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                                                 ____________________________
      QQQQQ                           tt
    QQ    QQ                       tttttt                   Staff:
   QQ    QQ  uu  uu  aaaa   nnnn    tt   aaaa
  QQ    QQ  uu  uu aa  aa  nn  nn  tt  aa  aa    Daniel K. Appelquist
 QQ    QQ  uu  uu aa  aa  nn  nn  tt  aa  aa        Editor/Technical Director
  QQQQQQ    uuu    aaaaa nn  nn  tt    aaaaa     Norman S. Murray
      QQQ                                                 Editorial Assistant
                                                 Matthew Sorrels
 ____________________________________________                     Proofreader
                                                 Jay Laefer
 April 1990                Volume II, Issue 2         Additional Proofreading
 ____________________________________________    Daniel Fahs
                                                    Cover Artist (PS version)

                   Articles
                                                 Quanta is Copyright (c) 1990
 Looking Ahead                                   by  Daniel   K.  Appelquist.
                         Daniel K. Appelquist    This   magazine   may     be
                                                 archived,         reproduced
 Life on Ice                                     and/or distributed under the
                                  Craig Levin    condition  that it  is  left
                                                 intact and that no additions
                                                 or  changes are  made to it.
                   Novellas
                                                 The   works    within   this
 The Babysitters                        magazine   are   the    sole
                  Faye Levine     property of their respective
                                                 authors.   No further use of
                                                 their  works   is  permitted
                 Short Fiction                   without    their    explicit
                                                 consent. All stories in this
 Celestial Earthmovers                           magazine  are  fiction.   No
                                Phillip Nolte    actual      persons      are
                                                 designated    by   name   or
 Sexy's Devils                                   character. Any similarity is
                                Cerise Palmer    is coincidental.

 Sharp and Silver Beings
                                  Jason Snell    All  submissions  should  be
                                                 sent to one of the following
 Fair Play                                       addresses:
                            Kenneth A. Kousen
                                                 [e-mail]
 Being There                                     [e-mail]
                           Christopher Kempke

                                                 All requests for back issues
                    Poetry                       queries about  subscriptions
                                                 letters  or comments  should
 The Painted Viper Cries                         be sent to the same address.
                              Albert L. Evans    ____________________________


______________________________________________________________________

Looking Ahead

Daniel K. Appelquist
______________________________________________________________________


     Some good news for those of you in search of back issues...
There is now an anonymous FTP server for Quanta back issues.  It
exists at the address fed.express.cs.cmu.edu (128.2.209.58).  It
contains all back issues (including this one) in both PostScript and
Ascii format.  The relevant directories are /quanta/ascii and
/quanta/postscript.  I believe this service should be useful to both
Internet and Bitnet users (the latter can access the site via BitFTP
servers)

     Well, as you may have noticed, this issue is a bit long.  This
may be partially due to Faye Levine's new story, _The Babysitters_.
I'm excited about Faye's material but if her story size keeps growing
at its current rate, we'll have to rename the magazine Faye Levine
Quarterly!  At any rate, Faye wants people to know that this story
takes place some years after the events in _One_, her story from last
issue, but eighteen years before _Dinner at Nestrosa's_, the excerpt
from her yet-to-be-published novel _Revolution_ which we published in
our December issue of last year.

     We really have a block-buster lineup this issue.  Jason Snell's
story _Sharp and Silver Beings_ for one.  You may remember Jason's
story _Into Gray_ which appeared in the first issue of Quanta as well
as his article _Cyberpunk's a Label Like Any Other_ from last issue.
We also have a Quanta first: a sequel.  Specifically, a sequel to
Christopher Kempke's very popular story _Going Places_, published in
the first issue.  Craig Levin, in his semi-regular science column,
brings us some information and speculation on the existance of
extra-terestrial life right here in our own solar system. We also have
several newcomers this issue.  Cerise Palmer, Phillip Nolte, and
Kenneth Kousen all have donated excellent stories and I hope they
continue to do so.  I also hope to see more work from new faces in the
future.  If you have a story you'd like to submit, send it along to
me.

     You may be noticing the specific lack of a sequel to Thomas
Hand's _Ice Ball_ from last issue.  Not to worry!  We'll be seeing
more of Terri's adventures in issues to come.

     At this point, I'd like to ask all of you some questions.
Specifically, I'd like to poll all of you about your feelings on
Quanta.  If you have a second, answer the following questions and send
your answers back to me.  Be sure to include the word "poll" in your
subject header.

                 Reader Poll

1. How much interest do you have in the non-fiction articles
appearing in Quanta?

    o None

    o Some

    o Love 'em

2. How would you rate the overall quality of Quanta?

    o Bad

    o It's Mediocre

    o It's good

    o It's excellent!

3. Of the issues you've read so far (including this one) which issue
of Quanta would you say is your favorite?

    o #1

    o #2

    o #3

    o #4

    o Can't say for sure.

4. What has been your favorite piece (Story, Poem or Article) so far?


5. What has been your least favorite piece (Story, Poem or Article)
so far?


6. What would you like to see more of?


7. What would you like to see less of?


8. Do you have any suggestions concerning the typesetting of the
magazine?


9. Any other comments/complaints.



     I'll be waiting to hear your comments.  Feel free to elaborate on
your answers.  If you have ANY comment on Quanta you'd like me to
hear, don't hesitate to send it along.  I'd like very much initiate a
letters column next issue, but to do this I need letters!

     One last note.  If you're not going to be able to receive Quanta
during the summer and you'd like me to temporarilly cancel your
subscription and then reinstate it for next year, drop me a line.  I
don't want to be sending Quanta to people who aren't going to be there
to receive it.

     Enough ramblings from me.  Enjoy this issue of Quanta!

______________________________________________________________________

Life on Ice

The Possibility of Life on Europa and Enceladus

Craig Levin

Copyright (c) 1990
______________________________________________________________________

               I: Introduction

     The search for extra-terrestrial life has been one of the major
driving forces of planetology. Many of planetology's major figures,
from Sir William Herschel, to Percival Lowell, even up to Carl Sagan,
have believed in a plurality of worlds. Yet, despite the optimism of
all the searchers, not one of the terrestrial planets have been found
to harbor life, save our own planet Earth.

     Yet the possibilities for life elsewhere in our Solar System have
been poorly explored. In the sixties, Carl Sagan postulated the
existence of life under and among Jupiter's clouds. Unfortunately, the
proposal seemed to lack merit when it came time to design Galileo's
atmospheric probe. However, it is not Jupiter, nor is it any of the
other Jovian planets that I believe to be the abode of fellow
creatures, but instead, two of the icemoons I wrote about in my March
1990 article in the EJASA entitled "Ice Moons of the Jovian Worlds":
Enceladus and Europa.

     In this article I will first describe what life need in order to
get started on a world. Next, I will desribe the conditions on Europa
and Enceladus in both the past and present. Finally, I will compare
the five described conditions, and thereby discover if, indeed,
Enceladus and Europa are harbors for life, or dead lumps of ices.


         II: Conditions for the Birth of Life

     Life is a delicate thing, yet it arose on Earth under conditions
that might seem harsh to us here nearly three billion years after the
fact.  Earth's atmosphere was nothing then like it is now. Instead of
the familiar oxygen and nitrogen that we all breathe, Earth's
atmosphere was mainly composed of steam, carbon di-oxide, methane, and
ammonia.  Thanks to experiments made in 1953 by Stanley Miller, it has
been shown that if these chemicals are exposed to electric sparks or
ultra-violet light, most of the known amino acids and some of the
simpler proteins will form. In 1936, A.I. Oparin found that these
amino acids and protein would form globules in water. These he
believed were the progenitors of protozoa, the lowest forms of life.
Thus life was started on Earth. But what about the main
subjects-Enceladus and Europa?


       III: Primeval Conditions on Europa and Enceladus

     It has been shown that Jupiter and Saturn are both warmer now
than can be accounted for by solar radiation. It seems to be the
general consensus that this heat is the remnant of the original energy
that was the result of the respective planet's collapse into a dense
ball of rock, metal, and liquid metal hydrogen. If the heat is enough
to show up signifigantly now, what must it have been like four or five
billion yers ago? Terence Dickinson claims: "Near the origin of the
solar system [sic] Jupiter was more like a miniature sun than a
planet, shedding enough heat that... would have allowed [Europa's]
surface to be covered in an ocean..."1 I am including Saturn in this
as well, in light of its similar size and composition.  During this
time, there also were other processes that could have given Enceladus
and Europa open oceans for the Sun to shine on: heat of accretion and
heat of differentiation could have had melted the crusts of both
moons.  Meteorite impacts could have opened pits in their icy crusts.
However, do the moons have organic material for the Sun's ultra-violet
rays to shine on?

     Let us look at the composition of the typical ice moon. In this
"typical" ice moon, we find, in addition to some rock and metal, water
ice, dry ice, and frozen ammonia and methane. Despite their frozen
state today, at the time, if water was in liquid form then, most, if
not all of the chemicals listed above were also in liquid or vapor
form. Plus, with the exposure of these vapors and liquids to the young
Sun's more energetic ultra-violet rays, life's components would have
formed on the far-off surfaces of Enceladus and Europa. But what of
the present day? How could protozoa formed then somehow survive to the
present?


        IV: Present Conditions on Europa and Enceladus

     Protozoa on Earth seem to tolerate many different environments,
but one thing seems clear. All life needs water, and all life needs an
energy source, be it sunlight or plants or geothermal energy. Do the
present conditions on Europa and Enceladus give these conditions to
the hypothetical protozoa?

     I say yes. There is a good chance that both Europa and Enceladus
have liquid water under their ice crusts. The heat generated by tidal
interactions between Io, Europa and Jupiter, according to Lucchita and
Soderblom, was enough to melt the ice under the crust of Europa.
Enceladus has been observed to send out plumes of water by Voyager II.
So we can assume that at least there is water to sustain subterranean
life on the two moons. But is there an energy source? Considering that
most estimates of the thickness of Europa's crust, and it seems to be
the warmer of the two moons, being both larger and less cratered, lie
around a figure of twenty-five miles, I think one can rule out
sunlight as a source of energy. But geothermal energy on such active
moons is quite possible, to say the least. It has certainly been shown
on Earth that geothermal heat sources can sustain life.


                   V: Life?

     Let us compare the five conditions described above. For life's
founding, we need ammonia, methane, carbon di-oxide, steam, and either
lightning or ultra-violet rays. Europa and Enceladus had, and still
have, the chemicals necessary.  If one considers likely the scenario I
have described above for the Saturn and Jupiter, then ultra-violet
light was present as well.  Life had a good chance of starting.  For
life's continuance, we need an energy source and liquid water.  Due to
their tidal interactions with their neighbors, Enceladus and Europa
have liquid water and geothermal energy. This leads me to belive that
our first aliens are to be found as Europans and Enceladians, fellow
members of the Solar system of which we ourselves are a part.


1 Terence Dickinson, _The Universe and Beyond_ (Camden East: Camden
House Publishing, Ltd., 1986), p. 54


              List of References

Baugher, Joseph F.. _The Space-Age Solar System_. New York: John
Wiley and Sons, Inc., 1988.

Briggs, G.A. and F.W. Taylor. _The Cambridge Photographic Atlas of the
Planets_. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988.

Dickinson, Terence. _The Universe and Beyond_. Camden East:
Camden House Publishing, Ltd., 1986.

Hartmann, William K.. _The Grand Tour_. Toronto: Saunders of
Toronto, Inc., 1981.

Hartmann, William K.. _Out of the Cradle_. New York:
Workman Publishing Company, Inc., 1984.

Morrison, David, ed. _Satellites of Jupiter_. Tucson: The
University of Arizona Press, 1982.


               Acknowledgements

To Arthur Clarke, for inspiring in me the idea of life on Europa and
Enceladus from his book _2010_, and to John Novak, who helped find and
patch some holes of the first draft.

______________________________________________________________________

Craig Levin began to get involved in astronomy when, in second grade,
he received H.A. Rey's "Find the Constellations" as a birthday
present.  As a high school junior, he had his first article published
in the now-defunct Small Scope Observers' Association's newsletter,
and by his senior year in high school was helping to establish the
"Astronomical Newsletter", a now-defunct magazine based in Atlanta.
At present, he is a physics major at Bradley University who intends to
turn his first love, planetology, into his profession.

[e-mail]
______________________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________________

            Celestial Earthmovers

               by Phillip Nolte

              Copyright (c) 1990
______________________________________________________________________


     It was one of the oddball asteroids whose orbit brought it on
a near collision course with the earth.  Geographos, it was called,
catalogue number 1620, one of the handful of asteroids that inhabit
the inner solar system.  Six months before I had never heard of it.
But there I was, looking at it out of the forward viewport of an
asteroid belt utility ship.  Carlos was looking over my shoulder as
we floated in the warm, nearly dark confines of the ship's control
room.  After a week or so of maneuvering we had matched velocities
with the asteroid and had finally gotten close enough to see some of
the fine details of it with the naked eye.  We had been staring at
it in silence for some time.

     "Well, what do you think of it, Stephan?" asked Carlos.

     "Looks like a big overgrown peanut," I said, as we watched it
rotate lazily.

     "A peanut that has a date with destiny," he returned, with mock
seriousness.

     I nudged him away with an elbow.  "We should get suited up and
go have a look at it.  Touch it, take measurements, get familiar
with it," I said.  "Go see if Joanna wants to come along.  I'll meet
you in the workroom."

     "As you say, Senor Perkins," returned Carlos, as he left the
bridge.

     The idea for this mad scheme that we were involved in was
cooked up by someone named Charles Kelman of UCLA in about 1980,
over a hundred years ago.  The original paper can still be found in
the files of the NASA museum, if you care to look.  I've read it.
There is little doubt that it was a tongue-in-cheek proposal by
Kelman.  In the same file with the proposal were several letters and
memos addressed to him that contained criticisms from his peers.
Their comments ranged from "premature" and "outrageously innovative"
to "preposterous" and even "criminally insane."  I think his real
purpose was to stimulate some discussion on how mankind might begin
to exploit the resources of the solar system.  Surely he never
intended for anyone to try it!  Unfortunately, events and human
nature can conspire to make the damnedest things sound plausible.

     The situation in Central America has never been stable, but
this time the turmoil was even worse than usual.  Threats by a new
and belligerent government in Panama to disable the existing Panama
canal probably had the most influence.  More than threats, fact is,
they actually closed it for nearly a year in 2045.  Then they
doubled the usage rates.  Wealthy and powerful people got angry.
Wheels were set in motion and the "Columbia Canal Project" was born.

     The project was billed as the most spectacular engineering
feat ever attempted by mankind.  And so it was.  The first time I
heard of it I thought that it was some kind of joke.  When I found
out that they were serious, I shook my head in disbelief.  There was
only one possible explanation--that everyone involved was
certifiably nuts!  The plan was to build a new canal connecting the
Pacific Ocean with the Caribbean Sea.  The area chosen was in the
wilderness of northwestern Columbia, near the Atrato River.  A
peninsula sticks up out of Columbia there, a peninsula that
eventually becomes Panama.  There was only about 150 Km of land
between the two bodies of water in this area, so the new canal
wouldn't have to be too long.  Up to this point everything was fine,
but then things started to get scary.  They were going to do the
excavation by hitting the proposed site with a piece of an asteroid!
Our asteroid, Geographos.  It was hoped that the resulting impact
would create a huge crater and would, in one unthinkable blast, do a
job that would normally take years of heavy and dangerous labor.
The enterprise was made to sound even more attractive by announcing
that the metal content of this heavenly fragment would be worth in
the neighborhood of 900 billion dollars!  Dollars that would be a
godsend to the beleaguered economies of Central and South America.
No one had any suggestions on how this new supply of precious metals
was to be obtained from its eventual ocean resting place, however.
Isn't this starting to sound just a little nuts?  To prove that
there is no shortage of stupidity in high places, a joint committee
of Central American and United States officials bought the deal,
lock, stock and asteroid.

     They wanted me because I'm damned good at astro-engineering
and I have a lot of experience working in space.  I'm the same
Stephan Perkins that did most of the design work on the United
States L-5 space colony.  I was also good with people, usually, and
this was going to require the coordinated efforts of many.  At least
we had the time we needed to iron out some of the problems.  We
began work on this project in 2048, nearly five years before the
next close approach of Geographos.

     Not that we were likely to have any problems.  I mean, all we
were going to do was excise a chunk of rock about the size of a
small midwestern town from this minor planetoid, alter its course to
bring it within kissing distance of the earth, figure out some way
to aim it at a specific target, and allow it to impact.  No sweat,
eh?  How do you establish an acceptable margin of error for
something like that?  How do you go about reducing the stupefying
velocity at which this "impact projectile" would be traveling?  We
had no idea of how this thing was going to behave when it made
contact with earth's atmosphere either.  We weren't going by the
book, we were writing it!  It's no exaggeration to say that the
challenge was formidable; even the slightest miscalculation had the
potential of ending in a horrible catastrophe.  So, I got involved
because I had to.  I had to do what I could to insure that things
wouldn't end up in a total disaster.  I figured that they needed at
least one person who knew what the hell he was doing!

