Episode V of

A sequel to BOUNTY

By J. Kel

A man lives not only his personal life as an individual, but also, consciously or unconsciously, the life of his epoch and his contemporaries.

–Thomas Mann

Stately President Sarkoff sat behind his majestic desk, unhappily contemplating that huge electronic slab curved around him like a frown, flowing before him like a glass plain; confining him like a pen. In that glass was the reflection of a vibrant blond woman, as forbidding as she was attractive. He did not want to look at her. Weak it was to hide (in this office, for him!), but it was also not without amusement to study her gesturing as if some insect caught in amber that had not quite congealed. For almost any other individual on Lindor this scene would have been impossible. Sarkoff would merely have raised his head and the directed stare with the implied power behind it would have been overwhelming. In the Lindor Confederacy, indeed throughout the Federation, his name was legend (in a galaxy already overcrowded with them). But with this one individual, his confident, his nemesis, his daughter, it was he who was on the defensive.

No action must betray him; he must be silent and impervious as a monolith – not a favorite pose but one he could manage. From long experience, he knew it was best to take it; to let her go on until frustration, exhaustion, or both overcame her. Dear Tyce: How you love to play the game. And so much better at it than I.

He toyed with a writing implement. So I have failed you again. Is that not the ultimate role of a parent?

His attention had wavered for an instant. Oh my. I hope I haven't missed something vital.

" . . . I have in addition taken the following steps to reorganize your campaign staff . . . "

He almost smiled, though part of him felt a more appropriate reaction would have been to shudder. She could be terrifying. He often wondered if Tyce were the born politician in the family, not him.

"The following names have been shifted . . ."

He wanted to groan. To her, they're no longer individuals. They're hardly even "names" . . . but that's how it's done!

Tyce reported with crisp efficiency the list of changes. Naturally, he would accept the lot. There was no arguing with such orchestrated finality. He didn't even see a point in protesting, as he drummed his fingers ever so softly on the desk. There is nothing halfway about her. Perhaps her influence was too . . . – everyone said so, but while he did resent her intrusions, he was resigned to relenting once more: the changes to his campaign were essential if defeat were to be avoided. The public barometers had not been registering fair weather of late for his reelection effort, this certain to be final campaign. Barely able to keep pace in the polls is more like it.

He wanted to assure her that he had been planning just such a move, very much along the lines of what she was "proposing". But events, as she should know, had intruded of late. It was one of the drawbacks to being an incumbent. But she never would accept excuses. She understood better than anyone, did she not, the unpleasant realities of the game?

The great man worried. Events had been very distracting of late.

She snapped the screen off and the lights came up. Sarkoff blinked. She stared intently as his face lifted to meet her. "Please review the revised campaign schedule. Some of the changes are minor, but all were necessary," she said.

His eyes centered on her. No assurance necessary. Don't even think of sparing me.

Of course, she wouldn't. She went on. "There are other items. One is particularly indicative of your drift of late. I know you do not wish to appear on the same continent with," she mentioned the name of a popular singer, "but it could hardly do your campaign harm, particularly at this stage. It might even show you as contrite. The people need that every now and then."

Sarkoff looked hurt; Tyce shook her head slowly in reproof. "Contrary to your unmannered opinion–which admittedly should never have gotten to the media–her voice is considered by most critics to be a 'galactic treasure.' It wouldn't compromise any of your principles to act as if that judgment possessed some truth."

A galactic curse is more like it. You are being unduly harsh, darling daughter. I never sought to enter into a public dispute regarding this individual's, oh what shall we call it, singing? I simply stated–in private, I might add–to one of my late trusted campaign staff that what said individual does is yell, not sing.

Sarkoff brought his hands together and twiddled his thumbs, looking relaxed and insouciant. Tyce was not fooled. "So I won't find work as a music critic," he muttered. Tyce was one of those exceptionally thorough people who could convey anger, disgust, and sympathy simultaneously. Sarkoff got a blast of all three. She thinks all of life is encompassed within the sphere of politics. That frightens me. She couldn't be more mistaken. If she thinks that, I have truly failed her.

Tyce continued forcefully. "I am not yet finished. There are even graver matters. Your veto of the education funding package," she concluded ominously. Sarkoff placed his hands behind his head; almost put his feet on the desk. Could the public possibly be as worked up about such things as his opponents? Regrettably, they might indeed. It was most unlike them, but such did happen. The voters: what to make of them? A generation of public service and they were still a mystery to him. In his experience, the masses were usually far more interested in the petty–like those rumors about Tyce. He lowered his hands to his lap and made a mental note. Why did I have to remind myself? I have to talk with Lee.

Anyway, arcane matters of public funding for this program or that, while a matter of principle, nevertheless came within the sphere of "practical". Yes, he was willing to compromise for the good of the campaign. He felt himself becoming increasingly irritated. Do we have to get into that one, now? And will she never finish? He snorted and said unconvincingly: "Anyone can see it was the opposition's attempt to pass an 'unqualified intellectuals full employment act,' and just before election day–amazing coincidence that. I grant it was of questionable taste for me to interject principle into my campaign. It won't happen again," he sounded bitter and hated himself for it.

"Just drop any mention of it. In a few days the furor might die down."

She had a point. Stir the teapot now and his lead, never that firm to begin with, might well vanish. He had heard rumors that some in his administration were already sending out their resumes.

"These errors have hurt you at a time your campaign can least afford it. Coupled with your closing of Lindor's embassy on Earth . . . "

Enough! He rose, spread his arms wide, his voice booming in the huge office. "Very well, Tyce. I let my principles show, musical as well as political. I admit to rubbing their noses in it. Was it such bad manners that I cannot be forgiven?" He let his arms drop, slapping his sides as he looked dejected.

She was furious. "Father, this is not funny."

"Conceded. My actions of late have done nothing to inspire confidence. I am contrite. It is time wiser and cooler heads took over." He couldn't resist: "Where is Blake when we need him?"

"That's not funny either. Your campaign is in serious trouble. Defeat which seemed unthinkable only a few months ago, now seems quite possible. Something had to be done. Now, would you please add substance to this conversation?"

He resumed feigning indifference, his expression quizzical, as if he were before a stranger who for some obscure reason clearly knew much more than she should about him. She knows me better than anyone.

"Your people are worried," Tyce said simply.

He sighed, moving closer. "They have every right to be." My people. Such an arrogant statement, as if I owned them! "They are not alone. Their President . . . ," he stiffened as he faced her, "is with them. But for the moment," he edged slowly beside her, "I see they are in capable hands. So, if you will forgive me," he glanced at the clock, looking impish, "I shall retire for my afternoon nap."

She looked more saddened than angry now. "No one is questioning your ability as a statesman, father. I am sorry if I offended you. But it had to be done."

"Where no offense is intended, none is taken." He seemed to be speaking to the room at large, to the ancient objects that had consoled him during his exile of a decade before as if they were a cheering audience (these artifacts of a long forgotten past reminded him of many things, among them that defeat was frequently the fate of humanity).

Tyce couldn't stand it when he got like this.

"What a team we make. You supply the honesty; I the courtesy, or is it the other way around? Together we keep in order what remains of Lindor's bold experiment in democratic union." Finally, he risked putting his arm on her shoulder.

"Please don't patronize me. I'm not your chauffeur anymore." She glared at him.

"No, Tyce," he agreed warmly, "but you remain the driving force in my life. I promise to tone down my principles until the election is behind us. We will discuss the details later, but for now you have my approval."

As he was leaving, he stopped and turned to her. "We have endured so much together. One wonders what will come next? I do want you with me, no matter what happens."

But to that, she had nothing to say.

Good Lord, Avon! A prisoner again. Never innocent of the state of incarceration (never innocent period), yet he found it this time to be particularly jarring. For one of the few times of his life, words like "unfair" and "embarrassing" occurred to him. The guards who roughly escorted him with measured stomps and the medical personnel who examined him coldly seemed to have not the slightest idea who he might be, or if they did, were utterly indifferent. They scarcely seemed to be able to stifle their contempt.

In this neck of the galactic woods, "dead" Avon was stale news indeed. Small compensation that such might favor his survival! Here, amidst the wholesome odor of rubbing alcohol and the cheerful glare of cold chrome, he was reduced to being but another derelict. Just another stellar hobo who had caught the night flight to Lindor eager for a handout and a taste of that bizarre notion called freedom, at least a struggling democracy's convoluted version of it. He might as well be dead if this was to be his fate.

So as we now rejoin our hero (he has been missed), flanked between two heavily armed guards and in his new more restrained "apparel" (take a whiff Avon, it's sarcasm), we observe him as he is marched before the commander of the base (the base is one of Lindor's advanced defense outposts on the outer perimeters of the system, say a billion or so kilometers from the home world). In mood, Avon is struggling to become more analytical than resentful: the pose assumed is that of a distant, if sullen, observer. Sadly, he is not yet his chipper self. The man before him, he surmises (Avon guesses him to be an officer high enough in rank to act on his own and to relish the opportunity to do so) could be more bad news. Was life with her so bad?

He examines his surroundings. This room is almost barren, the most conspicuous features being a huge picture of President Sarkoff behind the officer, a monitor now blank, that dominates the white wall to his interrogator's right, and a desk with a monitor directly before said interrogator.

Avon tried to be big about it.

The officer looks at him with disgust as if to suggest to his captive that he dare not attempt to hide anything here. Well, such is the military! For a man supposedly in service of the only democracy in the Galaxy, his manner hardly seemed different from any Federation minion, but Avon tactfully kept that observation to himself: he hadn't really expected to be made welcome.

"Hand any better?"

"Your doctors have not succeeded in rendering it inoperable, if that is what you mean."

"Glad to hear that. The Lindor Defense Forces treat captives well – whatever mission they may be on." He straightened in his chair. "Name!"

Avon's frame was congealed in the rumbled and oversize outfit. As so many times since his rescue, he said, "Kerr Avon," adding tonelessly, "late of the Terran Federation." He gestured to the monitor, "Trust it."

The voice activator on the monitor spelled out the name. A scowl spreading across the officer's face as if someone had spilled a bottle of deep irritation. He had not expected the prisoner to continue to insist on that absurdity. Yet no alarm sounded . . .

"'Lord Kerr Avon . . . ," he growled, "and I am Blake's clone. Let me put it this way," he leaned slightly forward, "I grant you do bear a passing resemblance to the late Lord Protector–bet it's effective with the ladies–but like faith and fidelity, it just isn't so. So would you care to just once, for my benefit – ignore the gentlemen beside you – tell the truth? It can't hurt."

"That is my name and identity. I regret I do not have any identification with me to serve as proof. My departure was rather abrupt," he added.

The officer laughed. "I do believe that! Never mind, our medical people have gotten enough samples from you to enable the computers to track you down. If you can be tracked down. If you are a Federation agent, you or your superiors or both are not very bright. Care to try again? From where did you 'depart' so abruptly?"

Avon eyes roamed the room. "The Black Shield." Even he was starting to question it.

The officer's voice was strained as he glowered at Avon. "Consistency. Why did anyone ever think it was a virtue? Friend, let me explain something. The Black Shield is by the reckoning of rational people thousands of light years from here. There is no conceivable way you or anyone could have traversed that distance in the time allotted in of all things, a lifecraft." The man stood and roared, "Everything about you is a lie!. Lord Avon is dead, dead! We keep up with the news! This is the Lindor Confederacy." He snapped on the monitor and a black void appeared. There were a few moments of awkward silence.

He adjusted the screen to show the planetary landscape, then made a gesture as if shooing away a fly. He smiled mirthlessly and slowly returned to his chair. "The only reason I asked for this post was that when I retire, not too many years distant, I will receive a somewhat more generous pension. My pension means a great deal to me. By nature I am a patient man, but war jitters are high these days. I would hate to have to bend the rules to get the truth."

Tact now failed Avon. "The name is Kerr Avon. Do you require assistance in spelling it?"

The officer said nothing. The men holding Avon's arms tightened their grip. "The computers will inform you that I am speaking the truth," Avon added.

The officer glanced over to the monitor. Lindor's far off sun, just above the horizon of a bleak white and rocky landscape was little brighter than the surrounding stars. In the black of space, the occasional flare of a photon rocket could be seen. After a while, he turned to Avon and landed both elbows with a thud on his desk. "It's a cold day – weather forecasting is so easy here," he mused. "Return him to his cell. Computers also are known to lie, or breakdown. Is that what you are counting on?"

Avon was silent as the guards returned him to his cell. "I will not see you again until I know who you are," the officer said, his eyes empty as gun barrels, "And I don't want to see you even then. Dismissed!"

Whatever the failings of bureaucracies (the "vast mass of routine" in the words of one philosopher), and many they are, they still can possess strength in their individual employees. As noted, the Lindor Defense Forces (LDF for short–bureaucracies love acronyms) had reacted after a fashion to the intrusion of an unknown individual into their jurisdiction. Without proper, indeed, any identification on him, (also noted) suspicions were raised. But strangers wandering in from the absolute cold of space were hardly news. This particular instance would have escaped official consciousness like a deeply buried stone had not the curiosity of one employee been roused to pursue the matter. Something was odd about the story, beyond its sheer implausibility.

Ignoring the strictures of bureaucratic protocol, passing uncaring superiors and indifferent peers, cajoling anyone who would listen, this individual ultimately got access to the "Link" files. These were files captured from the Federation some years before by an act of breathtaking electronic chicanery. What had happened was that the security of Federation personnel files had been breached – temporarily – by Lindor electronic surveillance. What came out was a grab bag of medical detail that no one knew what to make of. In the bag was data on one Kerr Avon (though not Servalan–her files, if they existed at all, were utterly inaccessible). [Editor's note: Nor Blake's–his had long since been destroyed–V.R.] The information was cataloged, stored, and almost forgotten.

But this employee remembered. The transmitted tests from the distant station where the captive resided were compared with the file. More hours followed as the employee tried to convince anyone in hearing what he had discovered–the undeniable truth that the captive was indeed the Kerr Avon.

Finally (it's well into the second day now), someone high up grudgingly assented to look into the matter. Maybe it was a slow day. We'll never know.

A few hours later, much faster, the wheels began to turn. Actions were forthcoming. A certain officer, late of a remote outpost in the backwaters of the Lindor system and a relative to that high official was given a stunning promotion for brilliant detective work. A cruiser on routine patrol suddenly found itself racing to that moonlet with similar promotions for its officers. Things moved faster still. Sarkoff himself was informed by anxious aides. And Avon, late Minister of Science and Defense of the Terran Federation found himself once again elevated to that state where his clothes were improved, if no more attractive.

Shaking the hand of the base commander as both prepared for their departures, he was informed he was being summoned before President Sarkoff himself. At this stage, Avon hardly cared.

As for the employee, nobody remembered him at all.

While the sequence of events eluded him, gray-haired but no wiser Avon could have predicted the end result. Could one yawn and smile simultaneously? Avon could. But as he paced the confines in the cabin, as the engines of the Battle Cruiser strained to the limit of all prudence, he achieved sufficient analysity to remind himself Sarkoff was no friend. To be summoned directly before the man was a dubious honor. He was also a man Avon did not know. The opportunity had been there but the two had never spoken during the episode in which Blake had rescued Sarkoff and his daughter from a Federation prison. It was way too late to make up for the slight.

Then there was the question of what had transpired in the Federation since he had fled the Black Shield. And of its ruler. Was she quietly or loudly tracking him down? The rumors were very unclear. It would all have to be taken into account before he uttered a word.

(For the record, during the course of the voyage to Lindor, he never once thought of Jenna or her companions, or what might have been their fate.)

