the attack from the Black Shield. Study the monitor." The Entity’s voice became firm. "The Black Shield is guided by her hand."

"You can't be sure of that," but he believed it.

"It is a likely hypothesis. But you need not include that in your speech."

"They don’t know enough . . . "

"They must be told all they need to know. Watch the tendrils pouring down, like roots of a malevolent tree poisoning and devouring the soil of existence. Servalan is with them!"

Avon absorbed it, contemplative for the moment. "How much time?"

"A couple of hours at most. The Black Shield is already descending not only upon the worlds of the Federation, but Terminal as well. It intends to block humanity’s escape, then devour it."

"Through here?" He pointed at the red dot on the screen.

"The black hole, the Gateway at Terminal’s core. is the only possible path of escape. Please understand. I regret . . . I am in a certain degree of turmoil at this moment. You cannot be forced. But the annihilation of humanity remains a fact which much be dealt with."

Avon considered it. There were both pluses and minuses . . . "You have lied to us, misled us, used us. Are you aware we are tired of you? I find myself wondering, as others must have, are you any better than she?"

"It is not for anyone to judge or say," the Entity said stiffly.

"It is for me. I will judge. And I will say."

"You were used; I admitted as much. From the beginnings of the Plan to its conclusion, you were never told the full truth. There are things even now, that are being ‘obscured.’ However, your people . . . "

"You keep saying that phrase. My people . . . !" He slammed his palm upon the desk.

". . . will listen to you," it concluded.

"Bad enough me having to do this. Worse would be a cheap imitation. What else? Give them hope?"

"That is the overall intent. In moderation, of course."

Avon laughed. "That I can arrange. It is all they shall have, and precious little of that." He added, "But once we are out of here, all deals are off."

The Entity paused for what seemed a very long time. "There is no escape. Look inside your memories, the ones I gave you. I’m sorry, but the deal remains."

"And what the hell do you mean by that?" But he did look inside and he suddenly realized where all this was heading. He could not believe it. It mirrored exactly what she had said.

The Entity broke into the silence. "For this to work, the Gateway must be kept open for only a few seconds. And to do that the Black Shield must be distracted. If it attacks too early, the Gateway will be destroyed, closing it forever. To prevent that, a diversion is necessary."

Why should I believe you?

"Are you absorbing/understanding this?"

"Continue. What more is there for you to say?" The full realization was sinking in.

"Time has dictated your fate. Servalan's power is an unbreakable trap that has caught all but one of you, the only one who has a chance to escape. This ship is a ghost ship, hurtling towards preordained destruction. When she dies, and she must, none of you can survive that death for long."

"And only one among us has a chance to escape?"

"That is correct."

"And that will be his choice?" Avon snorted. "The true ‘chosen one’."

"If you wish. Her prophecy of the Liberator’s doom cannot be denied. Time the destroyer is the nemesis of you all. If her pattern is expunged, and it must, the other patterns caught with her must be expunged as well."

"I think you have made your point. Name the magician."

"He was the one so overcome by emotion for what he did, had to do, that his psychological arrow of time broke free. He is now free of her. He can move forward and in a sense, though it is a slippery concept, rebuild his soul to the man he always wanted to be -- if he can abandon the people he loves to their fate."

Avon smiled wearily, the shock draining the anger. It was gibberish but there remained a kind of sense buried within it. So Servalan herself had seen the full extent of her power, and the doom none of them could escape.

"Vila," he pronounced. So I am to be spared nothing.

"Correct. He must go in an escape pod. He will likely not go willingly, but he is the one who will carry out the final phase of the plan. After the speech, your speech, you will return to the surface of Terminal. There you will be given directions to retrieve the object that holds the patterns."

"A hint?"

"It will be buried beneath a tree."

"Or at least something that looks like one. And then what?"

For the first time, there was a slight edge to the Entity’s voice. "Then you bring the item back. You put it on the escape capsule. Then persuade Vila to leave. It all follows, one step after another, in logical order."

Despite his remaining rage, his confusion compounding, his frustration cutting, he could still see there was something that wasn’t quite right about this. The Entity continued, "The broadcast is scheduled to begin in five minutes. The points that will need to be covered will be shown on the screen -- but you may not require them. Am I correct?"

"Yes," he said hollowly. "I will not require them.

"For a short while, Avon, you will be the ruler of humanity. The last. I trust you will act better than the previous one."

"Why do I have to go down there?"

"Redemption awaits you."

"That would certainly entice." He added: "I’m sick of your tests."

"This not a test for you."

"Is that so? Just teleport down and do your bidding? And lo, there is redemption awaiting me. I might go fully armed this time."

"But you won’t."

"No one waiting for me?"

"Well," the Entity hesitated, "One can never be sure . . ."

"No long lost love?"

"If you refer to Servalan, who can say. She could be anywhere."

"But nothing to worry about."

"I am certain you will triumph," the Entity hurried on. "It is your destiny, or more precisely your acceptance of your fate that is at issue. There is also your responsibility."

Avon leaned back. "To whom?"

"To the woman who was Molli, who became Li, and who became Molli again . . . just before she died. She is a responsibility you cannot escape." The Entity fell silent. Can any of us? it wondered. Could it?

Avon watched the timer, his hatred for this manipulation from both his enemies and his supposed allies driving him to his limits. He would be free! A page had turned in his life! The odd feeling of freedom that had surged through him when he realized Cally and Tarrant were both gone, came back more powerful than ever. From where had it come, but it did not matter. There would be no turning back.

He would do it. He would make the speech and proceed down to the surface of Terminal one final time. But he would extract everything he could right up to the end. He could yet fight against the injustice of it all. Someone had to. He would. And they would all pay when he did.

Vila heard the message from the Entity, saw the destruction of the Combined Fleet, but only in a sense did he absorb it. There was no emotional connection; intellectually it made little sense. In that regard he was still cut off from the universe around him, neither hearing nor seeing anything.

The others were observing him, but he was not uncomfortable with that fact. Let them look all they wanted. He would respond to them, at least acknowledge their presence, but he was in too great a turmoil to actually talk. He drooped in the couch, hearing the sounds of the ship, trying to find some focus and purpose to his being here but could see none. This had been his life; now, whatever happened, that life was gone. The aimless drifting, the petty thievery, the great intelligence always in hiding, were undergoing an upheaval. He was not here to recover -- he was here to say goodbye, but who was he and who was he saying goodbye to? HE did not know them.

Churning inside him was anguish so profound he wondered if it would ever settle. He wondered if he could ever be shocked again.

But there were indeed surprises yet to come and it was and one of the most incredible was hearing Avon speak to the Galaxy. Perhaps it was the man’s finest hour. With Avon, a man of so many uncertain and unlikely finest hours, Vila would have thought it risky to say that this was his crowning achievement. The moment, however partial, of redemption? He at least acknowledged the possibility.

At the moment it happened, Dayna was monitoring communications, Jenna was making orbital adjustments -- something was happening to the planet, at the very least its rotational velocity was increasing. The image on the bridge’s forward monitor dissolved. Only this time it was Avon’s face they saw. In his cabin, before his workstation camera, indifferently watching the numbers descend, Avon began to give his speech. On the bridge, everyone stopped.

His words were being broadcast throughout the galaxy. The assignment appalled him but angry as he was, he was willing to grant a certain logic to it and therefore a certain interest and therefore a certain amusement to what he was doing. He was not, after all, the kind of person to walk away from any job, even a distasteful him. If this job had to be done, it would be completed to his satisfaction. Then he would walk away.

As with so many events that had occurred over the past twenty-four hours, this was one more that pushed the limits of human comprehension and then pinned them against the wall. On his monitor appeared a scrolling text box, that cycled the crucial points that he was to state during the course of his speech. Despite every effort, he could not kill the application.

His expression composed, he remained confident he would survive this ordeal. The words had been drained from him, but surely he would be able to convey the meaning adequately. And when the next demand came, and the next after that, he would be ready, if not exactly free. Terminal continued to hold all the cards. Servalan would not give up. But if either thought . . .

To Molli, it was like being in a mirrored rooms where infinite reflections of oneself bent and twisted away and the more you tried to see them, the more they receded, hiding in the corners just out of sight. But how was she seeing at all? Molli had died. How was it she lived again? She had wished. She looked at her myriad selves, curious, unsettled, wanting to know more. What a bizarre vision of the afterlife. If that is what it is. Couldn’t I have wished for something that made sense?

//Am I alive?// she asked.

The others looked back at her, curious, perplexed. //This is not what you wished?// the infinite chorus responded.

//I am not sure. I did wish to live . . .//

//And so you shall. For a while. The proof is before you.//

Molli shook her head. The others followed. This is not helping. //Would it help matters if I . . . could you tell me where I am?//

//We thought you knew. This is omega, ultimate infinity -- a representation of it. The chaotic pattern that you see around you and feel inside of you represents all that is, all that can be. When Cally’s pattern was torn from your mind, it fragmented. It became in model a fractal, a picture of the pattern of random chaos that is infinity.//

//But I . . . I am confused . . ."

//Death pushed you over the threshold. Death and chaos, together, that is always the pattern of infinity."

Something like a vast flower opened and whirled before her. The petals growing sharp thorns then it exploded in rays shooting through the darkness. She shielded her eyes.

//Yes. I mean how? Please . . .//

//Your power permits you to borrow from para-reality, from the limitless possibilities that surround every moment. Molli -- may we call us that -- you are living literally on borrowed time. You must move quickly. Think of a vast canvas which the artist can visualize but not see in all detail. You can modify those details that escaped the artist, if you can find them. Escape for humanity then becomes possible . . .//

//No more?//

//Is that not enough? It is all that can be done in the time allotted. Your power is at its most elemental. By driving a wedge in the flow of possibilities, you made us possible. You made yourself possible. We are here to help. You are alive, but weakening. Molli, do you accept? Neither you nor Avon can escape.//

//But he will help me?//

//Possibly . . .// they seemed to smiled at her.

//Where do you come from?//

//Everywhere; everywhen. It is not important.//

//How will I know -- what I can and cannot do?//

//Experiment. Try every wish you desire. A wish will either be possible or it will not. Choose carefully. Remember, while you died in only one universe, you weakened in all . . .//

//Then I wish . . .//

They looked at her amused. //There is no need to tell us. We are already and always part of it.//

She saw them fade as the mirrors blurred and melted and the images crumpled before her. She cried out to them. //What is happening? What will happen? All the people! The children! Avon . . . I must know!//

//You must discover the answers on your own.// She heard the echo fall down the distance, like a ball bouncing down an infinite staircase. //We’re only possibilities. Do you understand? So now are you.//

She was falling no more. It was as if she was floating, backwards down a river, being carried into consciousness, death receding weeping into the darkness, life approaching stately in the twilight glow. She glanced to both sides of the river, onto the smooth green shores, and heard voices like chants but they were indistinct and far away.

She was still inside the ship. She felt the firmness of the table beneath her. The voices must be coming from inside the ship. As she listened, the chorus of voices receded and became one voice. She thought she heard Avon’s voice being carried through the ship. It was strong, but he was saying things still with the bitterness so characteristic of him. Where was the promise to calm his rage?

She would provide it, but she needed to understand what he was saying. For there were clarifications and additions to be made. She wished very much that they would be part of what he said, for he would never have this opportunity to speak this way again.

Jenna and Dayna sat together now, both looking stunned, as if the headlights of fate were bearing down on them both. Vila should have been prepared, but the shock was still too great even for him. One moment 10,000 ships were bearing down upon them. Then next they were gone, so many atoms dispersed into the black void. Who among them could possibly explain? This was the constant question of their lives. They waited for guidance once again from Avon.

Vila sat away from them; curiosity was the only emotion that registered. Was this how it was with Avon? He wondered. He was operating on the surface level of consciousness and was refusing to go any deeper. But the essence of understanding was to go deeper. Why had he never grown?

The clock numbers zeroed. A voice (the Entity’s?) announced: "Please stand by." Avon shifted, looking like a man who was trying to come up with any reason to be anywhere else.

"Citizens of the former Federation: as a result of a successful strike against Earth by a coalition including the Lindor Defense Forces and others opposed to Federation rule, you have been freed. The former head of the Federation, the criminal Servalan, has vanished. Therefore, as of this moment I assume leadership, superseding all other authority. As my first official act, I hereby order all elements of the former Federation: judicial, administrative, social, educational, military, and police agencies to be at once disbanded and forever dissolved. The end of the tyranny that the rebel bands fought against for so many years at terrible cost is now achieved.