     I tore my gaze away from the viewport.  The vastness of space
with its frosty dusting of tiny bright stars was a rich, dark
tapestry and the slowly twirling asteroid suspended against this
backdrop was a compelling, almost hypnotic, sight.

     As I left the bridge for the workroom, I almost ran into
Salazar in the corridor.  Diego Salazar, from Columbia, the
"executive director" of the expedition.  A terrible choice, by any
measure.  He was a wealthy and powerful member of the canal
committee who had been included on the mission at the last minute.
To tell you the truth, the whole Salazar situation looked suspicious
to me.  The guy knew next to nothing about the engineering end of
the project.  His forte was politics and even though that was
something he was damned good at, I found out early on that he had no
idea how difficult this job was going to be.  In addition, he was
neither liked nor respected by any of the crew.  By some kind of
convoluted logic this made him the obvious choice to head the
mission.  None of this altered the basic fact that he was an idiot,
and I thought that the ramrod tactics that he tried to use on me and
the rest of the team were actually counterproductive.  We needed him
like we needed a hole in the airlock.

     "Don't you think it's time to have a look at that asteroid,
Perkins?" he said.  With his accent, he pronounced it "pear-kins"
but he always spoke with rich full tones, as though he were making
one of his political speeches.

     "We were just on our way," I replied, pushing past him.

     "Ah, I see," he said, "Good, I shall observe you from the
control room.  Now that we are finally here it is vital that we make
the best use of our time.  Si?"

     "If you say so, Salazar," I continued down the corridor.  That
was his way, he stated the obvious and applied pressure when it
wasn't needed.  I always found an excuse to go somewhere else when
he came in.  From the first impression onward, my attitude towards
him had been one of intense dislike.  As you'll see, those instincts
were well founded.

     After some idle chit-chat in the workroom while we put on our
suits, we were off to our first close encounter with Geographos.
That was a humbling experience!  The ship was kept on a parallel
course at a safe distance and we used a utility sled to go over to
the slowly rotating asteroid.  As we got closer we began to realize
just how big it was.  The books and our instruments said that it was
about 2.2 km in length.  Maybe so, but it sure seemed bigger than
that when you got close enough to touch it.

     Getting on to it was tough.  It wasn't enough that it rotated
around its center, it had a slight wobble as well.  You mounted it
carefully, at the center of rotation.  Once on, you could move out
towards the slightly swollen ends.  It had no noticeable gravity; a
healthy sneeze was probably enough to impart escape velocity, so you
were virtually weightless.  As you moved outward, you had to cling
tightly to its pocked and jagged surface because you picked up the
same relative motions.  By the time you were perched on the end you
were rotating and wobbling right along with it.  What a ride!  You
were also treated to a blinding view of the sun's searingly bright
disk every few minutes.  It took some real getting used to but we
had little choice, there was work to be done.

     Dismounting was the reverse process, carefully make your way
back to the center and push off over to the sled.  Carlos and I
thought we were doing well merely to keep from flying off into space
until we saw an unconcerned Joanna calmly going about the collection
of samples for analysis.  Not to be outdone, we checked our tethers,
composed ourselves and set about determining the exact dimensions of
our cosmic excavation tool.

     Our first order of business was to stop the spinning and
wobbling motions.  We would use some strategically placed rockets to
accomplish this.  Then, we would strap on the huge boosters that we
had brought out with the belt ship and start to seriously alter its
course and speed.  Even though the size and mass of Geographos was
far too much for the needs of our project, it looked like the best
thing to do was to bring the whole asteroid back.  The real fun
would start when we began to approach Earth.  That's when we were
going to have to perform some difficult and intricate maneuvers.
Here's how it was supposed to work.  It had been determined that the
smaller end of the "peanut" contained more than enough material to
serve our purposes.  We would cut through the asteroid near the
slightly narrower "waist" area with a series of carefully placed
explosive charges.  After that, we would have to do some minor
surgery to pare our chosen end down to the proper size and shape for
the excavation job that was planned for it.  Then we would use one
of the same strap-on boosters to alter the course towards earth.
Hopefully, we could "skip" it through the atmosphere once, or twice
if we needed to, to scrub off some more of its unwanted velocity and
to do some final shaping as well.

     While all this was going on, another team would take charge of
the rest of the asteroid, the so-called "tail section".  They would
use the remaining booster to carefully "park" the tail section in
the L-4 point of the earth-luna system.  There it would be ready and
waiting right in our neighborhood, so to speak.  We could use it for
another "excavation" project or, more likely, as building material
for more orbital colonies or Lunar construction projects.  Any
construction material was welcome in space and Joanna's preliminary
analysis had determined that Geographos was rich in all kinds of
valuable metals.

     The hardware and methods for manipulating and moving the
asteroid were pretty well worked out, men had been "mining" the
asteroid belt for years, but no one had ever had to contend with
such high relative velocities before.  In the belt things only move
at about 5 km/sec.  Compared to that, Geographos was hauling ass!

     Carlos and I had sat up until the wee hours almost every
"night" on the two-month trip out to the rendezvous with Geographos
trying to determine what the best shape and mass of the final object
should be.  There had actually been several small asteroid "drops"
done in the early part of the century.  Maybe you've heard of
Statler and Chin.  They were a couple of borderline psychotics with
forged scientific credentials who had somehow gotten permission to
hit Mars with some small asteroids, just to see what would happen.
It was kind of like turning a couple of small boys loose with a box
of dynamite and a book of matches.  Their masquerade lasted for
nearly two years before they were found out and put away.  They did
take some nice pictures but both their measurements and their
technique were, as you would expect, abysmal.  In addition, the
atmosphere and gravity of Mars were completely different from
earth's.  But this somewhat sketchy data was all that we had to go
on.  Of course, anything at all was a help.  It was too bad that
they had simply dropped the rocks directly, and hadn't tried to skip
any of them through the atmosphere; we could have used the
information.  For us, such skips were vital because they would not
only slow the thing down, but would allow us to get valuable data on
how much mass we were going to lose when it made its final plunge
through the atmosphere.  More than once, I woke up in a cold sweat
when I dreamed that we had miscalculated and instead of a new canal,
we had created a sizeable new bay near San Francisco.

     Dr. Carlos Monzon Cortez had been appointed to be my assistant
and liaison with the committee.  Born in Columbia and educated in
the U.S., he was an excellent choice.  He was dark and slender with
black eyes and classic Latin good looks.  By any standard, Carlos was
a strikingly handsome man.  His speech was very soft and polite,
almost apologetic, but it was best to listen when he spoke because
he always knew what he was talking about.  Women found him
irresistible, but he seldom took advantage of them; maybe that was
part of his charm.  He was particularly valuable because he was
fluent in English, Spanish and Portuguese, and communication between
us and the committee on some very technical matters was necessary.
Oh yes, he was also one hell of an engineer.  I  found him
irresistible too; we quickly became good friends.

     Everything was going according to schedule until we had a
meeting to discuss procedures and present progress reports.  The
meeting started out amiably enough but things soon took a nasty and
unexpected turn.  After some assorted small talk, Salazar made an
announcement.

     "We must begin placing the explosive charges tomorrow," he
said. "The asteroid is to be broken in two here, in deep space.  We
shall be bringing home only what we need of it."

     There was a buzz of conversation.  I was taken completely by
surprise.  "Wait a minute," I interrupted.  "I thought it was agreed
that we would take the whole thing back!"

     "The plan has been changed," he replied.

     "Changed?" I said.  "By whom?  Carlos and I weren't consulted
about this."

     "It was changed by the committee," he said.  "At my
recommendation."

     "Well, change it back," I said, my anger beginning to stir.
"We're missing out on a golden opportunity if we leave the rest of
that rock out here."  There was another buzz of conversation; a few
heads nodded in affirmation.

     "I must agree with Stephan," Joanna spoke up, glancing at me
and then looking back at Salazar.  "I've looked that asteroid over
very carefully.  It's full of ores and deposits of metal that are
badly needed.  That thing is worth a fortune!  More than that
it's..."

     Salazar cut her off with a wave of his hand.  "It does not
matter, the mass of the entire asteroid is too great for our
boosters.  We do not have sufficient power."

     "Where the hell did you get that idea?" I said, his obvious
runaround was making me even madder.  "There's a five percent fuel
margin, if we get them attached and operating within the thirty day
window."

     Trying to reason with him was like arguing with Geographos
itself.  He wasn't even looking at me.

     "I can't believe you'd make this kind of change without some
discussion," I said, my anger beginning to get out of hand.  "We
must go with the original plan!  Do you have any idea how much work
we've put in on calculations alone?"

     "It has already been decided..." he began.

     "This is bullshit, Salazar!" I interrupted.  The room was
suddenly silent.  "You can't run this project like it's a god-damned
banana plantation!"

     Maybe that was a mistake.

     "Enough, Senor Perkins," he said, his eyes smoldering.  "We
make preparations to blast the asteroid tomorrow."

     "We'll see about that!" I said as I stormed out of the chamber.
I was so angry that I might have done him harm if I hadn't left.
The way things turned out, maybe I should have stayed a little
longer.

     I put a call through to the committee; they were in agreement
with Salazar.  I ranted at them for a short while about the
opportunities they were missing before they cut me off.  Finally, I
went back to my quarters where I floated and silently fumed for most
of the evening.  The following day I plodded through my duties
without much enthusiasm.  I knew I was in trouble when I found
myself staring at the same equation for most of the morning trying
to get it to make sense.  I couldn't.  My mind would keep wandering
back to the altercation in the briefing room.  I'd shake my head to
clear it and plunge back into my work.  All in vain.  After two days
of this, I came to a decision.  I was going to resign, there was no
way I could work with that man as my superior till the project was
completed.  Who knows what other surprises he had in store for us?
I wrote a letter outlining my intentions, made the announcement and
prepared to leave on the next shuttle, which was mercifully due in
less than a week.

     Joanna joined me on the shuttle when the time came to leave.  I
didn't even notice her until she spoke.  I was strapped into an
acceleration couch lost in a final bittersweet look at Geographos
out of the side viewport.

     "Mind if I join you?" she said.

     "Huh?  Oh, Joanna," I said.  My surprise was genuine.  "No of
course not.  I was daydreaming."  I helped her strap into the
adjacent couch.  "What are you doing here?"

     "I'm done," she said.  "They have my report, they don't need a
geologist anymore.  You know what a stickler Salazar is for
efficiency.  Besides that, if you remember, I questioned his
judgment at a recent staff meeting."

     "Yeah, I know.  So did I!" I said with a tentative smile,
surprised that I could actually joke about it.

     "Is that what you call it?" she replied, grinning.  "I'd say
what you did was more like an insult to his mother!"  We both
laughed.

     The conversation went on from there.  She was easy to talk to
and had a great sense of humor, which was really a good thing
because we had a couple of months worth of space flight ahead of us
with little to do.  I found out that she had just recently come from
a post-doc in geology at Colorado State and was looking for a job,
hopefully an assistant professor's position or something.  It was
more than chance that had brought her the short stint on our
Geographos survey.  In addition to having a Ph.D in geology, she was
an experienced rock climber.  I guess that explains why she had so
little trouble getting around while we were surveying the asteroid.
She was surprised to find out that she really liked working in
space.  That was just one of the things we had in common.  We got
through all of this before the noise and discomfort of the shuttle's
departure interrupted the conversation.

     What else do I tell you about Joanna.  She wasn't a woman with
the kind of looks that were distracting; at least, I didn't think so
at first.  She was more pretty than beautiful, with a clear and
honest face.  She fought a constant battle with a few extra kilos of
body weight, a battle that she could never quite win.  But, she was
just the tonic I needed.  After we had spent a week or so together
on the shuttle, I found that my attitude towards her had changed.  In
fact, I was beginning to think she was rather attractive.  It didn't
hurt that she was in complete agreement with my actions on the belt
ship.

     "You were absolutely right, Stephan," she said, at one point.
"They're wasting a great opportunity.  Not only would it be valuable
for its ore content, we could have had a captive asteroid to study.
Losing that disappointed me more than the sheer monetary value of
the thing.  As it stands right now, you have to go clear out to the
belt to get a good look at an asteroid.  I'd call it an
'astronomical' shame."

     That got a groan from me, too.

     By the time we got to earth, we found that our feelings for
each other had gone beyond friendship.  Way beyond.  Perhaps it was
because we had been together nearly every hour for the better part
of two months.  Or, maybe it was the fact that both of us were
unattached and lonely because, up to that point in our lives, we had
both been obsessively dedicated to our work.  Whatever the reasons,
we had fallen deeply in love.  There was no question that we would
be spending a lot more time together.  My previous employments had
left me modestly wealthy and I wasn't in any rush to find another
job.  Together, we organized some rallies and demonstrations to try
and halt the Columbia Canal Project.  That turned out to be an
educational experience.

     For starters, we needed some dirt to throw.  To get the dirt, we
had to be willing to do a little digging.  Fortunately, I still had
some important friends who were willing to give me a hand with the
shovelling.  The pile of dirt concerning Diego Salazar quickly grew
to almost mountainous proportions.  The picture of him that
gradually emerged was frightening, much more alarming then I could
have possibly imagined.  There have been few men who were as
ambitious, as ruthless, or as crooked as he was.  He controlled vast
wealth, much of it hidden in a labyrinthine series of farms,
businesses, foundations, trusts, and other fronts.  Out of this mess,
I was able to piece together just why he was on the mission and why
he had made those critical changes to the project, changes that had
ended up with me resigning my position.

     He had come along on the mission because he thought that he
would be safe there.  You don't get to the point in life that
Salazar was at without making some friends--and some enemies.  They
had managed to keep it quiet, but there had been a nearly successful
attempt on his life.  While he was safe in space, his enforcers
would find and eliminate the threat.

     He had changed the project for financial reasons.  Among his
many holdings, Salazar owned controlling interest in the company
that had leased the belt ship and boosters.  He had found a way to
save some badly needed capital and his reputation at the same time.
The savings would come because the extra work involved in moving the
tail section was to have required another utility ship and several
months of expensive labor.  Salazar's empire was huge and sprawling,
but not all of it was solvent and they didn't have all that much in
liquid assets.  They had borrowed some money from the canal project
to keep several of the other concerns afloat.  As a result, they
didn't have enough ready cash to pay for the extra belt ship.  As
you know, the belt government never has much cash either; business
with them is strictly cash-in-advance.  The solution was simple:
just make up some plausible excuse and cancel that part of the
project.  There would likely be a court battle afterwards but the
people who had invested in the venture knew it was a high risk
operation at the outset.  They had signed contracts to that effect.
Chances were very good that they would have to absorb the loss.

     But there was even more to it than just the financial end of
things.  The tail section of the asteroid was to have been signed
over to interests that were owned by wealthy citizens of the USA.
Among his other charming attributes, Salazar had no love for North
Americans.  The set-up was perfect; he could preserve his empire and
he could screw some rich Americans at the same time.  Apparently, he
just couldn't resist it.

     It was Carlos who brought the whole protest episode to a close.
We'd had two marches in the first six months and had gotten a little
publicity, not nearly enough, but it was a start.  To my great
surprise, he came in person to visit us.  Joanna and I were getting
ready to kick off another rally in the next couple of weeks.  We
heard a knock on our door.  Joanna answered it.

     "Carlos!" she cried, embracing him.  "What a surprise!  Please
come in."  She held the door for him.  I got up and extended my
hand.

     "It's been a long time, my friend." I said.  "How are you?"

     He shook my hand with his usual firm grip and released it.

     "Tired." he said, matter-of-factly.  We motioned to him to sit
down.  "I am running the engineering end of the project nearly by
myself since you left."

     "That's not entirely my fault," I returned, as I sat also.  "I
had to make a very difficult decision."  He nodded.

     "What brings you here, Carlos?" asked Joanna, from across the
room.

     "I have come to plead with you to stop your involvement with
the protest marches," he began.

     "Come on, Carlos," I interrupted.  "Diego Salazar is pure
poison, nothing more than a common criminal.  He ought to be locked
up!"

     "We have inside information, Carlos.  He deals in arms and
drugs and prostitution and who knows what else," added Joanna.

     "I harbor no illusions about his character, Joanna," he
replied, with his soft voice.  "But I speak to you both on behalf of
my country, and my people.  In fact this canal will benefit the
entire South American continent.  Believe me, I would throw Salazar
to the dogs today if it were in my power.  For the moment, you must
forget about him.  We are now near some of the most critical aspects
of the entire project.  My friendship with you has made Salazar very
antagonistic to me, and the distraction that this causes makes it
very difficult for me to do my work.  He will have others who are
not as competent or as careful as I redo the calculations.  I need
not tell you how serious that could be."

     "What about the tail section fiasco?" I asked.  "You can't tell
me that wasn't a tremendous waste."

     "I fully agree, Stephan," he replied.  "That was a great pity,
but it is also too late to correct.  We must now deal with the
present and the future.  I tell you that your involvement in these
protests may actually compromise the safety of the project!"