Meanwhile, back on Lindor, since the extraordinary swiftness of Servalan's coup de main, President Sarkoff like everyone else in the Galaxy had wondered where she would strike next. Common wisdom concluded that Lindor was the most likely target and for once Sarkoff agreed with common wisdom. Not that Lindor was in any way a threat, its relative weakness and lack of war-like intent precluded that. But as a symbol of resistance to and independence from the Federation, it was more than an annoyance. Once Lindor was chastised (common wisdom hoped without too great a loss of life), it was reasonable to assume Servalan would then return to the Center and finish off the rebellions at her leisure. For her at least the crisis would be over.

Not surprisingly, one-way travel out of the Lindor Confederacy was booming.

Sarkoff had done everything within his power to avoid entanglements with the Federation, but the mere fact that Lindor was free and that Sarkoff was a man of principle made clashes all but certain. The Federation and Sarkoff went back a while. It would be hard for her to pass up the opportunity to put him in his place. The presence of Avon in the Lindor system gave her all the excuse she needed. What Sarkoff had done in the past was irksome but could be shrugged off. Cutting trade, breaking diplomatic relations, these were mere embarrassments to her. But giving refuge, however reluctantly, to Avon was unforgivable.

Now the greatest crisis in his long presidency (he had served, with one interruption, for nearly twenty years) was upon him. Even his own daughter had discussed with him the possibility of their going into exile.

These were the implications of Avon's arrival that formed in his mind like slow steps into a swamp, growing deeper and more treacherous with each fearful moment. As he awoke from his afternoon nap his mind cried: What devil could have brought that man here? Avon. Of all people. Avon, the bearer of death.

To his aides he responded to the news of the positive identification with congratulations. He assumed the air of dull dispatch of someone who had expected it. No show of panic would be permitted.

His government people had done well. They had responded to the occurrence with probably all the efficiency he could have expected. He took a long drink of water. Then another. There were as yet no indications of the Combined Fleet being near Lindor (though the sheer vastness of space precluded certainty on that point).

Lindor might have some time.

What was truly chilling to Sarkoff was the realization he would not submit to Federation demands on Avon. Loathsome as he was, Avon would not be turned over to those who were worse. That would be wrong – but wait, he mustn't think like that. His daughter had warned him, had she not? His principles were showing. That could be fatal.

Sarkoff ordered absolute secrecy and utmost haste in bringing the fugitive before him. He then went as he did almost every evening to dine with his daughter and son-in-law. It was dangerous to break routine–both would suspect at once something was up. Sarkoff also had not the slightest inkling what else he could possibly do.

Understandably, he was glum during the meal. Other than the usual dinner courtesies, he said little. Thankfully, neither of his guests were particularly talkative either. Perhaps it was the campaign. Everyone had grown nervous over the past several weeks, and since his daughter and son-in-law had very little to say to each other anyway these days, it made for an uncomfortable dining experience, but one utterly in keeping with everyone's mood.

Avon is alive and well and here. Unless he was turned over to Federation authorities at once, it means war.

Finally, Sarkoff stood, pushed away his desert, thanked them for coming, as he did every time he got to see them, and returned to his office–taking a circuitous route that made it look like he was retiring to his bedroom.

The temptation to turn Avon over to Servalan was real. The irony was galling. Only she could possibly hold any love for the man who killed Blake. Then let her have him and a fine fate would be his. But it was more than a matter of retribution. It was a matter of law. It was also a matter of curiosity. Like everyone else in the galaxy, Sarkoff was intrigued by Avon. Maybe there was a point and purpose to him being here. As he entered the cold quiet of his office, he resolved that there was something he had to understand in this well-disguised blessing.

Desperate as he was to keep Lindor out of any conflict with the Federation, tweaking the devil's tail from time to time had been well within the bounds of prudence. It was Sarkoff himself who directed the highly successful campaign referred to as "Artistic Resistance", in which works of ancient art were modified and distributed for "satirical" intent. They had poured forth from Lindor over the years. One of the most notorious examples was a reworking of the play "Julius Caesar." It was designed to irk both Servalan and Avon by reflecting them both in the mirror of moral piety. A perfect metaphor it had turned out to be. It had been very popular.

At first, the Federation had ignored everything that came out of Lindor. But over the years it became increasingly less tolerant. Protests mounted and Sarkoff found it prudent to cut back and ultimate close down that program of subversion. He was never sure if any good had come of it, but it had been fun.

If they only had more time. History showed that left to its own devices, tyrannies like the Federation would weaken. Servalan's death would probably be sufficient to bring down the whole of it. Her rule had survived by a only hair's breadth during Blake's Rebellion, or so it seemed. Her luck had to run out. If Lindor's held, freedom might be reborn.

But rebellion, like love, required patience. Sarkoff had criticized Blake – in private – for very likely prolonging the Federation's wretched existence by his antics. Even Tyce, who worshiped Blake, had come to agree. Still, despite the man's crudeness, Sarkoff missed him. He had come to feel almost a fondness for the rebel's unthinking rush to action.

That Avon had survived was enough to make one believe in a particularly uncaring God.

To Sarkoff, Avon's life, even more than Servalan's (or Blake's, if you came right down to it) had come to symbolize all that had failed in humanity. If one could understand Avon, perhaps, one might have a clue to the failure. He truly believed it was through the lives of individuals that one came to know the life of their epoch. But how to understand the life of this man, seemingly without parallel in brilliance and duplicity? In Avon, Sarkoff, like the rest of mankind, was without guidance. Sarkoff was a politician, a trader of favors for power. Power, yes. He did not understand someone who seemingly only traded in death.

When Blake had sprung him out of his prison (over a decade before–that long . . . ), he had been given the rarest of opportunities to meet almost all of the original rebel band: the gentle Gan, the fiery Cally, the bitter Jenna, the most human Vila, and Blake himself . . . but not Avon. Avon kept his distance. Sarkoff was not offended, but he had been worried. He knew this was a sign of coming trouble. Here was a man who was clearly a match for Blake. Perhaps the only one who could have matched him. Sarkoff kept the realization to himself. Not to trouble one's host, or rescuer, was a noble courtesy. When he saw Blake again, he told himself, the matter would be mentioned. But soon enough Sarkoff was overwhelmed with the task of bringing peace to his planet. A peace that would eventually lead to the Lindor Confederacy.

And of course, Blake never returned.

As he sat at his desk, he struggled to remember a passage of "Julius Caesar" (except for some name changes, it was one work that had scarcely been modified). It seemed to have some relevance. After a few minutes he found it. He read it haltingly aloud, struggling with the ancient words:

Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort as if he mocked himself and scorned his spirit that could be moved to smile at anything. Such men as he be never at heart's ease while they behold a greater than themselves. And therefore are they very dangerous.

Hours after these ruminations, the man who had inspired them stood before him. Sarkoff tried to take Avon's measure. As a politician he had to be able to do a quick read of anyone and adapt accordingly. Once certain of that measure, the business of serious communication could commence. But there were always exceptions He's as difficult as an Auron.

He began with basic diplomacies. The questions on treatment, the offering of drink, the solicitations of well-being. Avon ignored them.

He showed him the trappings of his office, the implications of power that one would be well-advised to cultivate and certainly not to discount. Avon was, well, not impressed.

He talked shop, what the situation was in Lindor, hinting that Avon's presence was nothing short of a catastrophe that could not possibly have a good outcome. Avon couldn't have cared less.

Perhaps the traditional methods were not the most efficacious in this instance, Sarkoff wearily concluded. So he rethought the matter. What was this stranger before him? In essence a fugitive, a man on the run, who for the moment just happened to be in the guise of a normal citizen of Lindor. A man in a disguise and a dull one at that–a simple gray suit, composed of pants, jacket with no collar, white shirt with razor thin stripes. Merely a humble refugee, not by any measure the terror of the galaxy. A man who did not want to be known.

That gave Sarkoff an inspiration. The main office only gave a hint of what Sarkoff had collected over the years. He beckoned Avon to follow him into the adjacent room, his study, his private museum. Avon shrugged and listlessly followed. Sarkoff adjusted the lights and stayed off to the side after he entered the room. Two can play the "I'm not impressed" game as easily as one.

But Avon was, in a manner of speaking, impressed. Sarkoff studiously appeared to be directing his attention elsewhere, but he was watching closely. Soon Avon was studying a sealed tray of insects, enthralled.

How odd he should select that! A storm of memory drenched Sarkoff. For a moment there stood Blake. What is the link between them? "You appear to have found something of interest," Sarkoff inquired in a loud voice. "If so, it occurs to me that you might have questions."

Quiet Avon slowly put the tray back. Security had guaranteed he was unarmed, but was adamant that this man posed an enormous risk. Sarkoff agreed, but insisted on taking it. You too detect the odor of oldness here like a decaying forest. Does any of this funeral home for the past bother you? Are there any ghosts of hells forgotten to nudge you here?

Avon finally with agonizing slowness faced him. "Your collection is better than I had been informed," he said flatly.

"I am grateful you are impressed." Sarkoff hadn't intended to sound sarcastic, but out it slipped. "Museums and the old things within them hold an irresistible fascination to me. Most people find old things tiresome. That wounds, being one myself."

"This," Sarkoff gestured to the cabinets and display cases around him, "is my private collection. Everything here was fabricated before Vastator; the past that may be lost forever to us."

Sarkoff retrieved the insect display case and gingerly returned it to a cabinet. "Do you recall the story of this room? These artifacts were returned from my prison as a 'goodwill' gesture by the Federation (I almost said Servalan'). I am not sure what my former captors hoped to accomplish by doing so, but it was a rare enough act on their part even now I cannot hold it against them."

And Avon actually said, "I try not to bear grudges myself."

"Good," smiled Sarkoff, "an admirable trait, one of many I have no doubt. Though – forgive me – if one were to listen to the whispers, one might be inclined to think you a dangerous man, or worse, an untrustworthy one. How would you respond to such accusations?"

Avon glanced around. A reflex? Sarkoff wondered. "You aren't actually seeking my advice?"

"Not directly. Let us say I am comparing strategies. We have both used our respective methods to reach positions of power, and in all honesty, mine no less precarious than yours."

Avon smiled. Sarkoff was chilled. Was this what Blake saw in those final moments? Or was he spared by death?

He pressed the point. "We were addressing your reputation of licentiousness; how well it may have served you–"

"I frame no hypothesis."

"But I insist. Indulge me in such speculation. You are, after all, a guest." The word had an edge.

"Not by design. I am not seeking sanctuary."

Sarkoff frowned. "An accident brought you here? I might have been more persuaded of that had you chosen a less precipitous time. Let's strive to be less cryptic with one another. Why are you here?"

Avon looked bemused. "Bad luck. And something else I try to avoid."

"And what might that be?"

"'Divine intervention.'"

Sarkoff snorted. Bad luck? Divine intervention? What could he possibly mean? Are these code phrases for some kind of guilt in the man? Wonders never cease. "Yet you said not by design."

"Not mine in any event."

"Which leaves us with 'bad luck'. Let me think on that a moment. Do you have an interest in ancient music? I could play one of these," he pulled out a large black disk, "but they are so fragile . . . " he watched Avon closely, "One was actually broken when I was entertaining a visitor, a rude man. Never saw him again . . . " No reaction. Perhaps Blake never told him. Perhaps the man truly is psychotic.

Sarkoff returned the disk to its protective vault then moved to another cabinet. Here he pulled out a smaller disk, shiny as foil. "Ah, now these are made of sturdier stuff. The ancients were getting better at it, right up to Vastator in fact. I think you might find it, well, interesting."

He inserted one into the slot in the opening of the machine which accepted it with a swishing sound. The device was clearly antiquated, centuries old in fact, yet appeared to be in perfect working order. Sarkoff adjusted a knob and pressed a button.

"As you know, while we can read most of the language of the ancients, there are many words and phrases which continue to elude us." Sarkoff stepped back, a calm look on his face. A torrent of rage and frustration, senseless, violent as a battle of jackhammers, poured from the speakers.

After a few appalling seconds, he quickly powered off the device. Using torture to extract information. How uncivilized! "I apologize. Not exactly the point I was trying to make, yet not a bad one in itself. We tend to romanticize the past, but I suspect the time from which this came was not so much more civilized than our own."

So much for subterfuge. He closed in on Avon. The man does frighten me. "My trinkets, my play things if you will, have not been collected simply to impress visitors. I believe the past is never dead. I believe it lives in us to the extent we permit it, or to the extent we are overpowered by it, or to the extent we struggle to deny it. I had some ancient projectile weapons, but I seem to have misplaced them. Very old, yet quite effective. They were a metaphor that the past can kill.

"Tell me, my fugitive friend, the former Lord Avon," it was the first time Sarkoff had said his title, "knowing what you do of the past and the present, what do you see in your future?"

"I don't relish the role of being a bargaining chip."

Sarkoff beamed. That answer was very good. We are beginning to talk. "That, I assure you, will not happen." Avon did not look assured.

"You say little, but there is much in what you do say. 'Divine intervention.' Let's get back to that. I am impressed with your sense of destiny as much as your vanity."

"I struggle to keep a balanced life."

"The effort is admirable. Blake admired you as well."

"He kept his judgments to himself." Avon was at maximum cool. He didn't even blink.

He knew that was coming. I am impressed. "Really? He certainly was not reluctant in communicating your worth to me. I suspect he was generous in his praise of you to others as well."

"He was known to err on occasion."

"It would seem he made substantial ones. Let us say that I wish to avoid repeating them."

Avon scowled.

I'm reaching him! Sarkoff continued: "Lindor cannot win against the Federation. Their 'Combined Fleet' outnumbers our defense forces by ten to one. Moreover, I promised my people in my efforts to undermine Servalan I would do everything to avoid conflict. But what would be gained by speeding you on your way? She will likely attack regardless. The mere fact that my government failed to turn you over to Federation authorities at once is sufficient pretext. The problem is only how much worse can I make this? Were there others with you?"

The fact that Avon had been declared "dead," but that Jenna Stannis (Sarkoff couldn't believe that) and two others were on the most wanted list had at least raised the possibility that Avon had not acted alone.

Avon looked sly. "There were. Jenna Stannis among them."

"She was with you! And Cally's cloned sister and that Mykal . . . ?"

"'Hodos.' All three of them."

"Where are they?" Sarkoff dreaded the answer.

Avon responded truthfully. "I haven't the slightest idea. As I indicated, 'something' took over the ship as we were making our escape. It directed me here and those three somewhere else–that is, assuming they made it."

"You have your doubts? What took over the ship?"

"I don't know. But I do know she's afraid of it."

"Servalan? Well, you have gotten me curious. So the exalted President of the Federation is afraid of something. She who could weigh a star system against the life of a single man and give you a terrifyingly precise answer." Sarkoff looked grim. "I am not attempting to weigh you in that balance; you are not on trial for Blake's murder here or any other crime. But I am the elected President of this star system. That requires of me a certain responsibility." Sarkoff thought for a few moments. "My son-in-law is one of my advisors, a man named Lee Hahn. Have you heard of him?"

"Cally spoke of him. He was not a subject of intense discussion after Auron's demise."

"No doubt. The point is that the Auron community, here and throughout the galaxy, has provided me on many occasions with excellent intelligence. Lee Hahn's services to Lindor have been prodigious. (Besides there is that other matter I must discuss with him). I want your former companions here. I feel they might be valuable to us. Extremely so."

Avon thought of Molli and Mykal, his eyes rolling upwards. "I must advise against getting your hopes up."

Sarkoff was miffed. "Even Jenna?"

"She's a good pilot, excellent in-fighter . . . "

"Yes?"