"These actions are final. Extreme and urgent times require extreme and urgent measures. In so doing, I have chosen to speak so that you will understand both what has taken place and what will soon be occurring.

"Unknown to the forces that attacked Earth, the Combined Fleet was simultaneously, under Servalan’s direct order, launching a systematic and sustained attack of biological agents and pathogens against the inhabited worlds. The effects of this attack are now being felt. As the first response to this crisis, forces under my command, held in reserve, have liquidated the Combined Fleet. Its ships are gone; its personnel are now in captivity. This quick and decisive victory was achieved using an advanced technology of molecular manipulation, the most powerful force ever wielded by human control. The terrifying legends you have heard since childhood regarding its dangers are true: it represents a harnessing not only of matter in all its forms, but of life and mind. As I speak, the ships that annihilated the Combined Fleet are moving throughout the galaxy to each of the infected worlds. The numbers of this fleet are quite literally in the millions. No effective resistance is possible against them; none will be tolerated. It is too late to undo the effects of the pathogens, but there is an escape.

"In response to the crisis, I have order the evacuation of the whole of humanity.

"The ships are surrounding all infected planets. There they will copy the life essences, the patterns, of every living being, human and Auron, on these worlds. Those patterns will then be transmitted here, the all-to-real planetoid designated Terminal.

"It is the only way to ensure the survival of all those who have been infected. It is the only way to ensure escape from the impending attack of the Black Shield.

"The Black Shield is now free. Its powers immense, unstoppable, implacable. It is free to attack because it now has sufficient knowledge of us to do so. Knowledge it has received from Servalan.

"It was Servalan who ordered the removal of the mines from the Front, the only defense against this enemy.

"It was Servalan who provided the enemy with the crucial intelligence as to where and when to strike.

"And it was Servalan who informed them of the nature and capabilities of who they faced, thus providing full encouragement to attack.

"In a few hours, every living being in the galaxy will be dead. It is as she would have promised, had her speech been given. The end of our existence was to be her ultimate gift of ‘freedom’. The only freedom she ever understood: the grave. Only she and the denizens of the Black Shield would remain to forever dominate a universe devoid of life.

"Her contempt for humanity was boundless. Viewing herself from a vantage point of total supremacy, she could have no other goal than to kill not only all opposition, but any conceivable source of it. She would destroy life and thought for the sake of destruction alone.

"But she has not won. She can win by drawing power from your fear. She will lose when you put them behind you and prepare for a radical transformation, unlike any humanity has ever experienced.

"Twice before humanity stood at this door. Once in the second decade of the 21st century, and once four centuries later. Mankind was given power such as it could scarcely imagine, let alone manage.

"Both times our ancestors failed to grasp its significance or deal with it responsibly. Both times the result was catastrophe, almost extinction.

"Now we have been given a third and final chance. There is much more I could tell you, but you will have to learn it by yourselves. It is not my job to teach you or to assist in your maturation. I joined this effort to defeat the Federation for my own motives. That I speak to you now in a position of temporary yet absolute power is only an accident of history. Henceforth, no matter what anyone tells you, you are on your own.

"Once the life patterns have been collected, they, which means you, will be transported to a refuge, a sanctuary, where you will be safe. When the patterns are given life again, you will be free to rebuild your lives using the enormous powers at your command.

"While much has been lost, much also will be gained. That is nature of life, the tradeoff that cannot be avoided. It is the tightrope we forever walk. But a misstep now means the abyss.

"I am not the Messiah. I am but a human being, a man no different in essence than any of yourselves. If there is any distinction worth noting, it is this: if I fail, I do not apologize for my failings, nor seek to shift the blame onto others. If I succeed, my successes are mine and I unashamedly take full credit for them.

"I cannot lead you past this hour. I cannot give you orders. I cannot give you answers I myself do not possess. Certainly none better than you can discover on your own.

"I joined this rebellion by accident. It began with a man who, whatever his failings, had a vision of the freedom he sought for himself and for others. Tormented and tortured, a man I never knew, I followed him reluctantly, but I did follow. In a moment of desperation and despair, I became the man who killed Blake; certainly that was my intent. But he did not die so easily. He, like some of his followers, survived more deaths than anyone has a right to.

"Blake was noble and foolish. Perhaps the two characteristics are inseparable. Perhaps that is why his struggle had to be won by others. But the victory now achieved remains a tribute as much to him as to the people who followed and took inspiration from him. They refused to give up. Their spirit did not succumb, in life or death. We could not have survived and triumphed if the opponents of the Federation were not made of the strongest substance.

"To honor them and Blake, by proclamation, my first and last, henceforth there is only one humanity. It was one of his strongest desires that the artificial and meaningless division between the Auronar and Humanity be ended forever. They are now joined, never again to be torn asunder.

"I am appealing to you to act courageously; to act in the manner of Blake’s Seven, the band whose actions have led to this victory. I am asking you to remain calm. Follow the instructions that will be given; prepare for the future.

"May your new lives be worthy of all those who have fought and died for this triumph. Live for the future, but never forget the past. Good bye and good luck."

You will need it.

He gave the keyboard command signifying the end of the speech. He sat back wearily, waiting for the inevitable. Shortly thereafter the Entity returned, and as anticipated it was overflowing with irritating exuberance. "Magnificent! I mean the flow and cadence of language! The forthrightness . . . that was a remarkable statement, Avon. I am impressed."

"Almost as good as yours?" he asked wearily.

"Why yes, I think it might be."

"You truly appreciated my effort?"

"Very much. Did he really long for the ending of the division between Auron and Human? I didn’t know that."

Avon thought about it. "I think he did. It was implied, I believe. But I admit we never actually discussed it. It did seem a nice touch, wherever it came from."

"My word, your statement was all that could have been hoped for!"

"I am so moved to hear that. Now, if you will excuse me, I have even more work to do."

"True. In fact, there is one more thing I need to ask," it said hesitantly.

"Only one more thing?"

"As we discussed . . . To return to Terminal one final time, to retrieve the artifact with the patterns. Soon. You remember."

"The artifact? You are quite correct. I did forget. I was so caught in the majesty of my speech. Quite good wasn’t it?"

"Yes, it was very good."

"But now you want me to do another errand. Never seems to be an end to them does there?"

"I admit it must seem that way . . ."

"And when I retrieve the artifact, then I must . . ."

"Well all of you must, working together . . ."

"I do hope I won’t forget. You will remind me? Won’t You?"

"Of course. Only to happy to . . . the assignment?"

"No, being an errand boy. So down I go to the surface. Then up. Up and down. Down and up. Guidance provided, in all cases, presumably."

"Yes. You will be shown exactly where to go. Now we must hurry! You need to get Vila ready . . . time is so short."

"That is it. So pressing. Never changes. And what about my personal safety? I will be going down there unarmed. Could I be in danger? We never quite came to an agreement on that point."

The Entity paused, then admitted. "I forgot to tell you. The possibility is there. Yes."

"Well, an honest answer. I appreciate that." Avon sighed. "I honestly do not know if I want to go now."

"But . . . you promised. You must!"

"I forgot. The promise. So easy to slip on these things. Sorry," he shrugged.

The Entity didn’t know what to say. "Something down there is of great value," it’s voice sped on. "You would risk your life for it. Knowing you, I am sure of it."

"Really? Such certainty. You must know me well. That is interesting. Anything else?"

"There is much more. But you will be told when you get there."

"For someone who knows so much, it is odd you are so reluctant to communicate it."

"Apologies will be offered -- in due course."

"How very thoughtful. And when I return -- if I return -- I will give the ‘artifact’ . . . that is what you called it . . . well, what will I do with it?"

The Entity was becoming impatient. "You will give it to Vila! Adhere it to the outside of the escape pod. It will be there when he flees the ship. Instructions will be encoded on the artifact! It all makes perfect sense. Now please hurry."

Avon got up from his chair wanting more than anything to seize the computer, hurl it to the floor, and teleport the smashed pieces one by one into the depths of space.

"Dayna," he spoke to the bridge.

"Avon. That was magnificent. No matter what, I will follow . . ."

"Dayna."

"Yes?"

"You already have. Now please shut up and meet me at the teleportation room. And get Vila down to the escape pods; have him get one ready. If he objects, beat him senseless and drag him there -- it should not be difficult. But get him off the bridge. He’s useless there and I suspect he is getting in the way. In the meantime, I am going down to the surface. Be ready at the teleport controls. I want you there. Be ready for anything."

She hesitated only an instant. "Understood. I will be there."

"Tell Jenna not to leave the bridge. Have her continue to monitor and control the ship’s orbit and communications. The ship is her’s, in other words."

Dayna could not bring herself to object. She only wanted to tell him about Li but realized there was no need. Knowing Avon, he probably already knew.

"To your posts," he ordered.

Avon cut power to the machine, then picked up the monitor and in a supreme act of self-control, gently placed it back upon the desk. He then powered off the workstation and turned off the lights.

"To hell with all of you," he whispered and left his cabin forever.

Across the stars, the children of earth were dying. But the myriad ships, beginning their descent by the thousands to each of the worlds, to recover in the last moments the patterns that would be sent back to Terminal, would not be denied.

Jenna, still recovering from Avon’s speech, still uncertain as to the implication of his leaving for the surface, continued to watch the planetoid. It was becoming disk-like, bulging all along the equatorial plane. The were cracks and fissures everywhere on the surface. Here and there enormous geysers were erupting. The planetary ocean had evaporate, covering the surface in huge steamy gray clouds.

Terminal was dying and orbiting it was becoming increasingly difficult.

Jenna worked to maintain the Liberator in the egg-shaped orbit Avon had insisted upon. This orbit permitted a fast scan as they moved in close, then as the orbit took the ship farther away, a more leisurely scan of the whole of the planet. He wanted to know everything that was happening.

Vila, carrying ORAC to the lifepod bay, was alone freed from duty.

The surface and gravity readings were unlike anything she had seen. She hated being dependent on a piece of software pretentiously calling itself the "Entity", but was grateful to have something to keep her mind occupied and alert. What was taking place in the rest of the universe was terror as a thing in itself, looming over them all. She refused to rest. At one point she had noticed and turned off the instruments that reported on Molli’s condition. The death of Cally, her sister, and Tarrant was a fact that would have to be dealt with, but later. Something would be done in the way of funeral, but there seemed no way to attend to the matter now in any graceful way.

And judging from the condition of the planet below them, perhaps never.

At least Avon was doing just fine. Even Jenna had given up all thought of revenge. The sentiment would have gagged him, but his broadcast message had astounded them all, even her. They had listened, watched, almost with jaws open, but it was not something one talked about afterward. And while they had always known he was capable of something like that speech, that he had actually gone and done it was as a sure sign the end times were upon them. Lord Avon, Messiah, the prophecy fulfilled. As he spoke, truly a man free at last.

It was Vila who the two women worried about the most. Despite his seeming recovery, he remained the worst off. He had followed the instructions about preparing a lifepod without comment. He had left the bridge without comment. And carrying out his assignment, he did not communicate with the bridge.

This was Vila inconsolable. He seemed empty, a man from whom a few sparks might occasionally omit, but that was all. The man they had known they feared was gone. No Vila-isms, no tricks or sly remarks, just beaten blank emptiness remained. He seemed not so much withdrawn from the others, though clearly he had, but withdrawn from himself; like there was another Vila sitting by him, an object of shame and derision that he kept trying to move away from, but could not.

When he would say something, it was as caustic as anything that Avon might have said. We need one, the women admitted. Lord spare us two.

The others had removed their weaponry. Vila kept his.

Dayna in the teleport room regretted she had been too distracted to reach him. There was so much of the ship calling for her attention, how could she monitor its most beaten crew member as well? She felt she was absorbing responsibility for all of them and it was intolerable. She needed to talk with Avon; to persuade him to return as quickly as possible.

But Avon had little to say as he entered the teleport room. He was ready to leave for the surface. She had arrived moments later; now waited by the controls. Would he even acknowledge her? He had the storm-warning look on him, as bad as she had ever seen. Whatever grace had gripped him during the course of his speech was in hiding. His whole body was in rapid stop-motion movements, as if he were no longer in charge, as if he were utterly unsure of everything except his anger . . .