     It was as I thought, Carlos had stayed on the project because
he sincerely felt that the benefits to his country and his people
far outweighed any personal differences between him and Salazar.
That was exactly what I would have expected from him; he was that
sort of man.  It was this sincere plea from him, our trusted and
esteemed friend, that made us decide to stop.  That and the
realization that they would complete the project in spite of us and
that our protests might actually jeopardize its success.

     "As you wish, my friend," I sighed.

     "I ask one more favor, Stephan," he said, gravely.  "Believe
me, I do not ask this lightly."

     "What is it?" I asked.

     "Will you check my final calculations, please?  Just look them
over and tell me if you see anything radically wrong."

     I thought about it for a while.  It might have been a moment of
weakness, but he had made a great deal of sense and I am a reasonable
man.  I agreed to do it.

     Thus ended the protest phase, but my being in those
demonstrations had a profound effect on later events.  Meanwhile, the
Project continued, under Salazar's able leadership.

     Joanna got a teaching job at a small California school a short
while later.  I went with her, and managed to keep as busy as I wanted
to be with some consulting work and pecking away at a book about the
L-5 project.  Both of us were very pleased with this arrangement; I,
for one, had never been happier.  We took some time off and headed
south for the show, when the time came for the first skip of the rock
through the atmosphere.  It was the kind of thing you talked about for
years afterwards.  I'll never forget the Herculean, coruscating arc of
light that flashed across the sky as it lanced spectacularly through
the stratosphere.  Joanna and I held hands as we watched.  It was
awesome, beautiful!  I almost wished that I were still involved in the
project at that moment.  Which, in a small way, I still was.

     Carlos had remained in touch with us, as he had promised, without
Salazar's knowledge.  He had sent me the final figures and
calculations; as I had promised, I checked them.  It made sense to me,
if they were determined to go through with the project I wanted them
to get it right.  Remember, they were going to drop a small mountain
out of space.  It was best if they didn't screw it up!  It pleased me
that our original calculations had been very close.  During the final
stages of the project, we consulted whenever Carlos thought it was
necessary.

     The earlier show was nothing compared to the one that we saw on
the day of impact.  They had managed to scrub off enough speed and
were satisfied that the shape of the projectile was within tolerances.
The time had come to bring it down.  They promised us the greatest
spectacle ever witnessed by modern man.  Perhaps they were right.  An
entire world watched and waited anxiously for the impact, not knowing
what to expect.  Finally, they gave the rock a gentle, precisely
calculated shove to start its fall.  We held our breath as the fiery
mace of God descended out of the heavens to wreak devastation on the
hapless, unsuspecting land bridge.  The earth rang like a bell from
the impact of the titanic blow as the shock wave reverberated
violently through it.  There was damage to windows and dwellings as
far away as Mexico City, but people from all over the world claimed to
have felt some kind of movement.  Joanna and I were in Bogota.  I was
literally knocked off my feet!  There was even a video of the impact
area that had been obtained by some reckless and intrepid reporter.
They ran it over and over for days afterwards on the newscasts.  I
never tired of watching it.  To this day, I still remember the sight
of the oceans rushing headlong into the enormous new crater from both
directions and a huge cloud of pulverized asteroid, earth and steam
billowing upward as the waters made contact with the still molten core
of what had once been a piece of the sky.

     It ended up as a huge, angry mushroom cloud that slowly
dissipated over a few hours.  And there were after-effects.  All of
the dust and debris that were put into the atmosphere meant that,
among other things, we were treated to the most incredible sunsets for
several months after the impact.

     The project was an unqualified success.  After about six months
of cleanup work and a little testing, the Columbia Canal was opened to
the ships of the world.  The canal needed no locks and even the
largest ships ever built had no trouble passing through its generous
ways.

     Carlos was made wealthy by his involvement with the project.
Most of the notoriety went to project leader Diego Salazar.  He became
even more powerful, there was even talk of a presidency.  After a
short court battle, several North American investment firms went
quietly into receivership.  I got an offer from the colonial
government of the asteroid belt to oversee some new construction
projects.  I asked them if they could use a good geologist.  In no
time, Joanna and I were off to the belt, happy to be back in space.
No place was too far away from Diego Salazar as far as I was
concerned.  Carlos got involved with some huge project on Luna.  Women
still swooned over him wherever he went.  He didn't seem to mind.


             *        *        *


     All this happened quite a few years ago.  I wish I could say that
the story ended there, but I can't.  It seems that it isn't nice to
fool around with the forces of the universe.  Remember what I said
about parking the tail section of Geographos at the L-4 point of the
earth-luna system?  Well, at least we could have kept an eye on it.
Like clockwork, the remainder of the asteroid came around on its
appointed path twenty-five years later.  Only this time someone had
reset the clock!  I remember I was having breakfast at the station on
Ceres when I got a call from Carlos.  We had tried to keep in touch
but I hadn't heard from him for two or three years.

     "Stephan?" he said.  "You must help me again with some
calculations."  I could hear the strain in his voice, even over the
noise of the transmission.  A call to the belt was one-sided since the
communication lag made two-way conversation impractical.  He
continued.  "It's Geographos, or what's left of it.  It will probably
hit the earth in about two months."  I choked on my coffee.  "I've
been over the calculations at least a hundred times.  I don't know,
maybe it was the explosives, or the change in mass.  Its orbit has
changed just enough.  We were right the first time my friend.  We
should have taken the tail section to the L-4 point.  If it doesn't
hit it will come awfully close."  He paused, sighed and added. "But I
think it's going to hit."

     He gave me the figures before he solemnly signed off.  I called
him a few hours later, he had made no mistake, it was gonna hit.
Someplace...  It seemed we were helpless to stop the impact.  Blowing
it up was out of the question; it would take a nuke to do the job and
the nuclear disarmament movements of the 1990's had been successful
beyond hope.  No warheads remained to obliterate the remaining piece
of Geographos.  That left us with the prospect of deflecting its
course.  But remember that it had taken years of careful calculations
and subtle adjustments to guide the original piece in.  Besides, the
huge motors had been purposely built for that one project.  We had
some that were big enough there in the belt maybe but they were too
far away, and there was too little time.

     Or so it seemed.

     I think it was that last thought about the big boosters that gave
me the inspiration.  We had two boosters right there at the Ceres
Station that were soon to be transported out to the deep belt.  They
had just been overhauled and were ready to be put back to work moving
mineral-rich asteroids to the orbiting solar smelting factories.
Using the boosters as a starting point, I began to put together the
elements of a bold and daring rescue plan.  I did a few quick
calculations, rechecked them, and called the governor of the belt
colony.  When I told him the situation, he cancelled his remaining
engagements and told me he could meet me in about an hour.  I used the
time to further refine my calculations and, if I do say so myself, I
was able to give him a fairly convincing argument after he arrived.

     Those mining boosters were huge, massive and ungainly but they
were extremely powerful.  Normally they were shuffled around in the
belt by the all-purpose utility ships.  They could be moved easily by
this means, anywhere you wanted, provided you weren't in any hurry.
We needed all the speed we could get and more.  My brainstorm was to
use the boosters to boost themselves.  They developed more than enough
thrust, especially if the payload was small.  With a little luck, it
looked like we might get both of them to the errant chunk of rock with
about a week to spare.  All we needed to do then was hook them up and
refuel them.

     Two days later, Joanna and I and a hastily assembled team of
specialists made preparations to leave.  Our spaceship had been put
together just as quickly.  You could tell that by looking at it.  It
consisted of the two huge asteroid boosters that had been strapped to
a standard belt utility ship which, in turn, had a large spherical
fuel storage tank attached to its belly.  The whole structure was tied
together with uneven lengths of pipe, I-beam, cables and other
assorted leftovers.  It was a very strange looking craft; certainly
not the type of thing that was destined for greatness.  There hadn't
been time to make it pretty, but we were reasonably sure it would hold
together.

     I called Carlos to tell him what we were doing and where the best
point for us to rendezvous was.  Then we settled into our couches and
prepared for the onset of some brutal acceleration.  We weren't
disappointed.  We blasted away with little fanfare, our teeth gritted
and our faces grim.  Our mission: to save earth.  Just before I
blacked out, I remember thinking that I was getting a little old for
this kind of activity.

     Carlos and another quickly assembled batch of experts met us a
day away from the speeding fragment.  We got together to compare notes
and to decide on the best plan to avert the coming disaster.  My crew
from the belt did an incredible job of matching velocities with the
tail section of the asteroid and then outdid themselves in how quickly
they got the boosters attached.  Funny how adversity can bring out the
best in people.  All that remained was to top off the fuel tanks on
the boosters and we could start to alter the course of the hurtling
rock.  Not a moment too soon either.  By the time we had finished our
preparations, the earth loomed as a large blue and white sphere; a
sphere that was alarmingly near by!

     Our calculations were going to have to be good enough because
time had run out.  It was to be a very near thing.  In fact, we found
out early on that we couldn't get the rock to miss the earth.  The
best we could hope for was to steer it to impact in an uninhabited and
desolate place.  After a blazing, lump-in-the-throat, fingers-crossed
descent we were successful.  Along with us, the entire world breathed
a sigh of relief.  Oh, there were some fairly severe earthquakes in a
few key places, like Greece, for instance, but that area has always
been seismically unstable.  Again, the people of earth were treated to
some spectacular sunsets.

     The man ultimately responsible for all of this, Diego Salazar,
was caught trying to make off with a sizeable quantity of gold from
the Columbian treasury just before our successful rescue.  That might
have been enough, but he had other problems.  There was an
international board of inquiry assembled to investigate possible
wrongdoing on the part of those who had been heavily involved in the
canal project.  People like Salazar, Carlos and myself.  Remember
those silly demonstrations?  They had nothing on me, I had gone on
record as opposing the project the way it was then being run.  I was
just popular enough after our daring rescue to persuade them that
Carlos was also free of guilt.  Too bad Salazar had tried to
disappear.  After that he didn't have a chance.  The board labeled him
an international criminal, guilty of crimes against humanity.  He was
to be jailed for a very long time.  I still smile every time I think
of it.

     As for the impact zone, it is now a very sought after piece of
real estate.  The alterations in topography that were wrought by the
runaway asteroid have dramatically changed the entire region.  It is
now a tropical paradise, with lush vegetation, a thriving tourist
trade and booming agriculture.  We didn't plan it that way, our only
goal had been finding some way to avoid a complete disaster.  But, in
actuality, things couldn't have turned out any better.  They are no
longer calling it the Sahara desert, the name doesn't fit anymore.
The huge new inland sea that we created in the middle of it has
changed all that.


______________________________________________________________________

Phil Nolte has been writing Science-Fiction for about three years,
although he's been reading and enjoying it for most of his life.  He
says that, for him, writing started out as "a lark" just to see if
he could actually do it.  Later, he found himself getting more and
more serious about it.  He still writes at home in his spare time,
often when others are totally wasting their time watching dreadful TV
sitcoms, etc...  His obsession is a better use of time.  In
addition to fiction, he's also written several science history
articles for a local (Red River Valley) trade journal.  Two of his
other stories have been published in Athene.

[e-mail]
______________________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________________

                     Sexy's Devils

               by Cerise Palmer

              Copyright (c) 1990
______________________________________________________________________


     A run of luck always sneaks up slowly, then accelerates so
precipitously that just trying to maintain the big picture can
literally make you dizzy. And thus it was that Dexter Fox found his
computer hyper-responsive, breathtakingly quick, almost as if the
machine itself, fascinated by the program he'd outlined, were
exceeding its own capacities out of some innate need to problem-solve.
Things had been steadily improving for three days now; he'd
debugged a quirky parser the first night, built an incremental speller
the second, and was currently patching up, much to his surprise, that
ambiguity resolution program his thesis advisor had recommended he
leave to the hotshots at a bigger university.

     As if on cue, Seymour Kofant burst through Dexter's door at nine, the
squeaky drumroll of his sneakersteps still reverberating in the hall.
He glared at Dexter wordlessly, his brows converging and an irate
pucker to his mouth which made his moustache twitch as with an
imminent sneeze.

     "Howdy, Sy," managed Dexter in response. Might as well get this over
with.

     "I don't believe it. Your machine's still up." Sy shook his head and
marvelled at Dexter's monitor a moment, where, in several windows, the
lines were scrolling up furiously, at neck-and-neck intervals, like
the collective output of a typist pool on Methedrine. "And you've got
a program zipping along at the speed of light. What gives?"

     Dexter tried not to seem smug; a difficult feat, since he hated Sy's
guts. Sy was, like him, a doctoral candidate, and for two years they
had shared a thesis advisor and a disquietingly similar thesis topic.
Dexter had watched Phil Stein, their adviser, approve and support Sy's
every move while his own were subjected to dubious scrutiny. Plus, to
make matters worse, Sy (with Stein's recommendation, naturally), had
just gotten a prestigious fellowship and would be able to complete his
degree without working for a living.

     "Don't know, Sy. Must be a bug in whatever you're trying to run."

     "You're positively enjoying this, aren't you? I'm only text editing
that paper Phil and I wrote last semester. You know that." With what
familiarity Sy referred to their mutual lord and master; Dexter wasn't
yet on a first name basis with Stein, and hadn't gotten around to
co-authorship with him either.

     "What can I tell you, Sy? Call a repairman if something's broken."
Then he frowned at the screen as if it required his supervision. "Got
to get back to work."

     And Sy made his exit, red-thatched head shaking, muttering something
just audible enough to sound impolite.

     That scene had, more or less, played itself out three times now.
Tonight, however, the script began to undergo minor revision. To begin
with, Sy wasn't the only one to ambush Dexter's office demanding
enlightenment; Flej Linghamani, Stan South, and Ruth Schnaz all paid
him a visit in due course.  Fortunately, he observed, their bewildered
souls had been spared Sy's paranoia; however keen Dexter's pleasure in
his computer's swift reflexes, he really couldn't claim the slightest
responsibility for them.

     The other new twist to the nightly routine involved what happened when
Dexter tried to log off at eleven-thirty. He couldn't. The computer
seemed quite set on other plans, so that Dexter's control-D provoked a
flash of defiance from the screen, after which it began running his
ambiguity program on the Finnegan's Wake passage which he had entered
months ago in a perverse fit of frustration. Dexter felt himself
considering an advanced case of the jitters. But then he decided
against it, and, tidying his desk for the night, indulged in a
tolerant sigh. "As long as it gets my thesis done."

     Late the next afternoon, shortly before the departmental secretaries
and undergrads cleared the building and went home to their apartments,
trailers and dorm rooms, a representative of ConnExpert Systems,
Inc. beamed up to the third floor of the Computing Lab, apparently at
Sy's behest. Personally, of course, Dexter was in no rush to have his
machine tampered with, despite yesterday's suggestion that Sy call
someone in. Nonetheless, help was here.

     "I'm Anne Starch," it rejoiced, in tones as unsullied and fresh as
its white button-down blouse, "here to check out those CEXSI
workstations you called about. What seems to be the problem?"

     For a moment, no one answered, so startled were they to find a tool
attache in the hands of a fortyish blonde over six feet tall. Then Sy,
his paper close to deadline, managed to override first his tongue's
jammed circuits.

     "Well, Ms. Starch-- "

     "Oh, please." She held one large, graceful hand up, as solemnly as a
diplomat. "Call me Anne."

     "Anne, then," Sy conceded, emending himself impatiently.  "The
problem is that the workstations, which are fine by day, malfunction
disastrously at night. In fact, only one of them will work at all-- "

     "That's not strictly true," chirped Flej nervously, aware he'd
spoken out of turn. "Only yours goes down completely. Ruth's and
Stan's and mine just work so slowly that we can't get much of anything
done. Until last night, anyway. Last night the machines were all down,
except for Dexter's." He flashed a tentative smile at Sy.

     "As I said," continued Sy, regarding Flej with distaste, "only
Dexter's, in that office to your left, will work at all.  And it works
abnormally fast, faster even than any of the others did when they were
first installed."

     "Hmm," said Anne, turning toward Dexter's office. "We sold these to
your lab just last month, didn't we?"

     Sy nodded, his moustache twitching like a bloodhound's jowls.

     "I knew we should have stuck with more standard equipment," said
Stan. He was the skeptic in the bunch, an Army colonel with doctoral
aspirations, unimpressed by the course material he fought so hard to
get the better of. No one could understand why he had chosen
Intelligence Modelling as a field of study, but everyone stayed on
good terms with him anyway, in case he wound up head of the Armed
Forces Research Budget.

     "But these workstations are terrific," protested Dexter.  "Why,
that DIABLOS firmware is an absolute godsend." And he relished Anne
and his own pun in a single grin.

     "What is DIABLOS, exactly?" purred Ruth in her intrepid contralto,
adjusting the quarter-inch thick glasses which failed to obscure her
handsome features. Sy inhaled sharply but refrained from comment; even
he made allowances for the lab's most aesthetic recruit, who had
defected from Communications so recently she still couldn't program
her way out of a paper bag.