"Too principled."

"Holds her back?"

"It would seem so. But I gather I have no say in the matter."

Sarkoff now enjoyed himself. "Correct. Now, let's discuss your stay. As the guest of Lindor, I insist on making you comfortable. I will do my best to keep you out of the public eye, though you understand word will get out . . . " Sarkoff stopped. This was going to be difficult. He withdrew, muttering to himself, forgetting Avon for the moment. If they are alive, how can I possibly get a message to them?

He put another disk into the player and this time the music was more agreeable. Almost an Auron quality too it. So haunting after all these centuries. Yes, I do believe Ambassador Hahn could give me excellent counsel on this and that other matter.

He turned abruptly to Avon. "Forgive me, I was preoccupied. Despite my power, much is out of my hands. You said 'divine intervention' brought you here? If so, what a cruel divinity it was!"

"Not cruel," replied Avon, "only mistaken."

He lived with the realization, common to men married to the daughters of the powerful, that his wife's greatest passion was not for him but for her father (or was it her father's power?). She was President Sarkoff's daughter far more than she was Lee Hahn's wife, a fact she had made very clear during their marriage, indeed from the time they met. This truth would dictate the terms of their relationship and he would accept it, if he wanted to continue to see her. To this he agreed, for matters of state as well as heart. To her truth, he gave his troth. He did love her; of that he was certain. For Lee Hahn, his wanting her was not mere politics, though politics was unavoidable given the context of their lives. It was more – though he only rarely would permit himself to ponder how much more. Usually, like now, he wondered if he truly wanted to know.

In brief, some years before they had met and in a manner of speaking married. He was only the Auron ambassador of a small and precarious diplomatic mission. She was the most powerful woman on Lindor. Somehow she responded to him, accepted him, forgave his fate and failure, and for a while at least found a place for him in her life. It had not always been so cold between them. Even now, she occasionally communicated a profound empathy for him that was as startling as it was moving. Why? Perhaps it was the feeling of remoteness that they both felt to the catastrophic events of their times. Perhaps it was their shared admiration for her father. Pity that they rarely discussed these matters as they went about the frantic business of their lives.

He became the husband of Tyce Sarkoff, confidant to her father, and from there leader of the Auron Community in Exile. She respected that power (such as it was and an embarrassment to him in any event). It was said that Tyce respected little beyond power so he was grateful to have given her the illusion.

As a couple, they were at best "mismatched." The Lindor media sneered (as is the role of the media at all times and all places) at them as the "grand alliance", yet surprisingly they found the phrase agreeable. It was an alliance; for the good of Lindor and the Auronar. For the cause of freedom. It was not such a high price to pay, this marriage to Tyce Sarkoff.

He was loyal to her, despite his unhappiness, despite his knowledge. He defended her and would continue to do so for as long as she would have him as part of her life. For she was the President's daughter, and as such, like Caesar's wife, was above reproach. Had to be.

In the bedroom that evening, he had received the summons. Later he would explain how he had not grasped the gravity of what that meant. After all, Sarkoff gave no details. It was only the way it was presented. That should have been enough.

There had been strange rumors all day. About someone from the highest levels of the Federation seeking asylum in Lindor. And the most terrifying rumor of all was . . .

Logic denied it could possibly be Avon . . . though the Auron Web sang of it as certain. And the Web rarely erred. But Lee Hahn refused to accept it.

Sarkoff's summons contained something else almost as disturbing. He wanted to talk with Lee about "family matters." For someone who never even gave the appearance of meddling in the personal affairs of those closest to him, that was alarming. It could only mean Tyce. He did not want to speculate. He must not think about it. He must clear his mind. Be ready for anything.

There will be no keeping my fear from her.

He was startled when she flung the door open, looking for all the world as if the fate of Lindor rested upon her bare shoulders. The shoulders he had no right to touch (and so many other men did), but which she gave her indulgence. He stood, forcing the bitterness from him. Though he no longer felt her presence to be the honor it had once been, one could not remain seated in her presence. Even her enemies acknowledged that.

He studied her, his face drained of emotion. "Is something wrong?"

The door closed swiftly behind her. "Something's wrong, all right! My father won't let me in on his little secret; 'too busy' he says, but I've been able to piece together most of it. It's all over the Cabinet."

She sat beside him, distant at first then moving closer. "We need to talk. Before he drags you into this."

He put his arm around her. No keeping it from her, but I must be very cautious. "He already has. I have been summoned."

She looked at him in shock. She was agitated, she could not relax. "Then it's true. Avon is here," she whispered in horror.

Lee tried to reassure her. "The rumors are not yet confirmed. It might be someone else." He looked down. It isn't.

She ignored his attempts to comfort. "It's him. It can't be anyone else. We mean nothing to him! He means nothing to us! Lee, we must turn him over to the Federation. At once!"

"I will discuss the options with your father. He may have already decided that." She must know whatever decision he makes will be disastrous.

"Not my ever principled father!" She was truly frightened. He had never seen her like this. "My father has good intentions and thoughts and he despises Avon as much as I do, but he will never surrender him! Lee," she took his hand, composing herself. "He will listen to you. Tell him what must be done. It is our only chance!"

He didn't want to get into it. What kind of power does she think I have? "We need to know more. Let's talk about it when I get back."

He patted her hand and got up to leave. He could only pretend calm or indifference for so long. At least she does not suspect the other thing he wants to discuss.

She rushed after him, her look one of abject concern, a plea for bottomless compassion. He dreaded that look. He preferred her fits.

"Lee, I care as much about him as I do Lindor. As I do you. Reason with him. He'd be furious with me if he knew I were acting like this, but damn it, he will listen to you. There must be no sanctuary for Avon!"

It hardly seemed the appropriate time to mention that perhaps there was a conflict of interest here. Forget that it was most premature for Lee, the advisor to Sarkoff, to demand Avon be turned over to the Federation. Avon was a very important figure to the Auronar. The politics of this event demanded prudence above all else.

He nodded slightly. I want to reassure her. I wish I could reassure myself. "I will do my best. You know that."

"Yes, of course."

"Is that enough?"

She gripped his arm. "Lee, promise me."

He looked straight at her. "I promise. I want to know as much as you why Avon is here." Why pretend any longer that good might come of this?

"Thank you, dearest. I'm sorry I am so hard on you. I don't want to be that way. Aurons," she looked rueful, "you're always obsessed with finding the significance of things. I think everything is meaningless."

He sighed. Maybe she's right. Despair is overcoming us both. At least we now have something in common. "Maybe it is. But," he smiled as he stroked her hair, "Surely you won't object if I make an effort to understand?"

Her breathing was the only sound as the door dilated behind him. She shrugged, her shoulders glistened like ice.

"No," she said, looking at him intently. "You have a right to."

The trip to the House of the President was brief, uneventful. To his unbounded relief no reporters were present at any stage of the journey: that could only mean the rumors were still confined to the highest levels. Perhaps they had a grace period, perhaps even a few weeks.

Inside the House, armed guards (human and robot) ran the usual security checks and he was escorted to the central underground office. A silent Sarkoff rose briefly from his desk, indicated a chair close by. The guards departed and the room was sealed.

It seemed to Lee, the President was almost jovial, yet erratic in a way that was unlike this most steady of men. "Aurons," the President said, his voice loud. Lee glanced to the monitor behind Sarkoff, the Lindor night deep upon them. Sarkoff would get to the point soon enough.

"Why are you so much better at coping with the terrors of life than us humans? Your creativity, your learning, have enriched our lives and civilization immeasurably . . . how could a people as gifted as yourselves been seduced by the likes of Avon?"

So it was true. My God. Lee struggled to not let a single gesture betray his terror. "I try never to speak for my people. I can only say our experience with him has been somewhat more 'encouraging' than yours. We are not fools regarding the man," Lee forced a smile, "however, we have reasons for forbearance."

Sarkoff nodded gravely. "I have taken every security precaution to prevent knowledge of this event from reaching the outside, but I might as well climb to the roof and shout the news. Avon is here. I do not trust him, but," he looked pointedly at Lee, "since when did that stop a politician?"

"May I ask what do you plan to do?"

"For now, get some answers. Not easy–the bastard is coy and smart. You would think he had us all in his pocket–that we are the ones who are in no position to do anything except beg! Lee," he looked directly into the eyes of his son-in-law as he leaned over his desk, "forget the fact that I can and often enough do pull rank on you. Forget your oath to your people, forget also that you are married to my daughter, for which I offer my profoundest sympathy. Tell me everything you know. Avon said that he was 'guided' here. I kept getting hints that there is something that is interfering in the galactic affairs. What is 'it'? What does 'it' want?"

Lee felt like he had been hit in the stomach. He was panicking These questions caught him completely off guard.

"Damn it Lee, I must know. The Federation has all the pretext it needs to humiliate, perhaps destroy, Lindor. I'm sorry if this places your allegiance to your people in jeopardy, but if there is anything that can help, for God's sake tell me!"

Lee swallowed. "Forgive me. I forgot myself. The strictures of the oath can be relaxed in certain emergencies." His control was slipping. He sounded embarrassingly nervous. I have already failed my people. "This is obviously one." He struggled to put his thoughts in order.

"There have been rumors for years of, as you say, 'something,' an entity or perhaps ensemble of entities acting as one, of immense power. Little is known about it, though we believe its origins were at the close of the First Federation (over four centuries ago . . . ). We believe, this entity is the product of a breakthrough in machine intelligence our science has been unable to duplicate; of thought processing on the order of at least ten million times greater than the best human or Auron mind."

He let that sink in. "It is not an evil force. In many respects, it wants nothing more than to do what is right. Yet it is remarkably naive in many respects. It shares the difficulty we all have of, if you wish, of calculating good against evil, particularly in complex situations, and from those calculations, act wisely. In some ways, it is, well, timid."

Lee was apologetic. "It has made mistakes; done harm. We know at one point it became silent for several years as a result of a mistake. Then it contacted Molli, Cally's third sister–no one knows why."

"Very well, where is it?"

"Seeing that Cally died on 'Terminal'–an artificial planet, it's hard to explain–and that it must have access to her 'pattern' to have been able to communicate with Molli, presumably that is where it 'lives.'"

"I don't pretend to understand any of this. Why did it send Avon here?"

"If it did. It may be using Avon as a probe; a test for us. It wants to know more about us and presumably Avon before it acts." He shrugged.

Sarkoff considered it. "Does it grasp the danger in has put us in?"

Lee nodded slowly. "I believe it does. Optimistically, that means it has a solution."

Sarkoff was increasingly skeptical. "Perhaps it should be reminded in the spirit of pessimism that a solution is needed very soon! Avon was certainly not aware of any such 'remedy.'"

"Then the 'remedy (if there is one) might reside with Molli and her companions. They are the missing elements."

Sarkoff slammed his palm on the desk. "So they are alive! Then I want Jenna, Molli, and this Mykal here!" He leaned over. "Tell me how to do it."

Lee looked distraught feeling the full force of Sarkoff's emotions. It occurred to him just then that the source of Sarkoff's agitation must be more than Avon. Tyce. "To contact them through Molli, the Entity has to provide a carrier, if the message is to reach her through the Web . . . " Lee's voiced slowed.

"I gather there is a problem?" asked Sarkoff.

"The Entity has been silent since Servalan's attack on Navy Group Omega."

For a moment Sarkoff anguished. "Is this another test?"

"It seems likely."

"Very well, let's for the moment assume that our three wandering heroes are alive."

"It is a workable assumption, seeing that Avon is."

"I'll try not to comment on that. Continuing: the last thing we want is the Galaxy beating a path to Lindor. We need to reach Jenna, Molli, and whoever, with a clear urgent message and yet not attract attention. Let's assume the Auron Web is not up to it. Ideas?"

"A coded message?"

"Well, yes, but subtle, brief. Something Molli and her friends might conceivably be looking for."

"Something consistent with what the Entity might do?"

"Yes. Can you think like that thing?"

Flames of thought flickered over the ambassador's face. Perhaps the question was facetious but there might be something to it. The Entity's methods of communication were not the clearest. Among its more exasperating traits was its penchant for word play. Language seemed to fascinate it, delight it . . . it likes puns, acrostics, palindromes, that sort of thing. Molli and presumably Jenna would know the style all too well.

After a few minutes, Sarkoff cleared his throat. "Do you have any ideas, Mr. Hahn. You seem on the verge of saying something."

"There is a possibility."

"This is your President speaking. Don't keep me in suspense. Let's hear it."

"It loves word play, like acrostics." Sarkoff looked puzzled for a moment then he slowly nodded in understanding. "Go on."

"If you could work one into a public address that would spell out something simple like 'Avon is here, come Jenna' and broadcast it repeatedly – the Galaxy is paying very close attention to your reelection campaign – Molli and the others might be looking for such a hidden message." He shrugged, embarrassed. It was a longshot. "It's worth a try."

Sarkoff looked doubtful, then resigned. "I'm tempted to tell you to go home and think harder but," he quickly added, "I'm desperate and you might be on to something. You are no doubt aware of my speech tomorrow, one my late lamented campaign staff had billed as 'major.' I think the new staff with Tyce's encouragement could raise the volume of publicity even higher. 'Avon is here, come Jenna.' No subtlety in that."

Lee already had misgivings about his idea. "Remember, acrostics are sometimes extremely subtle in their construction, especially if they have to be integrated within a larger text."

Sarkoff brushed the objection aside. He knew that. Yet, he was certain he could come up with something. "Lee, I was a teacher of rhetoric and poetry before I became corrupted by politics. I am up to it. Besides, the speech needed a rewrite anyway."

Lee rose. "Is that all you will be needing me for?"

Sarkoff motioned him back down, his expression pained. "No, there is another matter, my counselor and ally. Forget universal doom for a moment; this is almost as important. There have been loud whispers about my daughter's 'personal' life. I have tried to avoid intruding into this, because I do respect her and your privacy, but the situation is getting out of hand. The opposition is starting to use the rumors. I can no longer ignore it."

Lee answered hesitantly. "She and I have discussed the matter, rather obliquely. She has offered me my freedom, in marriage or out. I do not know what to make of the offer. It means nothing to me. No more than our marriage apparently means to her. I keep hoping a break will not be necessary."

Sarkoff looked down. I wonder if they deal with reality any better than we do. "Do you object if I talk with her regarding this? Believe me, I find this as distasteful as your must. If there is any consolation to you, I do not hold you to blame."

"I feel I have no say in the matter. And obviously no control over it. That gives me, I suppose, a certain freedom as she is wont to say. You have my permission to talk with her on anything you please."

Sarkoff nodded as if sentence had been passed on him. He didn't sound happy giving that permission. Can anyone blame him?

Lee got up from the chair, the vigor of his movements indicating he would hear no more. I have offended him. "I am prepared to endure whatever is decided so that your administration may prevail. You have always been a friend to the Auronar and myself. Lindor comes first."

No, that is not true. Sarkoff's look was one of profound sympathy. "Thank you for hearing me on this. Tell her I must to see her tonight."

Lee nodded and quickly left.

"You have no right!"

Tyce screamed at her father. The sheer intensity of it was shocking. Few people he knew were more tightly under control than Tyce. For her to break meant things must be far worse than he realized. He hated himself for doing this, but the matter had to be pursued. It was family as much as politics.

"Tyce, calm yourself. 'Right' has nothing to do with this. You are my de-facto campaign manager, as well as my daughter. I cannot permit you to become an embarrassment to this administration. We have always been a team. I need to know: whose side are you on?"

Her fury subsided slightly. "I am on your side," she said firmly. "I've always been on your side. But this is none of your business. It's none of their business either."

