On a certain world in a certain place at a certain time, there was a mountain higher than any other known.

Born of some chance upheaval during the collision of two continents, it towered so far above the world that none could breathe at its summit. From ancient times, it had been known as the Throne of the Gods, and myth had it that any who could reach its peak would become as one of the gods. Many had tried: their bones could still be found on the slopes - some further up than they had any right to be.

In more recent times, the Throne of the Gods had found a more practical use, as the site of the world's leading observatory. With considerable difficulty, and not a few fatalities, a tram line had been built to the summit, where construction then proceeded on the telescope itself and pressurized buildings for the workers and future staff.

By that time, the world had achieved peace and prosperity, and was free to indulge in curiosity for its own sake. For a few happy generations, the world reveled in discovery.

And then one day the universe, which had been the object of curiosity, arrived at the world. Kelsorians, they called themselves. Their visit was taken in stride by the natives, who had already begun manned exploration of their own system and launched robot probes to nearby stars. But they were surprised, and more than a little disappointed, to learn that peace and prosperity were not universal, after all; that a terrible war was raging beyond their ken among godlike powers for causes they could not begin to understand – and that any world, even one as remote as their own, might fall victim to that war at any time.

Some years afterwards, there was another arrival, representing one of the powers of which the Kelsorians had warned them: the Velorian Enlightenment. Theirs was a relatively quiet sector, the new visitors told them. The chances of an Arion invasion were not that great. Still, the Enlightenment could not take any chances. One of their people would remain, to ensure their safety.

In any case, the arrival of the universe and all of its knowledge had by then rendered the World Eye obsolete. It was kept up as a museum and a tourist attraction, of course; but now the Throne of the Gods assumed a new function more in keeping with legend: the official residence of the Planetary Protector.

I

Lady Theel'dara was not pleased. But then she had never expected to be. Especially in light of the events that had brought her here.

The Kelsorian explorers who had been the first humans to arrive at Domyr – which meant simply "world" in the local language – had exaggerated when they told the natives that their planet was off the beaten track. It was hardly on any track at all.

The wormhole that led to their system led nowhere else of importance for thousands of parsecs. No doubt there were other peopled worlds in this corner of the galaxy, but the Kelsorians had no idea how to reach them. They recorded their observations, traded histories and scientific data and cultural information with the natives, added the Domyran language to their database, and headed home.

In time, the Kelsorian report had reached Velor, where it was duly examined and filed and then totally ignored. The Velorians had more pressing concerns closer to home. A wormhole that was of no strategic value in the Arion war was of no value at all. Domyr would have never rated an official visit, still less a Protector, but for the unfortunate circumstance of Theel'dara.

As the only daughter of an Important Personage, Theel'dara seemed destined to become an Important Personage herself. But she became an embarrassment instead when, more from a lack of discipline than a lack of talent, she came in last in her class at the Academy. She neglected her studies, instead spending her time merely daydreaming about what her life was to be.

Still, she did pass, just barely, and as a P1 she could no more be denied the Rites than she could deny them. She did well in combat training and other essentials and, thanks to her father's influence, she even secured a plum appointment to a human world. But the same lack of discipline that had served her poorly at the Academy served her even more poorly on the primitive, undisclosed world where she was supposed to remain invisible. She had openly and notoriously enhanced several natives in order to provide herself with suitable companions – in truth, with lovers – and in so doing caused a public scandal.

Theel'dara was recalled, of course. But what to do with her? Even in her disgrace, it was impossible for the High Council to simply dismiss her – the Important Personage stood in their way. Worse, the Protector Corps could not afford to lose anyone with even the least potential for future service. There had been defeats, even casualties, among the best of the best. And the Council had its pride. Despite being stretched thin in some sectors, however, it wouldn't do to assign a disgraced Protector to a world of any importance. What message would that send to the disciplined members of the Corps?

The Council was therefore gratified to find that forgotten file relating to a world of no importance whatever. Given that it was a Disclosed world, she would not have to hide herself. Living among the natives, perhaps she could perhaps learn both humility and restraint, and perhaps someday serve the Enlightenment in one of the inevitable battles that were brewing.

The official announcement about Theel'dara's new posting was both diplomatic and terse, but nobody was fooled. Domyr was exile in all but name. She was thousands of parsecs from the nearest human face or body. She could not even expect a visit from a Messenger, for what message would Higher Authority ever wish to send here?

The natives on Domyr were humanoid enough, but nobody would ever mistake them for human. They were short, gray, furry and six-fingered; energetic but rarely violent. Sexual dimorphism was far less pronounced than among humans, and they apparently had little history of sexual or other conflict. Perhaps it had to do with the planet's near-perfect circular orbit and low axial tilt, which produced a mild and even climate.

They addressed Theel'dara as Lady, which she took for a mark of respect. But it was no more than that. Her red and blue uniform with the emblem of the Enlightenment meant nothing to them. Nor would she ever be an object of worship and desire on Domyr. The glory of her golden body was lost on the natives, who found even her pheromones somewhat disagreeable – although they would never have said so to her face.

She had little to do here. There were the occasional rescues during disasters like fires and floods. Domyr had very efficient emergency services, but if they were not up to the task on some occasions, she could snatch the endangered natives from burning buildings or raging waters. She had thought once that she might have to deal with violent crime, but there was scarcely any of that here.

On such occasions as her strength and invulnerability were needed to save lives, the Domyrans were properly and ritually grateful. The first speaker of the local Syndic would assemble the farmers or workers as the case might be, and lead then in formal bows and thanksgiving. But once the ceremony concluded, and she flew home to the Throne of the Gods, she would never hear from any of them again.

She rarely had any contact with the Congress of Federated Syndics that was as close to a world government as Domyr had, although like its member Syndics it relied on consensus rather than coercion. And even on the Throne of the Gods, her relations with the Syndic that owned the observatory-turned-museum were a matter of ritual formality.

The only friend she had was the aging former chief astronomer. As the arrival of the universe had rendered the work of the observatory obsolete, it had also rendered Amsul obsolete. He now held the largely ceremonial title of curator.

II

At first, Theel'dara wasn't sure why Amsul sought out her company, when others avoided her. But it hadn't taken her long to notice that he too was largely shunned. Was it because of his association with her, or was there some other reason – some reason she could not fathom? The social customs of Domyr had always confused her; she had given only cursory attention to the Kelsorian report, and never kept a copy.

"It is nothing," he insisted once when she tried to press the point. "A mere embarrassment of diminished status." And quickly changed the subject to the matter of intergalactic plasma tubes: could she add anything to the knowledge brought by the exploration team?

She was embarrassed that she could not. Astrophysics had not been one of her strong subjects at the Academy. She had never seen much point in such studies: what had they to do with the duties of a Protector? She had learned to navigate wormholes, of course; that was part of her basic training. One can be skilled at navigating ski slopes without knowing anything fundamental about the mathematics of gravity or inertia; so it was with her.

Yet from innocence comes inspiration.

When Theel'dara had first settled at the Throne of the Gods ten years earlier, she would never have guessed that her arrival and her superhuman nature would give Amsul the inspiration for a project by which he hoped to restore the fame and fortunes of the World Eye; and, not incidentally, his own status.

With so little atmosphere above the observatory, there had been no incentive to launch space telescopes after the fashion of less favored worlds. But a near pass by an errant asteroid had convinced the Congress of Federated Syndics to appeal to all its members for contributions towards creation of a deep space tracking network.

A network of observation stations at LaGrange points in Domyr's orbit and similar points in the orbits of two nearby planets assured sufficient coverage for advance warning of any threatening body approaching from any direction. A small fleet of pusher ships had been built to actually deal with such a threat. But, never wasteful, the Domyrans could employ the same ships as mining combines among the asteroids until such time as an emergency might present itself.

Theel'dara had made it known that she herself was quite capable of dealing with such emergencies. The Domyrans had been skeptical. A small object, perhaps, but surely nothing the size of an asteroid. In any event, could she guarantee her continued presence for the indefinite future, or that of a suitable replacement? She could not. Domyr had decided to continue trusting to its own devices.

Yet it was Theel'dara's very presence which had given Amsul the Idea. And the tracking system had given him the means. He asked himself one simple question: What if ordinary Domyrans could "fly" to other worlds like the Protector herself? Finding the answers to that question now became the focus of his life.

It started with downloads from the tracking system. They produced an immense amount of data – more than the World Eye itself ever had. He used that data to create a virtual reality environment that immersed viewers in a seemingly live experience of their planetary system

It wouldn't be real time, of course. It would be better.

Real-time data was minutes, even hours old, even as it was received. Real-time journeys were a matter of months. But through a combination of real-time data, recorded footage from spacecraft, CGI effects and seamless editing, Amsul's program would take his fellow Domyrans on a journey through their system to see it as it had never been seen before.

It would be more than a movie. Participants would actually seem to be there, flying past distant worlds, delving into the eternal storms of the gas giants, or landing on the rocky or icy planets and moons to walk their alien landscapes. And they could even travel together; through uploaded personal CGI images and sensory networking, they would see, feel and interact with one another.

All proceeds, of course, would accrue to the Interplanetary Syndic, which had jurisdiction over the deep space network and had succeeded to jurisdiction over the World Eye. It would thus have exclusive rights to the program.

III

Westwards of the summit of the Throne of the Gods was an escarpment so steep that none had ever climbed it. The eastern slope was difficult, but at least feasible, and rose from a plateau much like that of Tibet on Earth, and similarly nothing much to look at.

From the top of the escarpment, however, the view was like nothing else on Domyr, perhaps like nothing else in the universe.

On a clear day, one could see the green blur of the plains stretching for a hundred miles and, to the far left, the blue blur of the ocean. On overcast days, the cloud layer shone brightly in the sun. Whatever the weather below, the sky above was blue-black, but against the horizon it was azure, or shades of red and orange when the sun set.

Amsul came here often, which was unusual for his kind. It was dawn this time; the Throne cast its shadow immediately below, and in the distance he could see the retreating terminator, the distant plains emerging from darkness into light. He could not spend more than a few minutes; there was work to be done. For the day he had been preparing for so long was now here.

The domed amphitheater where the honored syndics would soon gather had served as a planetarium and museum for many years. But the exhibits had been moved to storage and the floor cleared. A false floor had been installed above the original, fitted with feedback sensors that would link the neural systems of the Domyrans to the synergistic data network below, link reality with fantasy.

Amsul knew it would work. He had tried it, in private, with Theel'dara. They recorded their images beforehand, and he had then programmed them into the system. They had sat together in the amphitheater as the sensors scanned their motor cortexes, judged how they would experience their chosen environment, and fed the data into their sensory cortexes to create the illusion that they stood together on the airless surface of Massaraksh.

It wasn't reality, of course. Amsul could still breathe, could still talk; he could even fly, which had never been the case in the real world. Other than that one time that Theel'dara had tried to take him flying. He hadn't liked it. He soon became dizzy from the height; he wasn't comfortable being held in her arms, and there was her odor.

But here he was in control. He could join her in soaring above the plains and craters and rills without fear, then drop down to show her one of the ancient lava tubes that proved this had once been a geologically active world. "I had this specially mapped for us," he told her as he led her through it. "Of course, the walls don't glow to light our way in the actual tube."

By mid-morning, the Syndic guests were arriving by tram, in orderly groups, each joining their comrades on the floor below the booth where Amsul would supervise the entire operation. For the present, he and Theel'dara joined the First Speaker of the Congress of Federated Syndics in greeting the guests and making appropriate speeches.