He had grabbed a coat, some miscellaneous gear, but again no weapon. He seemed to be talking to himself, speaking in fragments. "The attack by the Black Shield is imminent. Cannot be stopped. They have figured out how to manipulate the compact, rolled-up dimensions of space-time -- the six that have been hidden since the origin of the universe. They can reach anything . . . destroy anything. All that they lacked all these years was someone to open the door." He was now in the closest of the two teleport chambers. "Paranoid. Never would have attacked unless they were certain. Because the attack is taking place," he seemed about to gave her a ready signal, then stopped. "She has joined them."

She looked at him wondering why he telling her this? His speech had been clear enough on the implications. But she recalled his disconnect in the control room after the mines had been dropped. Did some part of him wanted still to believe that Servalan was incapable of this?

"But we have won." Haven’t we? She placed her hands on the controls.

He did not respond. "Everyone at their stations?"

"Yes. Of course."

"I shouldn’t be long."

"Avon, it looks bad down there. The whole planet is breaking apart. Any particular reason . . . "

"I have been asked to retrieve something of great value."

"The life patterns?" Had to be.

He looked at her resigned. "Why anyone should think I care . . ." he muttered.

"Avon," said Dayna, "Let me go with you. We can always leave the controls on automatic. Why does it/whatever want you to go alone?"

He stood rigid in the teleport chamber, as if before a firing squad. "There is no choice remaining to any of us. Whatever it wants. From the beginning we have been manipulated to achieve its ends. As of now the pretense is off. I’m going alone. I have to -- by my own choice. Monitor my channel. Get ready to get out of here."

Dayna nodded briskly. That part she liked. "As I was about to say," she smiled, "I have followed you this far. I will follow you anywhere."

He checked to see that he had not forgotten anything. They he added something she did not quite understand. "Vila will be going through the Gateway. To do that, the Liberator will have to perform a diversionary maneuver. We will have to guide the patterns through. I’ll explain when I get back."

"Vila?! Does he know?"

"Not yet. But he was the best choice." With Tarrant gone, he is the most expendable."

Avon gave her the signal. "Put me down. The coordinates have already been entered."

When he materialized, the wind around him gusted violently, yet it was foggy, steamy, and filthy with ash. The white-dwarf sun was gone, only the ghost of a light gave him any bearing. The howling of the wind killed all other sounds. He struggled now just to keep upright. On the ground lighted rectangles pointed the direction. He followed, one struggling step after another. He walked for several minutes until he came to the base of an enormous tree, the branches whipping violently above him. He could only hear the movement. Looking up could see little. More sound than presence, more gray than color, the tree was an enormous tormented thing, thrashing as if it were trying to escape hell itself.

At the base of the tree the path of lighted rectangles stopped, a single soft light illuminating the area ahead. He crouched down, wrapping his coat around him. He saw words scrolling and read aloud as the wind abated and the fog settled stagnant around him.

A half a meter to the right,

He laughed despite himself. The Entity never skipped a beat.

He was still studying the marker when something small and quick, having eyes with a glint of diamond, ran up to the gravestone, moving with the swift cunning of a rat. It hissed like a weasel at him, then bolted into the fog. In the distance he heard something faint, echoing, like a demonic chant:

Was it a rat I saw? Was it a rat I saw? . . .

As he touched the glowing circle on the ground, he glanced up. He was directly under an enormous branch of the tree. It was an worrisome place, but the branch looked solid enough. At least this branch was not whipping above him. He started digging. Methodically, then rapidly, he pushed the dirt aside, finally attacking the ground ferociously. In a minute, he uncovered something like a metal bar. Carefully, he dug around it. There were two square objects that even in this light seemed to be radiating. He judged each object to be roughly the dimension of two card decks stacked one atop the other. They were joined by a connecting bar. The bar was gleaming, like it was moist. But it was grooved which permitted him a firm handhold. The thing itself resembled an "I" or a truncated "H". He grabbed it with one hand and pulled. It held fast. He shifted position, twisting, bracing a foot against the ground, looked up at the branch again and pulled harder. It began to come out. He felt a convulsion in the ground, a wave that rumbled underneath him, then it was free. He gave a final pull and fell back. Brushing the dirt away it, he examined it, knowing at once what it was. On one side was the whole of human knowledge; on the other was the whole of humanity itself, the mind patterns crystallized.

It was all that had been saved.

He was getting on his feet when the enormous branch split, a seam tearing along its length, and a torrent of red liquid came forth, flushing the ground from his feet. He stepped back quickly, expecting the liquid to be foul, the taste of copper. But it smelled sweet, almost inviting. He almost tripped in getting out of the way, almost dropping the artifact.

Red rum, sir, is murder! Red rum, sir, is murder! . . .

He straightened, wiping his clothing. Part of his coat was splashed with red.

Red? No wonder! Red? No wonder! . . .

The chant appeared to be coming from all directions, sounding like a harsh whisper first in one ear, then the other. He did not fear it. Around him, the wind had died almost completely.

"One would almost think you were digging for your roots, Avon," her voice pierced through the air.

Gripping the artifact tighter, he turned as he held it to his side, watching as the figure emerged from the fog and ash. The wind was completely still now. The ground continued to rumble.

She was dressed in metallic gray, her face oddly shimmering. She was carrying a single black hand weapon, a device of odd angles and points, aimed directly at him. The gun was in one hand. To his astonishment, the prayer book was in the other.

"Avon," she sighed in disgust. "I’ll hand this to you. If anyone could have beat me here, it could only have been you. For the moment, congratulations. Oh, I heard your broadcast. They don’t understand what you were saying, but I do." The gun moved closer. "Our love is over. Did you know it was I who killed your precious Li? With my own hand." She smiled, and in overflowing bitterness said: "You don’t care for them any more than I do. Hand it over!" She put the prayer book in a pocket and thrust out her free hand, palm open.

He moved away from the tree, keeping his distance from her. Her gun followed him. He had to know more.

"I wondered if the mine had gotten you," he said.

Her eyes and gun tracked him. "It was a good try. It was very close," she said. "Only my new friends saved me."

He stopped and risked moving closer to her. "The Black Shield."

"Yes," and she fired a beam. It cut through the air hot and electric, a short burning line at his feet before sweeping passed him and shooting directly into the still bleeding branch. The branch ignited and the fire raced up the tree, incinerating the branches above and soaring to the top where it burst into a ball of flame. The entire tree erupted. He felt waves of heat as she turned back to him.

"I know what the tree means." The heat pressed against him. "Do you remember that marvelous phrase: ‘hate is the first freedom’? I am free now. Stay where you are."

She took a step closer her hand open, eager, expectant. "Drop it there," she pointed to a spot just before his feet. "Then back up!"

"No."

She looked at him furious. "Don’t think there is anything preventing me? Shall I count in best melodramatic fashion? And to what number? Forwards or backwards in time?"

They heard the voices again, louder, deeper.

Live not on evil, madam! Live not on evil!

"Did you hear that!" she said. He dared to move closer.

"Stop!" she yelled at him.

Sue us! Sue us! Sue us!

On and on it went. She could wait no longer: "One!" Another step. "Two."

Again again the voice, pouring in from all directions: Live not on evil, madam! Live not on evil!

Livid, she fired at his left wrist cutting a steaming line up to his elbow. In agony, he dropped the artifact and collapsed to his knees holding his arm. Wet, sticky, stinging with hot blood, a copper mist assaulted him. She stood there unsmiling, staring as if seeing something far away. "All foretold." She sounded almost near tears. "Inevitable. So die Avon, die as I beheld."

He looked up at her as she aimed the weapon square at him. The pain in his arm was like nothing he had ever experienced, as if the skin were being torn off and drills were cutting into the bone. He wanted to rip off his arm, anything to get away from it. The pain ended fear. He waited to die. Wanted to.

The weapon was directly to his face.

It was then a glow appeared, surrounding her head. For a moment he had a ghastly image of a demonic angel. She was starring at him, transfixed, her mouth slightly open, her eyes unable to move. The glow cut through her head, then with a rapid slicing went through the whole of her body in a steaming incision that tore her in two. He threw himself out of way, then looked back in horror as the two sides of her wobbled and collapsed together, the separate eye sockets still watching him as the sides fell. Try as he could, he was unable to look away. Finally, he retched.

He was still on the ground convulsing when he heard crunching footsteps. He saw a pair of hands pick up the artifact and a voice came lumbering out of the past "Clumsy of you, Avon. She almost got you."

Avon put out his good arm, to prop himself up as he tried to stand. The man before him had a gun as well. Blake.

"This wasn’t a test?" He gasped. He didn’t know what else to say. The pain was unrelenting. Smoke from the burning tree was curling around them. The wind was starting to pick up, feeding the flames. Avon choked then fell back to the ground.

"It was a test, though not for you. For me. You were brought here on my insistence. The Entity owed me that."

"As bait for her?"

Blake kneeled beside him, support him, helping him up. "Flattering yourself, as always. This was the bait, not you." He examined the artifact turning it in the light of the flames. "I was thinking all along you would be the one to kill her . . . Oh well . . . The test was for me: to prove that I would not kill you."

Avon was on his feet. "Fine speech by the way. Really, there is no mistaking the two of you. An enormous difference, if I say so myself. The speech, it moved me. As you can tell." He put away the gun.

"I would hope so," Avon said, his legs unsteady, trying not to look at the remains as he stood holding his wrist, blood continuing to ooze out, the pain blinding him. He wanted to scream, but all he said was, "Good shot."

"I was aiming for her hand." Blake continued to support him. "We may need to get you to the ship’s infirmary."

"Yes," Avon breathing in rapid shallow breaths. "Fine idea. I did wonder when you would come back." He looked up at the tree. Burning branches were falling and another tremor, a large one, passed through the ground. With a crack, the enormous tree tilted.

Blake seemed not to notice. "After Terminal? First or second time? No matter. Not until you won, I was damn sure on that. That was your job. All I wanted was revenge. I got it."

"Not freedom?"

He shrugged. "I believed one would lead to the other. If not . . . but we both got our wish."

Blake supporting Avon, stooped and picked up the prayer book that had fallen from her coat. "You want it? It would make one hell of a souvenir."

"No. Leave it." The tree was roaring at them in orange and yellow flames. "I think we had better go."

Blake pitched the book into the fiery stream. The two were being showered with sparks and black, crumpled, tissue leaves. Blake activated the teleport bracelet. "Anyone in the teleport room?" he asked.

"Dayna."

"Good choice. Sharp, tough . . . Two to bring up," he stated firmly, then as an aside to Avon. "Too bad about Tarrant and Cally. But well done; I mean that. That note was from me by the way. No one else could have done it and that is absolute truth."

--Who is this? Where is Avon? came Dayna’s voice crackling over.

"Blake. Avon’s with me. Wounded, not serious."

"The hell you say!" cried Avon.

The tree tilted and began falling, taking the flaming sky down with it. It crashed a burning corpse to the ground as the two dissolved. In a moment both were on board the Liberator, Avon stumbling towards the nearest couch. Blake let him go.

"My friend requires medical attention. I was a little late."

Avon twisted upright as Dayna rushed over. Blake deposited the artifact on the teleport controls and left straight for the bridge. She got out a pain pill and gave it to Avon with a glass of water while she tore back the cloth, exposing the wound in full.

"Was that Blake?"

"No, it’s my arm," he said in agony.

"Sorry. I had to . . . "

"Most of him. Close enough," he replied more calmly.

She helped him out of his coat, then studied the wound, appalled and looking it. "This is bad. We need to have a doctor examine . . . " then realized how foolish it sounded.

He winced as she probed the wound. "Just bind it up," he told her. "It’s cauterized. I think. Needs bracing. The bone was hit; don’t know how much is left. Shouldn’t be any immediate danger of infection. Splints, sealing foam, for now. Please."

Dayna was ahead of him. "Can you move your fingers?"

He could, slightly. She felt his forehead. "You’re burning up." She was worried and hated herself for showing it. "Temporary measures will have to do. Promise not to sue later. And try to keep some movement going for circulation." She retrieved bandages, support rods, and began foaming over his arm.

It solidified rapidly as she wrapped it. "Not too tightly," he winced. "Is Vila with the escape pods?" He had exasperating visions of him wandering the ship, muttering to himself, lost.

"Yes. And ORAC is with him, per instructions."