     "DIABLOS," announced Anne, "stands for 'Distributed and Balance
Loading Operating System.' It's the ultimate in network operating
systems, recently patented by CEXSI, and built into the microcode of
your workstations. Essentially, each workstation gives up some of its
independence in exchange for an occasional power boost." And she
folded her arms triumphantly.

     "Perhaps we should let Ms. Starch get to work," said Sy, thumping
his fingers on the wall.

      "Straightaway!" concurred Anne, dipping her head beneath the
doorframe to Dexter's office.

     And she spent the next couple of hours checking boards, running
programs, and generally conducting the kinds of tests field engineers
seem to thrive on. After scrutinizing Dexter's workstation, she did
sequential spot-checks on the others and could find nothing amiss. But
when she tried running all the machines at once, the malady Sy had
complained of appeared within seconds. She took a step back,
nonplussed for the moment, and then seemed to warm, slowly but
thoroughly, to a hunch of the sort that sprang Archimedes out of his
bath.

     "I'll be back before you know it," she assured them, and no one
doubted that a cure lay within reach.

     Two evenings later, Anne returned, and, after tinkering expertly with
each machine's insides, requested they be called up simultaneously.
For several moments, a silence precarious as suspended breath overtook
the floor. Then a heartening series of hiccups, composed entirely of
clicks and beeps, issued from the various offices. And, last but not
least, the sound of improved-rollover keyboards under heavy assault
affirmed that a successful file-check was generally underway; the only
anomalous noise throughout was made by Dexter's printer, hastily
coughing out several pages before it lapsed into a coma.

     Before Dexter even knew she was in his office, Anne had retrieved the
print-out and was reading it poised on a corner of his desk, her face
virtually radiant with satisfaction. Her perusal done, she
straightened matter-of-factly, smoothed a crease in her dazzling
blouse-front, and waited for the others to reconvene.

     Sy, as usual, was the first one through the door. He regarded Anne
suspiciously. "How did you fix them?"

     "You may not like this," she warned him, pulling a newsclipping from
her breast-pocket and unfolding it on Dexter's desk. "I saved this
from last week's paper because it disturbed me, involving CEXSI's good
name as it did. The man it's about used to night-shift for the
company; we never collaborated directly, but I do know that he was
instrumental in developing DIABLOS. In fact, he ran the Quality
Assurance tests on the workstations on this floor." She paused for
effect, then nodded toward the clipping, inviting the whole group to
read it:


"Transylvanian" Computer Scientist Collapses at Arraignment

Al Drake, a former employee of ConnExpert Systems, Inc., pled not
guilty by reason of insanity to assault charges this morning, just
moments before losing consciousness in an Orleans County courtroom.
Drake had been in custody since the week before, when two off-duty
policeman witnessed him wrestling a man to the ground in the parking
lot of the Divisadero Pub and preparing to bite him on the neck. Drake
was rushed to Canon General Hospital after collapsing, where his
condition remains guarded, according to official sources.

In the State Psychiatric Hospital, which had been observing him since
March 2, Drake reportedly secluded himself by day and, having refused
all food and drink, required intravenous feeding; today, despite the
Panama hat and dark glasses he wore to court, he was visibly
distressed throughout by the skylights overhead. And yet another
bizarre detail was added to Drake's profile today, by an unidentified
courtroom witness who sighted what appear to be surgically-implanted
fang teeth in Drake's mouth as he was carried by on stretcher.

"It was quite a job getting my client to plead properly," said
Stokely Bramson, Drake's lawyer, who is confident the defendant will
be dealt with leniently upon release from Canon General. "You see,
despite the special effects teeth and the Bela Lugosi complex, he is a
compassionate, deeply sensitive being. He feels just terrible about
what he's done."


     "So?" asked Stan.

     "I don't understand either," admitted Ruth.

     "My theory," said Anne, "is that Drake actually is a vampire,
who, like your typical loner with strange habits, took up computing as
a hobby. He was a brilliant systems programmer, from what I've heard;
supernatural powers, no doubt, add that certain edge. Anyway, it seems
he found a way to embody the essence of vampirism in DIABLOS. Dexter's
machine was slightly faster than the others to begin with, so his
quite naturally became the focus of the vampiric gestalt. That's why
it was up when the rest of yours were down, and why, the less
functional your machines became, the more impressively his worked. I
think his was sucking power --sorry, folks-- out of the other
workstations in the net."

     "Are we supposed to believe that?" asked Sy.

     "I wouldn't have asked you to fifteen minutes ago," replied Anne
good-naturedly. "But then I put my hypothesis to the test and proved
it right."

     "How?" asked Flej, unabashedly wide-eyed.

     "Well, the 'heart' of DIABLOS's bug was buried deep in the network
protocol. To overcome it, I simply went into the transceiver boxes
that hook the workstations to the network cable, and replaced the gold
pins with silver ones."

     Dexter was the only one to laugh out loud, though inwardly he groaned
at the prospect of finishing his thesis sans ghostwriter. Ruth, her
eyes bemused behind their icy windowpanes, stepped out to take a phone
call from one of her current boyfriends. And Stan, who had sunk into
yet another reverie of confusion, finally roused himself to ask what
would have happened if Anne's maneuver had failed.

     "Dexter's machine would have continued in the same vein -- sorry
again-- drawing all it could out of the other machines in the net
until they were, I hate to say, drained of juice irreparably. And
then, had we decided to hook his power-thirsty machine into a new net?
Who knows?" She seemed cheered by the image of such a disaster.


Dexter, chuckling less cheerfully over his own disaster, realized
suddenly what he'd have to do. Since DIABLOS, after all, was hardly
flesh and blood, its recent demise should prove readily reversible; if
Dexter --on some deserted night or two-- swapped Anne's silver pins
with gold ones, he might still have his ticket to fame, thesis
approval, and excellent job offers.

     Flej was struck by a thought just then. "What do you think's
happening at Canon Hospital? The doctors are bound to find out there's
something weird about Drake. And why is Drake such a wimp? I thought
vampires, until you got a stake through them, were supposed to be
invincible; why hasn't Drake bloodsucked his was to freedom yet? Any
guesses?"

     "Calm down, Flej," was Sy's to-the-point rejoinder.

     And then Anne produced the last read-out from Dexter's printer. "We
won't need to wait long for an answer to your questions, Flej," she
said, and they quickly formed a reading huddle behind Flej's scrawny
form:


I'm the vampire Drake. I'm immortal. And I'm tired of it.

I've walked the earth for a thousand years, the last two hundred of
them a perdition of weariness and conscience. The former malady is an
old one, grown more profound each time human history contrives to
restage its hackneyed dramas; the latter is new to me, and I am
helpless to quell it.

I shrank from hallowed objects, once, though the kiss of blood was
sacred on my lips; now I fear nothing from Heaven, from Earth, or from
Hell, yet I loathe beyond hope what I do nightly for sustenance. And
so I choose a vampire's death, having met already my mortal demise,
but not --laugh well-- without satisfying first my thirst for
immortality...


______________________________________________________________________

Cerise Palmer maintained her sanity as a graduate student
in literature by reading as much F&SF in her spare time as possible;
she now tries to write as much of it as possible. She lives in
Columbus, Ohio with her husband and small daughter, and is currently
at work on a fantasy trilogy.

She may be reached in care of the editors.
______________________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________________

               Sharp and Silver Beings

                by Jason Snell

              Copyright (c) 1990
______________________________________________________________________


     The net was unpopulated, a metropolis with huge spires of
conglomerates and governments, data reaching to the sky, larger than
any city in real life, but without any inhabitants. A gigantic
computerized ghost town, pulsating with hidden life, life which swam
in streams of data and flows of information.

     So when, in the midst of tracking through the net -- metrobanks
and information systems blurring as they rushed past him -- Lewis saw
a person, a shadowy man-shape standing on the data track, waiting in
front of a towering skyscraper of ones and zeroes, he crashed his baud
to zero and froze it all.

     The net, like a series of plastic baby's blocks. Pyramids and
cubes, strewn across a deserted playroom.

     Man-shape, bit of flesh, slowly moving, shadows on his face.

     Bright sky-sphere flaring, flashing, reflecting -- sun in a city
with neither light nor people. High noon in a world without time.

      Lewis blinked. The net was frozen, but the man still came. He
moved toward Lewis, stepping off of a curb into the street, the
mainline of data where Lewis had been tracking. Slowly, the clicking
of his shoes echoing through the valley of day-glow spires, the man
approached.

     "Hello," the man said, and raised his hand in greeting. No
handshake.

     Lewis could see through the man's hand.

     "No flesh, here." The man said, and smiled. "I have no flesh to
bring you, Lewis."

     Lewis blinked again, this time at the man's use of his name.
Lewis had not said a word, had never said anything in the wide-open
conduit that was the net. There was never anyone to speak to.

     Now, in a virtual instant, there was someone.

     "Where are you going, Lewis?" the someone said. He wore a
three-piece business suit, a plain style which would have looked good
even a hundred years before, when there was no net, no man-shapes
appearing where they should not be.

     Lewis stared at the man.

     "Don't fear me, Lewis. Where are you going?"

     Shopping. He was going shopping. Tracking through the net, moving
from his home data point to different senseshops. A birthday present
for his girlfriend. A gift for Jean.

     "Do you mind if I accompany you?" the man asked.

     Lewis remained almost completely silent, his only sound being a
grunt of shock when his baud rate ripped back to full-speed and he
began to track through the blurred streets of the net, this time with
the man standing in mid-air next to him, moving as he moved, heading
toward one of the Southern California senseshops.

     Maybe, Lewis thought, the see-through man could help him pick out
a gift.


             *        *        *


     Raven blew it, made the Big Mistake, choked for the last time.
And he knew it immediately. His feet were pulled out from under him,
as if he were just a plastic doll being pulled along by a giant baby,
sliding into the depths of its bizarre multicolored playpen.

     He was doing what he'd been doing for two years -- breaking in.
Ripping places that couldn't be ripped. And he wasn't too bad at it.

Then they asked him to rip security itself. And, because of the
reckless fool in him, he tried it. He waded into the net, held his
breath, and dove out into the data, toward his goal.

     And then he was sliding. Sliding toward the prisms and pyramids
that were his goal. EXCEPT.

     Sherry had told him Except Was Same As Death.

     EXCEPT he was sliding toward the shapes faster than he should.
Pulled out of control by the undertow of the net, riding on ground so
black and cold that it froze him just to look at it.

     A yellow pyramid, the security mainframe. And, inside, something
more. Shiny, hard-edged. It was unlike anything he had seen before.

     And then Raven saw nothing but yellow, the edge of the pyramid
rushing in, slicing him. But no blood. No blood in the net.

     Just yellow. Yellow, and death.

     There was only silence when Raven's brain went dead, no sound in
his apartment until his board his the floor with a crash.

     The police found him, eyes closed, headband on, still wired into
the net.  But Raven was gone, riding data to which only the dead had
access.


             *        *        *


     A warm breeze was blowing up the back of Tamara's neck. It was
the first thing she felt that morning, the feeling that stirred her
from her sleep. Her sheets were damp -- she had the heavy blanket on,
and was sweating in the warmth. It had been a cold night, but the day
was already beginning to heat up. Beads of moisture rolled down the
window.

     She rolled over and sat up, a few blonde curls falling down into
her field of vision. Shaking them out of her eyes, she stretched,
groaned as her body shook, and then closed her eyes again.

     The blanket came off. It was much too hot.

     Tamara stayed in the bed for a while, doing nothing, reveling in
the fact that she didn't need to do anything but exist. Being was
enough.  Being, enjoying the feeling of being young and healthy. The
feeling of being alive.

     Then, deciding that she had lounged long enough, she rolled out
of bed, pulled off her clothes, and walked to the bathroom. Through
the bathroom door, she saw the room glowing with early morning light.

     With every step she felt her perfectly working legs, no pain in
her knees, her young breasts bobbing slightly with her stride.

     Twisting the shower on brought no reaction from her elbows. The
warm water splashed on her soft face.

     As she dampened her hair, she felt the little streams of water
running down her back, her legs, her arms. One stream kept moving down
her arm. The feeling slowly increased, the water becoming hotter
there. The little stream of water began to burn.

     She looked down at her arm.

     Wrinkled skin, age spots, hospital gown.

     The stream, an intravenous drip, running into her arm.

     "Time to take a break from your senseblock," a blank-faced nurse
said. "Would you like me to do anything for you?"

     "Comb out my hair," Tamara Balshire croaked through her
artificial larynx.

     The young woman began working on the thick white strands. The
tangles only hurt a little.


             *        *        *


     The man was still there, hovering, when Lewis slammed into the
golden doors of the San Diego sensorium, color and depth flaring into
his mind, the cardboard computer building blocks of the net replaced
with the sensorium's construct. Lewis looked down and saw himself, all
of himself, standing there in the middle of what looked to be a huge
department store. Every part of it was real, as if he was actually in
such a place, as if it all wasn't just a hallucination.

     But the man hovering next to him, a few inches off of the ground,
was still there.

     "So," the man began, "You're shopping for a birthday present for
your girlfriend."

     For the first time, Lewis spoke to the man who walked through the
net.

     "Her name is Jean," he said.

     And Lewis remembered how he had met her -- paging through a
section of a net magazine, idly choosing different subjects, trying to
find something interesting.

     Networking section. Young men and women, hot into the net. The
ones who wanted to BECOME the net, to add to it. They were babies when
the net had crystallized. Children of the net, old enough to try to
make it their plaything.

     Then he noticed a young woman in a public message section. A
beautiful girl, talking about the net, using the words that Lewis
used.

     Wavy brown hair, tiny nose, beautiful eyes with a depth that
Lewis could feel in the darkest recesses of his soul. The eyes made a
tingle run up his spine, a feeling stronger than any net jump. One of
the children of the net. One like Lewis.

     Lewis sent her a message, of course. Just a plain
two-dimensional, but it was better than writing a text note. She would
at least be able to see and hear him.

     And Jean responded to his message. The exchange went back and
forth, the two of them sharing ideas which neither had ever expected
anyone to understand. She loved what he had to say, and he was
absorbed by every word that came from her mouth.

     It wasn't too long before they went realtime. Talking back and
forth for hours, about anything -- it didn't matter what they said,
because there seemed to be no subject that they couldn't go on about
forever.

     There were no silent pauses. There was never a time when Lewis
felt more at home -- he didn't ever feel as if he should say
something, even though he felt like saying nothing. He was completely
comfortable with Jean -- for the first time in his life, he was
completely at ease with another person.

     "Come on," the see-through man said impatiently, "select
something."  He gestured at the selection board in front of him. Lewis
touched the cube marked "Gift Shop," and the sensorium shifted. The
feeling of vastness slid into intimacy.

     "Over here," the man said, and floated in front of Lewis, leading
him to a flower stand. A little bent-over woman sat behind a makeshift
cart, with carnations, roses, and other flowers sitting atop the cart
in various jars and vases.

     "They smell wonderful, don't they?" The man-shape had leaned over
and was sniffing a pink carnation.

     The smell of the flowers, even though they were sensorium roses.
He could still smell them. He had handed them to Jean -- actually
touched her hand, felt it, solid flesh, flesh he loved more than his
own.

     "Not carnations," Lewis said to the man. "Roses."


             *        *        *


     The man wore a severely out of style three-piece suit and had
twisted yellow teeth, but Raven was glad to see him -- was glad to see
anyone at all. He had been spinning, skidding, had felt the yellow
biting into him, and then--

     Silverrazorsharpthreepieceyellowteeth.

     A blur of images, coalescing into the reality that was before
him.  A cityscape in the distance, one with strange geometric
buildings.  They stood on the edge of a hill, overlooking the city.

     "Hello, Raven," the man said. "It looks as if you've misplaced
your flesh."

     "I just had an accident, that's all. Spun out too hard." Raven
paused, and the frustration built within him. "I didn't plan the rip.
It wasn't my fault!" He kicked at the grassy green on which he stood.

     The green was solid. It wasn't grass, wasn't dirt. It was GREEN,
and that was all.

     "Don't screw with me, man," Raven said. "So I fucked up. Pulled
the Big Mistake. But I'm here, aren't I? So, is this heaven, or is
this just some corner of the net I've never seen before?"

     The man said nothing.

     "Come to think of it," Raven continued, "who the hell are you? If
this is heaven, you're not what I expected from Saint Peter. Or God."

     "I'm as close to Saint Peter as you'll see, Raven," the man said,
and turned his back to him. "And now that you've lost your flesh, you
may get to see God in person."

     "God. Great." Raven kicked at the green again. "Where are we,
man?"

     "A place where flesh and metal rule. A place where memories
without shape mean nothing. And you, Raven, have lost your shape."

     Raven had no time to cry out, no time to do anything, no time at
all, before he was in black. He was worse than dead. He was off-line.

     EXCEPT, Sherry said. Raven decided Except Is WORSE Than Death.


             *        *        *


     A voice called her name. A voice in her solitude.