That accomplished, the First Speaker drifted away to hold concourse with his fellow Domyrans. There was to be an unexpected visitor, another human, he told them, and then said no more. He did not seem eager to keep company with Amsul and Theel'dara, and no more eager to meet the mystery guest whose shuttle had just landed.

Perhaps a Kelsorian, Theel'dara thought, although they were not known for paying second visits unless they had established trade relationships. Could it be a Messenger? After all these years? A reprieve? But why would a Messenger arrive by shuttle? It was impossible. Even so, an irrational hope sprang into her heart; with a polite but abrupt word to Amsul, she set off to investigate.

IV

By chance, Theel'dara missed the entrance of the strange figure who, after exchanging a few words with the First Speaker, approached Amsul.

He was human, but nothing like Theel'dara; perhaps kin to some of the Kelsorians he had met so long ago. He was a man with dark brown skin that contrasted sharply with his snow white hair and beard. He wore a red costume with white fur trim and a broad black belt "Master Trader Boris Eristratov," he introduced himself, extending his hand. "I bring the gift of commerce."

Amsul knew of the shaking of hands, of course, and responded according to human custom. But knowing little of human history and culture, the symbolism of the costume and the oddity of a man of African descent bearing a Russian name were lost on him.

"What sort of commerce, and what do you wish with me?"

"I had planned on visiting the capital, but I was informed that your planetary executive would be here today. In any case, your little project seemed more interesting than anything they might have to discuss."

"That would be a matter for the Syndic. But I am surprised that the project would be of such interest. Have you nothing like this, then, on your world?"

"But to have invented it yourself, with no knowledge of what has been done elsewhere. The synergy of recorded and real-time images. And the networking, especially the networking. This sort of thing tends to be a solitary exercise among us, except for-"

"Don't pay any attention to this man," interrupted Theel'dara, who had just returned. Her voice was tinged with anger, born of both ingrained prejudice and immediate disappointment, neither of which Amsul could understand. "Don't have anything to do with him."

"He has expressed interest in the project," Amsul explained.

"He wants you to sell it to him, no doubt. So he can then sell it elsewhere, at an inordinate profit."

"Sell? Profit?" She employed ancient usages with unpleasant connotations.

"Nothing of the sort," said Eristratov, turning away from her with difficulty to continue his focus on Amsul. "We only wish to discuss procuring your services as a consultant. Are you free to travel offworld? Assuming that today's demonstration goes well?"

"I think that I am too old for such travel. From what I have heard of it. In any case, as I have said, it would be a matter for the Syndic to decide."

"You would probably never return," Theel'dara warned. "If they found you to be of use to them, you would not be allowed to return. They would find some excuse. That's the way the Scalantrans play their game."

"Why do you speak so ill of me?" retorted the master trader. "Why do you speak so ill of the League? You of all people!"

"Me of all people? I am a Protector. And you are just the sort that this world needs protection against."

"You wound me! But then, you have already wounded yourself. The story is well known to us by now, and the subject of no little amusement."

"I am not amused by you. And any stories you have heard about me must be entirely apocryphal."

"Quite canonical, actually. Before I embarked on this mission, I made all the necessary preparations. Language and culture files, bought from the Kelsorians (through third parties, of course). The Velorian news and rumor mills. Naturally, I was curious about the assignment of a Protector to a world that needed none. And it didn't take long to find the actual reason -- a matter of presuming on your own status to elevate the status of certain natives in order to scratch an itch, was it not?"

Theel'dara glared at him. "Are the Scalantrans now the arbiters of galactic morality?"

Eristratov burst into laughter. "Of course not," he said. "There's nothing the matter with scratching an itch, whenever or with whomever. But it's a question of discretion for someone in your position. You were supposed to be invisible in your previous assignment; it was a Wild planet, after all."

Amsul could understand nothing of this, and looked vainly to Theel'dara for guidance. She seemed to have forgotten him entirely. Her eyes were only for Eristratov, but she said nothing.

"It's ironic, of course," he continued. "Here you serve openly, and yet there is nobody to scratch your itch. Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink."

"What is this business about scratching, and what does it have to do with water?" Amsul asked Theel'dara.

Eristratov beat her to it. "Having sex," he said.

"Oh," said Amsul, taking in that much, although he still couldn't understand what it had to do with water, or the elevation of natives.

Eristratov was leering at Theel'dara, although Amsul failed to sense it. Facial expressions and body language were not quite the same among his people.

"I am too advanced in age, I know, for enhancement," said Eristratov. "Still, we might have fun scratching each other's itches. A pleasant dalliance. There may be snow on top, but there's still fire down below."

"You are a boor," she told him.

"Of course I'm a boor," he said. "And would you believe it? I already knew this. But then, you yourself are a boor. Or should that be booress? In any case, I think I have what you need at the present moment, so why should two boors not enjoy each other's company? There is gold aboard my shuttle."

The unpleasant odor of her pheromones was in the air. Amsul went into a sneezing fit. Theel'dara turned to him with a look of concern, or perhaps just embarrassment.

"I think I had better deal with this man myself," she said. Without any further explanation, she turned to leave. Eristratov followed – hoping, Amsul supposed, to scratch her itch.

"We'll continue our discussion at a later time," Eristratov called back.

V

Theel'dara and Eristratov eventually rejoined Amsul, looking rather pleased with themselves. The master trader appeared to be positively radiant. Amsul failed to notice; he was in the control booth and things were well underway. He rather resented that the Protector had missed the start of the demonstration, but said nothing.

The elderly Domyran wore the chestbox computer with which he rarely parted. He hated missing any input that he might add to his personal database, and although it was a relatively old and unfashionable model it had served him well. He had tweaked its programs to his taste, taught it to respond to his own voice, created his own elaborate codes.

In the amphitheater below, the Domyrans were doing nothing more than sitting motionless in their assigned seats. It didn't make any sense unless you could watch the monitors that showed them flying across other worlds, walking on their surfaces, horsing around, oohing and ahhing at the experience.

"It's rather as I expected," Amsul said. "They're taking part as collectives."

Indeed, the members of the Central Otsark Forest Products Syndic were all visiting Strodin, the icy moon of the gas giant Arkanar, whereas those from the Coastal Grozhny Wind Vane Energy Syndic had gathered on Qhali, the harsh desert planet next outward from Domyr itself.

"It's very windy on Qhali," Amsul observed, turning to Theel'dara and her new-found friend. "Perhaps that's what attracted them. But I didn't have time to program the wind into the sensorium. They may be disappointed."

"Not necessarily," observed Eristratov, chuckling.

Amsul looked back at the monitor. Two of the Wind Vane people had begun having sex, and others began to take up the idea. Like a chain reaction, it developed into a mass orgy, with multiple and changing partners.

Even Eristratov was speechless. After a few minutes, Theel'dara wondered aloud, "Is this customary?"

"Yes and no," said Amsul. "Usually, these things are planned in advance. A concerted effort to relieve any jealousies and tensions that might otherwise threaten the collective peace of mind. Afterwards, everything returns to normal, and nobody talks about it. But they all feel better."

Matter-of-fact as he was in talking about it, Amsul seemed embarrassed by the erotic display. He returned to monitoring the tracking system, plugging the download leads back into his chestbox.

"Something is not right here," he muttered. "Combine Seven has dropped off the screen."

VI (by Tarot Barnes)

In the scale of things, the Event was not significant.

In the scale of things, even that which caused the Event was not significant.

However, in a universe where the difference between vast and minuscule is comparatively very small, significance is relative.

And local.

The first person to see It was a small child, living in a coastal fishing syndic just south of the planet's equator.

What she saw wasn't much, merely a star whose twinkle went on for a fraction of a second too long. In the time it took her to realize what she had seen, the star returned to normal. In the time it would have taken her to raise her arm to attract her mother's attention, a previously peaceful world was irrevocably changed.

A million hydrogen bombs seemed to explode in the atmosphere. The sound was solid; by the time it hit the ground, it had become an immutable wall of devastation capable of crushing cities.

In that instant the child, her mother, her friends, family simply ceased to exist. The pressure from the explosion would have left an imprint on the continent had the entire tectonic plate not been ripped from the planet's mantle and then dropped microseconds later. All life for thousands of kilometers was extinguished as a tsunami faster than the speed of sound and tall enough to stretch beyond the atmosphere rushed outwards.

Uncountable fathoms beneath the ocean's surface, tremors ripped oceanic vents open and shattered basalt with such force that the kinetic discharge vaporized a thousand cubic kilometers of seawater.

Far above, the air flowed like a tide, washing ever upwards and out into hard vacuum. Then the surge lost momentum; cohesion and gravity rebelled and the atmosphere snapped like an elastic band pulled too far.

Had any been left to hear it, they would have been unable to distinguish between the second wave and the first. Yet the first wave had merely been the harbinger of what was to come. The second was nothing less than a message carried by two hundred million souls.

On what had once been the ocean floor mile wide bubbles of superheated water rushed upwards, pouring entire seas onto a labyrinth of glowing vents in some attempt to quash the lethal gasses that were flowing from their geological prisons by the megaton.

Along with the water, the sweep flushed life. Untold billions perished as the influx crushed, boiled or vaporized them. Those who weren't killed instantly by the onslaught were slaughtered by the gasses dissolved in the turbulent surges.

Beyond all this, a Planetary Quake broke apart the ground. Viewed from space it appeared as a mere flicker that foretold the death of mountains and collapse of canyons. Far behind, an army moved at an unimaginable pace.

Eating up land, this army was constructed, not of flesh and bone, but rather dirt, rocks, ice, and fire. Beneath the giga-storm, green land liquefied and turned into churning brown mud. The wave of destruction expanded, consuming the planet's surface with such fury that it stripped soil to the rocks.

In the oceans the vast Quake continued to shatter continental shelves, releasing torrents of fire into the aquatic depths and churning seemingly impossible volumes of water into gigantic cyclical disks, tens, occasionally hundreds or even thousands of kilometers across.

When these eventually reached the surface, they would swirl the skies into storms unseen since before the last great extinction. These Hypercanes would ravage lands and devour species. Yet as mighty as they were, each would be swallowed like particles of sand in the megalithic maelstrom.

On those lands that this greater devastation had not yet touched, the seas rose to overrun dams, dykes and coastal defenses as if they weren't there. They swirled over beaches and collapsed geological basins to fall in torrential waterfalls whose splash carved rippled channels hundreds of meters deep in the ground below.

Nearly half a planet had been destroyed, more than a quarter obliterated. And yet few on the far side of the destruction knew about it. In spite of their advanced technology the disaster swept over most of them before they knew it was there.

Those who had access to the satellites, and happened to be tuned in to them, knew. But they couldn't come to terms, couldn't allow themselves to see what was unfolding before them. They looked at the expanding cloud of devastation and failed to accept that more than half their species was either dead, or trapped beneath a suffocating blanket, awaiting the inevitable.

Barely ten minutes had passed. That which had caused the disaster sped away unaware of what it had wrought. Barely larger than a finger, the fragment had once been part of a star. It had remained that way for millennia while forces beyond mortal comprehension gradually worked it away from its surroundings.

Caught in the intense magnetically-focused energy beam of a pulsar, powerful enough to rip apart suns, the Fragment had eventually been accelerated away from its parent at relativistic speed. Like a cannonball shot across a battlefield, it had no comprehension of what it did. It merely was.

During the ages-long flight through the cosmos, it had seen more of the universe and caused more destruction than an Arion armada. In its wake, stars had gone nova, planets had been ripped apart, moons torn from their orbits or dropped onto the worlds below.