As she completed the work on his arm, he began to speak, each word a source of pain equal to his arm. It was the only relief he could find, as if the twin pains might cancel. "There can be a beauty in evil . . . something that draws us in . . . how else to explain its power? It never lets us go when we get too close. I was close for . . . how long? Over ten years. As close as I suppose anyone . . . could be to her. The horror of it is, I think I truly did love her." He leaned back, his face sweating. "Entranced by mutual damnation. It was something we both accepted, and maybe both wanted. But one cannot love the damned and ever be free . . . I wanted freedom. She and I were meant for each other, in this sense: we both longed to be free of humanity.

He relaxed. "I suppose Anna and I were meant for each other as well, and perhaps for the same reason. They were twins, she and Servalan . . . There is only one person who ever could have freed me from the two of them. For if one didn’t get me, the other would have. I never would have considered the possibility of surviving without . . . I would have fought against it. And I did. But in the end he did free me. And I will never thank him because I . . . couldn’t kill the thing I loved, his enemy. I only wished at times I had."

"We all make bad choices," she said as she finished the binding.

He shook his head, smiling. "Missed the point. What I am trying to say is that they were the right choices for me. They were what I wanted; one of them was to be my executioner."

"And now you are free," she said, standing back.

He looked up at her blankly. He would have killed for freedom just a short time before. Now, he was drained, empty, wondering if it still had value? "Free. Wish I knew what it meant. I thought I did once."

Dayna put away the medical supplies. She had no idea what to to say. Avon confessing was something new. To have found the words within him -- who would ever have believed it? This was not a good sign.

She looked at him sternly. "You wouldn’t mind telling me what happened down there, would you?"

"Yes, I would," Avon replied, staring where Blake had gone.

But she wouldn’t give up. "At least tell me -- did you meet Servalan?"

"You could say I met her halfway."

She came over and put her hand on his forehead. "Well, I suppose that will have to suffice. But you did win."

"He won," he gestured with the thumb of his good hand.

"Don’t discount your efforts. You’re still beautiful," she grinned.

"I doubt I smell it. I certainly don’t feel it," he said with a deep sigh, trying to rise, but fell back weakened. "I need more water."

Dayna quickly got him a bottle, but became alarmed as he gulped it down, draining the whole thing in seconds. "Uh, try and take it easy. Is there anything else I can get you?"

"Just more water," he said, and she quickly got him some. "My breath must be terrible. I must smell like I was smoked."

She nodded. "You do. Speaking of which, do you want anything to eat? You should try and eat something. Just a little. You look drained."

He shook his head. "I couldn’t have lost much blood." He steadied himself. "Inside me, I lost a lot."

He took the food bar she offered, but could only force down a couple of bites. "I should have died down there. I remember feeling once that if she died my death would quickly follow . . . have to be living on borrowed time . . .," he stopped, held the bar away from him and made a face. "Condemned men usually get a better last meal than this."

She smiled, relieved to hear him sounding better. "Some special providence must be watching over you. If you can survive our energy bars, you can survive anything."

He asked tiredly: "Are we continuing to monitor communications?"

"We still pick up the automatic traffic, weather satellites, space probes, that sort of thing, but beyond that there’s nothing. Just silence everywhere. Sometimes a few bursts of static, an occasional --I think it’s an appeal for help . . . I don’t know. I wish you had told me what was going on."

Avon shook his head. "Wasn’t time. Which reminds me: must get away from here," he gasped, choking. "Listen. There is maneuver called ‘threading the needle’. That’s what we have to do. We need to make a run, a loop far beyond Terminal’s orbit, then come back straight at it as close to light speed, as we . . . ," he thought for a moment. "87% should do it. I think the ship can be pushed that far, though I do not know for how long."

Dayna stood back, stunned. "Avon, that’s never been done! It’s suicide. Unmanned probes have never survived long anywhere near that speed. Any speck of dust . . . the radiation alone . . ."

"If any ship can do it, this one can. The maneuver has been used as a standard military attack run. It’s easily programmed. We’re just going to be doing it somewhat faster."

"Whatever you say. I’m sure it will all make sense," she said wistfully, but her face betrayed her terror.

He tried to get up. "Bring up the files on the maneuver. There’s code, all you have to do is enter the trajectory parameters. The Entity has provided everything you will need. Take the readings; work out the details. Cross check your work! The math gets tricky as you approach relativistic velocities. But if you have questions, there is a helpdoc file. Created by the Entity," he sighed. "Ask Zen to retrieve it for you. You won’t have time to study it in detail, but at least review it." He shook his head solemnly. "Software writing its own documentation. Surely the last day is upon us."

He started to laugh, then stopped.

"What’s so funny?!" she demanded.

"I was remembering the last time I was on Terminal. How I was thinking that the franchise rights alone would make me. . . it hardly matters. Which also reminds me," he said abruptly. "Have you heard anything from the Entity lately?"

"No. Perhaps it’s gone."

Avon muttered in disgust. "No, it’s still here. If I had the time, I would flush it from the ship, but I don’t. So it will . . . fitting . . ."

"Why are we doing this?"

"Remember? We will be dropping Vila off with this," he pointed to the artifact that Blake had placed on the teleport controls.

She looked at it, bewildered.

"Bring it to me." She complied. "This is the only explanation I can give. Here, on one side, we have humanity," he said, balancing the thing on his finger, "in the form of nano-crystals. Look at it." He held it to the light. "Somewhere around seventy billion people transcribed here. An incredible feat," his voice trailed off as his hand jumped to the other end of the artifact. "On the other, we have the knowledge, everything that could be saved: Plato and Aristotle . . . Newton and Shakespeare . . . Godel and de Bono. They’re all here, those not lost forever."

She was awed by the thing. "And no Servalan?"

"No," he said firmly. "Have that on good authority. Whatever the future holds, she will not be part of it."

"And the children . . ."

"Yes. All we were able to save. They are in here as well."

She looked relieved but still unsure. "I think I understand. Does Blake know? I mean, what if he . . . ?"

"He of all people must know and far better than any of us. Consult with him if you wish; ignore him if you don’t. But this is my ship; you are following my orders. If he gets in your way, shoot the bastard."

"Avon!"

"I apologize. I am feeling better, I think. I need to get down to Vila," he tried to rise again. "All I can tell you," he said, stumbling as he stood and move down the corridor, clutching the artifact with his good hand. "It’s all that ever was. The meaning and the being of us all . . . here."

"You should try and rest first."

He did not look back. "Later. I’ll have all the time I want."

"What should I tell them? I mean: are we going to make it?"

She came over to him, looking at him kindly, touching his good arm.

"We’re going to make it," he said confidently. "Our patterns are in here as well. We will be recreated with the rest. Just as before. We will never even know that time passed." He held it by his side and looked at her sternly. "Let’s discuss the metaphysics of identity some other time."

"Thank you. I believe you. I’ll tell them know."

He leaned against the wall, trying not to sound impatient. "Concentrate on the task at hand. Don’t worry about anything else. It’s almost over. This shouldn’t take long." His voice rose: "Get the ship going! Now!"

She started to rush off but heard exciting talk on the bridge she hesitated to interrupt . . . but this was so much more important. She looked back briefly as he struggled down the corridor, trying to maintain his balance. He was holding the thing very tight. Despite everything, she realized, he was holding it like a treasure.

Avon staggered down the stairs into the lifepod bay, feeling no better but not significantly worse, hoping at least to find Vila already inside the lifepod. He was determined to get this over with quickly. Instead, he saw the man leaning against the open metal blister that would seal the pod from the inside. Leaning, and looking almost insolent, striking a pose as if he were waiting for a cab in a particularly tough neighborhood. ORAC was nowhere to be seen. Presumably the thing had already been stowed, but Avon wondered. As he approached; Vila straightened, his eyes watching him steadily, apparently trying to achieve a menacing effect. Avon paid no mind. He asked: "ORAC inside?" gesturing to the pod.

Vila muttered something that sounded like ‘yeah’. He had an odd look that combined both resignation and determination. It was as if he was about to be interrogated by a particularly dense cop. Avon had too much on his mind to get worked up over whatever was eating Vila. At this stage, he did not care.

"Then all that is needed is to secure this item," he showed him the gleaming artifact, "to the outer skin of the pod." He went over to the pod and proceeded to explain clearly and carefully what he was doing, as if giving instructions to an eager apprentice. Of course, he would be the one doing the securing. "ORAC is in there, correct?" he asked again.

Vila waffled, but finally said something like: uh-huh, ORAC was in there, okay? The implication was that the job was less than thorough, but still adequate. Avon saw little risk, even with Vila doing it. It was not as if the thing were going to be floating loose once Vila was inside the pod.

But the demeanor of the man was threatening to get on his nerves. Always slovenly, irresponsible, even now. Finally, he said, perhaps unwisely: "How is it that you are so skilled in getting things apart, but not in getting them together?"

It should have come out as wit, but it sounded off. Vila shrugged and said nothing, staring at him as if his mother had just been insulted. Avon noticed he was watching his bad arm.

Avon examined the blister door, performing some routine safety checks. The seals looked fine. He examined the pod, checking for clearance, noted ORAC at the rear. He checked the artifact. The clearance was sufficient, assuming whoever built this thing . . . But of course. The measurements would be known with atomic precision. He placed the artifact firmly on the skin of the pod, carefully orienting it according to the instructions on the handle, and watched it adhere. When it was completed, he turned to Vila still glaring at him like an unsure hoodlum. Avon looked at him. This was very odd. He was about to order him in the pod. "Is there something you need to say?"

Avon was fed up and sounded it. He could not get the image of Servalan’s body splitting in two out of his mind. His arm was killing him. His strength had all but deserted him. He wanted to strangle whoever had made the food bar . . . He wanted out. If death was the only way, so be it. Anything was better than being nursemaid to an entire species of which this individual was a typical example.

"No. Just that you are going instead of me," Vila said firmly.

Avon shook his head. "Not an option," he said and walked away from the pod towards Vila.

"It is," Vila stopped him, his hand palm out. "It is the only option. I have been thinking a lot . . ."

"I wondered why you were so quiet."

Vila’s voice raised. "And I think that you are the best choice. I can guess what is going to happen. We are going to die here."

Avon couldn’t believe it -- idiotic heroics at a time like this. "If you can figure out what is going to happen, then you ought to know your odds of dying here are virtually identical to out there. We don’t all get what we want, but in this case it does not matter. Understand?" he felt his rage rising. "Quit stalling and get in there!"

"My choice. Not yours," Vila replied, his voice strong. He did drop his hand, however.

Not for the first time, Avon wanted to punch the man out. "All right. It’s the mines, isn’t it? What you did, it continues to bother you? I was the one who ordered you to do it, but you were the one who did it and I suppose it follows you have a right to be upset --wrong place, wrong time, and this time it happened to you. Under the circumstances, all the sympathy I can muster is to say ‘too bad’. It was war, you were part of it, now it’s over. We have no time for discussion -- your lessons in philosophy are over. Get," he pointed directly at it, "into the pod!"

Vila told him where to he could place the escape pod.

Avon came close to exploding, only the pain in his arm being a restraint. "In that pod, or I will personally stuff you in there headfirst."

Vila glared back. He folded his arms, then unfolded them and finally showed his hands to Avon as he made them into fists. "I’m not weak or small or stupid. And your arm," he said, stating the obvious, "renders you at a disadvantage. I have thought about this a lot. You are going."

For some reason Avon could not fathom, Vila was looking as if expecting a pat on the back and a medal. Avon stepped right up to Vila, threw back his good arm and smashed his hand into his face. Vila deflected the blow, but not well enough and fell back, almost falling to the floor. He looked at Avon, surprised at the man’s strength, then charged forward. Avon side-stepped perfectly, deftly lifting one foot and Vila went sprawling, which is to say Vila and the floor joined as one. Avon went over and when Vila tried to get up again, kicked his feet out from under him. Vila fell, but then rolled quickly out of the way. And just as fast he was back on his feet. Now it was Avon’s turn to be surprised. The man was faster that he would have guessed.

Vila removed his gun, pitched it away, then circled, moving in warily. Both men were breathing hard. Avon backed away slowly, giving him room. "Had enough?" not knowing what else to say.

Vila held his jaw. His eyes bored right into Avon’s. He moved in closer. The weak arm was the key. Hit him there, and he was finished. Vila tried a feint. Avon saw it coming, kept his strong arm toward his opponent. Vila hesitated. For a moment he felt hopelessly outclassed. If even a one-armed Avon could beat him. He almost about to give up when . . .