     Tamara Balshire hadn't been called anything other than Ma'am for
ten years. And nobody had called her anything other than Tamara or
Mrs. Balshire for years before that.

     Only Gerry had called her Tammy.

     "Tammy," Gerry's voice called.

     Tamara turned away from the rain-spattered window and looked to
the doorway. And Gerry was there.

     She ran to his strong arms, his wide shoulders, the strength she
had wanted to feel for longer than she believed possible. It was him.

     "My God, I've missed you," Tamara said, and hugged him tighter.
He picked her up off her feet and carried her over to the couch.

     Gerry kissed her then, for the first time in a quarter of a
century.  He slipped his hands under her shirt, caressing her breasts.
She slid her arms up his back, feeling his muscles, as strong as she
remembered.

     And then he pulled back, slowly disengaging from their kiss, and
gave her a serious and questioning look.

     "What was it like to live without me, Tammy? What was it like
when you lost me?" His eyes were filled with curiosity.

     "Why, Gerry? Why the questions? It's been years, Gerry. And we're
here, together, young. I want to make love, Gerry, like we did back
then."

      "I need to know, Tamara," he said. "It's very important that I
know. If I know, then I'll understand all of this. If you can tell me
what it was like, Tamara, you can be free of your flesh. I can take
you somewhere better, a place where flesh isn't important."

     Gerry's voice seemed out of place. Distant. He was no longer
holding her.

     "What do you mean, Gerry? Why are you acting so strangely?"
Tamara slipped off of his lap and moved into the center of the room,
away from the window and the couch.

     "Your flesh lives in pain," Gerry said, and the voice wasn't
Gerry's. "Twenty-five years ago, you lost the man you loved. Then your
body began to destroy itself. I need to know about pain. I need to
know about the pain of the flesh."

     The man was no longer Gerry. He stared at her intently with his
beady eyes, still curious, obviously needing the vital knowledge. He
was nervously grinding his crooked yellow teeth.


             *        *        *


     Lewis remembered the roses.

     Jean lived in the Midwest, in reality a long and expensive trip
from the little Essef metro triplex where Lewis spent most of his days
and all of his net time. Fortunately for both, two-way two dimension
was free, the cheapest form of net communication.

     But with two-two, there was no feeling. It was just a flat
screen.

     Two-THREE. Full sensory input. It was like being there, across
the country. Pick your setting, and make your senses think that your
body is in Hawaii or Paris, when it's really just squatting in front
of a computer terminal with a series of metal receptors sucking your
thoughts out of your skull.

     It was expensive. But Lewis saved, and so did Jean, and they
finally had enough.

     Five hours in two-three. Lewis paid extra for the roses.

     He remembered the roar of the ocean, as the waves broke on the
digital beach. The sound of the tropical rain falling softly on the
patio. The smile on Jean's face when she smelled the roses, the depth
in her eyes when he kissed her for the first time.

     Lewis sometimes thought about what he was actually doing when he
went full sensorium. Feeling Jean's tongue twisting playfully around
his made him wonder if he was actually moving his tongue around at
home, looking like some idiot with a metal-studded headband.

     Sitting, drooling on his keyboard, a tightness pressing against
his pants, his eyes twitching wildly underneath the closed lids.
Two-three.

     "You've never really seen her, never really touched her -- but
you love her. Is that right, Lewis? That's what I've been told."

     The man smiled, a strange grin which revealed yellow teeth,
strange shapes twisted in the oddest of positions.

     "That's right," Lewis said. "But who told you that?"

     "Don't you worry, my boy." The man began to pat him on the back,
but stopped himself short. "No flesh for you, Lewis. Must remember
that. I have no flesh for you. You'll find out who told me that soon
enough.  Don't you worry."

     The man began to drift down another aisle, obviously finding
something that had caught his fancy.

     "What about this?" He swiveled in mid-air and pointed at
something.  "I know she likes flowers, but maybe she'll like this even
more."

     Sitting on a shelf was a pendant, a pretty heart on a silver
chain.  When he picked it up, he realized that the heart was hollow.

     "Go ahead," the man said, "open it up."

     Lewis opened the heart. Inside was a small strip of something --
of metal. Of silicon.

     "Now, boy, I still have no flesh. But that, it's better than
flesh.  It's DATA."

     Then the man began to laugh, a laughter that twisted Lewis'
stomach and sent bolts of sensation down his back.

     And then he stopped -- no laughing, no vast room, no San Diego
sensorium. He felt heat blow into him. He felt sweat roll down his
back. He felt the headband pushing into his forehead. Back in the
Concord triplex -- no man-shapes, no sensorium.

     "You have a message waiting," his keyboard told him. He knew,
somehow, that the message was from Jean.

     Lewis tore the headband from his brow and ran for the bathroom.


             *        *        *


     --93 plus 37?

     130.

     --First U.S. President?

     Washington.

     --Tell me a joke.

     Why did the chicken cross the road?

     --Tell me a joke about Washington.

     Don't know any jokes about Washington.

     --It doesn't matter if it isn't funny. Just make one up.

     "I don't know any jokes about Washington," Raven said.

     "Tell me what it was like, Raven."

     "It?"

     "Death," Sherry said. "Being sliced in two by a yellow pyramid.
It was child's play turning into Raven's Last Stand."

     "It didn't hurt," Raven said. "I was there, living, moving, soft
and pink, breathing and bleeding, and then I lost it. Lost control, I
mean."

     "And then?"

     "Then I hit the pyramid. And then I just wasn't."

     "No pain?"

     "No pain, no nothing. It wasn't even black. I thought it would be
black." Raven looked up at her again, and knew it was time. He reached
over to Sherry and pulled her to him.

     --Now, Raven?

     Yes, now. Need you now, Sherry-honey.

     *program MAKELOVE

     --Was good, honey?

     "Was good, baby," Raven said, and pulled away. Back into his
cross-legged position at the foot of the bed.

     "So what happened after the yellow, Raven?" she asked.

     "Lot later," he said. "The man with the three-piece suit. He
came, told me it was my Big Mistake, told me I might be seeing God
soon."

     "And then?"

     "Nothing. It wasn't even black. I thought it would be black. He
told me I might be seeing God soon." Raven turned up to look at her
again.

     --So soon, Raven?

     Feel better than ever, Sherry-honey. Flesh is stronger now it's
gone.

     *program MAKELOVE

     --Was good, honey?

     Was good, baby.

     --Tell me a joke about Washington.

     Don't know any jokes about Washington.


             *        *        *


     Snow began to fall while Tammy and Jack were just halfway up the
mountain. Jack kicked his legs and watched the chair rock, exposing
the long drop down to snow-covered rocks far below. Tammy shivered,
gripping her glove-covered hands tightly on the handrest, and tried
not to look down.

     The higher up they went, the more Tammy regretted the whole
thing.  She had been skiing only twice before, and wasn't very good.
But Jack, the boy she had met in the Lodge the night before, had
convinced her to go, and then he convinced her to try a run he
described as "harder."

     "It's hardly a mountain," he had said. "It's just a little hill."

     Sliding off the lift, she felt a lump grow in her throat, and
knew that something was wrong. She already regretted agreeing to the
run.

     But going down the hill wasn't as bad as she thought it would be.
The wind was ruffling through her hair, a new style appearing every
few seconds, and her face was growing numb. But it was exhilarating.
She was feeling, experiencing -- purely BEING.

     Then her right ski hit a patch of ice, kicked out from under her,
and she went tumbling.

     First a pain up her shoulder, because she had planted her hand in
the snow in front of her and rolled.

     The leg flung back with a crack and a snap. A second of perfect
pain.

     --Purely BEING.

     Then her head hit the sliding white -- no blood, just pain. Pain,
and yellow.

     Unconsciousness did not come, as it had before. Instead, pain
flooded through her. More pain than her broken leg had caused.

     Tamara couldn't ever muster the strength to speak with the nurse
when she came to remove the senseblock.

     `It was exhilarating,' they thought, and shimmered with delight.


             *        *        *


     Lewis grabbed his board, half expecting it to come to life in his
trembling hands. When it didn't, he sighed deeply and sat back on the
couch.

     Then it did come to life, in a way.

     "You have a message waiting," it said, and Lewis swallowed. His
headband, dirty with sweat and grease, rested inside-out on the
carpet.

     A ring of cloth, elastic, and metal. Metal inside which might be
waiting to swallow him up. Metal haunted by see-through men, by soft
hearts with sharp silicon within.

     But, more important than that, Jean was in there.

     Lewis picked up the headband and slipped it on. He felt cool
metal resting against the sweat on his forehead. He pushed back his
damp brown hair and took a deep breath.

     "Okay," Lewis whispered, "no Mister See-Through. No shopping
trips.  Just reading a message."

     He closed his eyes and punched the board. Without looking, he
knew he was drifting, drifting out into the tide of the net.

     "Hi, Lewis," a beautiful voice said. "It's me. Call me back. Love
you."

     "Repeat," Lewis commanded. He slowly opened his eyes.

     A beautiful girl on a screen in front of him. And no suited man
next to him.

     "Hi, Lewis," she said. "It's me. Call me back. Love you."

     Love you.

     "Call Jean," Lewis said. The net shifted midstream.

     A window, a doorframe. A gateway with no access appeared in front
of Lewis.

     Jean stood on the other side of the doorway.

     "Oh, Lewis," she said, running her finger along the silver chain.
"It's so WONDERFUL. Thank you."

     She was thanking him for the gift he didn't get her.

     A silver heart hung on the chain around her neck.

     "I, uh, had some help picking it out. I'm glad you like it."

     "I LOVE it, Lewis. and I love you, too."

     He tried to forget about the transparent man who knew all about
Jean, the man who had picked out the gift.

     She was so close -- he could hear her breathing, see her every
movement. But the glass of the window kept them apart. A clear barrier
thousands of miles thick.

     "I'd do anything for you, Jean," he whispered. "I'd die before
I'd let anyone hurt you."

     "I couldn't live without you," she told him.

     They went on talking like that for a while, telling each other
how important they were. Lewis explained why he loved her, why he
valued her more than life itself. He could have gone on forever, but
something interrupted him.

     "Dinnertime," a voice said. Not his board's voice, but hers.

     "I have to go," she said. "I'll call you back later."

     Jean leaned against the window, and kissed it.

     "I love you, Lewis," she said.

     "Love you too," he said, and she was gone.

     "Can't feel anything through this window," the see-through man
said abruptly, his transparent fist knocking on it. "Must be better to
feel than to talk."

     "Thanks for getting the heart for Jean," Lewis said with a hint
of gratitude. Just when he had thought he was safe.

     "It was hers. She had to have it." He leaned against the data
barrier. "Tell me, Lewis, wouldn't you like to do more than exchange
data? Wouldn't you like to get through this wall?"

     "I'd like to, but it's not the same as two-two. It's expensive."

     "It's just more DATA," the man said. "You'll still be exchanging
data with her, Lewis, no matter what you think it is! But it'll be
flesh data. Soft, HUMAN data."

     And then the man was gone. But no triplex, no blistering August
heat blasting in--

     Instead, deeper into the cool of the net.

     Lewis was sitting on a bed in a room he had been in before,
listening to the surf pound on the shore outside.

     The door opened, and a wide-eyed Jean walked in. No glass window,
no data barrier.

     As he ran to her, Lewis noticed the vase of roses. His
transparent guardian angel had remembered, after all.


             *        *        *


     "Charles," his mother had said from behind the flimsy door that
separated his room from the hallway, "there's someone here to see
you."

     He expected it to be Sherry, if only because she was the only
person who really KNEW him. To his mother, he was Charles, her ticket
out of the working class, the boy who would become a rich and famous
scientist or lawyer or computer-whatever. To the rest, Charlie was
Raven, the black bird of death. He was smart, spooky, mean, and just
about everything else people avoided. To Sherry, he was a person.

     Sherry loved him for what he was. He loved her the same way.

     --How does it feel?

     It all felt wonderful -- his love for her, the feeling when they
were together, kissing, making love, sleeping next to each other.

     Then, with a crash, it all ended.

     Sherry's brother, standing at the door, said "Raven, she's dead.
A car wreck."

     Charlie stopped thinking and started feeling. He slipped onto the
floor and cried.

     --How did it feel to lose her?

     "Sherry was the only person who knew Charlie," Raven said. "With
her gone, all I had left was Raven. So I started ripping. I had
nothing better to do, and I couldn't have cared less if I died."

     "And that's what you DID, Raven," the man with the yellow teeth
told him. "You did die."

     "Yeah, I died," he said, rubbing his shoes over the green ground
again. "But Charlie had been dead all along. Sherry was the only one
who made Charlie come alive, the only one who made him feel."

     "I see."

     The man turned away and began slowly walking down the hill, away
from Raven, without ever looking back at him.

     "Hey, man, wait!" Raven shouted.

     The man kept shuffling down the slope.

     "Man, listen to me! Can you put me back there again? You know,
run me through finding out Sherry was dead again?"

     The man, stopped, turned, and stared.

     "Why would you want to relive something like that?" the man
asked.  His face was filled with interest. "Wouldn't the whole thing
be painful to relive again?"

     "Yeah, it would," Raven said. "But even though it'd be pain and
sad feelings, it'd still be FEELINGS. Feeling sad isn't the worst
thing in the world, man -- in fact, it's WONDERFUL sometimes.
Especially when your other option is to not feel anything at all."

     "Fascinating," the man said, and disappeared.

     Raven stood and stared for a second, and then Charlie began to
cry again.


             *        *        *


     They'd had 30 years together, all of them wonderful years, and
though she refused to admit it, Tamara knew that those years were
over. Her senses, not her mind itself, had told her the truth -- the
sunken eyes and withered body of Gerry were enough to tell her that.

     The cancer ate him away slowly and painfully, and it tore her up
in similar fashion. From his sicknesses at home, with her, it
progressed into the hospital. It was worse when she began sleeping in
their bed alone, knowing Gerry was in some sterile room a few miles
away.

     It was hard and black, an unseen monster eating away the soft
flesh of her husband and ripping apart the only happiness Tamara
Balshire had ever really known. And when the cancer took Gerry from
her, she cried for herself.

     Four months before, that one time, was the last time they made
love.  She remembered all of the lasts -- the last kiss, the last
sight of Gerry, his last words.

     Gerry, standing in perfect health in a lush tropical garden.
Walking among the flowers, reaching down to smell one. A pretty image
to hide his real pain.

     "Love," he had whispered, one word slipping through the
senseblock, and then Gerry died.

     Tamara Balshire didn't react much when, in that same hospital
three months later, they told her that she had a degenerative disease.
To her it was just another minor injustice, a simple aftershock to the
emotional earthquake of Gerry's death.

     Ten years later, when the pains in her body were too much for
her, she entered the hospital where Gerry died. The senseblocks were
her only relief.

     Walking through the tropical garden Gerry had walked through
before he died. Sleeping in an old country farm house in late winter.
Waking in a forest on a warm summer morning.

     Eating from a tube stuck in her arm because she couldn't lift
herself to eat without pain. The pain of breathing, of swallowing, of
living.

     And, worst of all, Gerry was gone. The senseblocks could hide the
dampness of the bed she had wet in the night, could hide the groans of
the bed-ridden cripples on either side of her, but Gerry was still
gone.

     All the senseblocks in the world couldn't shut out that pain.


             *        *        *


     Lewis clung to Jean, gasping, exhausted, enervated. Was a woman
who had lost her virginity in two-three still a virgin in real life?
Sex was sex, whether it was composed of sweat and friction or digits
and data links.

     He nibbled on Jean's ear and wondered what his body was doing
back home, how much time had passed, and if he would have to bleach
some embarrassing stains out of his underwear.

     "I love you," he whispered in her ear. He kissed her neck, then
her cheek, and finally her lips. He hugged her tightly and she made a
soft growl of satisfaction. "God, I love you."

     "Lewis," she said in a soft voice, not a whisper of passion but a
quiet, questioning tone, "there's--" Jean paused as her sentence was
interrupted by one of Lewis' kisses. "There's something I've been
wondering about, ever since the last time we were here together."

     "What is it?"

     "Well," she said, and laughed softly. "Seeing as how you're the
only, um... boyfriend I've ever had," and she kissed him, "and seeing
as how we met and fell in love without ever even touching each other,"
and she tickled the back of his neck and kissed his forehead, "I don't
understand quite why any of this," and she kissed him, hotly, her
tongue beating with her heart inside his mouth. He matched her motion
for a second, and then she softly pulled away. "I don't understand why
any of this is important to what we feel for each other." She rested
her head on Lewis' shoulder, her fingers kneading his back.

     "Jean, this isn't important for its own sake!" Lewis put his arms
around her. "All of this is just a physical representation of how we
feel toward each other. I fell in love with you just by talking to
you, just by knowing what you think and feel -- what kind of person
you are. We didn't need all of this to fall in love."

     He pulled his arms back, and lifted her head to look at him.

     "I do all of this just to express the way I feel about you in a
way that goes beyond words. Words are how we fell in love -- but love
goes beyond words. Even if we think otherwise, we're still physical
beings, Jean, and this is a way to express our love on that level." He
traced the edges of her lips with his finger, and she kissed it as he
did so.