Yet in spite of all this, the incident was unique. Never had it killed before. The sheer abundance of empty worlds worked for the Fragment and its passage had gone unnoticed by history. Now things had changed, it had not only killed, it was killing on a global scale. The merest touch of its influence had signaled Domyr's death as surely as if it had struck the world head-on.

The Fragment continued on its journey. Part of a universe that neither loves nor hates, but is mercilessly impartial.

VII

"A system error, no doubt," said Theel'dara, of the apparent disappearance of the mining combine.

"Our systems do not err," Amsul insisted. "This system, in particular, never errs. There are too many redundancies."

"Famous last words," interjected Eristratov, who had somehow managed to follow their conversation while also talking with his mother ship by comlink. Then, suddenly, his face became a mask of amazement and panic.

"The world is on fire!" he exclaimed. "The world is on fire!

Although they could hear nothing, the crowd below was stirring. Hundreds of comlinks were bearing the same message.

There was a visible reaction among the Domyrans who had a moment before been cavorting offworld as their fantasy selves. On the nearest monitor, those fantasy selves that were now frozen in time and space, whereas their real-life counterparts in the amphitheater were twitching in their seats.

"What is happening?" asked Theel'dara asked.

"This cannot be happening," moaned Amsul, as the data streams from space flooded into his mind, into his chestbox.

"It's spreading!" exclaimed Eristratov, still glued to his comlink. If his dark skin could have turned white, it would have.

Amsul sat paralyzed. On the monitors, the fantasy images had vanished as the Domyrans below had cut their links to the system. They had gotten up from their seats, were milling around, and evidently on the verge of panic, still trying to take it all in.

"What is happening?" Theel'dara practically shouted at Amsul.

Amsul turned to her sadly. "We are dead men. All of us. It would take longer to tell you why than we have to live."

"Could it be an Arion attack?" she demanded. "Here?"

"No one is attacking us but the universe itself," he cried. "It is all here," he added, gesturing to his chestbox. "But no one else will ever know. Unless-"

"We must leave immediately," said Eristratov, who had somehow recovered possession of himself. "My ship will wait for us."

"I have my duty," said Theel'dara. "My mission as Protector demands-"

"There is nothing you can do," wailed Amsul. "Were there a thousand of you, were there a million, you could still do nothing. Perhaps those in space can be saved, but only if someone brings word. You must bear witness."

"Bear witness to what?"

Eristratov was listening to his ship. "We have only seven minutes at best."

Still, Theel'dara hesitated.

Below, the panicky Domyrans appeared to have reached a consensus. Arms began gesturing towards the booth. The first speaker of the Wind Vane Energy Syndic had somehow found a microphone.

"She has brought this upon us!" he screamed as he pointed. "The demon lady and her acolyte!"

Others took up the cry; Theel'dara could tell that, even if she could not hear the individual voices. These were the people she had been assigned to protect, but she could not protect them. Even if she could have, they would not have allowed her. She and the terror-stricken natives alike were helpless.

As an angry mob rushed to storm the booth, Eristratov talked into his comlink, grabbed a breather, put it on. Theel'dara, finally moved to action, grabbed another, practically forced it on her supposed acolyte. They rushed out of the booth, down a hallway. No time to cycle the lock; the Protector simply smashed through it.

As the air rushed out of the building, she knew that it was death to those left behind. It was a kinder death than they faced otherwise, but she did not think about that: only about the shuttle that was the only hope of escape for those who had suddenly become her charges.

The shuttle was waiting at the landing stage. The pilot had opened the lock for them. But there was more bad news: only three minutes left, and the pilot didn't think he could finish warming up the engines in time.

"Get in, strap down," Theel'dara said decisively. "I'll get us into space."

As the lock closed, she scrambled to grab hold of the docking attachment on top of the shuttle. Gently, she had to remind herself as she began to lift the craft. They're done for if you tear off the attachment.

There was pressure building in the atmosphere, even at this extreme altitude, as Theel'dara rose, bearing the shuttle and its precious cargo. She had only moments to spare before the terrible wave of destruction reached the Throne of the Gods.

The land itself rippled in the distance as the underlying bedrock shifted, but that rippling took only a minute to reach the Throne. The winds driven before it had already scoured the summit of all the works of the Domyrans, but hardly had the first tectonic wave reached it than another from the opposite direction around the world arrived.

Like an irresistible force meeting an immovable object, the waves simply passed through each other and continued on their way. Carried by winds that could be measured only in thousands of kilometers per hour, an impenetrable cloud of dust enveloped the mountain. But by then, Theel'dara had brought the shuttle clear of the atmosphere.

Was the cloud rising, or the mountain sinking? Probably both. She could not tell, had not really been able to pay attention. Her eyes were needed elsewhere: to scan the heavens in the right direction, to locate, zoom in on and lock on the Scalantran ship.

It was something she had never done before. But her eyes served her well, and her course was true.

VIII

The Scalantran ship was officially Probe 57, but Eristratov insisted on calling it, in bastardized German-Russian, the Sankt Kommersant. By whatever name, it was a small vessel by the standards of the League, designed only for contact missions.

Its complement numbered a bare half dozen; besides Eristratov, these were the chief pilot, the shuttle pilot, the astrogator, the engineer and a mate who saw to meals and other necessaries. Most of the space, other than the shuttle bay, was devoted to now useless introductory trade goods.

The Scalantrans had once been strictly a race and, on their great trading ships, they still were. But over the last few centuries, they had taken on Adopts from other species for passenger ships and probes, and those who represented the Scalantran League aboard the Sankt Kommersant were a polyglot bunch. Eristratov and the mate Hawley Sibthorpe were the only Terrans; the chief pilot Kor Estis was a born Scalantran, dark red like all his kind, but whose creased and swarthy face conveyed the impression of constant anger to any human who didn't know better. Or perhaps he did harbor a festering resentment; Theel'dara and Amsul had no way of knowing it, but he must have been disowned by his clan or he would not be serving alone here without access to a mate group.

The shuttle pilot Devrash was an Indran, tall and skinny with multi-colored scales like those of a Terran snake or lizard, although she was nothing like a reptile in any other respect. The arachnoid astrogator, whose name nobody else aboard could pronounce and was thus called simply Spidey, came from a race whose name nobody could pronounce either, so they called him a Pact, as if he were kin to the Pactrellians, even though he was an oxygen breather. And the engineer....

The engineer, to Theel'dara's discomfiture, was a kintz.

"She's perfectly tame," said Eristratov. "As a matter of fact, she's wanted on her own planet for desertion in time of war, an activity for which she had no taste. One thing that seems to unite all of us is that there's no accounting for taste. In any case, she's a good engineer, and she'll have us ready for departure in short order. Won't you, Ashotour?

The cat-like Ashotour purred in the affirmative, and headed for the drive room. The drive room could be a dangerous place to work, and was therefore well-suited to hardy races like the kintzi.

Theel'dara should have been relieved to see Ashotour go, but she was not. She was still in shock. Eristratov talked as if he and his crew were oblivious to the horror they had just escaped. "Survivor guilt profits us not," he insisted. "Neither is it of any profit to the Domyrans of the combines. We must carry on, and hope that our appeals here and in the Enlightenment will be heeded."

Amsul had already broadcast a last message to any surviving Domyrans of the mining combines, advising them to assemble their ships in orbit around Strodin and await rescue there. He also sent a message burst that, unstuffed, would explain to them what had befallen their world.

"Oh comrades, be comrades, even in this desperate hour!" he appealed to them. "Domyr shall live again, in spirit, on some world, somewhere. Believe it. We have friends in far places. You do not know them yet, but you shall. Wait for them. Wait for our return. Wait and hope."

He still thought of hope, but Theel'dara could feel only the bitter taste and crushing weight of defeat. She was a Protector, and she had failed to protect. She knew the feeling was irrational, but she could not shake it.

"You saved me," Amsul had insisted. "You saved Eristratov. Together we may yet save what is left of our kind. You have done what you could. No blame attaches."

No blame... and no understanding. Had she faced death in combat with a Tset'lar, she would at least known what she faced, known her chances, known a course of action that might have saved her life and those of whomever it might be her duty to protect. But there was no place for a "pulsar cannon" in her ethical universe; such a thing denied the very foundation of that universe.

Her strength and invulnerability had meant nothing here. She could have easily survived the holocaust on Domyr, she who could bathe in the fires of its sun. But to what end? She could have carried a few other Domyrans from the doomed Throne of the Gods. But carried them where? And even if there had been others of her kind, it was as Amsul had said: a thousand or a million would have been equally helpless.

Surely they two were not the only ones to be torn emotionally. For all his show of detachment, Eristratov had not looked back at Domyr. Neither had the rest of his crew. There was nothing to see, really: what had once been a blue and green planet was now mostly brown, with spots of grey or black. Beneath the smoke and dust was an inferno; Chief Pilot Estis had known that from his sensors at the outset, when he had warned Eristratov that the world was burning...

Her thoughts were interrupted. Amsul had returned to her side, no sign of hope or any other emotion on his face.

"I should be insane by now," he remarked blankly. "Any true Domyran would be."

"But you must be strong for them, your comrades-"

"I am not a comrade in their eyes. I never was."

IX

He had been only an infant, he explained, when his syndic's factory trawler had gone down after a mysterious explosion. That was what his mother had later told him; he was too young to understand.

The authorities had assumed that all hands were lost, that the syndic itself was lost but for the maintenance crew left on shore. They did not know that Isha and her son had made it to an uninhabited island that was assigned to a wilderness preserve. Nobody came looking for them.

At an age when other Domyran children were learning not only speech but the wordless language of social bonding, Amsul had no company but his mother, the wildlife, the sun and the stars. Isha provided for herself and for him as best she could, but her loneliness eventually drove her to insanity. She imagined that the animals were her lost comrades, and had long conversations with them.

Years later, they were found, during a routine research mission. But it was too late. Isha was hopelessly insane, and had to be put down. As for Amsul, he knew words, but only words. Like a feral child isolated too long to acquire language, he could not learn the rest. He could not truly read his fellows, could not follow the subtle nuances of body language which, in concert with verbal language, shaped the sense of community, allowed each member to sense the needs of the community, contribute to balance and consensus.

"They could have put me down, too; but they showed mercy," he explained to Theel'dara. "They thought I might still be useful, and I made every effort to be useful."

Left with only the company of the stars during his long marooning, he'd naturally developed an interest in and aptitude for astronomy. He had since done well in school and at the Institute, and his handicap had ironically proven an advantage. When he was posted to the World Eye, he had no social or emotional ties below. He could endure devoting nearly all his days to his work at the Throne of the Gods, whereas his colleagues required periodic rotation to warmer emotional climes.

It was Amsul who first began to systematically identify and catalog planets of other stars, a subject that had been of no great interest to his fellows. Some of the nearby planetary systems might harbor life like their own, he suggested. He was wrong, but his work led to the first interstellar probes. Intelligence and industry had at last advanced him to the post of Chief Astronomer.

Through it all, he worked with his colleagues and with the World Physics Syndic in a professional manner. But he was essentially alone. He was attached to the Syndic, but was not truly a member if it. His colleagues respected him, or at least his work, but they were never truly his comrades.

Then, after the arrival of the aliens and their knowledge, there was no longer any great work to be done in his profession. He was no longer useful to the world, however much he wanted to be. By rights, he might still have been put down, but the authorities never sought that. It would have been unseemly, given his past contributions.

So Amsul was suffered to live out what remained of his life. If he was of no real use, he was no great burden. There were, of course, no complications. He had no wife, no children, no family.