"Don't be naive," he chided. "They make everything their business! You of all people should know that. Would we be any different if the situation were reversed? That is how privilege is protected and power extended. My concern is: are you going to help them?"

"That's unfair! I hate them. I would do anything for you. Damn you, it's your last campaign! I've always been beside you."

He shook his head. In some ways reaching Avon had been easier. "You are not helping me now, Tyce. The rumors are old; I accept that you have been more 'discreet' of late, but lesser rumors have brought down greater people. I cannot permit your personal life to defeat me, certainly not now."

She shrugged defiantly. "Nobody believes them."

I do. So does your husband. "Nobody has to 'believe' them. All they have to do is feel the accusations fit the person; that you would be the kind of person who would do such things. You will then have lost all credibility with the populace."

She said nothing; refused to look at him. "Tyce, I need Lee as much as I need you. Is there anything I can do to help?" She shook her head. "I mean it. I will not ignore this any longer. Things are getting out of hand. I cannot permit those closest to me to destroy themselves."

Her mind raced. It's true. Avon is here. She took a deep breath, regaining control. She struggled to speak precisely. "I have needs of my own, father. Lee is a fine man; I respect him. I do love him. He is a much better person than me. But I don't care!"

"This kind of behavior is sometimes associated with feelings of hopelessness and inferiority. That is hardly the woman I know."

"You're not my analyst!"

"True. Which raises an obvious question: have you been seeing one? It would be a risk, but I would approve of you're going."

"There's nothing about me I want to change! I am perfectly happy with the way I am. Can't you understand that?"

He looked down at his desk. "I was only offering support. Perhaps some aspect of me wants to be assured that I was not a cause."

"You have nothing to do with it! Only a coward blames others for their actions. I despise them!"

"Our opponents?"

"All of them. Their nauseating servility; their air of smug moral superiority. They care nothing for Lindor. They only want to rule."

He nodded gravely. "Which is my point exactly. But I do not plan on being defeated so easily. The polls are not that bad. Why are you giving up?"

"You should be. If not on election day, then very soon." She moved closer to him and played her trump. "Avon is here, isn't he? And the Federation is coming to retrieve him. It's that simple. One way or another, we're finished."

He looked at her closely. "I can understand your fear. Thousands of our citizens are fleeing Lindor daily. But it seems to me you gave up long ago. Why? Does defeat terrify you so?"

She relaxed, taking a seat distant from him. "May be," she sounded terribly tired.

"I am sorry. I warned you. You knew the odds. I thought you accepted them. We all die in the end."

She shook her head. "I don't blame you. You did all you could. For Lindor, and for me. I'm sorry I have been such a failure to you."

He risked coming over and put his hand gently on her shoulder. "I won't give up. You helped me once when I was weak; let me help you – and Lee. He truly loves you. You need each other. You have hurt him deeply." He sat beside her. "All that I am asking is that you exercise prudence. Give each other a chance. Be seen in public with him. You know what I mean. Maybe something can be worked out."

She smiled, her voice airy and light. "Public prudence along with a proper dose of private chastity. What a bore! I honestly did not want to hurt you or Lee. My unhappiness does not spring from either of you. I may have been born to be unhappy, no matter what life gave me."

"Do you love your husband?"

She looked away. "Yes. But my passions are elsewhere. I wondered from the start if our marriage would work. There was never much hope, though I did try. So did Lee – I admit much more than myself." She turned to him. "What difference does it make now?"

"You mean with Avon here?"

"Father, why?!" she tore herself out of the chair. "He's death wherever he goes. Send him away! She may believe you had nothing to do with it. Everything we built might be spared."

I respect your fear. Always believe that. "I won't do that. I promised him he would not be a bargaining chip and I meant it. Avon is not seeking asylum, Tyce. He was brought here, even he does not know how or why."

Tyce was disgusted. "You're not making sense! Do you actually believe what he tells you? No doubt my dear Auron husband does as well. Always looking for the golden purpose under all the garbage of existence! I know you trust Lee–I trust Lee–naive as he is at times, but why Avon? I thought you hated 'the man who killed Blake' as much as I do?"

Sarkoff tried again. He had his severe doubts as well. "It's not that I hate him less or trust him more. It's just that I am beginning to understand the irrelevance of hatred. It is more vital I understand why he is here and what it means. I did speak with Lee regarding this. Tomorrow evening I will broadcast a coded message to Jenna Stannis and her companions." He noted her surprise. "Yes, I believe them to be alive." Then he saw the look of terror. "Don't be alarmed. The odds are remote our Federation friends will be looking for this form of message."

"You truly believe they are alive?" She asked, incredulous. "They were last seen with Avon. It's rather unlikely."

He attempted a smile. "As you know, I never respond to hypotheticals. Avon says they are almost certainly alive. On this, I do believe him. And according to Lee they may be able to help. If not," he sighed, "we are no worse off than we are now." He put his hand on hers. "Tyce, I need your support. I need it in so many ways. Will you stand by me for just a few more weeks? After that . . . "

"After that it won't matter. Father," she was near tears, "I can't do much more. I want out. I have booked passage to leave Lindor after the election. I'm leaving Lee and you. It'll be my only chance."

"Does he know?"

"I plan to tell him shortly. I've hinted as much already."

Sarkoff was motionless. "He is a very insightful man. He will have guessed by now. Thank you, Tyce, for telling me the truth. I believe all three of us would agree there would be no point in your staying if war comes. I wish you the best."

"No regrets, Father?"

"I'm sure there is much I will regret. I already do." Sarkoff was suddenly stern. "Lee has done nothing to deserve the contempt with which you have treated him."

She glared back at him, then nodded wearily. "I am sorry for treating him badly. But that's not the reason you want me to be brave and stay, is it?"

"No. Tell me the reason," he smiled sadly.

"Because I am President Sarkoff's daughter."

"Excellent answer. One I never tire of hearing."

He glanced at the time. "I am tired. I suspect you are as well. And I need to work on my speech. We won't discuss this again." He looked at her sadly. "Try not to live each day as if you were going to die tomorrow."

"But we are, father, we are," and she stormed out the room.

Sarkoff worked late into the night, forging beyond exhaustion, struggling past despair, working and reworking his speech so that the message, the cry for help could be found within it. He could blot Tyce's rage from his mind, but Lee's caution was not so easily ignored: this was not going to be easy. He needed inspiration. He wanted to ask Lee, but he had already asked too much of the man. Nor dare he ask his staff writers to assist. To wrap the wordplay in the unassuming text, to make it a gift of radiant meaning for the people who would open it . . . despite a magnificent facility with words, it would not come. The dull, safe text forbade it.

Well past midnight, he realized he would have to change the entire direction of the speech if the message were to be encoded. This was the one amusing thing that had happened to him all day. What if he were to incorporate a reference to his recent veto of the education bill–the horror to his advisors, not to mention Tyce? Reminding the electorate of that most unpopular action in a major speech seemed nothing less than political suicide. But he was stuck. The message had to get out. By luck, the vetoed bill would be the perfect vehicle to do it.

Such irony! The remnants of Blake's Seven were once again prodding him to courage. Sarkoff revised the speech, casting all caution aside. Now it worked. As morning came, he felt the speech was as it was meant to be, as it should have been.

He took a nap at dawn, then met with his vice-President and advisors for a late breakfast. Near noon, he was rushed to the airport to be joined by his daughter and her husband. They greeted him respectfully, both noting silently that he seemed unusually chipper. He took Lee aside as Tyce went ahead. The message problem had been solved, he told Lee. And of course no one alluded to what had transpired the night before.

To Avon, to Jenna and the others, he gave a silent thanks as he boarded the transport for the evening campaign rally. Here he was with the two most important people in his life. Despite everything, he never felt more powerful, more needed. He had a sound nap on the flight.

. . . Once, early in his political career, he had made a fundamental mistake. An earnest, youthful, sincere and dare we say duller Sarkoff had set out to appeal to the mind of the public, not its basest emotions. He concentrated his energies on well-thought out speeches in his personal appearances during the day–fine, but he came across as uncomfortable, remote, and uninspired. His reasoning was arcane, passionless. Audiences nodded off.

It was Tyce who orchestrated the cure. An actress, she "persuaded" him, ran right over him is a better way to put it, that he must learn to perform, to project an image, to appeal to the emotions, if he were ever to reach the minds of the people. In truth, he had that most tragic of political flaws: shyness. It had to be overcome, or it was back to teaching.

Fortunately, there was a cure, a whole series of them according to Tyce. Clothes were one. They made the politician if not the man. So he wore a cape, let his hair grown longer, took to cultivating some tasteful eccentricities, let the public in on the secrets as if to say they were all his special friends. His broad brimmed black hat became his personal trademark and when he waved it audiences were certain to respond.

It was not quite kissing babies, but it was close.

His career improved dramatically. He stopped losing elections. He made for himself a reputation as a man close to the voters; as a man who could make an honest deal. A good man, though not impossibly so. Bend the rules, maybe, but his principles would never evanesce. It was the beginning of a remarkable lifetime performance.

He never made a public address now unless it was before an audience guaranteed larger than his opposition could assemble. Large audience are not easily gained, but after a while even his opponents couldn't resist the show. Politics, as Tyce had shown, may not be theater, but it certainly is theatrical. Naturally, it is difficult to convey subtle and principled thoughts to a well-oiled crowd of a couple hundred thousand in a sports arena, but Sarkoff was a master of language. He had started his career as a language teacher and he was unequaled in his ability to craft a phrase, pithy or windy or verbose or . . . Yet in this final campaign, one gaff could be fatal. And a brilliant speech might barely make a dent. Much more practical to pass a few public goody bills (paid for by said public) and hope for the best.

Sarkoff felt the transport buffet as it came in to land. He awoke, confident still.

On this particular night, when every advisor assured him it was an unacceptable risk, he nevertheless decided to pull out all the stops. A huge stadium had been procured and was packed with supporters (and anyone else who happened to be wandering in the neighborhood). The crowd was almost friendly.

His heli-porter from the airport landed in the center of the stadium. Swatches of light (in the colors of Lindor's banner) washed over him and his entourage then swept out to the stands. Out he stepped before the cameras with a beaming smile. It was only mildly daunting that this address would be broadcast live throughout the breadth of the Lindor Confederacy.

His entourage, including his daughter and son-in-law, followed. And as Tyce had insisted, the singer who never failed to curl his ears greeted him with a warm embrace. Why had I ever given up teaching?

Audacity was in the air. He removed his hat and waved it and bowed, then put it firmly back on. The throng was disappointed. Then he took the hand of said popular singer and raised it. That worked better. He glanced over to his daughter who smiled confidently at him {We'll see how long that lasts).

The singer assumed the center of the stage, and Sarkoff, like an eager fan, sat down with all the thousands to enjoy the show (he would have brought ear plugs, but it would have been questionable practice to insert them here).

How much would he be willing to risk? He glanced to the other side at Lee. Lee was not smiling. I risk everything tonight. He knows that. But there is no longer any other option.

The anthem completed, Sarkoff waited for the cheering to subside (it took a while) before rising to the platform. He walked slowly to the podium, his security personnel watching. He waved to his aides, then to the crowd as the cheering rose again. He would not look back.

With a flourish, he removed his hat, waved it as a banner of triumph and tossed it before him. The crowd roared. They never tire of this. They love to think that a romantic gesture will always carry the day. Well, so do I. But I lose more hats that way.

He waited for quiet, acknowledging them gratefully. The din gradually subsided. The stadium lights seemed to become brighter, hotter.

He began his speech calmly, his words deliberate with measured cadence. No reverberating echo must disturb what he was saying. He was addressing an enormous crowd, but to the people watching at home he was speaking to each of them as individuals.

He moved towards the issue, the crux of the speech, ever so cautiously. His voice betrayed nothing. Let them call me a reactionary, he said. I am as aware of political dangers as they. But, the business of compromise and deals can dilute principles only so far. Forgive me, Tyce .

The struggle to keep Lindor out of Federation conflicts, a sure pretext for intervention by the colossus, remained his highest priority. He was never a bellicose man, this he assured them.

But there was another matter of import and he needed to address it. A bill ill-considered and ill-intentioned had almost been forced upon the people by his unworthy opponents. These dreadful and boorish people (not a direct quote, but close enough) seemed to sense weakness. They needed to be reminded in the most forceful terms the degree to which they had misjudged. He knew what they were up to–masquerading as an education bill, this badly disguised monstrosity was yet another "unqualified intellectuals full employment act;" a tax cow and a tear bucket, born of cynicism and power lust, an act of demagoguery nothing more. He felt no shame whatever in vetoing it. They had tried to back him against the wall. They had asked for it. This night, for once, they were going to get it. With no room to maneuver, he, your President for so many years, had sent the bill down to defeat. In response, these people had chosen not only to slander him, but his family as well. That was intolerable.

He sounded sad. Were they no better than this? He had truly tried to ignored the turpitude of the opposition, but it would be shameful to do so now. In the context of a galactic crisis, reasonable people would think the opposition might have more vital matters to consider.

These were not cavils on his part. He believed with all his conviction that mixing state power with education was dangerous. Power once unleashed could not be contained except by a greater power, and power was ever a temptation to the reckless and irresponsible. The Federation was proof. Against government might, the fragile complex of education was too weak.

(The applause was encouraging, though somewhat restrained.)

He paused. Silently, he gave a final ironic thanks to the man who had inadvertently pushed him to this moment.

His opponents were the "demon lovers." Sarkoff slammed his palm against the podium and the sound was like a thunderclap. They would give away what is most precious and valuable for an illusion. With chilling detail he listed each of their irredeemable shortcomings, everything from fiscal irresponsibility to infrequent bathing.

And with as stentorian and as grave a tone as he could muster, he concluded: "Whether justice is a value or not; is supreme, honored, eternal, right–is entirely contingent on man's enlightenment. Justice endures. No, not as a gift of God or the State, but as an unending struggle of each individual for knowledge and truth."

The speech concluded, he stepped back. His daughter looked stunned yet somehow managed to rush up and embrace him. Her husband was able to get to him to shake his hand, his face as unhappy as ever. Sarkoff grinned as if to say: listen to the cheering and applause that never stops. Listen, for this is my life.

The balloons and streamers soared upward, fusing into a geyser of exuberance as the glare of the stadium lights went chasing after them, on and on into the night. Soon he could see nothing above him except color and foil, a cascade of free stars, tumbling out of reach. He kept looking up; people kept shouting at him. He could hardly hear; thought ceased, emotion swept everything before him. The noise spigot turned up full. There was joy here in the pulse and push of people, was there not? Why had he never understood it? Mine is the life of their epoch. How I pity them.

-- V. R.

As the planet Lindor slowly enlarged on the screen before her, and the winking status indicators reminded her of the nature of the escort that planet had provided, fugitive Jenna Stannis brushed back her hair and allowed the depression that had so briefly receded from her during the voyage from New Auron to return. This is not the end of the journey: this is the end of the line.

Loneliness for once was not a factor. Li, the being who was half Cally and half her sister Molli, stood slightly behind her, ignoring the bright blue globe of Lindor and calmly watching her friend. Despite her air of preoccupation, Jenna was aware, uncomfortably, of Li's concern. To Jenna, Aurons had never warranted their reputation for subtlety and Li annoyed her more than she wanted to admit, but give her this: annoyance can be a painkiller to the disease of despair.

Nor was boredom a factor. She was hardly lacking in things to do. In fact, Jenna turned quickly to Li and said in as casual a manner was possible: "I want you to assist Franton. Getting the children off the ship might even be more difficult than getting them on. And prying Franton away from them afterwards to assist us in our mission of persuasion even more so."