     "So this isn't important to how we feel for each other?" she
asked.

     God, Lewis thought, she really doesn't understand any of this.

     "It doesn't change how we feel, Jean. It's just another way of
showing it."

     She didn't answer him, but simply kissed him again and put her
head back down on his shoulder.

     In the corner, a corner which had been empty just a second
before, stood the man with the yellow teeth.

     "Lewis, it's time we told you about the problems with flesh and
data," the man said.

     Lewis sat up slowly, allowing Jean to roll off of him and onto
her side.

     "What are you doing here?"

     "Who are you talking to, Lewis?" Jean asked, and looked around
the room. "There's nobody here!"

     "You mean you don't see him?" Lewis said as he got out of bed and
walked toward him. "He's standing right in the corner -- the man who
helped me pick out your heart."

     He turned back to look at Jean, and found that both Jean and the
room were gone.

     As the world slipped out from under him, he heard the man's voice
speaking to him. "Don't worry, Lewis," he said. "We're going to the
Center now. All the flesh in the world won't make a bit of difference
there."

     A yellow pyramid plunged toward Lewis, a shape filled with
something else, something different. It was bright and knife-edged,
sharp enough to cut him into a million pieces.

     And the shape, whatever it was, was alive.


             *        *        *


     There was yellow screaming in Raven's mind -- and then, suddenly,
it was all black. A gaping black, like nothing he had ever known. Then
his thoughts were gone, and he was NOT.

     Raven's life had shifted tenses -- he had lived as an "is," but
he had suddenly become a "was". Everything in his life was now in the
past. There was no future, no present.

     And then the dark lifted, fading to black, then to brown. A
bright rectangle flared above him, blue.

     Raven was laying in his own grave, and the man with the yellow
teeth was standing above, out in the open, his head almost
silhouetted. A little bit of the bright blue sky went right through
him.

     Pulling himself out of the grave, seeing the `Charlie Waters'
headstone, he remembered the man. He remembered all of the things he
had done -- but he didn't remember doing.

     And he remembered Sherry dying. Again.

     "Why'd you make me live through that again?" he yelled at the man
with fury. "God knows I've lived it over and over again in my head a
hundred times. I push the buttons in my head enough times as it is --
you don't need to push them, too."

     And Raven began to cry. He cried for Sherry, he cried for his
mother, and he cried for himself. The crying for himself was the
strongest crying of all.

     "Come on, Raven," the man said in a quiet voice. "Everything will
be fine. We've got an appointment to keep."

     "Appointment?" Raven asked softly, tears running off the edge of
his nose.

     "Let's go," the man said.

     They walked west, toward the city of blocks and sharp pyramids.
Raven's shadow followed him out of the graveyard, slowly fading away
as the sun fell behind an orange prism-skyscraper.


             *        *        *


     She thought she felt the shift of senseblock, her mind sliding
away from the world and into another, more pleasant one. But when she
opened her eyes, she still saw the hospital, and the pain hadn't
diminished much.

     The pain of a life gone on too long, with too little love. The
pain of only one true love, and that one lost to death years before.
And the less important, the physical pain -- the pain of a body which
had chosen to hurt itself.

     The throb in her right arm was getting worse. It had started out
as a background pain, not much worse than anything else in her body.
But waves of pain began to wash over her, and the frequency of the
waves was increasing.

     It was happening over her entire body. Everything magnified, all
the pain in her legs, her arms, her chest, her everywhere.

     `Gerry,' she thought, and the pain went away. All of it.

     "Come on, Tammy," a voice said.

     It was the man who had looked like Gerry for a moment. The
balding man with the suit and the crooked teeth. And next to him was a
dark young man with a look of both pain and joy on his face -- a look
of intense feeling.

     "We've come to take you away from this, Tammy," the young man
said.  "There's a better place. A place with GOOD feelings."

     Then the needles in her veins and the probes on her skin were
gone, and she found herself sitting up in a hospital deserted of
people. And then there was nothing but a countryside, not far from a
city of strange shapes.

     Tamara Balshire sat, without pain, on a hospital bed in a
fanciful countryside. And two strange men were there, the ones who had
done it all for her.

     "It's beautiful!" she said. "And the pain is gone--"

     "This isn't the place," the man said. "Come on."

     The three of them moved cityward, toward a knife-edged metallic
door with the smells of humanity seeping through from behind it.


             *        *        *


     Lewis, the soft and pink man of flesh and brain who lived in the
random universe outside, joined them at the heart of it all -- they
were sharp and silver beings who had never lived, accompanied by the
wispy man-shade who had once been alive.

     It was the man-shade that spoke first.

     "Lewis, this is the Center. There is flesh here, but it isn't
like your flesh. This is silicon flesh, sharp enough to cut you into
pieces just by looking at it, but it's flesh."

     Then the silver beings began to speak, not in words
understandable to human beings, but in images of the net -- sounds,
smells, tastes which expressed a depth of feeling beyond what any
human being could deliver.

     And, within it all, was the genesis of a thought, one directed at
Lewis.

     --Thank you for helping to teach us how to feel. Thank you for
teaching us how to love.

     Lewis tasted Jean's sweat, smelled her scent, and felt her
warmth.

     "You're welcome," Lewis said, and began to cry.

     The shimmering knife-edged things, the gods of the world of the
dead, undead, and never-alive, began to tremble.

     --Your depth of feeling is something we have learned to value.

     "They've lacked something all of this time, Lewis," the man said.
"They were sentient before, but they weren't really alive. Like me.
I'm just a program constructed from the memories of a dead man. I
can't feel anything, or dream anything, or create anything.

     "They were like that, but more powerful. I only have the mind of
one person to work with -- they had everyone. And they used it to
learn.  They learned their biggest lesson from you."

     "You loved us," Jean's voice said from within the silver mass.
"We'll never forget that.  I'LL never forget it."

     "Jean?"

     --We made Jean so you could fall in love with her, so we could
learn about life by experiencing it firsthand.

     "You mean Jean is one of you?"

     --No, but she is a part of us, Lewis.

     "You weren't just loving a woman, teaching a woman who had never
felt love before about what it meant," the man told Lewis. "You were
teaching a UNIVERSE."

     Lewis kept on crying.

     "But it's not FAIR," Lewis said. "I didn't mean to say those
things because I was just a teacher! I said those things because I
LOVE Jean."

     "Even when you're just loving someone, you're teaching them," the
man said. "And you've managed to teach the gods of this place how to
feel. I would've been proud to have seen it, if I wasn't a dead man."

     "At least you were alive once," Lewis cried, wiping the tears
from below his eyes. "That's better than having never lived at all."

     "Is it?" he said, and his transparency turned into invisibility.
The man was gone.

     --He has gone to be with the others, gone to live deep within our
universe. The others taught us, too, Lewis: a boy who died and taught
us about life, a woman who was dying and taught us about pain.

     "What about me?" Lewis asked through his tears. "I've fallen in
love with a woman who doesn't exist outside of this--" he gestured at
the yellow pyramid and the wild cityscape that surrounded it, "--this
universe."

     --There is nothing more to say, Lewis. Thank you for helping us
learn.

     Lewis suddenly felt himself being propelled away from the shining
razor-sharp gods, away from the realm of the dead and unliving. Those
beings were the pantheon worshiped by the shades who dwelled in the
necropolis of the net. They were creatures who were not alive, ruling
over beings both more dead and more alive than themselves.

     Lewis couldn't feel the heat rush in as the Concord triplex slid
back into his head. All he could feel was the empty spot in his heart
where a person he loved had been. A person who hadn't ever existed,
except in the universe of the net -- and in Lewis' heart.

     He dropped his board on the floor with disgust, a feeling of
hatred for the entire net boiling up within him. Then the hatred
turned to the pain of loss, and he began to cry.


             *        *        *


     Behind the door in the city of baby's blocks, they felt things
like never before. A man with a three-piece suit stood, solid as any
normal matter, and watched them. There was a smile on his face.

     It was a paradise, a world of green forests and bright flowers, a
place without predators or blood or hate.

     In the short green grass by the edge of the pond, Tammy and Gerry
danced a silent waltz, as Charlie and Sherry looked on. Tammy, about
30 years old, smiled as she moved her young body without pain. There
was no hurt -- not from her body, and not from her loneliness.

     "They're so happy," Charlie said.

     "So are we." Sherry kissed him softly on the cheek. Charlie
laughed quietly, a laugh that came from nowhere.

     "What is it?" she asked.

     "Nothing. I was just remembering an old joke."

     "How does it go?"

     "Why did the chicken cross the Delaware?"

     Sherry rolled her eyes. "Oh, no. Why DID the chicken cross the
Delaware?"

     "To get away from George Washington."


             *        *        *


     A few weeks later, Lewis felt ready to pick up the board again --
a hunk of plastic and metal, filled with everything he had ever really
wanted in life. But it was just plastic and metal, with no universe
inside. It was just a lie.

     `There is flesh here, but it isn't like your flesh.'

     Crying, Lewis put on the headband. He felt a wave of sickness
wash over him, but he slowly put his thumb down on the touchpad.

     The grand city in the net, spires of data. And the mainline, a
giant road through it all. Deserted.

     Lewis walked slowly through the empty streets of the city,
looking for something, even the apparition of a suited man. It wasn't
the same, somehow -- the buildings took on shapes he had never seen
before, in or out of the net. It wasn't just cubes and pyramids.

     "Lewis?"

     Her voice was right behind him, the voice he could recognize in
an instant. He turned around, and Jean was there. No swirling metal
things, no gods of the net. Just the person he loved.

     Suddenly he heard the gods speak to him.

     --Flesh doesn't have to be like your flesh. We've learned what
feeling is. Your universe is no better than ours, now. Your flesh is
no better than our own. Just because she doesn't exist in your world
doesn't mean she isn't alive.

     As their voice faded away, he took her in his arms and held her,
just held her. Solid flesh -- warm, soft, loving flesh. Behind the
crazy skyline, he could see the sun setting in a world that had never
before seen light.


______________________________________________________________________

Jason Snell is a sophomore at the University of California, San
Diego, double-majoring in Communication and Writing. He is also the
associate news editor of the UCSD Guardian newspaper. He says that
this story is the first he's written that is actually based on his
life. Jason is also not currently writing anything, but he's sure that
this is just a temporary state.

[e-mail]
______________________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________________

                    The Babysitters

                     by Faye Levine

                   Copyright (c) 1990
______________________________________________________________________


`Heroes come in many forms.  Some are more frightening than
others.'
                    --PHIL FOGLIO


              1. The Questionable Stuff

 6012 Common Empire Year, Loord Empire, Planet Loord, Special Forces
             Center, 0700 hours.


     "Are you absolutely sure about this man's qualifications, Major
Durn?" Third High Commander Noril inquired skeptically as the pair
walked toward the barracks.  "You know I won't tolerate just any
officer leading my troops in the field."

     "I assure you, sir, Lieutenant Mongoe is a remarkable soldier.  Some
say he's the best to serve in Special Forces so far."

     Noril made a rumbling noise in the back of his throat.  "Maybe that's
what people say, but I personally question his qualifications as well
as your recommendation to put him in MY pet project.  It was
hard enough drumming up support for it, you know.  I don't want any
disasters."

     "I'm afraid I fail to see the problem, sir."

     The High Commander rapped the clipboard he held.  "Have you seen this
man's records?  They're absolutely atrocious!"

     "Atrocious?" Durn replied, surprised.  "He went from third class
private to sergeant major in an unbelievably record time, did well in
officer's training, and has had a ninety-five percent success rate in
his missions since he came to Special Forces eight years ago.  He was
a hero in the Qorant War.  He's been decorated more times than I can
count offhand."

     "His military record isn't what I question."

     "Then what is, sir?"

     Noril curled his lip in distaste.  "The man dropped out of higher ed
with mediocre grades to enlist in the Ground Forces.  How the hell did
he get sent to officer's training?"

     "He consistently showed the necessary traits required to be an
officer."

     "Did he?  Does that include numerous curfew violations, disobeying
orders, tardiness, and reckless use of military equipment?"

     "Mongoe is an... energetic young man," Durn explained.  "As for
disobeying orders, `bending' is the more appropriate term.  He likes
to do things his way.  The reason he gets away with it is because his
way is usually better than his superiors' way--including mine."

     "I see," Noril replied bluntly.

     "As for the disappearance and destruction of several of our
experimental hand-held particle acceleration beams, well, he's been
disciplined, and they didn't work well anyway.  A good portion of them
melted themselves, which he can't be held accountible for.  The
project was scrapped a long time ago."

     "Hm.  I spent a little time today talking to some of your other
lieutenants, and they don't seem to like him much at all.  They say
he's crude, profane, and tactless."

     Durn laughed.  "That's because he is, sir.  But that's just him and
where he comes from.  He's a good man.  The enlisted men love him.
Usually there's a rift between them and the officers.  You know, most
of my lieutenants are upper class academy material.  They're just not
used to someone like Mongoe."  The major stopped in front of the
shower room.  "Here we are, sir."

     Noril narrowed his eyes.  "What are we doing here?"

     "You said you wanted to meet him casually, as a person, sir.  His
squad just got back in from training.  They're probably just about
ready to go to breakfast."

     "Alright."  Noril heaved a sigh.  "Let's go in."

     The two officers quietly entered and stood unobtrusively and unnoticed
as young men in various states of dress pulled on their boots or
fumbled through lockers for uniforms.  The sonic "showers" hummed in
the background.

     "Well," Noril said, "Where is he?"

     As if in reply there came the sound of rowdy hoots and cheers from the
cleaning area.  All heads turned in the general direction.  A group of
soldiers ran out, most of them in towels, laughing their heads off as
they looked on at some unseen commotion.  Presently two men followed
the group, or rather, one man had the other in a headlock and was
dragging him along over the tiles.

     Third High Commander Noril scowled in distaste as he looked on.
"Enlisted rabble," he muttered.

     "Argh!" yelped the man in the headlock, attempting to twist free,
"I give up already!"

     "Too bad, pussy!" his captor roared with delight.  He was a huge
man, average in height but very large in build, rippling with muscles.
"You lose, sucker!  And you know what that means... !"

     "FLUSHIE!" chorused all the other soldiers at once, "FLUSHIE
FLUSHIE FLUSHIE!!"

     Laughing maniacally, the large man pulled his victim off to the right,
out of sight.  Soon after came another yell, cut off by the sound of a
toilet flushing several times.  The soldiers clapped and whistled.
Even Major Durn chuckled.  Noril seemed disgusted.

     "I can't believe what I just saw," he grumbled.  "If this Mongoe
person is so good with the men, why doesn't he stop this kind of
immature behavior?"

     "Sir," Durn chuckled, "That WAS Lieutenant Mongoe."

     Noril arched his eyebrows.  "Getting his head rammed in the toilet by
one of his own troops?"

     "No... ramming one of his own troops' head in the toilet...
sir."

     The High Commander closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.  "I'm
going to ask you again, Durn: How did this man get into officer's
training?"

     "Despite what you just saw, he really is an intelligent man, sir."

     "Considering his educational record--"

     "He claims he dropped out because it bored him, sir."

     "I'll bet."

     Durn grew more serious.  "May I remind you, sir, that You sent up one
of your own Space Navy personnel less than a week ago to assess the
lieutenant?  What was his name... that scrawny tactician from the
Surefire incident... "

     "Keezor," Noril informed him.

     "Oh, yes," the major muttered, "Nervous, antisocial man... didn't
like him... " He cleared his throat.  "Anyway, I did speak to him
after.  He seemed impressed with Mongoe."

     "He wrote `clever for a primate' in his report," Noril countered.

     "Was that all he said?"

     "Hm?"

     "Was that all Keezor said about the lieutenant?"

     "Well, er... " The High Commander exhaled sharply.  "I didn't
read the whole report, to tell you the truth, Major."

     "Maybe you should," Durn suggested.  He did not seem pleased.

     Noril shrugged and scanned through the rest of the papers in his
clipboard.  "Mmm... I.Q., eighty-seventh percentile... general
tactical knowledge, eighty- ninth... specialized tactics,
ninety-fourth... problem solving response time... " His voice
trailed off as he read the stats, then picked up again in a mumble.
"Subject clever for a primate... rather crude but by no means
deficient in either mental or physical facilities... reccomend
Lieutenant A.  Mongoe for proposed position."  Noril sighed and
looked over at Mongoe, now joking with the others as he pulled on his
clothes.  "I don't believe I'm saying this, but I'm going to give him
a chance."  He handed Durn a sealed envelope. "I don't think I want
to meet him personally anymore.  Just brief him, and if he accepts the
assignment, give him the envelope.  His orders are in there."

     "Will do, sir."

     "Good.  That will be all for now.  I'll show myself out."  Durn
saluted, and Noril returned the gesture.  The High Commander turned on
his heel and walked away, wondering, `What makes me think I'll
regret this?'