Theel'dara had been shocked by this last.

"But don't you see?" he asked. "No woman could or would have me, because of my handicap. Except for the sisters of the Surrogates Syndic. It was their work to teach the arts of sexual intercourse to adolescents. But they took no pleasure with me as they did with others, so I requested medicine. To take away the desire. I have not needed it for some years now, since even before you came."

Had Amsul been human, Theel'dara could have offered him the solace of her body. But his very body chemistry denied him that, even if he had otherwise been capable of sharing her gift. The thought made her feel more helpless than ever.

Amsul could sense that she was distressed.

"Please do not feel badly," he said. "You have been a good 'friend,' my only 'friend'." He used the human word, which had a different context than its nearest Domyran equivalent.

"And yet you never told me any of this."

Theel'dara thought back on their conversations over the years. Amsul had talked endlessly about his work, about the geological history of Domyr and the other planets and moons of its system, about the evolution of life, the origin and fate of the universe. But never about himself, save for the joy of discovery that had blessed him during his youth.

Her own conversation had been of distant worlds, distant peoples, distant times, distant wars. He was fascinated by it, and often appalled. It was past his understanding what some of these peoples lived for, let alone what they fought and killed for, from control of wealth to control of genetics.

The Kelsorians, Amsul had told her, had been different. Like him, they seemed to be motivated only by the love of knowledge and the thrill of discovery. They had chosen their headquarters world, they explained, for its exotic nature, which they considered supremely beautiful although no one else shared that assessment.

They seemed to disdain the racial purity so dear, he later learned, to Velor and Aria. They welcomed non-humans into their ranks, and the humans came in all sizes, shapes and colors. One of them, he recalled, had resembled Theel'dara, although she had seemed to him at the time no more remarkable than the others. He might not have remembered her so many years later, save for that resemblance. Was it possible that she was Velorian?

Theel'dara had said she doubted it, although in truth she had her suspicions, a bit of gossip she had heard once at the Institute. As for herself, she had never shared with Amsul anything beyond the sketchiest accounts of her life on Velor, her training as a Protector; still less the embarrassments that had brought her here.

"I could see that you had your own pain, although I could not understand it," Amsul said after a few moments. "I did not wish to burden you with mine. Nor did I wish to disrespect my kind by sharing with you what I could not share with them. There was no necessity."

She took his hand, held it. She could think of nothing else. She could see that he was tired beyond tiredness. She held his hand – a sign of her presence, nothing more than that – until sleep claimed him.

X

"How many people are we talking about on the combines, and how long can they hold out?" Theel'dara had asked Amsul shortly after they'd boarded the Sankt Kommersant.

"About 3,000," he said. Then he'd consulted his chestbox. "To be exact, 3,079 at last count, on 21 ships. There have been some births and deaths since then, no doubt."

"Births? They have children aboard?"

"Where else would they be? The combines are homes as well as mines and factories. As for how long they can survive, it varies from ship to ship as far as on-board stores are concerned, depending on how long they've been out. Several months, at least, up to a year. More, if they convert their ore bays and smelting rooms to hydroponics."

"Growing food on board. I understand. Perhaps they could--"

"There are still limits. Limits to recycling. Gradual loss of air and water. Whatever they have, they will share equally; that is one reason for them to gather at Strodin. They will lose some air and water during transfers of stores among them, but perhaps they can devise a means of replenishing them from the ice of Strodin without too much expenditure of energy. That is another reason for sending them there."

"They might hold out indefinitely, if what you say is so."

"Such things I could calculate, given more data than I have at hand. But I cannot calculate the effects of prolonged isolation, the constant awareness of a homeworld that is dead while they live, that they can see but never return to. Worse than any loss of resources, at some point, will be the loss of hope."

Theel'dara conveyed Amsul's estimate of the situation to Eristratov. They were continuing the affair that had begun that terrible morning, although it was impossible to be discreet about it. The trader was hardly a Messenger, but he was a man. A man in need of comfort as well as release – the more so now, whether he admitted it or not.

As for herself, she could never have imagined, before her exile, of going so long without a man of any kind. She had been enraged at first by the injustice of it; over the years, that rage had faded to dull resentment. She had become auto-erotic. Beyond the soon too familiar strength of her fingers, she had resort to the usual alternatives, from hardened steel sex toys to the lava pools. But they could never make up for the touch of another human.

She could share nothing of this with Eristratov, still less admit to him how she fantasized he that was a young stud, even a Messenger, as they embraced. There was no true emotional intimacy between them, and they would argue during interludes between sex. Knowing no better, entranced beyond reason by her body and her pheromones, he took her combativeness for a come-on, and even encouraged it.

"It is difficult and dangerous work to maintain trade among thousands of civilized worlds," he remarked during the third day of their journey. "Many of them hostile to one another, after all, such as the Enlightenment's and..."

He saw the look in Theel'dara's eyes, relished it, but feigned otherwise.

"Well, that's neither here nor there," he continued. "What I am trying to say is that we of League provide valuable services which no other agency is willing to provide. Without us, there would be no traffic or trade among worlds other than within their own systems. Navigating wormholes is a risky business, as you are surely aware; it would otherwise be done only by such as yourselves and your warships."

"You are forgetting the Kelsorians," Theel'dara reminded him.

"Their efforts are pure research and technology, and they profit inordinately through keeping the secret of a star drive developed centuries ago. The end of the matter is that we are the ones who work hard and take serious risks, whether from your wars or the natural hazards of interstellar travel. For taking these risks, we insist on taking a profit, which would not seem unreasonable to you if you were aware of the extent of the losses we often suffer."

"You are taking no risks with us. Other than what we have already survived."

"And I am taking no profit."

The next day, they reached the wormhole.

XI

There was nothing to see, really, except for the beacons left by the Old Galactics that marked the proper vector of approach. The wormhole itself showed only as a patch of darkness that grew as they neared it. But now it was time to withdraw the scanners and close the shutters over them; such delicate instruments could never have survived the passage.

Everything depended on the beacons, their computer the Vendorian steel hull of their ship, and the shielding. There were pilots who could plot their own courses through wormholes, but Estis was not one of them. Theel'dara could have guided herself through, as she had when she came to Domyr; Protectors and Messengers were trained to feel the right path. But she could never have directed the Sankt Kommersant.

The first sign that they had entered the wormhole was the sense of pressure that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Without input from the scanners, there was no sense of location, no sense of direction, but for the vector that showed on the computer screen. They felt a slight dizziness. Then came the ominous creaking, not unlike that once experienced by submarines nearing their depth limits.

Amsul clutched at Theel'dara for comfort, ignoring her odor, something he had never done before.

Eristratov saw the Domyran’s distress.

"This is quite normal," he assured Amsul. "What you are feeling and hearing is only our adjustment to the gravity field. A minor leakage in the shielding. If anything were going wrong, I would not be here to tell you, nor you to hear."

It was true. The sounds ceased after a few minutes; not long afterwards, the Sankt Kommersant emerged into what the redeployed scanners revealed as a new starfield – one that Amsul had never seen before. The brightest stars in this region had been pinpoints to the World Eye.

Even so, after a reading from the ship’s own scanners, he was able to identify the spectrum of the brightest in the archives of his chestbox. He searched for others, lost in the wonder of it all, able for the moment to put the tragedy that brought him here out of mind.

Theel’dara had seen these stars before, and they held no interest for her.

"How long until we reach Moslow?"

"A week," said Eristratov.

"And Velor?"

"It depends on the connections. And your credit."

"Does anyone question the credit of the Enlightenment?"

"They might question yours. Especially if they suspect that you have left your post without being recalled. Which is almost certain to be the case."

"I wanted to do well. I did. As well as any Protector could have."

"They will know only that you left Domyr. We can tell them why, but they may not believe us. Scalantrans are not held in high esteem among your kind."

"Deservedly so," said Theel’dara, and instantly regretted it. She mumbled her apologies, but she could tell that the conversation was over.

There was worse to come, later, when she confided in Amsul.

"They never really accepted me, did they?" she asked.

"They had no choice but to accept you. They feared to do anything else."

"I never gave them reason."

"Your very existence was reason. Where there was one of you, there must be others. Perhaps you coveted our world, and if you did, we would have been helpless against you. And there were your enemies, the Arions. You might draw them to our system. That was what the Wind Vane syndics must have thought had happened, at the end."

Theel’dara choked back a bitter laugh.

"There was never a chance of that. None. I was sent here precisely because there was no danger to your world."

"But you told the Congress--"

"I lied. It seemed a small lie, to warn of a small danger. But it was a lie, just the same. I wanted them to think that my presence was… necessary."

"Yet it was. You performed rescues. Saved hundreds, over the years."

"In vain, as it turns out."

"You could not have foreseen that. All that matters is that you cared enough to make yourself useful."

"It is not the business of Protectors to be ‘useful.’ Not in that sense. Had Domyr been a Wild world, it would have violated our Prime Directive against interference in your affairs. Such violations are often tolerated elsewhere, but that was not an issue with your world. The Kelsorians had already opened it by telling you about us."

"Still, your heart was in your service to us."

"Do you think so? What do you know of my heart? Can you imagine how often I longed for more disasters, how I even wished there were violent crime or wars among you, so that I could show my power and be admired for it? There was nothing else to do here, except die of boredom. You were the only one to speak to me, except for the officials at formal occasions like the ceremonies honoring their Lady."

She could see the pain in Amsul’s face, wishing she could take back her words. He said nothing for a minute, and then:

"We had Ladies once. And Lords. Long ago. Before the syndics. When there were still warring tribes, and the war chiefs would overstay their wars to cling to power in time of peace. They feared that you were as one of those ancient Ladies, come to trouble us again. They sought to propitiate you."

"I should have suspected as much. So I was a failure, even in my missions of mercy."

"No blame attaches," Amsul told her again, knowing that it was scant comfort, if any at all, but knowing nothing else to say.

XII

It was the children of the Domyran combines who were the first to suffer. The adults could at least understand what had happened. But what could parents tell their children, children who were still dutifully studying the history and culture of a world that no longer existed?

Every Domyran was raised to think and feel himself a working part of that history and culture. The teaching materials might have changed over the centuries; from books to tapes to disks to cubes – but the essence remained the same. It was that essence which was now threatened. Children might become defective, begin to egoize.

It had begun with the message from an unknown voice that had been traced to an alien ship leaving the system. First Speaker Darfur had disbelieved that message at first, but the Chief Navigator Kanem of his own combine had quickly convinced him.

"Our own observations confirm those in the message burst," Kanem had told him. "The effects on the outer planets that the object later passed are exactly as predicted. It was a natural catastrophe and not some sort of alien attack. I do not dispute the matter. Neither should you."

The first speaker had understood. It would be difficult enough to reach a sense of the meeting, in face of such an unprecedented event, if there were any dispute as to the nature of the event. Such a disagreement, if it were allowed to arise, would have ample time to fester before a virtual mass meeting could take place.

With some of the combines still light hours apart, it would be impossible to hold such a meeting for some time. In light of the situation, he had therefore taken it upon himself to persuade – he could not exactly order – the combines to gather around Strodin as the voice from the alien ship had advised.

Like Kanem, the crew chiefs of the other combines did not dispute the matter, and the mining and production workers and their families had not disputed it either. But as word reached the children, some of them began to question their elders.

Why were the combines acting without consensus? It was an emergency, they were told. They could understand that, as the extent of the calamity sank in on them; but why were they setting course for Strodin, rather than Domyr? They still could not quite believe that their homeworld was dead, that there was no one left to be saved there. And what authority, they wondered, did a nameless voice have to choose their destination? .