//Understood,// telesent Li, and Jenna groaned.

So there you have it. Bringing the children of Auron to Lindor was an undeniably heroic act, but she wanted nothing more to do with heroism. Never one to celebrate past victories, she could not escape the thought: It was an act of futility. The first thing Avon said to me when we first met was the word "Nothing." Now, maybe I know what he meant.

Aloud, she continued: "The Lindor authorities are going to have a lot of questions. Pass the word that I want everyone to keep their mouths shut. I don't want the 'Lindorites' (Lindorians?) to have the slightest clue as to what we have brought with us." Not that they would have the slightest comprehension if they did.

Suddenly the signal for an incoming communication went off. Lindor disappeared from the monitor and a severe face of graying female officialdom replaced it. "Starship Sword of Auron," her lips curled around the name, "you will assume a stationary orbit until proper disposition of your vessel and cargo can be arranged. Coordinates will follow promptly upon confirmation of your identity, destination, purpose . . . " She went on for a bit.

Jenna was prepared and resigned. Now the fun begins. "I'll handle this," she whispered to Li, who nodded and left. She looks so pale. Is it that ongoing business with Mykal or something else? "I eagerly await the opportunity to answer any questions you may have." Ha! Jenna struggled to assume an innocent pose.

"Am I to take it that you are in charge of this vessel?"

"That is correct."

"Your ship is of a most unusual design. What is its origin?"

Damn! I have to lie from the start. "It's a derelict," she responded cordially. "We found it adrift. We think it may be from the System."

Her interrogator half-laughed, half-cackled. "You'll have to do better than that! Name and planet of origin," she demanded.

Jenna pursed her lips. Of all the planets she had never wanted to return to, Lindor was certainly in the top ten. So naturally it followed . . .

"Jenna Stannis. Earth." She sounded politely bored.

"Full name, please!"

"Jenna. Marie. Stannis." She hated her middle name.

Her interrogator scowled but said nothing. She doesn't believe that either. Gee, I wonder why. "Purpose for entering the Lindor Confederacy?"

That was simple enough. "I and my companions were summoned by President Sarkoff."

That caught her attention. She looked at Jenna closely for several moments. "I'm afraid I do not understand what you said. Will you please repeat and elaborate upon that last remark."

Jenna beamed compliance. "President Sarkoff summoned us. We do not know the reason – the message was rather curt. Nevertheless, we are here."

"Your story is preposterous. You should know that President Sarkoff is an an extremely busy man who never engages in chicanery."

"I am unaware of President Sarkoff's policies or habits." Perhaps just this once he couldn't even confide in you about them.

Her face turned red. "I could order you deported at once!"

Jenna had had it and glared right back. "Let me put it this way. Your superiors at some level must know of his action. I strongly suggest you inform his immediate subordinates at once (or before not too many orbits you might find yourself assigned to a stratosphere beat)."

"You might find yourself in very serious trouble!"

"Your President is waiting," she responded coolly.

Her interrogator paused then said icily. "I warn you, Jenna Marie Stannis, or whatever other aliases you possess. If I discover you are lying, and I'm confident I will, you and your companions will have a great deal to answer for!" The screen snapped off.

Jenna had truly not wanted to antagonize anyone on her host planet. Everyone on this ship and a good deal more besides were depending on her. Blake would have done better. Or would he? Not much in the way of consolation either way. Still she felt some fight in her returning and that was good.

She watched the monitors as the orbital coordinates were relayed into the flight computer. At least they asked questions first.

She sat with a sighing sound in the couch, feeling a sense of accomplishment, however strained. Maybe I actually inspired one of their ilk to do something for a change.

At this time, let us leave Jenna and check the status of Li and Mykal. To begin with "Li". Our heroine was in a state of deep worry, and it was more than her anxieties about Jenna. Her mixed state of consciousness was still in the most fragile of equilibriums. Though the sisters had achieved a working relationship after the initial joy of discovering both were alive, both realized their separateness could not endure. Neither could the joy. At some point a new persona must emerge with unknown effect on their mutual memory and identities. Each could not help but fear the worst, so nothing was said regarding it. Indeed, how could one say goodbye in circumstances that sounded more comic than tragic?

Li had other problems as well. For one, there was the guilt of holding out on her companions. They should have been given the news; told who was alive on Terminal, even if there was not the slightest inkling of how that state of affairs could possibly be. Li waited for the precisely correct moment to spill it, and of course we all know how that goes . . .

There was also the overwhelming question of Molli's (Cally wanted nothing to do with this) relationship with both Avon. And Mykal. Molli was torn in conflicting emotions. She was hurt that Mykal was avoiding her, but she sensed that much of it was the understandable result of the unpleasant business on Kaarn. That was bad enough, though understandable.

But Avon . . . She had to talk with the man and soon. It was not her nature to be confrontational, but was there any other way this time? So she waited again for the perfect moment and time was running out . . .

As for Mykal, he was unhappy enough that Li seemed to be avoiding him. Franton however was even worse – she got terribly upset and tearful whenever she saw him, as if that somehow helped matters. Finally they had stopped talking and avoided each other altogether.

Of the four of them, it can be said that Mykal was the most grateful to be at Lindor. He had never been to the Federation's sole remaining democratic star system and something about it seemed to offer at least the opportunity to free himself from the shattering events of the last year. Thousands of lightyears from the Center, this oddest of planetary societies was a good place to recover. Maybe even to think.

But think about what? Unfocused curiously can be both frustrating and dangerous. When Mykal did have a focus, it was the same as Molly, the same as Jennas: Avon. Avon remained his obsession, though let it be said he was willing to consider finding a new one. Along with a new life; and who knows? Maybe even a new love.

And to all four of them, there was always the unspoken matter of how Lindor would react to the extraordinary gift "Jenna's Two" had brought and what the implications might hold for the future. He did not know where to begin on that one.

Thus he told himself he was on another intelligence mission, an assertion not altogether outside the bounds of reason – which is why Jenna tolerated it. It should be noted that the Lindor planetary communication system offered so many channels of information, all linked and electronically cross-referenced, that a determined individual could follow the trails of information space endlessly, and come up with some remarkable discoveries. This was heaven for Mykal, for Mykal could be very determined.

Along with Lindor's interlocking databases and networks, he had also been scanning FNN, the notorious Federation News Network. As a matter of principle he boycotted FNN, but on occasion it was as unavoidable as it was unendurable. There was something hypnotically awful about its relentless emotionalism masquerading as news. FNN seemed to delight in taking any situation and putting it in the grimmest possible melodramatic light. Mykal could only conclude that if the population of the galaxy had developed an insatiable appetite for FNN's product, that was probably the best indicator going that the last days were near. Currently every few minutes there was a bulletin, always proceeded by doom music and an image of a disintegrating Galaxy, invariably implying the next Vastator was due any second now and only by trusting in Servalan and her minions could the end be postponed.

Disgusting! The "news" was something every sentient being in the universe was fully aware of yet it was always delivered in a tone of informing an abjectly ignorant audience, one eternally in gratitude for every crumb of information dropped on them by their masters.

He could not watch it without being led down a dark spiral of hopelessness, despair, and guilt. Little wonder he thought of Avon. You had to be at least part Avon to stomach this rot. At this particular moment one FNN report had caught his eye. It was on the three fugitives: Jenna, Li and, yes, himself (the official line still being that Avon was dead–though irresponsible "Avon sightings" persisted). It was all Federation propaganda, wasn't it? I am innocent, aren't I?

The report implied that while all would merit and soon meet a grim fate. Indeed, no punishment was too severe for Mykal Hodos, arch Auron criminal and traitor.

They had to be talking about someone else.

His data search might have remained purely academic, as Mykal's pursuits were prone to be, had it not happened that while studying the career of President Sarkoff (rescued by Blake and Cally!) and the Auron ambassador Lee Hahn, that he came across and became intrigued by Sarkoff's daughter, Tyce. It was somewhat prurient curiosity to be frank–what a source of sordid rumors she was – and Mykal was genuinely, if briefly, shocked. He had to find out more.

(Once, having left the door open, he glanced up to see Li standing in the hallway. She gave him a look of disappointment and irritation wrapped in all manner of unhappiness. Mykal sighed and said nothing, as guilt quickly summoned its close companion misery. He had had enough of that from Franton. He assumed the pose of being intently at work. Eventually she left.)

It should be possible to meet this Tyce. After all, they had been summoned to Lindor by her Father–

"MYKAL! LI!" the intercom snapped at him. He jumped and was at once at full attention. Jenna! Was she put out with him, again?

He responded at once. "Here. Sorry."

"Report to the Bridge. Things are starting to happen."

" . . . as I was saying," she was speaking to them now. "I have news, good in a manner of speaking. Not long after my chat with Lindor officialdom, I was speaking with President Sarkoff himself. In short, somewhere, someone believed me. We will be landing on Lindor today and we have an appointment with Sarkoff himself at noon local time."

Both took it somberly. Good. Jenna continued. "I will inform Franton shortly. Clearly, we will need her when we meet with Sarkoff, but as you know her mind is elsewhere these days." There was childish shrieking in the corridor to underscore her point. "In any event, she knows more than anyone what this technology can do, but in a pinch I expect you," she eyed Mykal, "and Li to back me up. Are you up to it?"

There was vigorous nodding. Mykal was determined to meet his responsibilities. He found himself in rare agreement with FNN: he would accept notoriety and live with it. Of course, he had never wanted fame either. The thought of ghastly people pawing after him as a status object at worst or a criminal at best was terrifying. Of course, it might be a great way to meet girls.

Forget New Auron, Li, Avon, Tyce . . . Wasn't worrying about whether one was going to be alive the next day enough? Philosophers spoke of the futility of the unexamined life, but why bother if there was not going to be any time to do so? Standing by Li, he wondered now what was the point to anything. Maybe moment to moment living, which he had always despised, was not so bad after all. Maybe Li and he could go off together someday, but one look at Li told him the "Molli" he had wanted so deeply was as good as gone. He shook his head as he returned to his cabin.

Jenna watched as they went back silently to their separate quarters. Still not speaking to each other.

Later, scanning the local news, Mykal came across a particularly good picture of Tyce and was lost in wonder again. What a knockout.

Li walking by, looking inside his room, noticed his frozen attention to Tyce's image.

//Sis, I think he's found a new love.//

//Cally, drop it.//

//Not a chance. Anyway, why do you care?//

//I need to talk with him. You have a problem with that?//

//Look, even I was in love once.//

//I have to talk with him too.//

Next morning Mykal was a man with a mission once more. Through the Sarkoff family he would learn about the politics of democracies. Rebellion, he realized, was more than chases, adventures, and wild parties. Except for the occasion shoot-em-up, it was more politics than anything else. Politics hellishly complicated and thoroughly depressing. Was there any romance in defiance? If there was, the Sarkoffs, particularly Tyce, would be a good bet to have the answer. Better answers than I'll ever get from the remnants of Blake's Seven.

The man and woman faced each other in the dim light, he looking very tired, she very much on edge. She was trying to tell him something, a request he thought, one he was determined to refuse whatever it was. Yet he knew he could not hold out much longer. She would win. He resented it, but resentment to such a degree was a sin. If only this were to be her final victory.

"Lee, give me this, please. It's a minor request. I won't dishonor you further."

"I do not like the idea. What more do I have to say?"

"Why?"

"You know why."

She bit her lip. "I'm sorry you distrust me so much."

"I regret that I do as well. But why should either of us worry. You'll get your way."

"Yes, I will, but I don't want to meet with him behind your back. Lee, I wish you wouldn't despise me so. I love you. In some ways more than ever. You will always be a part of me."

"Wherever you may be," he muttered. "What can my love possibly mean to you? I think the only man who have ever loved is your father."

One of the two famous men I have not . . . but the cynicism of the thought shocked even Tyce. "Lee, I just need to talk with him."

"I said I accept that. But you want me to like the idea, and that I refuse to do." He turned to leave. "I promise after the meeting, I will bring Mykal Hodos home."

"Thank you." She rose. "I have another favor to ask."

He wanted to shout at her but contained his rage. "Of course, what is it?"

"Don't let Father know. He would disapprove."

Lee laughed. "He certainly would. But you should know how difficult it is to keep anything from him. Why do you care? (Why in fact do I?) He too would give in, in the end. Wouldn't he Tyce? No different from me in that regard."

"Yes. No different."

Lee waited then asked: "Is that why you love him so?"

"No. I love him for the same reason I love you. You are both men who refuse to give up."

Lee never felt more close to giving up. Perhaps in her own way, she was sincere and he was grateful for that. Maybe he did mean something to her, even now. But perhaps part of him was relieved she was leaving. Any other ending seemed unnecessarily prolonged and morbid. Her prattle about him joining her later was nonsense. Given his position and reputation, he had to stay and that could only have one end if the Federation attacked. So he calmly turned and walked out of the apartment forever as she softly said "Bye," and for the first and only time in his life, he wished the door was constructed so it could be slammed.

Introductions were hardly necessary for Jenna and Li (who Sarkoff understandably kept calling "Cally" ). But for Mykal and Franton, the President of Lindor had a difficult time getting beyond routine inquiries about health and well being. Had it not been for the assistance, however awkward, of Lee Hahn, Leader of the Auron Community in Exile, Presidential Counselor, and former ambassador of Auron things might have become sticky. Sarkoff had never been comfortable with Aurons he did not know; they were too hard to read. And yet these Aurons he had to understand.

Lee Hahn was also having his difficulties. Given his turmoil over Tyce, the struggle to maintain his reserve was increasingly undermining his work. He kept giving Mykal the oddest looks which wasn't helping things at all. Maybe it was the recorder Mykal carried, but no one had objected to it when he openly brought it into the President's office.

Finally, eager to begin, Sarkoff motioned everyone to sit, the five surrounded his massive desk as if at a war council.

"Thank you for responding to my 'summons.' As you have no doubt guessed, it was an appeal for help. This is a critical juncture in galactic history. While not yet in a state of siege, my government expects the Federation to take action against us. Only the severity of that action is in doubt."

He let that sink in before proceeding. "I understand that you want your ship, as well as its 5000 'passengers,' placed under Lindor protection. I will deal with that request first. The issue is 'humanitarian,' but complicated by the fact that the children are Auron. To be honest there are many in the government, not all of them in my 'loyal' opposition, who would strenuously object. Given Servalan's hatred of Aurons, that concern cannot be dismissed as unwarranted. Nevertheless, I am empowered to grant temporary refuge, 90 days according to our laws. That you and the children now have.

"Second. As for your ship, I have had it relocated to an abandoned base – one, I should note, that is in the process of being reactivated.

"Third, as indicated, we expect Federation demands to be issued at any time. Among those demands will certainly be the insistence that I relinquish custody of Avon." Dead silence. "They know or will know shortly that he is here. It is simply not possible in any society, let alone the open one which Lindor approximates, to keep an event of such magnitude secret."

Mykal almost jumped. "Then he is here!"

Sarkoff frowned as Jenna motioned Mykal to silence. "Correct. However, the point I was about to make is that I do not intend to comply with any such demand."

Everyone was shocked. Mykal quickly broke it. That young man is quite impetuous. Unusual for an Auron.

"May I ask about his condition?" Mykal tried to sound contrite.

"You may. His condition is good, but I request you hold your questions while we consider the final item on the agenda."

Sarkoff flung both arms open, then slowly clasped his hands before him on the desk. "Lindor is crawling with Federation agents. It is bad enough that Avon is here. You four being here makes it much worse. It is my understanding that you carry something with you of extraordinary value that compounds my troubles even more. Let us now discuss that matter."