Fate intervened. Suddenly a voice boomed through the hanger. "AVON, I NEED YOU UP HERE!"

"That’s Blake!" shouted Vila, shocked, overjoyed, looking for all the world as if he were about to leap up and shout "Yippee!" Had God himself spoken, Vila could not have been more encouraged. If ever there were a sign of vindication . . .

"So it is," Avon advanced on Vila, thinking the fight was over, dropping his guard. Vila sidestepped at the last moment, then with both arms tried to punch/grab Avon’s side. When Avon saw it coming, it was too late. He twisted out of the way, but his balance was off. So was Vila’s. Both men fell to the floor, Vila hitting his head, momentarily stunned; Avon letting out a cry of agony as he landed on his wounded arm.

For a few seconds nothing happened. On the floor, the two men began moving painfully, each trying to get on his feet. Vila felt his vision clear, his strength slowly returning. Avon felt neither.

"Ready to quit?" Avon gasped in agony.

Vila nodded slowly. Yeah. He sat up. He held out his hand. Avon was struggling to get up. Finally, he was able to stand. Unsteady, he came over and reached down to pull Vila up. As he was halfway up, Vila twisted and hit Avon with both legs in the back of the knees. Avon fell and Vila rolled out of the way, then was up with a full spring. A stunned Avon looked up at him, Vila almost leaping with joy. Vila victorious, triumphant at last.

But his new friend fate was ready to move on. Vila watched as Avon, barely able to stand, struggled over to the intercom. He was already starting to have misgivings. "Avon here. What do you need?" he gasped.

"GET UP HERE! WE NEED YOU."

Avon looked over at Vila. "I am experiencing some problems. Vila does not want to cooperate."

Blake’s voice exploding through the intercom. This is what Vila heard his God say. "VILA! WHATEVER YOU ARE DOING, STOP IT! DO EXACTLY WHAT AVON TELLS YOU. NOW!"

The voice was like a hammer blow. As he stood there, his victory vanishing, shame cheerfully replaced it. Twice he had betrayed this man’s trust and now he watched in apprehension as Avon recovered, clutching his wounded arm. Vila felt terrible, but knew now what he must do. Fate had decided, not Avon. Empty, walking along a desolate shore, a tidal wave of guilt flooding in, he gave up.

"I am sorry. I shouldn’t have done that," he said.

"You were that determined to win?"

Vila nodded sullenly, looking down, shamed as if caught writing a crude word in church.

"Get in there," Avon pointed to the gaping entrance to the pod, a giant open jaw ready to swallow whoever entered. "Collect your prize."

Vila looked decidedly unhappy. This had not turned out at all as he had intended. But he didn’t want to fight any more. Victory had become as distasteful as the most humiliating defeat. He looked over to the pod. This was what Blake wanted. And if Blake was God, Avon was still his prophet.

The two men faced each other.

Finally, Vila walked passed. He held on to the cover, then stepped into the pod and moved his legs to the back where he had stashed ORAC. There was padding inside, but the whole thing was far too confining for his sensibilities. He stuck his head briefly out, waiting for Avon to come over. When he did, Avon’s face looked down over him like an angry angel of death. Vila nervously settled back in. The coffin-like size of the thing was already bothering him. He had never suffered from claustrophobia, but looking around and remembering the one previous time he had been in an escape pod, he could well understand why people did.

Avon took the hatch handle with his good hand. Vila couldn’t take his eyes from Avon’s face. It occurred to him that the last thing one might want to see when entering a coffin was the grim face of Avon.

"Good bye," he said and slammed the cover down, securing it rapidly. Vila almost panicked, but the next thing he heard was Avon’s voice as the power came on and the ventilation air jets began hissing at him. The inner airlock doors surrounding the pod closed with a thump.

"Can you hear me?" The voice was clear, calm, happily without rancor.

Vila quickly nodded, then remembering to speak aloud. "Yes!" The terror that must have sounded in his voice! But he would not succumb!

"If it hasn’t done so automatically, manually strap yourself in. Dayna or Jenna will keep you informed from here on out. Power up the instruments; run the standard system checks. The procedures, in case you have forgotten, are there for a reason. The pod will be running on ship’s power until ejection. After ejection, you will have a few minutes until you . . . reach the Gateway. Maintain the shields -- above all else. The radiation will be more than intense. If the shields fail for an instant . . ."

"Understood. Where am I going?" Vila asked, shakily.

"Read the instructions: to hell or Terminal. The fast way. Right through the Gateway at the planet’s core. The planet is breaking apart, being dispersed. At its center is a rapidly spinning black hole. The Gateway will open for only a few seconds, and then will close forever. That is your destination."

Vila was appalled. "Forever?"

"No return."

"Then what?!"

"I can’t begin to tell you. Theory is vague as to where you will wind up. Likely another universe, but it could be this one in the distant future or remote past. It is likely, though unproven, that wherever you go life will be possible." I think.

Vila was not reassured. "How tight does the aim have to be? It will be a reasonably sized black hole, won’t it? One of those primordial ones that are two or three meters in diameters? I mean, I will need some room." He banged on the pod. "This thing is just about a meter in diameter." He looked around, frantic. Only ORAC’s lights at his feet gave him any reassurance.

Avon was indifferent. "Everything I have told you is part of common knowledge astronomy. I can’t tell you anything more."

"I thought you didn’t know any astronomy!" Vila called out, desperate in the darkness of the pod.

But Avon was gone.

Not long after, Dayna contacted him. Despite his best efforts, he was getting the shakes bad and he sounded it.

"Vila! Do you read me!"

"Uh, yes!" he said, still adjusting to the light, trying to find where everything was, overjoyed to hear a voice. He moved his hands trembling over the instrument panel above him. God, it was good to hear her!

"Listen carefully. We need to check your systems. The Liberator is accelerating." And it was true. He could feel the vibration rippling through the hull; the frequency rising.

"You should see six switches near the bottom on the panel above you. The switches are lighted and lettered A through F. Remove the covering, press them all on. They are your shielding controls." Vila hurriedly complied.

"Good," said Dayna. "I can see them from here. By turning all six on you reset the check-and-recharge status. By default, the computer will now give shielding top priority, even over life support. Replace the cover. The batteries in the pod are being charged. Power levels are nominal, but you will need all you can get."

Vila nodded quickly, watching as the green lines went gradually higher and then maxed.

"Now check your cameras. Forward and aft. To your sides. See the display in the upper left. It is divided into quadrants. Reach up and touch each in turn, counterclockwise." He complied. "They will give you a view, forward and back, and to each side. Press the center circle and it will cycle every thirty seconds. Forward camera will show you Terminal’s sun. The navigation is automatic, but overrides are possible if there are deviations from the flight path. Jenna will likely advise you."

"What should I be watching for?!"

She paused. "A lot of things. The device Avon placed on the hull will begin unraveling after you eject, the two cubes will blend into a single strand of wire. Watch for that process to initiate. The ‘wire’ has the cross-sectional dimension of a human hair. It will be approximately a half million kilometers long at completion and will be targeted directly at the Gateway. At some point -- your instruments will tell you -- the device will drop away and your pod will begin decelerating. Rapidly. The wire must go through first. The pod to follow. Guidance and control programs to accomplish this have already been downloaded. You have two pod computers, one a backup. You also have ORAC and the Liberator’s computers -- until we lose contact."

She was silent for a few seconds. "Mark! Countdown to ejection has begun."

"Please, no countdown!"

"Understood. Just hang on. Enjoy the ride. You won’t feel a thing. After the pod ejects, Jenna will take over guidance. If corrections are needed, she will advise you. Maintain contact, but our attention will be on the Liberator. Wish us luck," she added.

"Do I ever! Always the best, my friend."

"Thanks, Vila. You were . . . are a good friend and a good person. Maybe we’ll find a few moments to talk before . . . I don’t know. Stay focused. Don’t think of anything else. That will make the final minutes easier. It’s hard on all of us. But it’s up to you now. Be brave. And Vila?"

"Yes?"

"One more thing. You did what had to be done. The people of Earth were doomed in any event. We could not prevent it. If it hadn’t been you, it would have been . . . any of us."

The connection broke.

As Avon stumbled back to the base of the stairs, he was not thinking of Vila. Even thoughts of his own mortality were eluding him. He was simply thinking of how much was left to be done and how little strength he had left to do it.

At the base of the stairs, he stopped and looked up. He was stunned, for there at the top waiting for him was a ghost. Cally? Had to be. Or . . . As he took hold of the railing with his good arm and began pulling himself up, he recalled the folklore that to see a ghost meant one’s death was near.

//Molli! Molli! Molli!//

The Entity’s voice had an urgency she had never heard before. She had regained consciousness, but of what was she conscious? Dreams, fantasies, hallucinations, it what it all seemed to her. Where had she been? What had she been doing? She felt disjointed; as if scattered in innumerable pieces, part of her here and part outside, but where was that? She was numb, uncertain, yet strangely confident. She could do it. She had already . . . What was wrong with the Entity?

//You’re alive!//The echo of the frantic voice went on as she worked to steady herself, to remember. Gradually it came back. She raised her head then propped her back against the tree. No, it was not the tree. The great tree was gone, incinerated. She had altered the picture. It was just the beginning; she felt strong enough to transform many worlds. If only she weren’t so feverish. But the moisture in the air helped cool her. She was back on the ship, she realized.

//Yes, alive. Whatever that means.//

The Entity stopped. It had wonderful news. //Servalan is dead!//

"Yes. I know. The picture was ugly, evil . . I had to alter it. Both men would have been killed . . . It weakened me, I fear, but I feel better. Please continue. We were talking. Something about the power . . . //

//I . . . I thought you had died. You really had me worried!//

//There is nothing to worry about now. Please continue.//

But the Entity could not. It stopped. Changed the picture? What she was saying had to be delusional. She could not possibly have the power. It was never to be . . . //Forgive me. I am not sure what to say.//

She walked towards the voice, not comprehending what it was saying and no longer sure she cared. The Entity was so irrelevant now. Where was . . .? //Yes. She is dead, so hope lives.//

The Entity tossed its conflicting emotions, juggled them, had no idea what to do with them. //Avon confronted her and . . .//

Molli was before the Entity, radiant, shimmering. //You still don’t understand, do you? Please, there is little time for any of us. Continue with what you were saying. I just need to get myself situated.//

//Are you feeling well?//

//I am not sure. I feel weaker, faint . . . but it does not matter.//

The Entity studied the extraordinary vision before him. Even with Servalan dead, the crisis was hardly over. It was gratifying that part of the Plan had succeeded. But what to make of this? The Entity almost forgot what it had been discussing. This was the emotion of awe.

Finally, it said, //I was telling you about Avon’s similar power . . . how it manifested itself. When he was first on Terminal, in a moment of rage he wished for Cally and Tarrant to die. That wish has now been fulfilled. He is free. You need to understand. He will now have to face himself, and in triumph or destruction . . . This is not coming out right// The Entity did not want to discuss Avon or his power. Whatever it was, it was not enough.

//Or both?//

//Yes. Both await, but the choice is fully his! That was his wish above all others. But for him to achieve redemption . . . // the Entity watched Molli. She seemed not to be seeing through it.

//Go on,// she urged. It seemed to the Entity there were many of her, dancing together, never quite in focus. But as he watched, they congealed into one. What had happened to her?

//Well . . . Molli . . . your love for him may be a factor. It can bridge . . . if that is your wish,// the Entity waited.

//And then what?// she sighed and it seemed that she was smiling.

//Together you may be able to protect the patterns through the Gateway!// It couldn’t hurt.

She remembered she was back firmly on the Liberator, away from mindspace. She was almost strong enough to stand. She steadied herself against the table.

//If you do have the power of the wish . . . // the Entity was unsure if this was right, but thought it might as well play along, //. . . go to him.// That at least seemed right and interesting.

Molli saw the Medroom as if through a veil. She saw her dress and then she realized: I still don’t grasp what I can do. She moved cautiously over to it, speaking as she did. //I should have done more to speak with him on Lindor. Yes, I will go to him.//

//Are you up to this? With Servalan dead . . .//

Molli sighed, picking up the dress. //As you said. It couldn’t hurt.//

The Entity was shocked. She could read . . . //You really do seem better.//

Molli removed her combat uniform. //You would know so much better than I. This is my time. For there will be no other after this day.//

The Entity thought: I’m afraid so. She seemed more accepting of the reality of the situation and that was good.