At his office in the Wheel, Darfur himself pondered the same question. Nobody knew the identity of the voice. If it had been the first speaker of the World Congress, or any of his deputies, or anyone at all acting in an official capacity, he would surely have identified himself. And if he were not, how had he come to escape the catastrophe when none else had?

Darfur had only the truth of the voice’s analysis to rely on. He had shut down his own combine’s mining and processing operations, and had the immense ship turn about to make course for Strodin. The other combines had respected his position and done the same, although he had spent anxious hours awaiting confirmation from the most distant.

The voice had promised rescue, even a new world for the Domyrans. How could anyone make such a promise? How could anyone dare hold out such hope? From what the Kelsorians had said so long ago, the universe beyond their system did not in the least seem kindly or altruistic. The other alien who styled herself a Protector had confirmed that impression by her title and her alleged mission.

Yet what other hope was there? They could make what provisions they could to survive as long as they could. Darfur had already begun planning for food production, and advised the other combines to do likewise. They must all make the best use of whatever resources they had. Organics were more precious than metal now, and if some combines were short – well, they’d have to find a way to share. It wouldn’t be easy, and there were limits to what they could do. He dreaded the coming meeting.

XIII

They had to leave the Sankt Kommersant at Moslow. It was not Eristratov’s ship, after all, only one assigned to him for the mission. Whenever it went on another mission, under whomever, it would doubtless revert to Probe 57. Unless the next master trader was imaginative.

Moslow was a frigid world with a thin atmosphere, orbiting a dim red dwarf called Carldon so closely that the star, small as it was, hung fat and bloated in the sky. It could never have supported life, but during its formative stage, it had accumulated on its surface a greasy hydrocarbon sludge that proved a valuable resource for production of food and chemicals. This was Moslow’s only resource, save for its location.

Amsul alone took any interest in the stellar system. He sat for hours by a picture window, watching the slow evolution of sunspots on Carldon, easily visible to the naked eye against the dull glow of the disk, and the slow movement of prominences against its blurred edge. He was fascinated even by the contrast in Carldon’s light where it fell on the few outcrops of rock that poked through the surface sludge.

Eristratov was continuing in the same direction as Theel’dara and Amsul. His crewmen were due leave, but he was expected to report to his regional office as soon as possible. The Protector and her ward had urgent cause to be on their way, so they all took passage on the next ship out. So did Estis and, oddly enough, Ashotour. The others were willing to await passage on other vessels to whatever they considered pleasanter climes – which would not be the same for each of them.

Theel’dara was thinking of more than the climes. She was thinking of her mission, a mission that she had not chosen and yet had been laid on her, like a geas. She could not endure another failure, would not; it was as if not only Amsul himself but the Domyrans of the combines, people she had never even met, were watching her. She seemed to feel their presence, waiting to see if she could become in fact what she was in name: a Protector. For that, she could endure much.

It would not be advisable, she told Eristratov, somehow convincing him that it had been his own idea, for them to continue as lovers on this leg of the journey. Nor would it be advisable for him to underwrite her passage, or that of Amsul. Here they were all under scrutiny, and it might compromise his position to be on intimate terms with a Velorian. The Protector and her strange companion must appear to be traveling on their own, as far as the captain and crew were concerned.

A rat-faced steward – womps had that look – reminded her and Amsul that they were fortunate to have been taken on board at all. The Takhmasib was a commercial vessel, after all, and they had no account with the League, no credit but the good will of the Enlightenment, which might not be of much value here, given that they could show no documentation that they were on official business.

The Domyran and the Protector must needs share accommodations, and they were hardly first-class: their cabin was cramped and spartan, hardly bigger than a utility closet. There was a narrow bunk, a small basin and toilet against the wall, and nothing more. Amsul looked blankly at the cabin, and at Theel’dara. "I’ll take the floor," she volunteered.

Amsul slept fitfully that first time after bunking down.

He dreamed again of a day long, long ago, when he had been working on his first class project: a small telescope. He had put a great deal of work into it, so engrossed that he had failed to notice how poorly built the projects of most of the other children were. They thought it odd that he should build a telescope, rather than something related to their syndic, like a small boat or a miniature fishing net.

Came the day to turn in their projects, their teacher had assembled the class outside, glanced at each of the projects approvingly, but without comment, then casually tossed them on a pile. Amsul, who had always been treated politely by the other children but couldn’t quite connect with them, was the only one who didn’t realize what the purpose of the whole thing was, until the teacher brought a canister of fuel and a box of lighters from the school’s utility closet.

"We are each of small account, and the things we each make are of small account," the teacher chanted as she poured the fuel and handed the lighters to the children. "But together, we are of great account. Together we are made whole. Today we become whole."

As his eager classmates lit the fire, Amsul stood there heartbroken, the lighter dangling from his hand. The others didn’t notice until they heard him sobbing uncontrollably. They looked at him without comprehension, and then with disgust.

"But how could you not know?" the teacher asked him later. "How could you not know?"

Amsul subsequently took part of the first collective project of the class, the real project. He worked hard at it, and made a real contribution. The others accepted his ideas without comment when they were good ideas, but they never made either his work or himself feel welcome. It was as if there were an invisible barrier between him and the rest of his people.

Theel’dara too slept fitfully.

She dreamed that she was sharing a lava pool with a lover, but not on Domyr. It was just – somewhere. Some world she was supposed to protect. But she was focused only on her lover. A Messenger. She could not seem to make out his face, but she knew he was beautiful. And indefatigable. Fueled by the energy of the molten rock, they could pleasure each other without pause for days, weeks.

A massive volcanic eruption beneath them only fueled their passion; they neither knew nor cared that it was the beginning of an upheaval that spread around the globe. As they embraced ever more frantically, as they climaxed again and again, a torrent of fire and ash rained down on the rest of the world – annihilating millions and then billions. As they reached ples’tathy, they were the only living beings left.

She came awake with a start; her hand was between her legs. Above her on the bunk, Amsul was also awake. He was coughing and sneezing uncontrollably; he couldn’t manage to speak, but she knew what was happening.

"I’m sorry," she said, getting to her feet. "I’m sorry."

She left their cabin, paced the corridor back and forth. She was disturbed by her dream, even terrified; and yet she still needed to relieve herself. She finally found a utility room that suited her purpose. Afterwards, she used a cleaning cloth of some kind to wipe away her juices, tried to subdue her pheromones enough for Amsul to suffer her presence without discomfort.

XIV

Their luck ran out, three wormholes and nine weeks later, at Tarot’s World, which as the regional headquarters of the League, was Eristratov’s last stop.

Tarot’s World was nothing like Moslow. Fourth out from its O-type primary, which shone blue in its sky, its magnetic field and ionosphere were sufficient to shield the surface against the worst radiation. It had one thing in common with Domyr: a low axial tilt that made for smaller oceans than on Earth, seasonal ice caps and mild winters.

As such, Tarot’s World was a hedonist’s paradise, which appealed as much to the Scalantrans as its strategic location at the nexus of a number of trade routes. That strategic location might also have made it a target for aggression; Freehold worlds were often seen as fair game. But even the Arions knew better that to risk the displeasure of the League, on which most of the Empire’s own trade now depended.

While Tarot’s World was host to a Velorian legation and an Arion consulate, it was the Scalantrans who pulled the strings through their regional office. Eristratov knew this, so he passed Theel’dara and Amsul as well as Kor Estis and Ashotour through Customs as part of his crew for an upcoming trip. The Tarotian officials, beholden to the League, took his word for it.

But he suspected that, once he had presented his official mission report, his word might not count for much. So, after settling the others in a hostel at Barnes Spaceport, he set out to do what was necessary.

The first thing he did was to head for the nearest bank machine and transfer all his credit from electronically from a Scalantran bank to a Velorian institution. The second thing he did was to visit a discreet dealer and convert a substantial part of that credit into portable form: Questen’els and Tetrite rose crystals. The third thing he did was to visit the red light district, which was here quite legal and aboveboard.

The most famed bordello on Tarot’s World, nay even the entire region, was called simply B. It was owned, operated and staffed by Betan emigrés. Betans were prized for their beauty, strength and stamina. They might not be invulnerable to heavy artillery, but heavy action in bed was never a problem for them. They could not only name their own price, but name their own clients. Admission requirements could be as rigorous as those for universities.

With blonde wigs, they could and did indulge fantasies of making it with Vels. Eristratov, oddly, had never been into that, or at least never admitted it. He wasn’t going to now, either. Theel’dara had been like a bolt out of the blue; he knew that he’d never have had a chance with a true Vel, let alone a Protector, under any ordinary circumstances. Whether or not she succeeded in her mission, he would probably never have such a chance with her again. But he could hope….

Xemissa, by contrast, was a known factor, a constant. He knew he could count on her to welcome him whenever he made port at Tarot’s World, and knew that she enjoyed his company and his ministrations. "It’s a business doing pleasure with you," he’d kidded her after their first encounter. "And a pleasure doing business with you," she’d told him. He had passed the test, and had been blissfully content with that until…

Like her fellow courtesans, Xemissa entertained her clients in an elegant glass-walled boudoir. The polarized glass could be darkened or cleared at the touch of a button; if a client wanted to have sex under the open sky, or even in full view of the world, his wish was granted. Xemissa always kept the glass darkened for him, save at night when they’d couple under the stars.

She met him this particular day wearing a leopard skin bikini. It was real, from an animal killed in a licensed hunting park a few hundred kilometers away: She thus indulged the master trader’s fantasy of a black man making it with a white jungle queen, complete with holographic props. These weren’t entirely authentic, but as Eristratov had never been to Africa, it didn’t matter.

Only the old fantasy had lost its appeal. Now he imagined Xemissa as Theel’dara, as his Velorian goddess. He didn’t tell her, of course; if he was more energetic than usual, she attributed it to his long absence and her own undeniable skills. After they’d had their fill of each other, Eristratov asked leave to use her terminal, explaining only that he was concerned about some friends he had made on his last mission.

He turned away politely as she entered her codes, then sat down to begin his search. It took only moments to learn that Theel’dara had been placed on a watch list since her exile. Should she return to any world of the Enlightenment, unless recalled, she was to be considered a deserter. She was not to be afforded aid or assistance of any kind, and, if possible, should be taken into custody. Velor itself was to be notified by the next outgoing ship, or the next outgoing Messenger.

The Factor General’s office was aware of the watch order, but had word been passed down? It was standard operating procedure, as a matter of security, to handle such communications off the web, by message capsules delivered personally. Eristratov said as much when he delivered the news to Theel’dara at the hostel.

Her face sank. She had counted on at least having a chance to make her case at Velor. But she could not approach the legation, or seek passage on any ship bound for Velor. What could she say now? Amsul said it for her.

"We must go to Kelsor 7," he declared. "They will know of me, for I met with their exploration team at length when they first came to Domyr. I will explain things to them, and they will explain to Velor. Surely their word will be honored on your world."

"In all respects scientific," Theel’dara agreed, not mentioning that Velor had little to do with them in any other respect. But when they approached the Takhmasib, it was soon clear that the Scalantrans wanted even less to do with the Kelsorians, or with them.

"We shall not take you to Kelsor 7," Captain Yngvi Arnoldson informed her, after she had explained the situation. "It is not on our schedule, or that of any other League vessel. We have no love for the Kelsorians, nor they for us. In any case, there is no profit to be made there."

Hoping to bluff her way through, Theel’dara assumed the Stance prescribed by the Compact for Protectors on such occasions. "Top emergency," she declared.