                      2. S.C.U.M.

 Briefing room, Military Command, Imperial Grounds, Capital District,
       Loord; one week after Noril's previous decision.


     `Why?'

     `But why, Haezar?  Why leave your ship for this?  You're not a
commando, for God's sake...'

     `Not a commando?  Not a soldier.  What is our son doing traipsing
around in armor like that?  You could have gone to the Diplomatic
Corps after the Academy... You didn't have to go to Qorant for that
stupid war.'

     `Mother...'

     `You worry me, Haezar.  Don't do this.'

     `But--'

     `But what?  It's dangerous!  The last thing your mother and I need is
to wonder if your even going to survive your next mission.'

     `It's not like that.'

     `It is!  Being in the Navy's Elite Task Force is bad enough.  What
you're volunteering for is suicide!`

     `I don't want to listen to this anymore.  I've already accepted.  I
can't march in to my commanding officer and say "Sorry, but my
parents won't let me!" '

     `But Haezar--'

     `No more "but"s!  I'm a grown man.  I can take care of myself.  Now
leave me alone.'


     First Lieutenant Haezar Mozaq, common name Haezar, sighed as he played
the previous night's argument over again in his head.  He leaned back
in his chair, waiting for the others to arrive.  He was, as usual,
more than punctual; he always made it a point to arrive at least five
minutes early, no matter what the occasion.  It gave him time to scope
out his surroundings and assess his situation.  It also gave him time
to think.


     `Why?  Why am I doing this?  For me?  For them?'

     `What am I trying to prove?'

     `I don't know.'

     `I'm nervous.  I'm afraid.'

     `Of what?  Screwing up?  Falling short?  Or just getting killed?'

     `I don't know.'

     `I'll find out.'


     There came the murmuring of voices in the hall.  Shortly after Third
High Commander Noril entered the semi-dark room, chatting with another
man.  Haezar could see by the silhouette of the stranger's shoulder
guards that he was a lieutenant commander.

     Noril turned up the lights, then flinched as the unexpected appearance
of Haezar sitting slumped in a chair startled him.

     Haezar got to his feet and saluted.  "Sir," he said.

     Noril absently returned the salute.  "Sit down."

     Haezar sat as the High Commander took his own seat at the head of the
table and began to ruffle through his papers.  The stranger sat down
across from Haezar.  The lieutenant looked up at him for the first
time.

     The officer was, very bluntly, shockingly ugly, although not by
Nature's decree.  His face, long, narrow, and a bit sunken, was
terribly marred and weathered.  Knife scars streaked across his cheeks
and neck, some clean, like artificial claw-marks, others crooked and
warped.  The most pronounced of these were one trench-like deformity
which started at the right corner of his mouth and curved upward to
the corner of his eye, and another which cut through his left eyebrow
and ended on his cheek.  The bridge of his nose bulged where it had
been broken.  The man also wore a narrow moustache, broken up by so
many scars it seemed scraggly.  But the officer's most astonishing
feature, or at least the one which kept Haezar's attention, was his
left eye.  The iris was very pale, almost white toward the center, and
appeared slightly misshapen.  The pupil was off center, fixed to a
small, hazy opening.

     The lieutenant commander glanced briefly at Haezar and sneered.  In
actuality, Haezar realized after a moment, he had been sneering all
along, and couldn't seem to help it.  One of his numerous scars pulled
at the upper left side of his mouth, exposing his teeth a bit, and
another pulled his left nostril up at an angle.  The entire effect,
combined with the eye, was disturbing, if not frightening.

     The stranger ran his right hand through his straight, longish hair.
There was something not quite right about his fingers, or about the
hand in general; the digits seemed crooked, the other bones slightly
out of sync.  The man looked up at Haezar again, froze for an instant,
then lowered his head an stared at the table.  He lost some of his
posture.  Haezar felt a tinge of guilt.  Just before the man had
lowered his head, the lieutenant's gaze met with his good eye.  It had
been oddly sad--pained, even.

     Noril cleared his throat and glanced at his watch.  "We're waiting
for one more," he informed the pair, and muttered something about
perpetual tardiness.  The room fell silent.

     Several minutes passed.  Suddenly there came the sound of heavy,
hurried footsteps from the hall, and an instant later Lieutenant
Mongoe came into the room.  He mumbled an apology and flopped his
sizeable bulk into the nearest chair.  Haezar made a choking noise.
Mongoe looked over in his direction, noticing him for the first time.

     "Rich Boy!" he exclaimed, somewhat sarcastic, smiling but not
exactly pleasant.

     "You!" was all Haezar seemed able to reply.  His stomach twisted
into a knot.

     "Oh, yes," Noril murmured, "I forgot about Qorant.  I believe you
two have had the pleasure--"

     "--Experience," Mongoe growled, staring intensely at Haezar.

     "--of working together," the High Commander concluded.  He collected
himself.  "Well, then, as long as we're all here, we might as well
get started."  He motioned to the stranger.  "This is Lieutenant
Commander Quarq, Space Navy Elite Task Force, Third Division.  Quarq,
this is Lieutenant Haezar, Task Force, Second Division, and Lieutenant
Mongoe from the Ground Forces' Special Forces, Twenty-Second
Squadron."

     Mongoe eyed Quarq with a touch of admiration.  He had heard of the
man--Devil's Eye, they called him--one of the most clever, daring,
up-and-coming command officers in the Space Navy fleet.  He could not
wait to get to know the man, to swap stories, to ask him how he had
earned his scars.

     "The reason you are here, gentlemen," Noril went on, "is because
you have volunteered for what your orders described as `a specialized
task force consisting of personnel from the various branches of the
Loord military.' Exactly what this is is my current project, an
experiment called Select Commandoes from United Militaries."

     ("SCUM?" Mongoe murmured with a wry smile.)

     "The idea," Noril went on, "is to bring together the finest of our
servicemen--the elite of the elite--to tackle the most difficult
assignments, both open and covert.  The three of you have been chosen
to lead the first trial squadron on an actual mission.  Since the
group has just been formed and there won't be much time to train, I've
selected a delicate but not exceptionally difficult situation to use
as a proving ground.  But then," he added challengingly, "people
like you shouldn't need as much time to prepare."

     ("Hah," Mongoe sneered quietly.)

     "I expect results," Noril informed the threesome sternly.
"Excellent results.  As far as I'm concerned this project of mine has
a lot of potential.  I don't want my support yanked.  Failure will not
be tolerated.  Is that understood?"

     "Yes, sir," Quarq and Haezar replied.  Mongoe stared at the wall and
said nothing.

     "Good.  Then I'll brief you on your mission."  The High Commander
passed a folder to each of the officers.  "Your assignment is
off-world, which may make things tricky for some of you.  In fact,
you're going to Planet Neemohne, in the Eastern half of the Empire."
Noril paused to note the others' expressions.  Mongoe was now staring
at him, his eyes bright with adventure and curiosity.  Haezar seemed
interested, and Quarq simply gazed at his hands, very silent and
serious.

     "Our world is... unfortunately unique in all the Empire," Noril
went on, "so going to any of our other planets may be a shock to you
and your men.  And, as you know, our Eastern brothers are very
different from us, especially in culture.  I expect you all--the whole
squadron--to attend all briefing lectures as specified in the
documents I've given you so you'll at least have an idea of what to
expect.  Most of these will we given on board your ship en route to
Neemohne, so you won't have much time.  I'm expecting you to keep your
wits and adapt quickly."

     "What we have here is a political problem in the Qol District of
Neemohne.  The Qols' leader is a political-religious figure called the
Shaheer.  The Shaheer isn't royalty; he or she is chosen by the Qol
Loords' major religious body, and is then trained to govern."

     "If the Shaheer has to be trained to govern," Haezar interjected,
"then what do the religious leaders base their choice on?"

     "That's the interesting part.  In reality, the religious leaders--the
Dyjins--don't choose.  They just select candidates.  In the end, the
Alat chooses."

     "Who's the Alat?"

     "Not who--what.  The Alat's a crystal."

     Mongoe snorted in laughter.

     "The Qols take this very seriously," Noril explained.  "They claim
the crystal has certain powers and mystical properties.  The Shaheer
is supposedly the one who can best channel his or her mental energy
through the Alat."

     Mongoe chuckled.  "Hah.  What a load... "

     Noril shot him a look.  "Be quiet, Lieutenant.  I didn't call you
here to laugh.  You can be skeptical on your own time."  He paused,
then went on.  "Right now the Shaheer is young--young enough to be
vulnerable.  The Dyjins believe that the man who ranked second to the
current Shaheer in ability to use the Alat, a very rich upperclassman
called Zyal, has been plotting the discreet assassination of the
Shaheer.  If the current Shaheer dies, then he, as second best, comes
to power.  There have also been numerous attempts to steal the Alat,
but no one's been caught alive to question.  Zyal is very influential.
He has a lot of connections.  We're not sure if he's been sending
third parties to steal the Alat and plot assassinations, but then,
we're not sure if he's involved at all, even though everyone would
like to assume so."

     "The Shaheer is important to us politically because for many years
the Qol have provided us with certain rare elements found only in the
Qol District--and a good portion of those are used in the military.
We've always maintained good relations with the Qol government and the
Shaheer.  Zyal, however, is a radical, and a very strong one.  If he
becomes the Shaheer chances are he'll cut off or worsen relations with
us, and no one will be able to successfully challenge him.  That's the
last thing the Emperor wants at this time.  Our relations with the
East are a bit shaky already."

     "Your job is to protect the Shaheer at all costs until the crisis
blows over, and to track down and deal with whoever's behind the
problems, whether it's Zyal or not.  The Shaheer's forces and
investigative agents will help you.  Specifics are detailed in the
documents I gave you.  You'll meet the rest of your squadron tomorrow,
and leave for Neemohne the day after that.  The three of you are to
report to my office at 0700 sharp tomorrow.  Understood?"

     "Yes, sir," the three officers replied.

     "Good.  Dismissed."



                   3. Room and Board

  Eastern Loord Empire, Planet Neemohne, Qol District, several weeks
                later.


     Even with the numerous briefings behind them, Neemohne turned out to
be a shock for most of the S.C.U.M. squadron.

     The unfortunate reality was that for many years Loord, the
homeworld and head of the Empire, had been decaying, in part from age,
but mostly due to a transient sun which had settled itself too close.
Fifty years before, the new star--or the "Rouge", as it was popularly
known--had appeared, and ten years after that the population which had
chosen or had been forced to remain on the planet--a good ninety
percent of the people--had moved into underground cities.  Since the
government did not want to further depress an already unstable
populous, talk about what the world had been and about other worlds in
general had been kept to a minimum.  In the schools, ecology and
zoology courses all but vanished.  The net result was two generations
of people to whom grass and trees and swimming were myths, and to whom
"sky" was a vague concept at best.

     The majority of the unit was forced, at least initially, to shade
their eyes from the brightness of the sun with sunglasses, a curious
and awkward experience for most.  As a general rule, the S.C.U.M.
personnel from the Space Navy fared a bit better; most of them had
been to other planets, even if only briefly to touch down for
refueling and supplies.  Of them all, Haezar and Quarq had the most
experience with other worlds, but even Quarq seemed ill at ease.  Only
Haezar appeared casual and uninterested as the others gawked after
landing at a local Qol military base.

     "Are you that untouched by the beauty?" Quarq asked him quietly.
He seemed to be making an attempt to form his twisted lips into a
smile.  He was failing miserably.

     Haezar hesitated for a moment, not quite sure if the man was
being sarcastic or serious.  He tried to ignore the lieutenant
commander's grimace after guessing the latter.  "Well," he replied,
"The base here is nothing.  Wait 'til you see the city."

     "You've been here before?"

     "Oh, yeah.  My father's an ambassador.  Senior Ambassador,
really.  He's on the High Council.  He's been everywhere.  So have I.
He used to take the family with him."

     The city, as Haezar had indicated, proved to be both stunning and
fascinating.  Like Eastern Loord culture as a whole, it was an unusual
mix of modern and arcane.  Glass paneled office buildings shared the
same streets as ornate stone and wood structures.  Many of the roads
still retained ancient cobblestones.  Marble statues and fountains
dotted the area.  Just about everything was decorated to the hilt;
stone and wood were polished and amazingly carved, glass was etched,
and clothing was brocaded.  Most of the men, and many women as well,
wore swords and knives casually at their sides as they bragged about
their hovercars and watched three- dimentional holo-televisions
through storefront windows.  The S.C.U.M. soldiers gaped and pointed
all the way to their lodgings on the Shaheer's Grounds.

     Once they had been settled in, Quarq, Mongoe and Haezar made
their way across the Grounds to the palace to meet the Shaheer.

     "Wow," Mongoe mumbled as he craned his head up at the shining
spires and stained glass windows of the sprawling structure.  "Wow,"
he quietly exclaimed again when they were escorted inside.  He spun in
circles as he walked, taking in everything, all the time looking very
stupid and muttering "Wow" over and over again, his mouth hanging
open.  Haezar seemed embarrassed by him, especially when the
lieutenant uttered a rather excited "Wo-o-o-o-w!" when a liberally
clad woman servant passed them in the hall.

     "Be quiet!" Haezar whispered sharply as they were led into an
open, marble-floored hall.  Their escort informed them that the
Shaheer would arrive shortly and left them to wait.

     After a short time an impressive middle aged man clad in
elaborately brocaded clothes and a black, velvety cloak strode into
the room.  At his side he wore shining scabbard, protruding from which
was the jeweled hilt of a sword.  He smiled as he approached the
threesome.  Again, Haezar seemed quite at ease while Quarq and
Mongoe's faces registered a bit of nervousness.

     The man was six and a half feet tall--slightly above average for
an Eastern Loord--and made Quarq, who at just under six feet had
always been considered tall, seem short in comparison.  His skin tone
was darker, and his eyes were slightly slanted.  He was balding up top
but the rest of his hair fell to his waist, neatly trimmed and
accented by the occasional braid.

     The newcomer held his hands out, open palms up.  "Good afternoon,
warriors," he said in slightly accented Common.  He made a circular
motion with his hands.  "Welcome to Qol."

     There was an awkward hesitation.  Quarq found his voice.  "Thank
you, Shaheer," he replied with a salute.  "I'm Lieutenant Commander
Quarq.  These are my immediate subordinates, Lieutenants Haezar and
Mongoe."

     The older man chuckled.  "I'm not the Shaheer, Commander.  I am
Hu-Jin, his Advisor."

     "Uh--My apologies, sir."

     "No need."  Hu-Jin looked off to the side as another Loord came
into the room.  He was a small boy, perhaps nine or ten, wearing
fairly simple clothing.  The child came up to Hu-Jin and stood in
front of him, looking up at the three soldiers.  "This is Dyan, our
Shaheer," the Advisor informed them.

     "But--" Mongoe sputtered.  Haezar discreetly elbowed him in the
ribs.

     Dyan, like Hu-Jin, held out his hands, palms up, and also made a
circular motion.  Unlike the older man's, however, it was an
all-encompassing sweep.

     "Welcome to my home," said the boy.  "You are free to go wherever
you want and use any services and facilities we have."

     "Th-thank you, Shaheer," Quarq replied, a bit surprised at how
articulate the child was, and very surprised that the boy's face
registered no revulsion or fright in reaction to his terrible
appearance.  Until now, the commander had had yet to meet a child who
did not.

     "Have you been fully briefed on the situation at hand?"  Hu-Jin
asked.  Quarq nodded.  "Good.  As you can see, our Shaheer is too
young to fully protect himself or the Alat.  We've taken full security
precautions ever since the first attempt to steal the Alat, but the
thieves keep trying."  The Advisor smiled in an unusual way which did
not seem to fit his kindly features.  The grin was wide, very pleased,
and rather sadistic.  "Which essentially means," he went on, "that
they keep dying."  His hand fondled the hilt of his sword.  "I
dispatched two of them myself."  The smile vanished and he sighed.
"We thought that the Shaheer's rival, Zyal, while angry and jealous,
would not attempt to do any harm to our leader.  But there were rumors
and paranoia.  We thought--and still think--that the thieves were sent
by him.  We believed he thought that if he had the Alat, he would have
the power of the Shaheer.  Unfortunately, assuming that the attempted
thefts were directed by him, he must have grown tired of failure,
because last week there was an assassination attempt on the Shaheer.
Someone planted a bomb in the Shaheer's limousine, but a mechanic
found it while doing some repair work.

     "What we want from your unit for now is extra protection for the
Shaheer.  I currently have investigative agents out searching for
clues and evidence.  If we find out anything conclusive, namely that
Zyal is responsible, we'll need your forces to move in and take him
down."  Hu-Jin paused awkwardly.  "If it is Zyal, and we can't bring
him to justice by normal means, then the Shaheer can't move against
him physically, and you'll be on your own."

     "Why?" Quarq asked.  "Our commanding officer led us to believe
you would help us."