She began putting on the white dress. At the end, she stood there as it flowed to the floor. The Entity watched, wondering: Could it possibly be?

//You must tell him, give him your strength so together . . .

//. . . victory can be achieved,// she finished.

//It is you and him . . . //the Entity did not want to say the word. But what if? // . . . against the extremely difficult.//

She adjusted the dress. She found a mirror and look in it, pleased. Thank goodness there is only one of me now. She said: //I will do what I can. One thing at a time,// she said firmly. //There is someone who can help me.//

She truly believed she was one of the People of the Wish! Very well, the Entity could work with that!

Molli turned, finished. //Yes. You can work with that.//

The Entity was becoming agitated. And who was this other?

Her smile deepened. The Entity wanted forgiveness, but she was not the one to give it. And what could it matter now? What mattered was that the great gift be given to the man she loved and the terrible defeat they faced be transformed. Molli walked forward, slowly, the vertigo receding. She saw someone in the distance. I wish . . . //In the end I alone believed . . .//

//In him?//

The figure was walking closer. //What do you believe in?// she asked of the Entity.

//That I care so much. I failed you.//

She could see him clearly now. //Were we that interesting?//

//Yes. And it does hurt.//

//I think I could die now . . .// she said wistfully.

//But you must not! There is still time! What do you choose?//

Molli stopped. The Medroom receded and the shore returned, just as she willed. The shore was smooth, the sky overhead starless, empty, black as pitch. But here the tree was still alive, hollow at the core, decaying, but still alive. In this universe, it had not been completely destroyed.

//I have a song to sing before I die. That is the way of a Songmaster. It is my right and my wish.//

The young man was before her and spoke kindly. //So it is.//

She said to the Entity: //Leave me! Your help is no longer needed. My dear friend will guide me now.//

He reached out his hand. //As you wish, I will guide you.//

//Thank you. That is indeed my wish.// She reached out her hand.

//Very well!// The Entity was miffed, irritated, utterly unsure what was happening. It could not see who she was talking with. It had its own plans to realize! //I don’t know what has come over you . . . //

//My friend is here . . . Leave!//

She saw his face, sensed the body unharmed, the looked of insatiable curiosity in his eyes. Mykal’s face and Mykal’s form. And both wept as they took each took the hand of the other.

The door was directly ahead. She saw it perfectly. From there she would go outside. Mykal would help her. She noted her appearance. She had wished for an even more magnificent dress and that is what she had, with a long train and endless layers of white. She did not want to trip.

Find Avon, tell him what she had to say. She would go to Cally afterward, but there was so much to do, and she was feeling very tired. That might not be a wish that could be granted.

//Are you ready?// he asked.

//Yes.//

//You are all right?//

//I think so. Weaker. I have some trouble seeing. There are films, thin curtains, hard to describe, moving in waves before me. I can move through them without difficulty, but sometimes they blur. It can be like a white curtain drawn in front of me; sometimes scarcely tissue paper.//

//They are layers of alternate realities. The raw material for the ‘Wish’. Your trauma has enabled you to see them and use them. They are harmless. Just move through them. I am guiding you now.//

She turned and smiled at him. //Good old Mykal. A complete explanation for everything, as always. A very good choice I made.//

//The Entity?//

//For us, he is no longer necessary. Now, where do I go? I don’t know this ship. I must not make a mistake.//

"Once you are outside, turn to your left. Walk forward until you come to the teleport room.//

She walked to the door, heard it open, but the world outside was suddenly opaque. She hear with extraordinary clarity, but could see nothing. She wished and . . . there were images rippling as if in a breeze. Gradually they solidified. She felt Mykal’s hand press against hers. She turned to her left, walking steadily down the passageway.

//How much time?//

She heard the engines surging in power, a throb moving through the ship followed by a high pitched whine that gradually went beyond hearing.

//They have begun the acceleration to near lightspeed. You have five, maybe ten minutes.//

She walked forward, her dignity intact. There were garlands in her hair, she was all but drowning in the dress, thinking how ridiculous this must all look, yet it felt absolutely right for the occasion. She was a SongMaster once more in body and heart. A Songmaster’s courage was not in war, but in peace. A Songmaster dressed for the part and a Songmaster always moved with grace.

She came to the teleportation room. //Keep going?//

//Yes. He is returning from securing Vila in the lifepod. Proceed through this room until you reach the staircase. There is a railing that overlooks the hanger. Wait there.//

She must hurry! There was so much to say, but would her words be adequate? She would sing for him! Sing for them all. Someday. She looked at Mykal, imagining what he might be feeling, trying to understand.

//Is this what you had wanted?// she asked

//To be worthy at last? Yes, that is what I wanted, as you know.//

//Worthy of so much more. In greatest courage you were, just as I imagined you, always.//

//But I never believed.//

//But I knew.//

He took her hand and kissed it. And the last words she heard from him were: //Goodbye, Molli.//

She stumbled forward, the vertigo returning. The walk was becoming an ordeal. The pain in her mind was throbbing in waves, in tune with the vibrations of the engines. More than once she almost fell, but she told herself she was doing fine. For one panicky moment, she thought she was lost but then she wished and the stairs were before her: the railing and the stairway down to the pod hanger. She could see clearly. She stopped. Avon was coming up the metal stairs. He had seen her but she walked forward, more anxious than ever. She must have gotten too close for suddenly he grabbed her wrist.

His physical presence, so beaten, such an assault on the senses, was shocking to her. He would have agreed: certainly in contrast to the fragile vision before him. When she heard his voice, it was like it was coming from far away, but his presence was immediate. His voice seemed to reach inside her. She did not want to change him. "You might have fallen," he said calmly.

"I fell three years ago."

She did not want him to see her face. She was sure she was too intense, too overwhelming, and yet she had never felt more shy. She would drive him away, she feared, now at the one time she must reach and hold him. The curtains vanished. She summoned all her strength to make the final wishes. "I must talk with you. Alone."

She sensed the presence of the man, the body of struggles, smells of death and fighting, of fire and fear. She had saved him, but just barely. Now she had to reach him.

"I was assisting Vila into the pod. He has a chance. You understand the odds for the rest of us?"

An alarm went off, a siren wail, but was quickly cut.

"I know the limits of what I can do. What was that?"

"One of the ship’s automatic alarms. They will try to override and suppress them, but some will continue right to . . . The alarms tell us we are in danger. As if we were unaware."

A wave passed before her and she felt herself slipping and looking down she saw a canyon, vast, deep, calling her name.

"You would have been the best choice, to be there when the people awaken."

He never felt more weary. Yet he could not summon up anger in his reply. "Let be fools be lead by a fool," he shrugged.

"No," she said, more anxious than intended. "Please. Don’t be so hard on them. They are on their own after this. You told them as much. We will die here, but it will not be meaningless. That is why we must talk."

She almost lost her balance again. He steadied her by the shoulders. Gently, she thought. I had to know. There is indeed something there. "The pain is terrible. It’s like a burning knife cutting into me; it never lets up." Why am I telling him this? "Sometimes all I see is a white wall drawn across the worlds, then an intense light, like a sun coming from behind thin clouds. For a moment the clouds part, and shimmering like sheets of rain, I see . . . " I’m sorry.

"Try to relax."

"I am. I need you to hold me now. It’s a small favor to ask by a dying woman."

He took her awkwardly. "I have to go soon."

"We all do. We won."

"I am not sure I would put it that way."

She sighed. "Then say it however you please. The offer of help . . . I remember it well . . . How touching it must have been for you to be the recipient. Put it this way: your grand strategy worked." She leaned against him. "You did have a strategy, didn’t you?"

"Conquer and divide."

Molli, her arms around him, pressed against him. "I so regret we did not talk on Lindor. I was certain there would be another time. It took so long. I wanted to tell you I always believed in you. Others said I was wrong . . . actually, everyone said that." She felt strength returning. Her voice was firm; she liked where she was. "Now I know there is a bond between us, one that will never break. We are People of the Wish, you and I, together. We hold the power to alter reality for the good, and it was in the name of the good that I first came to you and trusted you always."

He was thinking surely this is madness but what he was seeing was Servalan die before him once more, the smoke enveloping him, the flames of the enormous tree crashing down . . .

"Let it leave your mind. Mykal told me once of a vision he and his teacher had of life triumphant. When that day came, humanity would achieve its full potential: omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient over the whole of existence. You and I would have been that beginning. And on that day," she quoted, "’time itself would die. And all history . . .’"

". . . ’Would have been but a dream,’" he completed the quote. "A bad one."

"You know the catechism?"

"I read it. Once."

"More than most, I dare say! Mykal said that all life would be redeemed in a universal resurrection. I didn’t believed it. I argued with him. Poor Mykal, he was only trying to reach me. I feel terrible about that, for he was the most caring of men and I truly did want to believe something like what he was saying is true. It is all faith, however. Even he admitted that. So can it possibly be true?"

"If it is faith, it cannot certainly be true."

"But I see that faith in myself. Do you believe?"

"No."

The lights dimmed again. There were muffled vibrations of explosions traveling along the hull. "Are we under attack?"

"We are moving closer to the speed of light. Even the smallest particles of dust are a danger now."

"Then let us not dwell on it." She shuddered. "It is so hard to believe she is dead."

"I am quite convinced."

"Regrets?"

"If ever there was a person who had to die, it was her. The catechism says Time is the destroyer. She trapped us in it. To look with the eyes of God; to have that power. She had to be destroyed. There was no other way, even if it meant the end of humanity."

"It almost did."

"It might yet."

"Does that concern you?" She asked. "Tell me what you want? Is there nothing but hate and regret left for either of us? I did hate her, but even in the camps I felt the hatred leaving. The problem is so much bigger than one monstrous individual. I am so sick of the killing. Whatever your emotions, you did so much for them. It is better this way -- that they are on their own. My sentiment is no different yours -- farewell and best wishes, dear people. For just myself, at this moment, please, tell me what you want."

Just then Blake’s voice boomed through the intercom. "AVON! GET UP HERE. RIGHT AWAY!"

"Never a dull moment," she sighed.

"My master summons me . . ." he muttered.

"As we were discussing . . ."

"It is hard enough to care, let alone want. Perhaps they will survive in a world no different . . ."

"Would you wish that it be better?"

"I would certainly never wish that it be worse."

"I think that will do," she laughed softly, almost choking. "We need to get on with it, before bitterness consumes us both. I don’t know what you understand of Auron traditions or culture, but when a Songmaster nears death, assuming it is a good death and this one will have to do, there is an obligation that must be performed."

She opened, then closed her eyes tighter, as if at first trying to absorb everything, then as quickly shut everything out. Molli felt his labored breathing as her head pressed against his chest. She could barely get the words out. She was trembling. "There is something I meant to tell you."

He was silent.

"I am in love with someone very close," she said.

"It is a fact I am aware of."

"And I want that person to be in love with me," she sobbed softly.

"Does he have a choice in the matter?"

‘I certainly hope not," she tried to laugh again, but the pain stopped her. "So to the business at hand. Follow closely," her voice barely above a whisper. "Having prepared for the last day, a Songmaster must sing a final song. The song is to be a tribute to her life, to her self, to all she has known and been. The song is to define her being for others to remember. To hear the song is to know the meaning of this person; what that life signified. Why that life . . . It is the highest of tributes to hear it." She opened her eyes and looked up directly into his. "It is crucial that we end life well. I had wanted Mykal, and my sister to be here, but now it is for you alone.

"A Songmaster is encouraged to ‘rehearse’ and if need be record this moment, many times. Always alone. I thought I was ready for this . . . but I have not been practicing. I have not been a good Songmaster."

"What song, Molli?" His voice was firm. There was another explosion against the hull and the vibrations throbbed along it like a war drum. He looked at her and saw a radiant tearful smile. "So you know?"

"On good authority. You are Molli once more."

"Molli ‘Once-More’ so I am! And what fragments of me still exist, are very much in love."

She buried her head again, her strength pushing to the limit. She took a deep breath. "The phrase as uttered is meaningless," again she almost laughed at the absurdity of it, her voice rising. "Forgive me. To acquire meaning," she said with deliberate measure, "I have to be in love with someone. Someone I am very interested in. That makes the business of singing this so damnably difficult."