"Your reputation is known to us," Arnoldson retorted. "Furthermore, you have deserted your post as Protector. You are in no position to declare any degree of emergency, whatever the technicalities of the Compact. No doubt word of events at Domyr will reach Kelsor 7, and even Velor, by other means."

"I have deserted nothing. Domyr no longer exists as a viable post, but there may yet be a sufficient number of survivors for its race to continue. Time is of the essence, for them and therefore for us. Furthermore, the nature of the event that led to the destruction of their world is of utterly urgent concern to all high-intelligence life forms. We have promised our assistance. That is why I am here. My companion can attest to all of this. I say again, Top Emergency."

Arnoldson looked briefly at Amsul, who cowered at his glance. Then back at Theel’dara.

"Your companion is even more pathetic than yourself."

"I could take your ship by force, as you well know."

"But could you pilot it? Could you guide it safely through the wormholes? None of my men will assist you in any manner."

"I could squash them like bugs. I could squash you."

"But you will not. You will do none of the things you threaten. Even such a fool as yourself must realize the consequences."

Theel’dara realized the consequences. Such a violation of the Compact would bring down the wrath of the entire Scalantran League. A trade embargo would be the least Velor could expect.

"Such a louse," Eristratov told them when they met again at the hostel. "But I’m afraid it was only to be expected. Still, at least we know where the Factor General stands. He will not cooperate with you, but at the same time he will not advertise your presence to the Velorian legation. That is one thing in your favor."

"Can you not intercede for us?" she asked.

"I myself am in rather bad odor at the moment as the leader of a failed mission, no matter that I cannot rationally be blamed for such a failure. Given my age, I may even be forced into early retirement. For the time being, I am under suspension while the Factor General’s office considers my case. Perhaps I should take a vacation."

XV

Ashotour was closing in on her prey when her comlink buzzed. She ignored it. She was in full hunting mode, and nothing could distract her. The imported gazelle ahead of her was swift, but she was swifter.

She was exhilarated by the chase as only a true predator can be. No canned hunts were allowed on the Tarotian reservation, and she would have disdained them had they been permitted. She also disdained even the limited power weapons that were allowed the frailer humans and non-humans; she was her own weapon.

Ashotour ran on two legs, but they were more than a match for the gazelle’s four. The gazelle must have sensed this; she could smell its fear. As the comlink buzzed again, she closed the gap and, still ignoring the signal, leapt upon the animal’s back like a trick rider in an Old Earth western mounting his horse. She could feel the gazelle’s heat under her, the straining of its muscles as it struggled to throw her off. It was almost like sex.

She ended it by sliding forward, grabbing and holding the gazelle’s neck as it bucked in terror, then delivering the coup de grace with her razor-sharp teeth and claws. Her prey went down; she drank and ate of its blood and meat; only when she was sated did she answer the insistent comlink.

"I am in urgent need of an engineer," Eristratov told her. "Only the best qualified need apply."

"I am on vacation," she reminded him.

"So am I," he responded. "An enforced one, I’m afraid. But rather than endure it in idleness, I intend to put it to good use, in aid of a good cause. I’ll say no more."

"What are you talking about? You haven’t said anything yet. Unless…"

"You will be well paid," the master trader interrupted. "Three times League rate."

That much Ashotour could understand. Anyway, she had satisfied her atavism, and had had her fill. Unlike her orange-furred cousins, she enjoyed other things as well. Perhaps too well; that was why the Empire's eugenic authorities had canceled the project; her spotted kind had proven too independent-minded.

After agreeing to Eristratov’s terms and signing off, she called for the meat wagon. Game should never be allowed to go to waste.

Kor Estis was hanging out in a Scalantran bar when the summons came to him. He had been talking for some reason about his uncle Sol, known for activities of many worlds, including Terra itself, that were disreputable even by Scalantran standards.

"Now Uncle Sol, his big thing was kitties," Estis remarked to his ad hoc drinking buddies.

"Kitties?" wondered the first ad hoc buddy..

"Like kintzi. Or the lions out on the Reservation. But very, very small," Estis explained, pointing to his beer mug.

"But what would anybody want with them?" asked the second ad hoc buddy.

"What does anybody want with anything from Earth? It’s the cachet. Just ask Boris. He got his start in relics."

"What’s a cachet?" interjected first ad hoc buddy.

"It’s like a kitty, only bigger. Say, a beer keg."

The ad hoc buddies looked at him doubtfully. Then he burst into laughter and told them the whole story, even the bit about a Vel chasing Sol off when she caught him trying to wheedle a pair of kitties from a pair of Earth children.

Scalantran traders were fond of swapping such stories, challenging each other to top them. That business on Earth about the cats didn’t exactly qualify, but Kor thought it might have novelty value. It even drew a few laughs from the ad hocs. Only no more from Kor himself. All of a sudden, it seemed, he didn’t think it was funny any longer.

XVI

"I served in the Red Army. When there still was a Red Army," Eristratov told the others when they asked him why he had christened their new ship the Zhukov.

Actually, he had intended to call it the Xemissa, but on second thought decided that would seem hypocritical: even if the courtesan did not already sense his feelings for Theel’dara, she would surely come to suspect: why else would he be embarking on such a mission.

Xemissa was the buyer of record, and the ship had been registered in her name, even though the funds had come from Eristratov’s own account. They would need a cover story, he had explained to her, and her presence on the mission would thus be required. But no complications were to be expected, and at the end of the mission the ship would become hers in fact as well as name.

A conscience offering to her, he mused, surprised that he had a conscience, or that it should trouble him over what was, after all, formally no more than a long-term business relationship.

Thanks to that relationship, in any case, it would not seem odd to Tarotian or Scalantran authorities that she should defer to her best-known client in the naming of the ship. As for his fellow travelers, he explained that Marshall Zhukov had been the greatest of all commanders of the Red Army. None of them could possibly know that Zhukov had been long dead at the time of his own service.

Eristratov had been tank commander during the Afghan campaign when an RPG was fired at his T-54. That would have been the end for him as well as the tank, except that a Scalantran raiding ship had been on a scavenger hunt for classic Earth weapons like T-54s, which could bring a fortune on the interstellar collectors market.

The raider had, of course, been cloaked – to the eyes of the mujahadeen, the tank had seemed to disappear into thin air. As for Eristratov, he might have been made to disappear for real, but for two things: first, he had read enough science fiction, even the Western variety, to know what was happening; second, he knew the ins and outs of the black market as only a Russian could.

Give me a chance, he’d told him; you won’t be disappointed. They did, and they weren’t. For starters, he was able to help them with their scavenger hunt. Being a military history buff, he’d been able to point them to the locations of rare items like Stalin Organ rocket launchers from the Great Patriotic War. They weren’t missed, given the slovenly nature of Soviet inventory keeping and lack of interest in such relics.

Eristratov had even tracked down one of the prototype landers for a Soviet moon project, scrubbed after the disastrous explosion of the booster for the mission. Neither the disaster nor the mission behind it had ever been officially acknowledged, and nobody was going to acknowledge that the lander had disappeared from a warehouse in the Moscow suburbs, either.

The Scalantrans might not have any scruples, but they knew talent when they saw it. The Russian expatriate’s rise had been rapid. He was especially adept in the relic business, which soon expanded from weapons to items like vintage cars. He was also a master of subterfuge, managing to create a convincing cover story even for the disappearance of one of the few remaining Tuckers.

Here, the subterfuge should be far easier: Xemissa was simply taking a sabbatical, as courtesans occasionally did. Eristratov’s reasons for accompanying her were obvious; as for the others, they already been entered through Customs as crewmen in his service. The Zhukov was cleared for takeoff a week after they had arrived on Tarot’s World.

They set course for Kelsor 7. It would be a long journey, longer than the others – especially Theel’dara and Amsul – cared for. But it should be uneventful. Eristratov was more concerned about hiding his feelings for the Protector and keeping the peace with his paramour than anything else.

It was frustrating, to say the least. Theel’dara would surely have nothing more to do with him after fulfilling her peculiar quest…

XVII

As it turned out, any potential rivalry between Theel’dara and Xemissa became a moot point once they were underway, for now Amsul seemed to be the Protector’s center of attention.

Theel’dara had assured him that the path was clear, that the end was in sight, but he seemed strangely nervous, as if he had a premonition that some obstacle, or even some danger, might yet lie ahead.

He wanted to teach her what she would need to know, in order that, were he to die before they reached Kelsor 7, the message would still be passed. It was all in his chestbox, but it was more than a matter of teaching her the access codes, the organization of the data, the technical language of Domyr that she had never mastered. She must understand, she must become one with the knowledge, to experience its beauty and its terror.

Theel’dara tried her best, but science and mathematics had never been her strong points. The equations that Amsul brought up on his display swam before her eyes, even after he had explained the symbols and system of notation.

Yes, she could understand a fragment from a pulsar being accelerated to near light speed, why it could never have been detected because its radiation could barely outpace the object itself, how its relativistic mass had destroyed a world. But what difference did it make whether she could understand radial gravity or sheer forces and their impact on the shaping of atmospheric waves?

"All the difference in the universe," he told her, and went on to another aspect.

"Did you know that the pulsar fragment itself must store a record of everything it has experienced, a layer of molecules preserved in time? I have worked it all out; I can show you the equations. No matter what else happens, some part of Domyr will survive there until the end of time. I find a strange comfort in that."

The Protector could not, and when she wearied of these sessions, Amsul would try to lose himself in the passing show. It was only in passing that he could experience it, for they could not afford to make any stops, let alone detours to exotic worlds like Shalmirane that might lie within a few days reach. From now on, it was a matter of traveling from one wormhole to the next, as quickly a possible.

Amsul would fain have taken a closer look at Beta Lyrae, with its violet white primary and yellow companion trapped in an orbit so close that they were pulled into teardrop shapes that nearly touched, the smaller and denser ripping material from the other to form an accretion disk and sending some of it spiraling into space. But he had to be content with a distant view by scanners as the Zhukov passed the system by.

Theel’dara told him stories of other Protectors – even the sad and terrible legend of Nov’ayul the Lost, for whom she seemed to feel a strange affinity, although they had never met. She told him about her childhood on Velor, and her seemingly carefree days at the Academy, which seemed to involve sexual liaisons as much as education. She even told him about her father.

Sigurd Utvandrer, whose proud surname harked back to his Nordic ancestors, signifying that they had come to Velor of their own free will, led the conservative faction of the Velorian Senate. On policy matters, from the Prime Directive to military strategy, he was absolutely inflexible. His only indulgence had been his daughter. For her sake, he had shamed himself by interfering in the judgments of the High Council, which alone was ordained to govern the affairs of the Protectors.

His sacrifice had meant nothing to her at the time; she had thought only of her own suffering; she could not admit, then, that she had brought it on herself. She had hardly thought of her father’s suffering, the suffering of a proud man brought low, of a father who must have still loved her and yet cut himself off from her for what be believed to be the sake of the greater good – the honor of Velor.

It was hard for Amsul to grasp. When Theel’dara tried to explain the political system of Velor, the intense loyalties and bitter rivalries, why women – even Protectors – submitted to the authority of patriarchs. He found it all senseless, even mad. It was as hard to understand for him as quantum gravity was for her. But one thing he saw clearly.

"You are feeling hurt," he told her. "Once… I would not have believed that you or your kind could be vulnerable to anything. You were a strange visitor when we first met, and yet you became my comrade. You are surely my comrade now, as indeed are the others on this ship, and we are taught to bring comfort and solace to our comrades. But I do not know how to comfort or console you."