"Did Avon want us here, Mr. President?" That was Mykal, again.

"No," replied Sarkoff only slightly irritated. Doesn't he have anything on his mind besides Avon? "but while he was not opposed to your coming here, I did detect a certain lack of enthusiasm."

"So he is doing well," muttered Mykal.

"Indeed he is! Which is more than I can say for myself. Let us move on, unless it is crucial he be here to discuss the matter?"

Jenna spoke up. "No. We don't need him, not right now anyway."

"But of course we will keep the option open . . . "

She nodded listlessly.

"Now, will someone please enlighten me," demanded Sarkoff, "as to what is on that ship? Your whole manner in speaking of it is that there is something extremely unusual about the vessel, far more than its remarkable appearance and size."

Li, Mykal, Jenna and Franton exchanged glances. Jenna reluctantly explained: "It was certainly 'unusual' in its fabrication. I don't know how to put it better without a long explanation. We 'grew' it on the planet we just came from – though I doubt much is left of the planet now."

Sarkoff sighed. "Given it's former inhabitants, I think I can agree. So it's not from the 'System'? Why don't I find that comforting? Please elaborate. From the beginning."

"The Auronar, just prior to Servalan's destruction of their home world, developed a technology unlike anything we are familiar with. The ship holds all the information necessary to make the technology workable by any world–or any individual for that matter.

"With it, defeating the Federation is trivial, but the price may be terrifying. That is why I insisted we all be present to discuss this when you were informed."

Sarkoff glanced at Mykal, then fixed on Li. "Well, Cally, as an Auronar, would you care to comment?"

"Call me (//Us!//) 'Li.'" Mykal rolled his eyes; Jenna shook her head. "I would not have believed it if I had not seen the technology work myself. It assembled, grew the ship that brought us, in little over a day, using only the molecules from the ground and air. Everything my companions say regarding it is true."

"My friends," Sarkoff labored, "Auron and human, please enlighten an old man with little scientific or technical background as to just what this secret is and what it can do."

That is what they proceeded to do. It was an impromptu presentation, not well-organized, but the attention of President Sarkoff and Counselor Hahn never wavered. At the end–the presentation lasted little less an hour–Sarkoff turned to his counselor: "Did you hear anything of this when you were on Auron?"

"There were rumors of such a project along the lines of what has been described. I confess I never paid much attention to them. They sounded too fantastic."

"I can sympathize. 'Starships for the price of crabgrass!' As those who know me will tell you, I frequently nod off in presentations. On this occasion, I have seldom been more attentive. One thing in particular worries me, however. Though the New Auron settlement was annihilated if Servalan did locate the planet, which is all too likely, then she may have guessed that you took away something of immense value."

Jenna concurred. "Without question. Which is why speed is vital."

"No denying that. Getting back to Avon for a moment–can he assist us? I confess I don't like the man nor trust him. Perhaps others here share my reservation," he said drolly. "But could he be an ally?"

Jenna glanced over to Mykal. Our favorite subject. "Why don't I forward that to our resident Avon expert."

Mykal looked sheepish. "I think we can trust him, within limits anyway. We have to, in fact. I sincerely believe he hates the Federation and Servalan as much as any of us, though he would probably hate even more to admit it. Look, Avon has a mind that is astonishing. I have met many first rate intellects on Auron and off, people who had earned the highest scientific honors. None impressed me as much as Avon. (Not even Geir. ) We have to make every effort to persuade him to help us."

Sarkoff considered that. "Well put, Mr. Hodos, but let me explain my situation. I repeat, Lindor cannot win against the Federation. Even without the presence of Avon or yourselves, if she suspects something on that ship is of use to her, she will press the attack. Urgency, indeed!"

Then he rose majestically from his chair. "Nevertheless, we must not yield to defeatism. Until tomorrow each of you will be placed in separate quarters. This meeting will then reconvene at 9:00 a.m. – with Avon, who will be provided with a full transcript of what we have discussed, minus any rude opinions. I will then meet with my cabinet and principal advisors, including Counselor Hahn. Decisions will be made at that time." And they must be the right decisions. Please, for once in my life, may I be certain of being right.

"May I make a suggestion regarding the lodging of our guests?" asked the Ambassador.

Sarkoff looked quizzical then nodded gravely.

"I would like Mr. Hodos to stay the evening with us."

Sarkoff eyebrows raised. So did Li's. "I have no objections," he said flatly, assuming you have none.

"Thank you, Mr. President."

"You are welcome. I have some parting thoughts before you leave." He waited until they were quiet. "Are we ready to unleash this? Is there, in fact, even a choice in the matter? 'Nanotechnology'? The word is ugly. I concur that from what you say there is indeed a distinct possibility that the ancients had it. We have all heard the rumors; so much about Vastator would make sense if that were true. Pity, that our ancestor's example is not the happiest. I bid you sleep well."

"Lindor."

The voice of the Supreme Commander was low, but there was no doubt as to the word she had uttered. She hissed, as if the word came from a venomous snake, its implications sharp as a fang.

Floating before her in the command station was a darkened sphere, a 3D display of the Lindor system projected upon it. Its orbital forts, its bases, its allies (Their friends are of no consequence. When I crash through the door, the whole of their rotted confederacy will fall.) Surrounding the system, hidden in the vastness of space, were six thousand ships of the Combined Fleet.

She had summoned her Generals and Admirals to review the plan of attack. Created under her aegis, it was now ready. There were a few details of execution remaining to be settled, but that was not the intent of the meeting. It was to gauge the mood of her people. Even in her eagerness to act, she sensed hesitancy. They have not yet tasted true war.

"I always prefer a political solution," she mused aloud, as if casually thinking to herself. "Regrettably, such is unlikely given the intransigence of Lindor's President and the questionable competence of the political opposition he so recently defeated. It is unlikely any terms I offer will be acceptable; and certainly not the ones I have decided upon. That leaves no alternative except destruction."

There was quiet for some time. Finally, one young General with a manner that suggested he wanted to get on with it spoke: "Supreme Commander, can anything be done now? What about attacking the traffic in and out of the Lindor system?"

She frowned. The question was valid, but too abrupt. They were not focusing on the point of the meeting. But her answer was calm. She was feeling at times of late almost in control. "Until the operation commences, no move will be made–even against their commerce. Militarily such actions might make sense but politically they are unacceptable." Alas, my generals still do not understand war.

"Yes, Supreme Commander."

"Let us move on. As I was saying, a military solution to the Lindor problem is unavoidable, but it must be handled with caution, if for no other reason than, based upon our intelligence reports, Lindor's defenses could prove to be costly to breach. While victory is certain, a sloppy victory, given the complexity of the current galactic situation, could be detrimental.

"May our strike be swift and sure and unsparing! The galaxy is holding its breath! Caution will not be tolerated."

"Supreme Commander . . . ?" that from the new head of the Special Services.

"Yes?"

"The 'escapees'?" He struggled with the term. No one was happy with the business. To bring it up seemed a dangerous breech of protocol, yet she seemed almost pleased. "Ah, yes, I meant to discuss that."

He forged ahead. "Yes, Supreme Commander. Is it our understanding that you still want them alive?"

"Now more than ever!" she exalted. "I insist! They must be captured alive. We know they took with them from Kaarn something of immense value. Why else would they have so utterly destroyed the settlement? Each of you has been briefed on the reports of a recent arrival to Lindor of a large ship of unusual design. There is every reason to believe that ship is connected with the fugitives. I am prepared to accept any casualties its recovery entails! I must have them and their ship! This point is crucial–do not, whatever happens, attack that ship! Follow it, never lose it, but do not attack it – unless I order it."

At once images of Jenna, Li and Mykal appeared in the display, though even in her renewed confidence, she could not bring herself to show Avon or even mention him. She was certain, however, that her officers understood the crucial importance of capturing him.

"Once captured, the fugitives will tell us (following the usual methods of interrogation) all we need to know. There should be full agreement on this."

There was agreement she sensed, silent, glum but acceptable. It will have to do. "Then we are ready. Tomorrow, when all Fleet elements are in place, I will contact Sarkoff. If my demands are not met in the allotted time frame, twelve hours, Operation Meteor will commence. Final details will be transmitted shortly. Go in Victory. Dismissed!"

For some time after she stared at the blank sphere. It worried her that tracking and now trapping the fugitives had been so easy. Even Jenna, who of all people should have known better, had run directly into it. What were they carrying that caused even that most worthy of adversaries to panic? Or could it be that she, Servalan, was the one who was overlooking something? Nonsense. That was truly not possible. She merely had expected more from her enemies, and had once again been disappointed. Now all that remained was to drag them back and make them suffer.

Had life been easier when Avon was with her? No. His support had only been an illusion, though a comforting one. Then what had it meant, this devil's dance between her and that lowly male? Nothing, she realized sadly. Even if that "thing" on Terminal had aided them, as it must have, it too had proved as impotent as the rest. Now the long struggle was almost over. Avon would soon be hers again.

So it was in preparation for that event that she had taken upon herself to have a bouquet of fresh red roses sent each day to her. A symbol of the future happiness she would make, but as a symbol it too might be an illusion. Still, she could not help but admire herself for the touch. As if the flowers had been sent by a secret admirer.

She fingered one of the roses, liking the violence of the texture far more than the delicacy of the fragrance. She plucked out a rose and pressed her hands gingerly around the thorns of the stem, slowly squeezing. She did not flinch. She seemed to be empty of even the pain of suffering. My life for as long as I can remember has been pain. And now I do not even feel that.

Flying at twilight far above Lindor's capitol, Mykal Hodos watched the clouds rush over the city like an invading army. He was in a government transport for high officials and was reminded of similar circumstances months before when he had been on a mission to the leader of the Auron community, a mission that had culminated in the capture of Cally's long in-hiding sister, Molli. So much had happened since then. Here he was with Counselor Hahn, the near legendary leader of the Auron Community in Exile. He should have felt honored, but instead he felt only anxiety and guilt. The ambassador had hardly spoken to him since they boarded the transport. And this was a person Mykal desperately wanted to talk with in what little time remained.

He wondered what was the source of his inner fear? Could it be that he had more responsibility than he could handle; that he was out of his depth? Surely he was up to this. Who could doubt his value now? Lee Hahn, everyone, would have to take him seriously.

But for some reason showed no signs of doing so.

No more it seem than "Li," his former object of desire and love. This afternoon finally, she had approached him and the conversation kept running in his mind.

It had begun simply enough. She had stopped him in the hall right after the meeting, her voice ragged, faltering, as if she had aged years over the past few weeks. "I couldn't tell Jenna, so I will tell you," she began. "Neither Franton nor myself will be at the meeting tomorrow. She is very worried about the children. I think she believes they are doomed no matter what happens. I must do what I can to help her." She stopped. "Mykal, please be careful."

Mykal nodded, clutching his recorder. Well, fine. What am I supposed to say in response? "I'll let Jenna know. There should be no problem with either of you not being there." He tried to smile. "You'll miss Avon."

She nodded looking very worried, almost desperate. "That is a concern. I am torn about this. I am obligated to help Franton. but I must talk with him. Mykal, try to understand. You are a very important person to me. Please don't abandon me. I admit there is something between Avon and myself. But it's not what you think." She paused. "Maybe it is what you think. I wish I knew. The messages hint at some kind of connection between us, but it doesn't add up. Do you recall the legends and myths in our childhood about the last days?"

Mykal looked at her oddly. If there was anything more characteristic of an Auron childhood than the overabundance of myths and legends one was subjected to, Mykal had no idea what it could be. Now he was getting worried. But all he could say was: "You mean the ones about 'when the tree of life shall blossom and the stars fall'?"

She smiled nervously. "Yes, something like that. About people at the end time who would be able alter reality and save . . . " She stopped and looked down. "I can't tell you anything more, not until . . . " She looked more distraught. "I think I'll see him soon enough – maybe even under circumstances in which might believe me."

Mykal wanted to touch her, offer her some comfort, but realized at once the futility of the gesture. Alternatively, he wanted to shout at her to pull herself together. All he could do was mumble, "I don't understand."

She looked around quickly. "It is probably not wise to tell you this, but there are things I have been withholding. It is very important."

On no. "Would you mind telling me?"

"I mustn't." He wanted to pull out his hair.

"Don't you ever get tired to being mysterious?"

She took no offense, looking calm and remote. "Actually I do. Mykal, please understand that I know you are hurting from this. Things are terribly confusing for me. I do care deeply about you – for all of us. I've been having dizzy spells. I am 'hearing' whispers again. I think the Entity is trying to reach me. I think there is more it wants to do to me -- which probably sounds uglier than it is." But she was unsure of that as well.

Mykal despaired. "Oh, god."

She grimaced. "I think it is 'clearing a channel', if you will pardon the expression. I don't know. Anyway, I won't discuss this with anyone else until I am sure. Which is probably why I am doing this -- leaving with Franton that is." Her voice rose. "What can I tell Avon? Honestly, what can I tell anyone? I did this to help! Not to watch my life vanish."

He spoke low, trying to calm her. "What does your sister say?"

She looked at him incredulous, then realized it undoubtedly was a reasonable question given the circumstances. "I don't think she understands this any more that I do. I just get this sense that Servalan is even more powerful than we realize."

That might well be true, but it was hard for him to imagine the woman being even more powerful. There was only so far you could go, right? "Well, thanks for letting me know. I guess." He was more confused than ever.

She was depressed, knowing none of this was coming out right. And the business about the others being alive? It was so impossible it relaxed her. "Mykal, I have to go. Please be careful with . . . ," but she could not finish the sentence. She turned to leave.

"Molli, wait."

She stopped. He stared at her, his mouth tried to speak. Finally, he held out the recorder. "Would you take it for a while? I don't quite know what to do with it right now." She took it reluctantly, looked at him sadly, unsure, then ran down the hall.

He did not want to be bitter. He was not resentful of a fate that had brought her into his life and was just as capriciously about to remove her. He was grateful for the small kindnesses that have been given him, of their one most innocent of kisses, of a chance to briefly just be with her. She was a very important person in his life, like it or not. And she did seem to care. Hadn't she, when she knew he was going to be with Tyce, not disapproving in any way, simply warned him to be careful? Be careful, while an interstellar war was about to begin. He smiled. He could hardly resent her intrusion.

Nor did he puff himself up and tell her he could handle it. He had froze, just stared at her stupidly as she ran down the hall which may have been an improvement. So he had to accept it. He had lost so much in his life, that one more loss, even this one, could be endured.

His mind snapped back to the city below him. There was an unreality to the scene beautiful as it was, and it troubled him. It was as if he were flying over a well-lit stellar graveyard, as if all the presumed activity, the frenetic movement of people in search of themselves and each other were somehow a penumbral illusion. A sparkling surface of life flowing down a dark river of doom. Maybe Geir had been wrong. Maybe death was the only reality and life was so ephemeral as to be forever devoid of meaning. Even Aurons, with their longer lives and pride in self-enlightenment had come no closer than their human cousins to understanding the question of questions: what is life? Could all that had happened to him, to anyone, be for naught? He was starting to think so.

He wondered what Avon would have said. Not to bother, probably.

Now he was so frustrated he wanted to pound his fists and pull his hair. This was worse than a mixed metaphor. Even if Lindor had time to create a nanotechnology defense sufficient to throw the Federation back what would be accomplished? What would be the result except to open the conflict to even more ghastly possibilities?

The people below (the transport began descending) went about their lives oblivious to the crimes that engulfed the Galaxy. They, concluded Mykal, were the lucky ones. So dulled to reality as to be free to fleetingly find some enjoyment; maybe even hope. But hope for what? He did envy them, as he envied briefly the Auron children. Was envy so futile?