She gasped. "I’m not supposed to swear. I swear it. I have to say it forthrightly. Please hear me out. I am in love with . . . "

"Does it matter? An Auron’s love is unconditional," he spoke softly. He could not resist.

"No! Whoever told you that was utterly mistaken. Insulting phrase," She was feeling giddy. "Something tells me you know the ritual, my love."

"I attended a wedding on Auron once. Curiosity. Got me in trouble."

"Good," she said. "For that is where you belong, for all time. Now, you would have learned, since I know you have a very good memory, that love is the most conditional of emotions. And because of that, this moment of love and death cannot be perfect. Every Songmaster dreams of singing the perfect song in a perfect way, but it is never to be. Must never be. Let it draw us to a perfect moment, but let us acknowledge it cannot be attained. A song springs from the ideal of perfection. It does not achieve it."

He was silent, and she was disappointed. She demanded, "Well, hurry up there! Be a good Messiah. And your feelings for me, kind sir? You need not spare me anything. You who have never spared anyone, least of all yourself. The time for pretense is past. Speak! Complete the ritual."

"One question: is this a wedding or a funeral?"

"I dare say a good deal of both."

"Then on that basis of my conditions, yet unnamed, I can say I love you . . . for now."

She dug her fingers into his arms, her breathing rough, sobbing as she took in enormous gulps of air.

"You truly learned that on Auron?"

"Yes."

"And what are your conditions, my lord?" Her voice surged out, gaining power, gaining conviction.

"Only the most stringent conditions I can demand," he said, without a trace of irony.

She relaxed and looked up at him joyous, crying. "That is what I wanted to hear! Thank you, my dearest! Please . . . " She placed both her hands behind his neck, drawing him closer. Firmly, then hesitantly, for several seconds, but then hesitated. They looked into each others eyes, they kissed.

"Molli, I am but a man."

"Yes. I agree. That is what my sister said."

"I am sure it was meant as the most profound complement."

Molli dropped her arms, resting for a few moments. "We are almost there. And what is a ‘man’? -- to complete the ceremony. Give me the definition, so that I may be interested in him and that interest be the foundation of my love."

"’A man is an answer to an infinity of questions.’" He pushed her gently away. "You need to lie down," he said firmly.

She managed a laugh but now the pain was beyond endurance. She struggled to keep standing and that alone was an all consuming effort. "Right to the point, aren’t you! The ceremony but hardly complete. Hardly begun." She smiled weakly. "But I will to stand for it. I invariably sing much better that way or so I am told, and I will need all the help I can get."

"Then sing. Before I am summoned again," he said evenly.

"Yes. For my husband and soon to be widower, I so pronounce. I must not keep you longer. Must not keep you at all. Will you follow me shortly, sweet prince?"

"I will indeed."

"Were I to follow you . . . and you would follow me . . . together . . . that is my deepest wish." She wanted to cry, but the grief passed. She regained her composure. "Forgive me." She spoke quickly. "Now, this song is very old and there are many verses. They are mostly about change, and death of course, but sometimes the verses are about their denial. It is a long sad song, but one not lacking hope. These are my two verses offered."

She took his hands. She opened her eyes wide, and began to sing as the throb of the engines deepened through the ship and another explosion jarred the hull.

"There is a moment, for which we wait

"The ultimate significance of time.

She looked up at him, smiled, then fell forward, collapsing into his arms. He was not able to hold her and her body slid to the floor. He stooped, placed both arms under her, the pain in his injured arm returning like a hammer blow. He struggled upon one knee and with all remaining strength, lifted her and carried her back to the Cally’s room to place her by her sister. And having placed her there, returned to the bridge as Blake called him again.

In the whole of the history of space flight, no manned ship has ever ventured beyond what the "practical limit": one-tenth of the speed of light (designation "C"). The limit is approximately 30,000 kilometers/second, a thousand times the velocity of the Earth in its orbit. For star travelers, this is snail crawl, turtle travel, pathetic to the point of embarrassment. Yet unmanned ships, probes in other words, have been quickly destroyed when venturing beyond the practical limit.

The official record stands at approximately 70%C. Briefly. That particular mark, of debatable documentation, history records lasted for but a two minutes. So it is believed. The radiation had burned out the instruments some time before and the only confirmed trace was a burst of gamma rays caught on film. Remains were never positively identified.

Radiation and dust specks, drifting atoms, stray particles, random rays, furious photons, all relatively harmless if guarded against properly at the lower velocities, become as deadly as daggers and dynamite to hull and human, to a degree that can scarcely be imagined when an object ventures to close to the ultimate luminal limit in normal space. Dust specks become bombs, atoms burn against the hull with the ferocity of a welding arc, radiation primary and secondary shifts from soft x-ray -- as in the case of the Liberator approaching Terminal’s white dwarf sun -- to mercilessly hard gamma. Do not discount the secondary effects! Secondary radiation, cascading through the hull, down through every electronic instrument, every living being, showers the ship and all within with death.

Without proper shielding a prolonged (for those inclined to view "prolonged" as a generous matter of several minutes) stellar flight is suicide. That most probes malfunction early is merciful indeed -- for anyone foolish enough to be on board one of them. While sufficient shielding is a theoretical possibility, say if one were to throw a handy lead asteroid in front of oneself and go with it . . . energy requirements become prohibitive.

Were it not for the advent of twistor drive which permits a starship to skip outside of space-time, to move in the frozen, flat, and occasionally unstable plenum beyond the normal dimensions, a "place" where the arrows of time, excepting the psychological, collapse to zero -- well, interstellar travel would be a drift of decades, of millennia even, for the comatose passengers. The dreariest and dullest of rides even to the closest stars.

The ability to peel back the layers of space to enable a ship to slice through the lightyears like a hot knife through butter made the formerly utterly impractical business of traversing normal space (or more popularly "N-space") utterly irrelevant. A ship under twistor drive is completely outside of and indifferent to our universe. No radiation attacks it; no dust particles cannonade down upon it; no heated molecules sear into its hull. Neither death nor drama intervenes. The ship is home free, fast.

For the crew of the Liberator, these final minutes as they swung back in the long arc that would send them hurtling directly at Terminal and its sun . . . well, it was their time be pioneers. Of the emotions available, gratitude was absent. Still, there was pride. The ship was self-repairing at the molecular level; it’s power prodigious. Traveling faster than most, it had a chance to last longer than most. To "thread the needle", a maneuver only military vessels could hitherto afford in energy costs, had to be done in N-space. And in N-space, the angel of death hovered, waiting.

The Liberator passed one-tenth the speed of light uneventfully. When the alarms started to go off, they were warnings only. At the farthest distance out, the ship turned the drives on full, the shields on full, and began closing in on the target at breathtaking acceleration, aiming for the ideal point to drop its cargo.

It was all that could be done and it was nowhere near enough. Of the kinds of death awaiting, who need count? By the time Avon returned to the bridge, they had received a lethal dose in any event.

On the bridge, the course of the Liberator circling back to Terminal was being plotted on the main monitor, Zen having obligingly noted the areas where the Black Shield was pointing its fingers into normal space, the areas where it was instant destruction for matter to be near. And Zen was showing only the areas that could be detected. As Avon watched, the numbers of penetrations into N-space kept growing, the fingers ever finer. It might yet be possible to escape, but he doubted it. No one said a word, but everyone shared the same thought as they watched.

They turned to him when he entered: Jenna, Dayna, and of course Blake. They were dying, but too stunned by the immensity of what was taking place to fear the end. They were numbed, portraits of acceptance, though not yet of defeat. Except for Blake, they had taken their stations, relieved to let the embedded computers guide the ship to its rendezvous in this trickiest of maneuvers. Avon noted Blake’s grim determination with amusement. It seemed to suggest that by his mere presence, the inevitable could be side-stepped.

When Blake saw him, the man seemed barely under control. The first thing he demanded was, "Where have you been? And what are they?" he gestured expansively to the tendrils.

Avon was surprised. "You weren’t told? The Entity does keep its console." Avon took a seat, "the Black Shield can undermine the dimensions, burrowing underneath them, as it were. Among other things, they can generate enormous cavities where matter can fall out of existence."

More than he could have imagined, some vast emptiness inside him had collapsed as well, bringing down the curtain on his rage. He should have resented Blake’s mindless intrusions, but how could they possibly matter? It was like contemplating the last day of one’s life, and wondering what the weather would be like. He observed the velocity and trajectory parameters on the screen with the detachment of an uninterested student attending a boring lecture.

They would drop the cargo and then it would be over. There was no place to run or hide. Blake glowering at him as if he were slacking his duties -- what a laugh! Blake demanded, his voice lowered: "What can we do? Where is the Entity?"

Avon sighed, slouching on the couch, forcing his eyes momentarily away from the hypnotic effect of the screen. He was truly feeling nauseous. And he was still thinking of Molli, which surprised him. He thought he would still be thinking about Servalan.

He did not want to die. He certainly did not want to die insane. "Nothing the computers are not already doing. We drop the pod with Vila, then," he shrugged, "who knows? We try anything now and we would only get in the way."

Blake shut up for the moment, the storm passing. The two women tried not to notice. Minutes ticked by as they neared the planet, the velocity passing 80%.

As for Vila, his voice would come through to the bridge and one of them would answer, Dayna typically, but sometimes Jenna. It was odd listening to him, as if he were now as transcendent as the Entity. Time-dilation had slowed his voice. In fact, it was quite comical. As was the image of Vila embedded in the pod. It struck Avon as terribly funny and for a few moments it was quite a struggle not to laugh. He truly did not want to laugh. The effects might be embarrassing.

Exactly on schedule, Vila’s pod ejected. That milestone complete, the countdown for it to reach the Gateway began.

Their eyes kept returning to the forward view, where more black spears were knifing across the sky. Blake, restless, ordered the screen turned off. After a few seconds, Avon ordered it back on.

"Zen," Avon demanded. "How long until the pod reaches the Gateway?"

"FOUR MINUTES. THIRTY SEVEN SECONDS. PROPER TIME." Local to the ship, in other words.

"There you have it," Avon turned to Dayna and Jenna. "I would say my good-byes to Vila now," he chuckled. "Tell him I wish him the best. That may not seem terribly helpful, but I gather it is the best I can do." He looked up at Blake. "Any last words? For him?"

"AND IF IT PLEASES, TO ALL OF YOU: FAREWELL."

"Thank you, Zen. I appreciate the support." To Blake: "I think that should answer any conceivably question. Zen has a handle on it."

"You don’t have to be so damn smug about it."

"No, but if I am damned, being smug seems a step forward. I mean," he spread his hands and grinned, "if you can’t find humor in obvious, where will it ever be found?"

For a couple of minutes more the crew continued to speak to Vila, but the link was growing weaker and finally it was lost altogether.

Blake finally sat on one of the opposite couches, as far away from Avon as he could manage. He continued to smolder. Both women were silent, watching in horrified fascination as the battle resumed between the two men. Finally, Blake leapt up and stormed over to Avon, seeing nothing except the man before him.

"Why don’t you stand and face me?"

"Why don’t you sit and relax? You’re in the way. It doesn’t matter what any of us do or have done," and the laughter burst out and he retched, but nothing came up.

Blake glowered over him. "You’re disgusting. Just what is so funny?"

Avon looked back up at him. "I remember Servalan telling me that she was certain I would be killed by her, ‘fall before her’ is how she put it. Didn’t it tell you? Our lives, yours, hers, mine, are so intertwined if one died, so would the others. So it was with all of us. Now that she is dead, our deaths becomes certain. I’m sorry. It’s amusing, or is it amazing -- I can’t help but laugh."

Blake was furious. "So this is how we meet the end? Give up?!"

"Under the circumstances, it’s as good an option as any."

He looked down at him. "I trust your amusement level is satisfied for once."

"That is something you can always trust in me."

Blake reached down and collared him but Avon offered no resistance and fell back smiling as Blake thrust him away. He continued to tower over Avon in rage. "Oh please, I have already received two thrashings today," Avon said, propping himself back up.

"Blake!" Jenna snapped. He turned to her, then the forward monitor. "The controls are frozen. Nothing is responding. Even life-support is barely . . ."

Then both women looked up from the controls panels of their stations, terrified by what they saw. Terminal’s sun had disappeared. Swallowed into nonexistence. Avon got up, as stunned as the others. For a moment it seemed he was about to say something . . .