To her shame, even at this moment, she thought of another kind of comfort, another kind of solace. But she suppressed the thought and the desire, lest her comrade be discomforted by the odor her arousal.

"To listen," she told him. "It is enough, just to listen."

"As you have listened to me."

XVIII

Things went seriously wrong two wormholes later. None of them had ever been in the system they were now entering, but records indicated that its only habitable world, Halcyon, had been settled by a community of religious pacifists who had found no peace on their homeworld and had willingly put the comforts of that world behind them in order to live according to their own lights.

Because they were helpless by choice, Velor could not assist them openly. But for some reason, a Protector had been assigned there covertly just the same. Only Theel’dara among present company was aware of this, although her knowledge was at least a decade out of date. Therefore, she alone could understand what must be happening when they were hailed by an Arion cruiser as they approached that world.

The Arion commander demanded that they identify themselves. After a moment of whispered conversation among his party, it was agreed that Eristratov take charge of the situation. Knowing that the sight of any them and certainly all of them together would trouble the Arions, Theel’dara, Ashotour and Xemissa withdrew from sight before the master trader opened a visual channel.

Eristratov politely recited the name and registration number of the ship, its origin and destination. The commander, naturally a Prime, seemed puzzled as to what business he might have on Kelsor 7, especially in the company of a Scalantran and some unfamiliar alien. But he didn’t seem concerned or suspicious.

"This is a war zone," the commander declared. "You are in danger here. You are hereby ordered to turn about and land on Satellite Three of Planet Five. You will be advised when it is safe to continue your journey."

"Understood," Eristratov replied. "We will comply, and hope to hear from you as soon as possible."

After signing off, he consulted Theel’dara.

"This is not a strategic system," she pointed out. "Neither Velor nor its allies has any military forces here. Only a Protector, unknown even to the natives. But evidently, now, known to the Arions."

"So they send a warship to deal with her?"

"Not just to deal with her. To make an example. They will kill her, if they have not already done so, and kill as many of the natives as they can find. They will see to it that Velor learns what they have done here. But they will deny it to all others. They will not wish to leave any witnesses. When they think we least expect it…"

"And the natives won’t even know why they are dying," Eristratov said darkly. "Whereas we…"

The others were stoic, for the moment, but Amsul broke.

"We cannot die here," he cried. "We must not."

"And you will not," Theel’dara said. "None of us will die. But we must not show any sign that we mistrust the Arions. We must be seen to comply with their wishes. We have no way of knowing the situation on the planet. We may be able to help, or we may be too late. Whatever the case, we can do nothing until I put their cruiser out of action."

"That can’t be easy, even for a Vel," said Eristratov. Estis and Xemissa and even Ashotour murmured in agreement. Amsul looked on with an expression between doubt and hope.

"But they don’t know they are dealing with a Vel. And they won’t. Not until it no longer matters."

She explained her plan. It seemed preposterous, but then so was anything else a Vel might do, if one didn’t know better. When she thought they were beyond the range from which the cruiser’s sensors could detect small objects, she made her farewells and exited the airlock.

The Zhukov continued on towards Satellite Three of Planet Five, a journey that would take several days but, she hoped, never need to be completed.

XIX

Everything was proceeding according to plan, Commander Zhar’ptitsa reflected, as his cruiser orbited Halcyon. It was a walkover. But then, what else could it be? True, one his two Primes groundside had been a casualty, but the second had taken out the Protector, and from then on….

Zhar’ptitsa had expected some token resistance, even from self-styled pacifists. He had visions of angry farmers coming at his Betan troops with scythes or pitchforks before they were cut down by GARs. But according to Sar’Lanza, the surviving Prime, they hadn’t even offered that much satisfaction. All they could do was run and die. Some tried to hide, knowing nothing of heat sensors, any more than of the reason for their fate

No matter. They were only a message, and he was the messenger. Velor must be reminded, once again, that its pathetic attempts to protect such primitive worlds would bring them only death and destruction. Let the Velorians look to protect themselves, lest that death and destruction reach them, as eventually it surely would.

Zhar’ptitsa’s thoughts were interrupted by a message that a fast-moving meteor was on collision course with the ship. This was strange, since the area had been scanned less than an hour before and there had been on sign of such a thing. And where could it be coming from? Perhaps it had been thrown off by some collision in the local asteroid belt. At any rate, it could be easily dealt with.

The commander so instructed the weapons master, who immediately had one of the rear heavy GARs trained on the approaching object. It disappeared in a blaze of glory as the gunner fired, a blaze so bright that it momentarily blinded their sensors. End of story, Zhar’ptitsa assumed. Then he felt the cruiser shudder. Alarms began sounding.

"All stations report!" he shouted.

The one station that failed to report was the engine room. It took only moments for those at the nearest other stations to determine that the crash doors had come down all around the engine area, and that the ship must have been holed there. It took a while more for crewmen to suit up, exit the nearest lock, and work their way to the scene.

It was the worst thing that could have possibly happened. The meteor, or part of it at least, had somehow survived and torn completely through the ship, destroying the engines totally and rendering the ship helpless. They had no way home now, nor even a means of sending a message; their landing craft had neither the strength of Vendorian steel nor the energy to make it through wormholes.

Could this be some sort of enemy action? But the only other ship in the system was that yacht, still in retreat; and the meteor had come from an entirely different vector. When he had the scanners probe in that direction, his consternation turned to panic: there was a whole meteor swarm headed in their direction. Not as fast as the first, but with the engines gone, evasive action was impossible. And with the ship slowly tumbling from the first impact, they couldn’t even count on bringing their heavy GARs to bear on all of the objects.

After a moment’s paralysis, Zhar’ptitsa gave the command to abandon ship. They would have to take their chances on the planet. It would be hard, scratching a living there like peasants, but they could survive in some fashion until Aria sent another ship to look for them. Time was of the essence now, and they didn’t have much.

Two landing craft managed get out of the bays. One, with Commander Zhar’ptitsa aboard, was hit by a meteor that somehow came on an entirely different vector. It even slowed for just a moment before impact – long enough for Zhar’ptitsa and his men to see that the "meteor" was red and blue. With that sight, that understanding, came utter terror. It was the last thing he or any of the Arions with him saw or felt.

The other landing craft escaped, although its panicked pilot misjudged his angle of entry into the atmosphere.

XX

"We are safe now," Theel’dara told the others when she returned to the Zhukov. "But I may have to take you into danger, if we are to have a chance of saving any who may be left alive on Halcyon."

"Surely you do not need any assistance from us, after the way you handled the cruiser," said Eristratov.

"The cruiser could not hide from me. But a Prime operating on Halcyon itself can and would – and try to set an ambush if he or she suspected the presence of a Protector. There is surely a Prime groundside, perhaps more than one. I must have the advantage of surprise. I must find him or them before they find me. I cannot accomplish that without help."

"We could leave the natives to their fate," Estis remarked. "They are no concern of ours."

"My oath as a Protector compels me," Theel’dara retorted. "The probability that a Protector has already died there compels me even more. I cannot command you, but I can implore you. I have already promised that none of you will die here, and I will keep that promise. Help me honor Velor’s promise to these people. Have the rest of you any military experience?"

"Do you really need to ask?" Ashotour purred. "But did not Boris also tell you that I have no taste for warfare?"

"Think of it as a hunt," Theel’dara suggested.

"Hunting for Betans? An interesting concept. They once tried to hunt us. Then they thought of a better idea. Or so they believed. But our chances with them had been far better than with the Velorians they threw us against. Perhaps I have a taste for evening the odds. We shall see."

"I underwent compulsory military training on Aria," said Xemissa. "It’s like sex: You don’t forget, even when you want to."

"Street fighting," Estis volunteered, seeing that he was evidently in the minority here. "Small arms."

Amsul had not figured in Theel’dara’s calculations, nor in those of any of the rest. They were startled to hear him speak now.

"I know nothing of fighting but what I have read in the histories," he said. "Even so, I am prepared to make my contribution."

"But none of us would expect you to take part," Theel’dara protested. "You are too—"

"I know this," the Domyran replied quietly. "But you have committed yourselves to me. You have all pledged yourselves to a journey in which you have no interest, which now puts you at risk. You have all been good comrades to me, and I must be the same to you, sharing that risk."

"This is absurd," Eristratov interrupted. "You would only be a burden to us. I once had to fight beside raw recruits. They were worse than useless. They were a greater danger to us than the enemy."

"She has promised to protect us," Amsul argued. "She must know how. I trust her in this. She had told me much of your world over the years. From what I have heard from her of these Betans and their weapons, you and Kor would be hardly more of a match for them than myself."

"You don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. You’re what we call a babe in the woods here, knowing nothing of wolves. No doubt your own world too has a proverb about wisdom coming from the mouths of babes. And people foolish enough to believe it. Well, I’m not one of them. Neither is anyone else here."

Amsul didn’t understand all the references, but he got the gist. Theel’dara saw his hurt, but could not argue Eristratov’s point.

"There is no way, really," she told him.

"Find a way," he pleaded.

XXI

Theel’dara went so far as to hold the matter in abeyance. She could go no further. There was nothing for the rest of them to do, in any case, until she had scouted the situation on the surface. That could be done under cover of night, which would be no problem for her with her tachyon vision.

While the Zhukov made its approach to orbit, the Protector flew ahead. She soon spotted the heat signature of fire down below, and profiles of two nearby landing craft with heavy GARs at their bows. But she avoided a direct approach to the site, choosing instead to come down in a forest several kilometers away and work her way towards the village through the treetops.

There was a squad of a dozen Betans billeted there, two of them on shift guarding the landers, the rest either asleep or tending to the fire – a funeral pyre for dead villagers. She was disgusted and yet surprised that they had even bothered. She scanned them, outdoors and indoors alike. No sign of a Prime; the highest-ranking officer was a Betan sergeant. The main force must have moved on.

So she flew reconnaissance, soon discovering that most of the villages were strung out along a river although there were a few inland like that the Arions had used for a landing zone. She located the Betan main force, company strength, camped at the third village downstream. Only one Prime, thank Skietra. No sign of fire although, as at the first and second settlements in this direction, there were plenty of dead bodies.

The next village was deserted; its inhabitants having apparently gotten word of the invasion and fled. She scouted the immediate area; no sign of refugees. She extended her search. Several other villages, all deserted, but she could see the heat signatures of their inhabitants, hiding in the woods.

They would all be fair game for the Arions, who could spot the signatures as easily as she could, if only from the ground. Unless she stopped them. She considered her options. She had to lure the main force back the first village, lay a trap that would confuse the Betan troopers, put them on the defensive, yet still keep the vital element of surprise that she would need against the Prime. But there was something else to do first.

Dawn was breaking now. She continued downstream, taking cursory note of other deserted villages. There was one group on the road, apparently spreading the alarm. Then, at last, a village where the natives were emerging from their homes to go about their daily business in the streets and fields. Warning had not yet spread here.

Theel’dara decided to show herself, although that was in violation of the rules for an undisclosed world. But she could face them, at least, as she could never have faced the fugitives who already knew of the invasion – even if they had been willing to face her, rather than take her for one of the invaders.

She landed in the center of the village, just stood there. None of the villagers had ever seen a Protector before. Perhaps they didn’t even know what a Protector was. But she was something strange to them, and that quickly drew a crowd. When most of the village had assembled, she addressed them without any preliminaries.

"I bring terrible news," she said.

They were startled at first, then uncomprehending. She had to repeat herself, over and over, her news and her warning. She still wasn’t sure if she had been understood.