He had to quit feeling sorry for himself.

His mind fixed on the building they were approaching. Lee and Tyce did not live in a house, but a condominium, part of a huge complex looming before them like a vast cylinder of light. He gulped. This is as exclusive as it gets.

He thought of the Auron eldress and her (relatively) modest suburban dwelling on "Molli's World". This behemoth was far and away removed from her craggy humility. With its thousands of units housing the rich and powerful, this was the true center of the city, perhaps of the planet.

A gust made the transport shudder as it landed. He got up unsteadily from his seat. The ambassador watched him but did not follow. Instead, he handed Mykal a plastic card, pressing it firmly in his hand. Mykal took it reluctantly. "Keep the card visible at all times; it will be your key and guide. Follow the guard robots," Hahn gestured to some silver cylinders approaching, "Tyce is expecting you. She knows I will not be home."

Mykal nodded slowly. He felt increasingly lost. The two Aurons shook hands and Mykal shivered as the wind and rain hissed at him as he stepped out. "See you in the morning!" he shouted as the door slammed and the transport lifted, throbbing against the air. Despite the cold, despite his shivering, Mykal watched until it vanished into the night.

He affixed the card to his lapel. The robots scanned it, then told him, in surprisingly warm voices, to follow. At an entrance, he inserted the card and a glowing map appeared on it. A door opened and he entered. It closed quickly behind him. He was so fascinated by the process, he almost forgot his trepidation.

It took a few minutes to get to the destination. When he came to the condominium, he boldly knocked, but the noise sounded rude, threatening in a manner totally unlike him. He waited. And waited. Then, irritated as no one came, he almost inserted the card to see if it would let him enter. But the door suddenly opened and there was Tyce Sarkoff, dressed in a black pants suit under a small loose skirt and wearing what looked like a white corsage. Mykal managed to mumble a greeting. She gestured to enter, took his coat gently, and motioned to the living room.

Well, he thought it was the living room. There seemed to be rooms in all directions. Big rooms. He gawked at the walls. There were huge flat monitors, ablaze with a vision of the city. This is spectacular.

"There are many rooms," she said. Evidently she had acted as a tour guide before, "two for guests, a study, a den, a large kitchen, and so forth. Even with the combined wealth of my husband and I, it is a considerable expense. But it is worth it. This complex houses the 'movers and shakers,' if you will pardon the expression, of Lindor. Here I never lose touch. It does pay for itself in time."

Mykal nodded. She had him convinced. There was a huge white couch and he collapsed into it. There was little he could think to say other than, "Thank you for inviting me over. It is an honor to be here, though I wish your husband could have stayed." Truly he did.

She sat across from him, a rectangular glass table separating them. "Lee is quite busy these days. So am I, but I wanted very much to meet you. Please feel at home: you are not putting anyone out. The honor is mine. You really are quite famous, Mykal. Don't pretend otherwise."

"It was a fame I never wanted," he said glumly

"Fame frequently comes to those who do not want it; as it typically eludes those who so desperately seek it."

Mykal thought on that. There is depth to her. Why hadn't the media seen it? "Which one applies to you?"

She was wistful as she looked out to the city. "I think the former. Honestly, most of the time I am not sure."

"Then," he risked, "you hope to escape your fame?"

"How perceptive! Correct, but I know I cannot. Is that something we have in common?"

Mykal grimaced. "Could be."

"I see the subject bothers you. Let's talk of easier things. Would you like something to eat or drink?"

Yes. Mykal was feeling better. "Both. Whatever you have, I'll take."

That didn't sound quite right, but she smiled appreciatively. Robot butlers soon appeared and quietly and efficiently proceeded to serve them both. Mykal took a bewildering array of foods and drinks, all in small quantities. She watched him silently, curiously.

"So Mykal, tell me about yourself."

Mykal looked at her, awed again by her beauty, and felt lost. "What do you want to know? There isn't a whole lot that makes sense at the moment."

"Personal stories rarely do. Let's start with the basics. How old are you?"

"Just turned thirty-one."

"You look so much younger! Typical of Aurons–how I envy my husband at times! Over twenty years older than me, yet everyone thinks we are the same age. Of course, people can look young and not necessarily feel it or think it." She waited until the room was clear of robots. "You've had a rough time lately, haven't you?"

He nodded slowly. "My teacher was murdered, a year ago but I still can't forget it. And I killed someone recently. It was self-defense; I accept what had to be done, but I wish there had been another way." She watched him intently. He had needed to talk to someone about that. "It's nothing I particularly want to discuss, however."

"I respect that, though from looking at you I never would have guessed you could have killed under any circumstances. I am sorry that I appear to be prying. What a bad host I am! So what would you like to talk about?"

Mykal took a gulp of a pleasant white wine and went for it. "You," he said simply.

"I see I'm not the only one who has been enjoying our media."

"I wouldn't say 'enjoy' was the right way to put it. Frankly, I think it is all lies what they say about you, but I wanted to hear you say it."

"You care that much about me or are you that curious?"

"I don't mean to pry either. Maybe both."

"Well, 'just turned thirty-one' Mykal, I like you and trust you already–one of the reasons I am drawn to Auron men. Maybe I can teach you a few things."

Mykal looked glum. I am sure of that.

She seemed to sense his misgivings. "You're nice (but naive) and I am not offended by your questions. Yes," she sighed, "most of what you read in our not very punctilious media is fabrication. Some, however, approximates the truth. Do you want to disentangle which is what?"

Mykal looked glum. "Probably not. It's just that it would be such an embarrassment to your father and to your husband. The galaxy needs them both. When I saw your picture, I said to myself, it needs you as well."

"I am flattered and flattery will get you far in politics, and with me. Please understand. I admire my father and husband as much as you do. I honestly tried to prevent my personal life from impinging upon theirs. I support them both and love them both. But there are also needs of my own I do not intend to sacrifice."

"Your husband knows?" Mykal was shocked. But how could he have not known?

"Of course. I owed him the truth from the beginning. He has been an angel. Perhaps he felt I would change. I offered divorce, but he refused. That amazed me, but I came to realize that in a sense it freed him. I hurt him, but now he does not have to please me. I often wondered if his greatest passion was for his people – which is not to excuse anything I have done. And now he can pursue it."

"I suppose I understand. I won't ask any more."

"That's up to you. Honestly, Mykal, my real crime is that there is a good deal less illusion in my life than in most. I am not bitter – illusions fascinate me. I once wondered if there is a difference between happiness and the illusion of happiness. I remember long talks with my husband about it. Eventually I decided there was none."

"Don't you worry your life might catch up with you?"

"Life usually does, Mykal," she said earnestly. "Yes, I do worry. Or at least I did until I realized what was going to happen to Lindor, to all that was built by my father and myself. If life floats on a sea of illusion, then we are all soon to drown." Then with a stunning burst of bitterness: "One would hope the populace would be more concerned about their survival than who I happen to be bedding on any given night."

"You're right, of course," Mykal said hastily. "You see, and I am sorry if this seems unrelated, but I have been thinking a lot about Avon lately. I really want to understand how he came to be the way he is. How much control do we really have over our natures."

"Because of your killing that man?"

"Yes, especially since then. How much like Avon might I become?"

"I can see why that would trouble you. Let me assure you, Mykal, I highly doubt you could ever sink that low. It is odd that you should mention him, however. My father and I got into quite a row over him recently, but later I began to wonder if I do still hate Avon. When you think of it, he, like the rest of us, is only a product of the times. We hear so many horrible stories of crimes and massacres in distance parts of the Federation, but does it really mean anything to us? I doubt it. That's why I loved Blake. He wasn't like us. He wouldn't give up. He was a shock to us all. For years he mesmerized us. We can never forget him, hard as we try."

"Neither can Avon."

"Is that true? That surprises me. Well, Avon is full of surprises, is he not? You are curious about people, aren't you? But why do you want to know what drives him?"

Mykal wished he had a good answer. "I find it increasingly difficult to push away my fear of the future. What will happen if I succumb to that fear? I read once that promiscuous people are sometimes the way they are because of fear of death."

She was quiet for a while. "Have you been in love? I hope so, or my life must be quite a shock to you."

"I thought I was. I am not sure anymore." I must have really bothered her with that comment.

She smiled. "Well, that's a good sign that you are. You are learning. We all go through rude awakenings, your's no worse than anyone else's. Do you want some advice?"

"Sure." Can I afford it?

"Be careful of people. They can be very cruel. Once when I was quite young and it became known to my father's enemies that I opposed him on a particular issue, I was astonished to learn what wisdom they found embodied in my puerile womanhood. I even believed them for a while. Soon enough, when I came to understand my father's viewpoints better and to agree with him more, my new 'friends' dropped me like a stone. My 'wisdom' came and went with our mutual deception – and lust for power. My father calls them the 'demon lovers' They will drain you and pitch you away without the slightest regret.

"I understood political realities – I learned them at a very early age – but what they wanted from me was something no one must give – my moral blessing of their using me. I was to submit to them to ensure their being 'right'! And how they long to be right on any conceivable subject! I hate them. My tragedy, Mykal, is that I learned to hate long before I learned to love."

And it never set you free. "'The craving to be right . . . '" he murmured.

"You're quoting. I like the phrase. Who said it?"

"A philosopher of the twentieth century; the name is unimportant. One of my interests."

"Philosophers or the 20th century?"

"Both, I guess. The full quote is: 'The wrong view of science betrays itself in the craving to be right.'"

"But this is politics, Mykal, not science. In politics right or wrong are totally dependent upon what people perceive."

Mykal shook his head. "I don't believe that. Everything about your life says you don't believe either. The error has to be the same, only in politics the consequences are worse."

She considered that. "I truly did give up trying to be right. I decided we get Avons if we are lucky; Servalans and Avons if we are not. What a choice!"

Mykal decided he liked Tyce very much. There was a refreshing candor about her, a refusal to add any romantic coating to life, to insist on living it whatever the cost. Such a life had to have some value and he needed that affirmation for his own. There was no game playing with Tyce.

"I don't believe we always get Avons," he said, not entirely convinced.

"But an epoch such as ours will breed them in profusion! Oh, maybe without his brilliance, but certainly with his soul."

"You know we confer with Avon tomorrow."

She nodded. "My father told me. I declined to attend. I am leaving Lindor tomorrow anyway, but even if I were not . . . " she paused. "My father believes there is no ignoring the man. I no longer care."

"It will be some meeting."

"Fate of the galaxy and all that," she sounded bored.

"Yes. I suppose."

Her look was suddenly cold. "Jenna and Avon, they hate each other, don't they?"

"That would seem to be the case. Why are you asking me? You saw the two of them together long before I did."

"How I remember! Presumably things are no better. But are they worse?"

"For Jenna, that's a strong possibility."

"And Avon?"

Mykal shrugged. "Who knows what goes on inside him? It's always a guess."

Tyce smiled wickedly as she leaned forward. "Now the trick question. Why do they need each other so?"

Mykal had wondered about that himself. He even had a half-baked idea. "Blake had a genius for picking opposites that somehow complemented each other. It was one of his strongest points as a leader. Look at the original band: Blake and Avon, Jenna and Vila; there is a kind of symmetry however you choose the opposites."

Tyce nodded quickly. "I sensed that about Blake myself. So how do Jenna and Avon complement each other?"

Mykal sighed. "For one thing, they're both obsessed with Blake."

She laughed. "This is fascinating! Tell me how they differ."

Mykal looked miffed. He felt he was being pressed far beyond his understand, but carried on his speculations regardless. "Blake was a challenge, or 'affront,' to them both. Given the failure of his rebellion both Avon and Jenna are convinced of their guilt. Neither will forgive the other, or themselves. They feel they are bound together until one of them . . . "

His voice died. She was fully attentive now. "Yes, until one of them what . . . ?"

Mykal clasped his hands before him. "Admits defeat."

She looked disappointed. "And the other?"

"Achieves redemption."

She looked bewildered. "I thought you were going to say until one killed the other. Really Mykal, whatever Blake was, and I truly did admire and want him, he was not a god."

"We know that now. It's just that, in a way that is hard to explain, that is what they wanted him to be. They knew he wasn't a god, but the belief lives on."

"Blake was a failure," she said flatly.

"One of history's greatest," he admitted.

She moved closer. "Have you told any of this to my father?"

"I haven't had the opportunity." Mykal inched ever so slightly away. "What would have been the point?"

"Well, I wouldn't worry about the 'point'. Must everything have one? Tomorrow ask Avon what he thinks. At the very least, he should be the expert on failure by now."

"No denying that."

"Then tell my father." She looked at him intently. "Why don't you hate him?"

Mykal was getting tired and wanted to sleep. The more he thought about the meeting tomorrow, the more tired and more anxious he became. He wished Tyce wasn't so relentless, yet there was nothing he could point his finger on as a definite attempt to wear him down. Perhaps it was the intensity of the woman he found so overpowering.

"Maybe like your father, I think liking or disliking Avon is irrelevant. What matters is that he is someone we have to understand. We need him; now more than ever."

She flared. "Neither my father nor I 'need' him! We need nothing from that murderer!"

Mykal was angry. "I'm sorry, but can we get beyond this 'my daddy is bigger than your daddy' routine?"

Her eyes widened; at once she relented. "What a revealing way to put it. Forgive me, Mykal. I misspoke; you have helped me understand a little. Is that what Avon means to you?"

Mykal shook his head in an utterly convincing denial. He felt the room becoming very warm. "He is the hero of my people. He even saved my life. Maybe God has an appalling sense of humor, but ever since I met Avon almost a year ago, I have been convinced that my fate is bound inseparably with his. I won't abandon him." He looked straight at her.

"I not asking you to. Let Avon do the abandoning."

"Even for you?"To your husband?

She stopped. Again she seemed to sense what he was thinking. "Mykal, that was unkind."

"This is politics, remember. Kindness has nothing to do with it." Something he had drunk definitely had an impact.

She put her hand firmly on his. Her smile actually possessed warmth, but her grip was hard.

"Touche, Mykal. Lee and I are good friends, allies if you wish, but the marriage never worked. I regret that I need more, much more than he can provide. Is that such a sin?"

"No, it's standard stuff."

"But I like to think I improved on it."

"How much does your husband know?" Despite himself, he felt his hand gently respond to hers.

"All that he needs to. He accepts it as the consequence of my way of dealing with life."

"So there is someone else?"

"Several actually. At worst, I run from one suffocating relationship to another. At best, I sometimes find someone who seems to understand for a while. You really aren't interested in numbers, like the rest of the dullards, are you?"

Mykal winced. "No, of course not."

"Thank you. So now you know I am not a good woman," she withdrew her hand gently.

"Why did you insist on meeting me?"

"I was curious; I am drawn to the famous. You were all over FNN, not to mention our local equivalents, and I knew Jenna or Cally would never agree to talk with me. I also think he was curious as well."

"Curious about what?"

"If you would be able to resist me. I am a very powerful woman."

Mykal was close to being furious. "Didn't anyone ever tell you power corrupts and sexual power is no different from any other in that regard?"

She shrugged. "Why you are so shocked? My sex gives me a certain freedom in these matters. Relax, Mykal, I'm not going to force you into anything. I'm offering, not taking."

Mykal was floored. In all his life nobody had ever hit on him. "Look, you are very attractive . . . ", he stumbled.

She glanced upward. "Oh, Mykal, how you flatter a girl!"

"Let me finish. You are way beyond my experience and comfort level. I would be a horrible disappointment to you." To us both.