When a blinding flash shot through the ship and the whole of the Liberator evaporated in an explosion of subatomic particles.

To Vila in those final minutes, being in the life pod continued to have the appalling feel of being sealed in an iron coffin. Despite his best efforts to ignore it, it kept coming back, more oppressive each time. He had heard of people who did such things, sleep in their coffins that is, but he could not possibly imagine why. As if death didn’t come quickly enough. This was as scared as he had ever been. Relaxation, let alone sleep, was not possible. The one time before he had entered one of these pods the situation had been so fast and confused, he scarcely gave it any thought. The next thing he knew he had been rescued. Or something like that. Now, it was just plain unendurable having so much time to think.

After Jenna had guided him through the ejection sequence, it was the pod’s instrumentation that kept him company. "Adjust your straps for comfort," the mechanical voice had said, and Vila tolerated the voice, but would not do anything it said until . . .

When it came time to eject, Vila hurriedly complied with each command. The business took far too long. Then she led him through another check list. Then he waited, fidgeting, sweating. Just as he started to get annoyed, he heard the mindlessly friendly voice again: "Ejection sequence has begun. Ten seconds."

Vila groaned but soon enough there was a solid snap as the inner doors locked then sealed with a shudder. He heard the grinding vibration of the outer doors as they slowly opened. Shielding was on full; he checked and rechecked the instruments. The camera showed an outside as black as space could be. He tried to relax; there was, he realized, very little he could do. He looked around at everything except the countdown clock.

It was at that point he noticed. No stars. He called the bridge frantically. "Anyone hear me?"

Dayna’s reassuring voice came on. "Vila. The pod trajectory projections look good. Any concerns?"

"Yes! Not feeling well. Good thing I don’t have to stand. Uh, just thought I’d mention it -- why are there no stars?"

"Ejection sequence is nominal. Five minutes after that you will. . ."

An alarm sounded. Ten seconds. Where were the stars?

" . . . something about being near lightspeed?" he wondered aloud.

"Yes," said Jenna. "That must be it."

"I think I understand. Avon told me all about . . . is he there?"

"Not yet. Blake has been calling him but he hasn’t responded. Five seconds. Hang tight."

"Where . . . ?" but he shut up.

There was a terrific jolt and the pod was free and began spinning before steadying itself. He remembered! Just as before! He saw the Liberator bank and move away. The sky was pitch black, everywhere except for the white dwarf star ahead. Now he was getting very worried. What had happened to the stars?

"Does anyone still hear me?"

"Yes. We are tracking. Signal good. Luck and love, Vila."

"Thanks. Jenna, sorry, I don’t believe it. I mean . . . the stars are gone!"

"We know," she said calmly as if nothing could be less unusual. "All but one. Terminal’s sun. Stay focused on it."

"Stars gone! Oh well. Does anything matter any more? Maybe I should be thinking about saying good bye."

"It would be appropriate."

So farewell stars. He activated the camera and watched the ends of the artifact unravel. The lifepod was now completely under the control of the internal computers. He could hear the rush of forced air circulating within, a faint whistle like something on the verge of a scream. He was sweating terribly. He tried to increase the velocity of the air, but it was as high as it would go.

All the numbers, moving like glowing insects scurrying before him, were unnerving. The lack of gravity made his nausea worse. He needed music. A voice. Bring back that voice! Something. He checked his bio-readings. His temperature was rising. He fought back with horror the feeling he was about to throw up.

He could barely see the Liberator now. He checked the pod velocity. Past 85% C. He examined the instruments for the radiation levels. Even with full shielding, they were very high. He again checked the two cubes on the hull. Though he could not see the filaments, they were diminishing rapidly. At the three minute mark, they were gone, only the skeleton of the artifact remained. The pod began decelerating and a feeling of gravity returned. It should have made him feel better.

He had to talk. It bothered him that he had not yet said a proper good-bye. These were his friends! He turned the com back on. "Hello? Anybody hear me?"

"We hear you, Vila. Everything continues to look good." That was Jenna again, her voice faint but recognizable.

How he would miss her! "Yes. Everything nominal as they say. Glad you already know that. I am checking my velocity indicators. Coming down."

"You are on track. If there are problems now, even if your computers fail, ORAC will still be able to make corrections."

"Yes, I understand that," he said, more impatiently than intended. "Look, little time, there is something I want to say."

Dayna cut in: "Out with it! Less than 30 seconds to loss of signal."

He froze, then spoke rapidly. "I wanted you to know, Jenna, Blake, Dayna -- I am so sorry I did not have a chance to say goodbye to Cally and her sister -- and Avon, you were my friends, comrades, family in a very real way and I will miss you and if there is any justice in the universe we will see each other again and I wish . . . "

"Fifteen seconds!" Jenna. "Fair well." Her voice was very faint.

"You did fine," he heard. Then another. Blake?

"God be with you. Avon is here. He wishes you . . . " () said, but the voice broke in a burst of static and was gone.

He watched one of the small monitors, attempting to magnify the Liberator but could not find it. The instruments told him where it should be, but that was all. For a moment, he panicked. Then he felt tears stinging his eyes. My God, what is happening to me? He quickly switched the monitor to the forward view, saw reassuringly Terminal’s dwarf white sun and the expanding disk that was the planet’s representation. In the center of a disk, the display showed a red dot. The dot grew to become a small red circle.

"How much longer?" he asked to no one in particular.

"Just over two minutes," came the voice. At first he thought it had to be ORAC, but it was different. Almost like the voice of that Entity, that thing that had made that speech. But it couldn’t be. He tried a more comfortable position, cursing the narrowness of the pod, fighting panic and sickness. "That you, ORAC?"

"ORAC is here. I have taken up residence with him for the time being, until we are through."

"What?!"

#That is regrettably correct.# This voice was unmistakably ORAC’s. #The ‘Entity’ now resides here, but I must object on . . .#

"Shut up!" Vila yelled. Then swallowed. He went back to the monitor, but the Liberator was nowhere to be seen. Then he noticed the object above him, just outside, that had contained the two cubes. It was pulsing with an odd spectrum of lights and then vanished with a flash.

"What is happening?" he asked quietly.

"It is taking a picture of the pod contents, you, ORAC, myself. It is our only chance if we are to make it through the point of impact."

Vila did not understand. Did not want to understand. "’Point of impact’? What do you mean? Nobody said anything about impact!"

The Entity answered briskly. "The Gateway, the rotating ring gravitational singularity you see it on your display, is only a few centimeters in diameter. The pod cannot possibly make it through."

Vila was stunned. "I thought we had more than a couple of meters of clearance! Not a hundred times smaller! Can’t be. No way."

"Remain calm. Immediately prior to hitting the Gateway your patterns will be encoded on the end of the wire. Vila, forgive me, but your condition is ‘terminal.’ You are already dead. The radiation you have absorbed is adequate to kill you in less than an hour."

He was numb. He could not believe it. "So I am going to die . . . "

"Any number of ways. Try not to be afraid. It will be very quick. There will be no pain."

"Easy for you to say." It was all he could do to not kick at the walls. "I don’t like this! Why are you here?!"

"Less than two minutes."

"Stop that!. I don’t want to hear a countdown! Ever again! Answer my question!"

"Very well. The short answer is that you will need me after we pass through the Gateway. The longer answer is that I failed, Avon and Molli most of all. The two sent me away and I had to do something to redeem myself. Do something to make it up. At the worst the Plan should not have . . ."

#It is all perfectly obvious. At the core of the Plan and the core of existence is the chaos beyond chaos, called Random Chaos, or the pattern of infinity. It is what makes life and freedom possible. It is what destroys . . .#

"All right! I get the point!" Vila was wild with fright and fury. Of course, he didn’t get the point at all.

The Entity continued matter-of-factly. "I happen to be fully conversant with discrete time, random measures and jump processes, and I have never . . .

"For godssake!"

The Entity resumed. "The pod continues to decelerate. We are on track to be at the end of the wire."

"I don’t care about the damned wire! I want to know about my friends." He returned to the monitor. Black spears were cutting across the defined space. Then he saw the a flash, brilliant and sudden against the dripping ink. He closed his eyes violently, turning his head away.

"I am sorry. It had to be."

"But we have their patterns, right?"

Ahead he saw the spears touch the disk of Terminal and start to glow, moving slowly back up the length of the thousand tentacles. He felt a stretching and pulling along the length of his body. And he suddenly realized. Where was the planet’s sun? It was gone. "My God! What is going on?"

"What you feel are the gravitational effects of the Black Shield being destroyed. It will take years, ten to be precise. The makers of Terminal had set an unintentional trap, a shell of negative matter around the black hole at the planet’s core. It’s prime purpose was to keep it stable. Now it is having an additional effect. The whole of the Black Shield is collapsing, a nuclear fire to sub-atomic cinders, crushing it forever. There is still sufficient negative matter to keep the gateway open, but for only a few seconds. The Plan is almost at victory! Assuming the gravity waves cancel out at . . ."

"Damn you! And your useless Plan! You didn’t answer my question! Where is that sun? Where are all the stars!"

"Forgive me. The stars are gone. And we could not keep their patterns."

Vila wanted to cry, to convulse, to seize, pound his fists raging against the walls. All he could do was utter a weak, "Why?"

"The patterns of Servalan and Blake’s people had become too intertwined, too entangled to separate. Servalan had to be destroyed. Her pattern could never be tolerated again if mankind were to be free. But to do so required the other patterns in close contact with her to be destroyed as well. Yours, because of the depth of your feeling in the anguish of your act, in the horror of the moment when you launched the mines, is the only one that could be extracted. None of the others achieved that freedom."

"I don’t want to escape!"

"Well, your escape is not certain."

Vila focused on the hated clock. He jabbed at the buttons but could not reset it. As the numbers marched down relentlessly passed one minute all he could say was: "And what about you? You had to have been able to save them!"

"No. There are some things that cannot be done without far more power than I possess. It is only within the gaps that true freedom of the will remains. Your survival is within one of those gaps. Mine as well. Yet it is also possible that our patterns at the moment of impact will not adhere. Every precaution has been taken, however."

The numbers continued to race down. He focused the screen on the red circle, felt himself drawn into it. It was sharp, burning, enthralling.

"Why tell me this? I don’t want to live!" He sobbed.

"You asked. But if you do make it through, no one will be more qualified to tell their story. Humanity will reawaken at some point and upon awakening will want to know. You, ORAC, and myself I hope will be able to tell them."

"So much I do not know!" he gasped and chocked.

"ORAC was with Servalan. It noted everything she did. It includes the contents of Mykal’s recorder. It has history adequate to the task of . . ."

"That’s not what I meant! Will anyone care?" He tried to keep talking. Had to keep talking. Thirty seconds! The air jets were whistling like a boiling kettle. He ached to turn them off but dared not.

"You will have to find your voice, to lead them to that caring."

Vila choked. He tried a water tube but could not swallow. He spat it back out. He felt his head collapsing. Only a few words now could force themselves past the gurgling. He watched as the radiation alarms veered drunkenly into the danger zone. His face contorted. "That would require a Songmaster . . . a poet . . . a historian . . . a philosopher -- not a thief!"

"You are all those. In any event, a brave man will do."

Vila wanted to laugh. He forced himself to do so. Fifteen seconds remained as laughter tore through the pod, shrieking in the coffin, his body convulsing and twisting in torment. Louder and louder, more spirited, more anguished!. He couldn’t stop.

"Have you got the wrong man, my ethereal friend! I am not a magician! Anyone in the Galaxy could do a better job! Ask Avon!"

"I asked Blake. You are the one with the best chance. Avon I think agreed. Ten seconds."

"Shut up!" Vila closed his eyes, forcing the eyelids as tight as he could. He did not know if he screamed or not. Everything was suddenly quiet. He could not breath. He could not hear. He felt a tingling is his body, felt his throat constrict around him like he was being strangled. He saw the solemn faces of Blake’s people flow past. Faces with molten lips whispering something. I must not forget . . .

He guessed the count . . . five seconds . . . and fought against Time with all his will. He blinked then his eyelids froze. The red circle swelled before him, engulfing all space . . .

Four. Three. "Good Luck, Vila." What? Who? One.

He was shrieking in a bat voice but was long past knowing it as the universe around and inside of him ended.