"Why would these people attack us?" asked a village elder.

"Why would wild beasts?" she responded. She explained about the Arions, and their war with Velorians, their ethnic cleansing campaigns.

"We had thought to put such madness behind us," said the elder. "And yet, you seem to have brought it here."

"I am here only to stop the killing."

"Do you take us for fools? These people are your enemies, and yet you and they have arrived here at the same moment? By pure coincidence? Your war is nothing new; we came here to escape it centuries ago. Why have you and your kind come to trouble us again?"

Theel’dara was speechless.

"You are not welcome here," said the elder. "We shall trust in the Lord, but never in you."

There was nothing more to be said. Grimly, Theel’dara returned to the first dead village, flying a wide berth around the Arion encampment but confirming from a distance that the company was remaining in place for the time being. The Arions were doubtless in a state of confusion from having lost contact with their cruiser.

Without emotion, with only calculation, she dispatched the Betans quickly and silently with her heat vision, collected their weapons, hid their bodies. Had any of them managed to radio an alarm before she reached him? She thought not, and did not know how often they were supposed to check in with the main force downriver. Whatever, she was counting on that main force returning here to investigate. Now it was time to go to work.

Theel’dara chose a spot in the fields a hundred meters or so from the village and, diving into the earth, began excavating a series of small chambers 20 meters underground, connecting them with small tunnels. She used her super-strength to compress the dirt and rock, leaving little or no sign at the surface that the field had been disturbed.

Returning to her entrance tunnel, which descended vertically for two meters before sloping to enter one of the chambers, she refined it into a shaft, smoothing the bottom of the sloping section into a slide, but also punching small slots to serve as handholds for rapid ascent. She excavated more shafts of the same sort, a dozen in all, concealing their entrances with lids fabricated from straw. Then she dug an escape tunnel leading a few hundred meters into the woods.

One last measure: turning one of the landers so that its main battery was trained on the field between the village and the redoubt. Hopefully, none of the enemy would notice. Her labors had taken hours; she had lost track of how many. She checked the time: the Zhukov would be entering orbit about now. She checked the Arion encampment again from afar. No change there.

It was time to return to space, explain her plan, set things in motion.

XXII

"We have to move now," Theel’dara told them. "The main force may already have begun its march to Village One even as we speak,"

No one argued with her, but before Estis fired the retrorockets to begin the descent, the Protector exited the airlock and took charge of the landing from outside. Taking hold of the craft, she slowed its descent to sub-mach before it could create a sonic boom and alert the enemy, then lowered it gently into a clearing in the woods – hidden from the enemy but near the escape tunnel.

Emergency lamps, something always carried in ship’s stores but hardly ever used, finally found a use in the redoubt. By lamplight in one of the chambers, the Protector outlined her strategy on hastily-drawn maps. She had intended to send Estis to man the battery on the Arion lander, but Xemissa volunteered for that assignment, pointing out that she was familiar with the weaponry from compulsory UMT back on Aria.

"So be it," Theel’dara agreed, assigning Estis along with Amsur to reserve detail, Ashotour as the toughest and Eristratov as the most experienced would be first to man the firing stations. But she insisted that the others also practice clambering up the shafts, and making fast slides back down. They got the hang of it pretty quickly; it was almost like a children’s game at a playground.

Each then took turns practice firing from the shaft, trusting the topmost footholds to hold them steady, crouching in positions, then up and fire, down and hide, up and fire again. Maybe they could get away with it twice – three times if they were really lucky. Anything beyond that would be foolhardy. But they didn’t have to take out more than a few of the Betans; their job was to draw them out in force, as many as possible.

If they did not succeed at first, they had the option of dropping all the way down, scrambling underground to one of the alternate shafts. But they hoped it wouldn’t come to that. They were facing professional soldiers, they knew; the Betans might be surprised once, a few twice if Halcyon was their first combat mission. But the enemy troops would figure out soon enough about shooting into the ground as they advanced. What the Betans wouldn’t know was that their quarry would be far underground by then, rather than sitting ducks in shallow foxholes.

Amsul was resigned to playing an inactive role. If the plan were to fail, Eristratov and Ashotour couldn’t possibly hold off the entire Betan assault force. If the Arions made it to the tunnel complex, they would all be doomed. Unless Theel’dara herself intervened. But that wasn’t the plan; her plan was the Prime. If she failed, if the Prime survived, the rest of them were still doomed. But he trusted the Protector to survive, even if he did not.

"If something should go wrong, if the worst should befall me, deliver it to Kelsor," he told her. "Try to remember what I have tried to teach you about the system and the data, and relay it to the Kelsorians. Help them to understand the records. I ask no more. Except for one thing."

"Whatever that be, I shall grant it."

"There is a small chance that I might have to fight," Amsul said, "If I am to do this, you must lead me through the ritual. I shall write it out for you, and then you shall lead me through it, as if you were the first speaker of my Syndic."

The ritual had not been used for hundreds of years, he explained; not since the wars of unification. Yet it was a part of everyone’s history, a reminder of the terrible past. Amsul inputted the text from memory on the screen of his chestbox and presented to the Velorian. She wasn’t sure she understood, but she indulged him in this matter.

"We live for one another. We die for one another. That is the law of life." Theel’dara began.

"It is even so," Amsul responded.

"And sometimes we must kill for one another."

"May it not be so."

"When it is time to kill, we become monsters. But only for a time."

"May that time be brief."

"And when we are done with killing, we purify ourselves."

"We return to the law of life."

"We honor the dead, even those we kill, for they were people too."

"And only thus do we ourselves become people again."

It meant nothing to the others. Or perhaps it did.

Theel’dara scooped out a small hideaway for the computer, placed Amsul's chestbox within it, covered it over and lightly vitrified the subsoil so that it looked like any other part of the wall. Then her super-hearing alerted her that the Arion force was approaching. She left for the village to take up her position, and Xemissa headed for hers at the lander.

The master trader and the engineer donned their ear protectors, took up their firing positions at the top of their shafts, ready to pop up from the ground, fire at the Betans and pop back down. Fiber optic periscopes concealed in wisps of straw would tell them when; Amsul and Estis waited below, ready to take their places – or try to – if it came to that.

XXIII

Amsul was alone in his post, in his chamber at the bottom of Eristratov’s shaft. His GAR was on his lap. Think of it as a telescope, Theel’dara had told him. Think of the soldier’s heart as a star.

It didn’t look anything like a telescope. It didn’t look like a flashlight, either. But it was not too heavy for him and, unlike a projectile weapon, it had no recoil. He would never have been able to manage a rifle or a machine gun at his age, perhaps not at any age.

He had practiced with the mini-GAR as much as he could in the limited time he had. His firing position had been awkward, even with the extra footholds Theel’dara had cut to his stature. His first practice shot had gone wild; he had been startled by the sharp snap the weapon made as the beam ionized the air. He got over that, managed to hit the windows of buildings in the distance, at least. It will be louder underground, he had to remind himself. He’d have to remember the ear protectors.

Now he was just sitting and waiting in the lamplight. Eristratov’s was in position above. The minutes ticked past. He could hear nothing of what was happening above; no ambient sounds penetrated the tunnel complex. Suddenly, daylight entered the shaft; there came a snap and then another and then a third from above, and then, just as suddenly it was back to darkness. Something must he happening outside. But what?

From above, he could hear the snap of the GARs: Eristratov and Ashotour.

Then a cry of pain. A second later, Eristratov came sliding down the shaft, out of control, headed right for him. Amsul scrambled out of the way, landed on his back, almost dropping his GAR, when he saw to his horror that another figure was following the master trader down. No time to think, just to act. Bringing up his GAR, Amsul didn’t even try to aim, just played his beam up into the shaft, catching the Betan in its narrow confines.

At that same moment, what they had all been waiting for: the shattering thunderclap of the heavy GAR from the lander, its sound morphing into an insane buzzsaw as it played back and forth across the field above. Violet white actinic light penetrated into the shaft – not the beam itself, just the glow from the ionized air. Xemissa was doing her job. It would be over in a moment or two; Theel’dara’s plan had worked.

Between the noise and the glare, the Domyran wasn’t sure where he had hit the enemy, let alone how effectively. He didn’t know that the Betan was out of action until he saw that the trooper lay sprawled and unmoving with deep burns, the worst to the face – what was left of it – and, ironically, the crotch and upper legs. Somehow he’d scored the upper chest only lightly.

It was only then that he noticed Eristratov was missing his left arm. There was no bleeding; the beam had cauterized the wound at the shoulder. The arm lay at the far side of the chamber, having apparently fallen down the shaft and slid across the floor without him noticing. Eristratov was stunned but conscious; after a few moments he came back to himself, glanced quizzically at himself, the dead Betan, the arm, Amsul.

"Well!" exclaimed the master trader. "Well! And well met!"

Estis arrived a moment later to report that Ashotour, contrary to orders, had gone over the top, chasing after a few Betans who had escaped the heavy GAR and fled back into the village. From the same direction, there came sounds of combat, muffled by the earth around them, but clear in their meaning: the endgame between Theel’dara and the Prime had begun.

While they waited for the outcome, they were joined by Xemissa, who had gone the long way around to work her way back into the warren through the escape tunnel. She too bore the marks of battle: flash burns to her face and body – from the Prime, she told them. Eristratov pulled her to him tenderly with his remaining arm. Over his shoulder, she saw the other, still lying on the floor.

"Should we hold a service over it, or just chuck it in the trash?" she asked.

The others were startled, but Eristratov took the black humor in stride. He even laughed. He was still in good humor, as was Xemissa, when Theel’dara returned. After all, they had survived.

"I promised that none of you would die," she said. "Nothing less, but also nothing more."

"You have promised, and you have performed," said Amsul. "Perhaps I will no longer have to teach you astrophysics and cosmology. Although I shall endeavor to do so just the same. Once you have unearthed my chestbox."

"Ashotour went beyond the program," Estis observed.

"Cats are like that," the Protector remarked. "Didn’t Uncle Sol ever tell you?"

How did she know about Uncle Sol?

XXIV (mostly by Tarot Barnes)

When Sar’lanza had left the Landing Post with the main assault force, she hadn’t expected to return to anything but a mountain of paperwork. The village was dead. All its inhabitants were dead, scattered haphazardly in the fields and in the streets where they had fallen.

Everything was as it should be. It remained only to repeat the process, one village at a time. But word of the attack must have spread. How? These pathetic frails didn’t even have radios. But they did have ears, and eyes; perhaps they had heard the sonic booms of the landing craft. Looked up in the sky. Figured it out.

Whatever, the next village, along the river, had been deserted. And the next. The Betan Troopers had fanned out into the woods, using their heat sensors, tracked down the natives who had thought to hide there. But it was a piecemeal process. Slow. Inefficient. They were falling behind schedule, with at least a dozen more villages to go.

Then they’d somehow lost contact with the cruiser. Typical Betan incompetence; she’d executed the chief radio operator immediately. His assistant hadn’t fared any better, so she’d executed him too. After that, nobody had wanted to go near the radio, despite her threats. She’d tried it herself. Defective equipment, obviously. Some Betan contractor would pay for this, when they got home.

The guard detail at the Landing Post had reported that everything was normal, and that it was still in touch with the cruiser. But somehow they’d had trouble trying to patch her through. The next day, they had failed to report in themselves. Why did she have to suffer such fools? Or were they worse than fools? Could they have deserted? It was never mentioned, it wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did.

So she had marched the assault force back to the first village. If any of the guard detail had deserted, they'd suffer for it before they died, and she knew how t