Her voice was low. "Why not let me decide that? I'm willing to take the risk. Are you? Or are you bound to an other?"

Mykal swallowed. Li? Li is about as interested in me as this women is in swearing to a life of chastity. "No. But I could never forgive myself."

She withdrew. "Very well, Mykal, but you won't get a second chance. With me, no one ever does." She winked. "You may hate yourself in the morning."

"I suspect I will hate myself no matter what I do."

She laughed. "Shame on you for deceiving me, Mykal – you're not so naive after all."

"Look, may I ask something?"

"Sure, ask away. That's why you are here."

"Forget what this is doing to your husband. Don't you realize what this is doing to you and your father?"

"Mykal, I've already received that lecture far too many times."

"Then it would probably be very wise for me not to elaborate on it. I am tired. I would like to go to the guest room and to prepare myself for tomorrow."

"Of course. I can take a hint," she sighed. "You will find a prepared guest room down the hall. When would you like to rise tomorrow morning?"

"An hour and a half before the meeting."

"Consider it done. One of the robot maids will awaken you."

"Thank you."

She gave him a hurt look but Mykal had gotten so used to it by now from the women in his life that its effect was minimal. "Good night, Mykal," and she left for her room.

In the morning as promised, a robot maid stood by the door and calmly called his name in soothing though ever louder tones. Finally Mykal roused himself sufficiently to tell it to shut up and go away. Things went easier after that. Upon opening the closet, he discovered there was an excellent suit for his use (a card by the dresser in a graceful hand said it was indeed for him.) For another, he was actually beginning to look forward to the day. He was ready for Avon. As he showered quickly, he wondered how he could thank the hostess. He hoped Tyce was still there.

But she was not. Breakfast was ready on a table of dazzling white and chrome, but Tyce was nowhere to be seen.

When he finished, a robot briskly removed the plates. Under one of them was a note addressed to him. He opened it:

I apologize for being a bit overpowering last night. I did mean well. I am not indifferent to the feelings of others. I slept badly for many reasons, but one was my worry that I had hurt you – not a usual feeling in my life. Each time I slept, I felt I might never awaken. I who have longed to die in the arms of a million lovers, now am certain I will die alone.

It is doubtful I will see Lee, my father, or anyone again. The opportunity has presented itself to leave Lindor and I will take it. That being the case, please allow me to wish the best of luck to you and your friends. Believe me when I say I am not all bad. My fears are old and as noted, not special. Someday you will understand. I ask that you remember me for what I might have been as much as what I became.

That morning, while Mykal struggled to awaken, President Sarkoff received the ultimatum he had long expected. It began with a code phrase from his commanders in the field: "Pistol Flash". It meant the Federation Combined Fleet was at the gates of Lindor.

Alert at once, he responded with a code response of his own: "Threatening Clouds". The defense forces were now on yellow alert. He wanted to appear calm; red was too extreme. But the state of planetary siege, long anticipated, was now in effect.

War could not be far behind.

Plans for this eventuality had been worked out in detail. That was an advantage. The enemy expected a Lindor unprepared, ready to admit defeat. They were mistaken. Defeat might be certain, but he would not permit the word, anymore than a thought of his daughter, to breech his consciousness. He thought only of the nasty sting that would be dealt the Combined Fleet.

He moved methodically to his office, conferring hurriedly as he went with aides, advisors, military and cabinet liaisons. He would not be rushed into any decision. His meeting schedule, he informed them, was unchanged.

For over an hour after he received the coded message, he had tried to get through to Servalan a formal request for talks but with no response It was clear she was not to be rushed into dialogue. But within two hours, he was in his office facing her. There before him was the bleached white face that blended against a white background.

How easy it might be for her to dissolve and flow away, a trickle of evil, a puddle of death. For a few moments they starred at each other, each trying to read the other for weakness. He found none. He would never know what she found.

"President Sarkoff, it has been such a long time. Not since I returned your very large collection of historical artifacts, I believe. When was that? Upon the occasion of your government's formal recognition of my rule, I believe. Not long before your declaration of independence."

"My government accepted the reality of your rule over the Federation, but not over us. We did, however, entertain the hope that moderation might result. I signed an agreement of trade shortly thereafter. You were grateful, as I recall."

"I do recall, President Sarkoff. Which is why I was saddened you suspended diplomatic relations with us, along with your planet's valuable trade."

He stiffened. "The actions of your administration made our response unavoidable. I seriously doubt the Federation was significantly harmed by anything Lindor has done."

"Harmed? No. Pained? Yes. You have caused me quite a bit of unhappiness by your defiance, though I concede perhaps more than you are aware, or intended. You see, " she beamed, "I am not bitter. I have come in person to resolve the matter. You should feel honored."

"I would be had you not brought with you so many uninvited guests."

She looked hurt. "The Combined Fleet? They are my protection, nothing more."

"Of course," Sarkoff said wearily. "State your terms."

Ever so slightly, she leaned forward,. "Avon. The three others. Whoever was in that settlement. But above all else, that ship." She stated the demands simply, concisely, yet he could not help but feel there was something she was omitting. Maybe there was a weakness.

She continued, "There are other requests, such as a statement of neutrality from Lindor and the dropping of your sanctions, but I am confident these can be worked out once the primary demands have been met" I must have that ship.

"And what does Lindor receive in return?"

"The withdrawal of the Combined Fleet. Lindor left in peace. Your military intact."

He did not believe any of it. "How much time does the government of Lindor have before a response must be made?"

"Actually very little. My patience is somewhat strained of late. I regret that, but I am sure you understand my sensibilities. You have until 6:00 p.m., your time."

He frowned. "Barely ten hours. That does not give us sufficient time. We received nothing resembling a formal list of conditions . . . "

"I have given you the 'formal list!' Those are my conditions! The problem of time is yours, not mine. I will have what I came for! There is nothing to bargain for!"

Sarkoff waited, then said calmly. "I cannot respond to such language."

"My demands far outweigh your sensibilities. Do I have to prove my point?"

"A response will be given before the designated time."

"Excellent. Promptness is a virtue, President Sarkoff, and I know you are a virtuous man."

And with that she broke the connection.

He was stunned, dead even as he lived. But swiftly he broke the paralysis and acted. Instructions were sent throughout the Confederacy. A state of emergency now existed. Full red alert. The constitution would give him the power he required. Very fleeting power, but it would be his to use now.

He looked out to the gray dawn light. He had called her apartment, the confirmed that her flight had indeed left. His daughter was gone. Luck was with her. At least she made it.

And he remembered vaguely words of the ancient play, words to the effect of that death will come when it will come.

It was a council of war. Arranged in a crescent before him, were Counselor Hahn, Jenna, Mykal, and separated from them, standing in the rear, Avon. Everyone was having a hard time acknowledging him. The reality of war overshadowed even Avon's presence. Mykal, who had prepared a witty greeting to the effect of: "I owe you one, but it's good to see you," had been deflated by the reality of what had happened. And he was talkative compared to Jenna.

Of course Avon was completely silent.

Sarkoff spoke quickly and forcefully. This is the culmination of politics. At its root is the threat of force, and now the potential is about to become actual. He was ready.

"This morning an ultimatum was received from the President of the Federation. The Lindor government has until 6:00 this evening to respond to her demands. The affected parties within this room can guess what they are. She wants the children–though she does not know who exactly was on the ship–all of you, and that ship" he said with a pointed glance to Avon. "In response, I have placed Lindor Defense Forces on full alert."

He paused. "Let me begin with you, Avon, a primary object of her interest. You have read the transcripts of yesterday's meeting?"

"I have."

"Your comments, please."

"Consider everything you can to buy time while seeming to comply. It's your best chance. Running does not appear to be practical."

Only Sarkoff's presence restrained Jenna. He sternly glanced at her. She remained silent. Sarkoff was thinking of Tyce, but he managed to say: "I agree. I do have hope, however – perhaps she seeks only to humiliate Lindor, not destroy it. The other hope is: can we use this 'nanotechnology?' Can it be implemented within the next few hours?" Again, he directed the question to Avon.

Avon was not inclined for once to argue any side. "I do not know enough, neither does anyone in this room, to gauge the risks. Days, weeks, perhaps we could make a decision. Hours? Unlikely, but I will not stand in the way of the decision you make."

Sarkoff nodded. "I think I agree. Are there dissenters, knowing full well the cost to yourselves should I comply with her demands?"

"I am one."

"Yes, Counselor Hahn, that is a frequent and welcome role of yours."

"You told me on more than one occasion that there is a balance in the polis between freedom and life." Sarkoff nodded, grateful that for once someone had listened to what he had said rather than how he said it. "That it was the responsibility of the elected leadership to maintain that balance; that the life of an epoch was its ideas and principles, as much as its people.

"Principle cannot be sacrificed, you have told me many times. The immediate issue is not those we have given refuge too. I submit there is a principle, one that cannot be ignored. We can bargain, we must do everything in our power to bargain, but we cannot capitulate."

"I sense you support the nanotechnology option. Jenna?"

"I will support whatever decision you make. We are here as refugees not citizens," she glanced pointedly at Avon, "as such we can only make requests. I do not dread death so much that I would yield to Servalan. I can speak for my companions–they are with me, but I cannot speak or make decisions for an entire star system. That is for you to decide."

Sarkoff could not get Tyce out of his mind. The agony of this separation . . . You should have said goodbye better than you did. That was my right. Farewell my only child. "Mykal?"

"I vote for using the technology as it stands. On the basis of what we know, it is right to use it in our defense, regardless of the risks."

"I am inclined to agree, but Avon's point is well-taken. We must know more before we use it."

Avon shifted. "Forgive the intrusion -- but have you entertained the possibility of me being your 'good will' ambassador to the Federation?" he asked.

"Have you speak to her?" Sarkoff was incredulous.

Avon looked dour. "I raised the possibility only as a means to delay her."

Sarkoff nodded slowly. "It also might urge her on to greater speed. I will consider it, however."

Then Sarkoff stood. "I must close this meeting. My cabinet will be meeting in emergency session momentarily. Avon will stay with me (Why do I feel safe with him?). After that we will attempt to contact Servalan. In the meantime, everyone else in this room will be removed to the base where the Sword of Auron is located." Lee began to protest but Sarkoff cut him off. "That is an order–for all of you. I have arranged the means already. It is your best chance for survival. I wish to thank each of you for your courage and support."

Then he rushed out of the room, Avon beside him. Mykal and Jenna glanced at each other; then both looked in dismay to Lee.

As the hours went by, Servalan's terror mounted along with her impatience. She had not anticipated this particular enemy rearing out of the abandoned hell of her soul: her own overwhelming frustration with her self, the shame of her being. She could not stand the presence of people now. She had isolated herself (even ORAC had been cut out), for at times like this the future, in all its ghosts of possibilities, would overwhelm her. Vague shapes, cloud shadows, dream forms weaved before her like snakes. She was now the nexus of the possible . . . coffins of reality rolled in like a chilling fog of if. Only her certainty of the future sealed the fate of these visions. She clinched her fists, driving her nails into her palms, luxuriating in the pain, as the visions, all but one, died before her. If release was to be found, it would be in blood.

She had not slept for days. Sleeplessness helped the visions come, the future visions that would give her the power to act, but the price they exacted was the horror of knowing what she was. In this state of exhaustion, more death than life, would come the nightmare legacy (The shame!) of her birth. The dreams of the future would give her power but never peace.

There was a clock before her, but it was slipping the bounds of time. Erratic, disjointed in its movements, moving back, then forward, without purpose, without meaning, without cause or sense. There was only one cure. She must act, cut through the possibilities with a single knife slash of desperate, dazzling action and be free.

She was struggling with all her strength. Only through the supreme act of will could she keep control. She focused on the question: Why had she been created?! And from there by an act of murderous will . . . time steadied. The clock digits slowed then moved drunkenly forward ever so slowly. It was, she noted, three hours from her deadline, but she would wait no more. What if they had tried to reach me? No matter. Moving her hand like a fleshy spider, trembling, she summoned the Fleet Commander.

He was shocked when he saw her (Do I look that bad?), but quickly regained his composure. He knew what it meant. She would have her war.

"They still have not responded!" She cried. It was her truth even if it was a lie.

"Supreme Commander, for the past several hours we have been trying . . . ," he answered excitedly.

"Then we must punish them," she silenced him with finality. There was nothing more anyone could say.

"Yes, Supreme Commander."

"We must attack. There is no choice. Against their advance bases, upon their commerce. Sweep their skies. No mercy. Let them know I am angry!"

In the greatest risk of his career, he said, "Supreme Commander, I understand your anguish but perhaps we should still wait, some squadrons are not . . . "

"No! Operation Meteor," her hands lifted as she stood, "will commence!"

"Understood, Supreme Commander. I will issue the orders at once."

"Thank you, Fleet Commander." She sounded out of breath. "I am sure all will go well. May our victory be swift."

He saluted and she snapped off the screen. And with that she fainted in exhaustion and relief, whispering the word that haunted her and sounded like "Avon."

Sarkoff at his desk, stared into the bank of cameras. His voice was emotionless but he had never felt more engaged. " . . . We had been assured by the Federation President that no action would be taken until the deadline. I have now been informed by Grand Admiral Karlsyn of the following: though the deadline was three hours away, elements of the Federation Combined Fleet have without provocation struck our forward bases."

The moral dilemma was expressed in terms of stark simplicity. Suppose a city were besieged, defeat for the defenders being certain if the surrounding army should attack. In such an attack and its aftermath the inhabitants would perish. Suppose that the besieging army proposed the following: surrender one man, a non-citizen at that, and the siege would the lifted and the city spared. As the ruler of the city, what would you do?

The core of the problem, as he saw it, was in the nature of law. If one assumed law was imposed by the reality of intelligent life, not from legislative fiat, then given that the man was not a criminal – as defined by natural law – then the answer must be to refuse.

Avon stood, his arms crossed, just out of the camera angle. My bodyguard. What a test case.

If, however, law were the creation, not the discovery, of those in power, then the matter became one of arithmetic. One man for the lives of the city. But the price was destruction of any law. And a society without law was anarchy. Let me die before it comes to that.

"As Federation forces have launched a deliberate, malicious, and surprise attack upon the Lindor Confederacy, I have no recourse. I can assure you we have responded with all available force. Resistance is strong, heroic, with high enemy casualties. We expect, however, these bases to succumb." They already have.

To the objectors, the philosophical question on the nature of law had no bearing. All that mattered was that lives, many lives, would likely be spared. Sarkoff knew his arguments lacked rigor, but the point could not be evaded. The life of civilization was its laws. In the matter of law, arithmetic had no meaning. One man's life was not forfeit because of numbers. There could be no calculus of justice. When the rights of one were violated, so were all and to that degree the city (or planetary system) and its people died. War would then be its obituary for the body, but the life had already expired.

He was alone as he addressed the cameras. He did not know someone else was just outside the door, putting up a terrific fight that three guards could not contain. As he neared the conclusion of his address, the door flung open and she rushed in, with ferocity, terror, and unrelenting grief on her face, a look he had never seen on her. My daughter, my ally, my friend. Thank you and forgive me.

"I ask you to join with me in this darkest of hours. May your prayers go to our brave soldiers now fighting against the might of the Federation. For as a result of these unprovoked actions, it is my duty to inform you that a state of war now exists. And per the requirements of the Lindor Constitution, a President who declares war must resign. I do so now."

He stood as the flag of Lindor appeared on the monitors and the anthem played. Tyce ran up to her father and before them all boldly embraced him.

"I knew you would never leave me alone," he said quietly.

And she collapsed sobbing into his arms.