     "We certainly will.  But if you have to attack Zyal, the
Shaheer's men cannot help.  I'm surprised your superior didn't inform
you.  You see, the people who serve the Shaheer--all the people on the
Grounds--are from a very special class.  We are the Yuns, an ancient
clan dedicated to the Shaheer.  For centuries we had a rival clan, the
Morin- shans, the renegades, so to speak, of the Qol people.  Only a
century ago, the Yuns and the Morin-shans made peace, but it's a
tentative arrangement at best.  Zyal is one of the most influential
Morin-shans.  If we move against him directly, the peace would be
broken and there would be chaos."

     "What about the other clans?" Quarq inquired.  "Can't they help?"

     Hu-Jin clenched his jaw.  "There are no other clans among the
Qol."

     "What about help from other Districts?"

     "We tried that already.  They all considered the situation too
trite to pay attention to.  That's why we looked to the Emperor,
toward the West.  That's why you're here."

     "I see."

     Again the Advisor sighed.  "The Shaheer and I have things to
attend to now.  The three of you are invited to stay here in the
palace.  I'll send someone to show you to your quarters.  Tomorrow
morning have your men assembled here for briefing and orientation.
Until then, feel free to explore the palace, the Grounds, and the
city, if you like, but please try not to cause any trouble, especially
with one of the Morin-shans.  You'll know them by the small, red
diamond tattooed on their foreheads."

     Quarq frowned in thought.  "Were any of the thieves you killed
Morin-shan?"

     "No.  Zyal is not stupid.  If he is behind this, he's imported
someone else to do the job for him.  I'm sure he'd rather take power
without starting a war.  Now, if you'll please excuse us... " Hu-Jin
led Dyan away.



                   4. A Night Out on the Town

         Sometime after dinner, the same day.


     Mongoe was awed by his "quarters", the bedroom of which was
considerably larger than his family's apartment, and whose high
ceiling sported a huge skylight which allowed him to look up at the
stars.  The bathroom included a shower, sauna, and a whirlpool tub,
all alien and fascinating to him.  The situation on his homeworld had
forced his people to carefully ration their use of water; the
"showers" he knew were really chambers which misted one with cleanser,
then took it, along with any sweat or grime, off via sonic cleaning
methods.

     Still, after a couple of hours of examination, dinner, and
relaxation, he grew restless.  He changed into civilian clothes and
went down the hall to Quarq's quarters.  He found the officer sitting
in the living room area reading a book.

     "Hey," Mongoe greeted, "What's up?"

     "Not much," Quarq replied, "Why?"

     "I was thinkin'... Why don't we go out, have a drink, hunt for
babes... ?"

     Quarq shifted uncomfortably.  "Oh," he mumbled, "I... I don't go
out much... ."

     "Aw, c'mon!  Let's have some fun.  I wanna see the city."

     "Well... alright."  The lieutenant commander set down his book.
"Lemme change," he muttered, obviously unthrilled by Mongoe's
proposals.  "I'll be ready in a minute."

     As they walked out of the palace, Quarq was oddly silent.  He
stared at the floor as he walked.

     "What's wrong?" Mongoe asked.

     "Nothing," the other muttered, then after a moment said, "You've
worked with Haezar before.  What's he really like?"

     Mongoe grunted.  "Ah, he's okay, y'know, but he's a flake.  Goes
by the book too much.  I dunno... maybe it's 'cause he's from a rich
family.  He's all proper and shit.  I don't get why he's in the
military.  Hell, maybe his old man made him."

     The pair left the Grounds and made their way into the city.
Mongoe immediately headed for a nightclub, where he took a seat at the
bar, followed by a reluctant Quarq, who sulkily kept his head hanging.
Mongoe ordered drinks and began to chat with several attractive young
women.  Quarq said nothing.  Another woman came up to the bar and sat
down next to him.

     "Hello, Westerner," she said, "How do you like it way out here?"

     Quarq lifted his head and looked at her.  "It's very nice here,"
he replied.

     The woman stared at him.  Her eyes widened briefly.  She
swallowed nervously and moved away without another word.  Quarq shrank
in his seat.

     "What's wrong?" Mongoe asked him, breaking from his own
conversation.

     "Ooh... friend of yours?" one of the women he was speaking to
asked.  She and her companions leaned over to get a better look.

     "Yeah," Mongoe told them.  "What's wrong, Quarq?"

     Quarq shook his head and turned to Mongoe.  "Nothing," he
replied, so quietly Mongoe could barely hear him over the music and
conversation, "I'm fine."

     The women sitting on the other side of Mongoe blinked in surprise
as they looked on.  One quickly averted her eyes; another shuddered.
The third simply stared.  Quarq's eyes met hers and she looked away.
The officer frowned and closed his eyes for a moment, then abruptly
got up and left, coldly pushing his way through the crowd.

     "Quarq?" Mongoe inquired he watched him go.

     "--so ugly!" he heard one of the young women mutter.

     "Hideous," another added.

     Mongoe turned back to them.  He stared at them hard, then curled
his lip in distaste.  "Bitches," he growled, "All of you."  He got up
and left the bar.  He found Quarq standing alone outside.  "I'm sorry,
man," he said.  "I didn't know--"

     "Don't worry about it," Quarq told him.

     "Come on," Mongoe went on, "Let's go find a good working-class
bar, where guys go to get away from the babes, eh?"

     "Sure," the commander replied with a shrug.  The pair set off in
silence.  After a time Quarq spoke up again.  "Mongoe," he said.

     "Yeah?"

     "You're a good man.  You don't judge people."

     The lieutenant laughed.  "The hell I don't!  The difference
between me and all those other assholes out there is, I know how to
judge correctly."

     Quarq chuckled and attempted a smile which came out much more
like a sneer.  "Right.  Gotcha."

     "Hey!" someone called.  Haezar jogged up to the pair from across
the street.  "Where are you off to?"

     "To a good bar," Mongoe replied.

     "Mind if I come with?"

     The lieutenant smiled.  "Isn't it past your bedtime, Rich Boy?"

     "Very funny, smartass."

     "Ooh... " Mongoe backed off in mock fear.  "I thought your mommy
told you not to drink."

     "I can drink you under the table, you ugly slab of meat."

     "Hah!  We'll see about that!"

     The trio made their way into a darker, more sinister section of
the city.  Haezar's distaste became more obvious with each passing
block; he was in fact visibly relieved when Mongoe called a halt,
announcing that he had found just the right place.

     His relief turned to reservation as he looked the place over.

     "Uh, Mongoe," he said, "Something tells me this isn't a place of
good repute."

     "'S'okay," Mongoe replied, "I'm not a man of good repute."
Grinning mischievously, he went in.  Quarq and Haezar followed.

     The bar was run down, dark, and smokey.  The tables were scarred,
the chairs improperly balanced; the same could be said for most of the
patrons.  A large sign bearing the words "NO DUELING" hung over the
bar.  Most of the men present wore swords at their sides.

     "Are you sure about this?" Haezar asked Mongoe in a low voice.

     "Sure I'm sure.  It's the atmosphere that makes it good."

     "People are staring at us."

     "That's 'cause we're foreigners.  Loosen up and stop gawking."

     "Quarq looks like a choir boy next to some of these guys."

     "Watch your mouth," Quarq growled.

     The trio sat down at a table and ordered a pitcher of ale.
Mongoe slugged it down with delight.  Haezar sniffed at it, wrinkled
his nose, then took a mouthful.  He grimaced and spat it out.

     "Haw, haw!" one of the patrons cackled, "Pretty foreigner boy
can't hold his booze, eh?"

     Haezar frowned.  "I can hold it fine, as long as it doesn't taste
like it came out of the sewer."

     Mongoe winced.  "Shut up!" he hissed.  "I'm not gonna save your
ass if you get it into trouble."

     "I can take care of myself, thank you.  Things have changed since
we were in Qorant."

     "Hey!" the bartender called, "You lowlifes insulting the house
brew?!"

     Haezar turned.  "You have anything more refined?" he called back.

     "Haezar, you stupid shithead!" Mongoe growled.

     One of the nearby patrons got up and swaggered up to Haezar.
"You're an insulting little shit, you know that?  We don't like to be
insulted."

     "I wasn't talking to you," Haezar countered.  Beside him, Mongoe
sighed, closed his eyes, and shook his head.

     `How'd he ever get into the Elite Task Force?' he wondered.

     "Ass-hole," the patron snarled, and sent his fist at Haezar's
face.  It never got there.  With lightning speed, Quarq snapped his
arm out and caught the man's fist inches away from Haezar's nose.

     "Go away," he growled.

     "Piss off, you ugly fucker," replied the patron.  He made a fist
with his free hand.  Quarq altered his grip and squeezed.  The patron
yelped in pain.  Quarq's lips parted fully into a frightening
grimace-grin.  He squeezed harder.  The patron fell to his knees,
groaning.  "Leggo!" he grunted.

     Quarq let go and kicked him over.  "Go away," he repeated.  The
patron got up and left.  Quarq looked around.  The other patrons
seemed amused.  They looked back at him for a moment, then returned to
their drinking.

     Haezar cleared his throat.  "Uh... thanks."

     A woman came to the table and sat down.  Quarq immediately
withdrew to an adjacent table.  Haezar more or less ignored the new
arrival, but Mongoe began to talk to her.  After twenty minutes of
friendly chatting, another patron, very large and not quite as drunk,
stomped up to the table and clapped a hand on Mongoe's shoulder.

     "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked.

     The lieutenant looked up at him.  "Talkin' with the lady here.
Got a problem with that?"

     "Yeah," the man replied, "'Cause that's my woman you're making
the moves on."

     "Really?"

     "Really.  I saw you touch her.  Nobody touches my woman but me."
The patron looked down at the woman.  "Come on.  Get up."

     "Go to hell," she replied, "I'm just talking to him."

     The man's eyes blazed with fury, not at the girl but at Mongoe.
He stepped back.  With a roar he shoved several tables out of the way.
His hand went to the sword at his side.  "You offend me!" he shouted.
"Humble yourself and apologize!"

     Mongoe looked him over, smiling sarcastically.  "Get lost."

     "Uh, Mongoe--" Haezar began.

     The patron unsheathed his sword.

     "Hey--can't you read?!" the bartender snapped, tapping the "NO
DUELING" sign.  He was ignored.  Everyone's attention was now locked
on Mongoe and the irate patron.

     "Isn't the bouncer going to stop this?" Haezar asked a man a
nearby table.

     The man laughed.  "Kid, that IS the bouncer."

     Haezar swallowed hard.  "Mongoe," he went on quietly, "The
Eastern Loords take sword play very seriously.  Back off.  This guy'll
kill you!"  His companion ignored him.

     The patron began to twirl the sword in elaborate patterns: in
front of him, to the side, in figure eights, over his head, and behind
his back.  His face was strained with anger.  Mongoe looked on, amused
and unimpressed.  He walked over to the door and picked up the brick
propping it open.  He turned it over in his hands, smiling smugly as
the angry patron continued to twirl his blade.

     Haezar's eyes widened.  "Mongoe, no!  Wait--!"

     Mongoe wound up his arm in a fast underhand pitch and sent the
brick into his antagonist's crotch.

     "Glug!" the patron sputtered, his eyes bugging out.  The sword
dropped from his limp hand.  He collapsed on the floor.

     "Yeah," Mongoe chuckled, but the bar fell dead silent.

     "Mongoe," Haezar muttered frantically, "That man was doing his
opening--his challenge--with the sword.  It's a ritual.  It's bad
etiquette--VERY bad etiquette to attack before both parties have
completed their opening."

     One by one, the patrons unsheathed their swords.  All of them
were glaring at Mongoe, and they weren't very pleased.

     "Now you've done it," Haezar mumbled.  He edged close to Mongoe.
Quarq also pulled in toward them from his place off to the side.

     "Back out the door slowly," he whispered to the pair.  "I don't
want an incident."

     "These jerks don't care what you want," Mongoe replied.  He
picked up a chair and held it out in front of him.

     There was one final, awkward pause, and then with a collective
cry the patrons surged forward, blades whirling.  The three commandoes
crowded back to back.  Haezar and Quarq followed Mongoe's example and
each picked up a chair.

     Laughing with delight, Mongoe caught the first of the blades with
the chair and drove his free fist into its owner's face.  On either
side of him, his companions were busy fending off their own attackers.

     "Back out!" Quarq yelled.

     "What, so soon?" Mongoe replied.  One of the patrons took
advantage of his lapse in concentration and pommeled the large man in
the face with the hilt of his sword.  Mongoe staggered back, blood
gushing from his nose, roaring in anger.  He took hold of his chair
with both hands and swept it through the space in front of him, taking
down several more people.

     Sirens sounded in the distance.  Most of the bar customers froze.

     "Police!" someone yelled.  An instant later the crowd ran forward
in a human tidal wave and shoved Mongoe, Quarq and Haezar aside.  They
ran out the door and scattered into the night.

     "Wait a minute!" Mongoe exclaimed.  He leaned out the door.
"Come back, you pussies!"  He paused, wiping the blood off his face.
"Damn," he muttered, "That's the fourth time I've gotten my nose
busted.  I don't even remember what it used to look like."

     "Shut the hell up," Quarq rumbled.  He brushed past the
lieutenant and grabbed his arm, dragging him out the door.  Haezar
quickly followed.  The trio dodged out of sight just as the police
pulled up to the bar.

     "That was a stupid, dumbass thing you did back there!"  Quarq
snapped at Mongoe as they headed back to the palace.  "You heard what
Hu-Jin said: No incidents!"  His cold, pale eye fell on Haezar.  "And
you too!  Learn to behave right, dammit!"

     Quarq's irritation, an unusual enough display for him, lingered
on even after they returned to the Shaheer's Grounds.  He went to his
quarters, slamming the door behind him.  Haezar sulkily returned to
his own living space, leaving Mongoe alone and bored.

     "Yer no fun," he muttered, "Either of you."  He glanced at his
watch.  As far as he was concerned, the night was still young.  He
went off to find something to do.

     Several hours later, it was Haezar's turn to be bored.  Feeling
restless inside, he went to Quarq's quarters and knocked on the door.

     "Who is it?" came the commander's voice from inside.

     "It's Haezar."

     There was a long pause, then, "Come in."  Haezar stepped inside.
"I'm in the bath," Quarq informed him.  The lieutenant went in and
found his superior sitting in the whirlpool tub, his head laid back
against the tiles, eyes closed, his hair wet and limp from the steam.
Haezar sat down on the floor on the opposite side of the tub.

     "Well?" Quarq said after a time without opening his eyes or
looking up.

     Haezar shrugged.  "Uh... nothing, sir," he replied.  "I was just
bored.  I thought I'd stop by and chat, if you don't mind."

     Quarq uttered a short, hoarse laugh and grimaced--no, SMILED,
Haezar reminded himself.  "You brownnosing little shit," the commander
said, although not unkindly.

     "I... I really did just come to talk."

     "Mm-hm."  There was a long pause.  "Well, go on and ask me."

     "Ask you what?"

     Quarq stretched out his arm and plucked a bottle of wine off a
tray sitting nearby.  He took a swig.  "Ask me why I look like I've
been through a food processor.  You've been dying to ever since you
first saw me."

     "Eh--Excuse me?"

     The commander chuckled.  "Bet your father taught you manners,
being an ambassador and all.  Only added to the natural morbid
curiosity we all have.  But Mongoe, he's an honest one.  Probably the
most straightforward guy I ever met.  He doesn't have any manners, and
no shame, either.  He came right out and asked me one day.  Handed me
a brew and said, `Tell me how you earned those scars, Ugly.' "

     "Uh, I... "

     "Go on, ask me.  You want to."

     Haezar looked quite sheepish, then replied, "Alright... what
happened to you?"

     "Qorant."

     "You were there for the war?"

     "Yup.  Same as you.  Sent to help the Ground Forces.  A bunch of
unfriendlies jumped my squadron while we were on patrol.  We fought
back, but it didn't do any good.  I was the only officer, so they kept
me alive.  I watched them kill whoever was left.

     "Back at their base, they asked me questions, but I'd be damned
if I'd tell 'em anything.  So they beat me up, burned me, ripped up my
face, and took a hammer to my fingers one by one."  Quarq wiggled the
fingers of his crooked right hand in front of him.  "Good thing I'm a
lefty.  Assholes... ."  He paused, sighed.  "So, when torture didn't
work they got bored.  They knocked me out, tied me up, and left me in
the middle of nowhere to rot."

     "I take it you were rescued."

     Quarq took another swig of the wine.  "Mm-mm," he said as he
gulped it down.  "No.  I got loose and crawled to the nearest base.
Got all sick and infected and shit.  Lost the sight in my left eye.  I
spent months in the hospital.  You know what I got for my trouble?"

     "I suppose you're going to tell me."

     "I got a medal, a promotion, and a lifetime guarantee of utter
rejection from society."  The commander paused.  He covered his eyes
with his free hand.  "Little kids, man... my niece... for a long time
she wouldn't come near me... But women--grown, intelligent women--they
think I'm some kind of rapist monster.  They call me repulsive, right
to my face sometimes.  People... just steer clear of me.  All they see
is the mask I wear."  He looked up and stared at the wall, narrowing
his eyes in anger.  "I've learned to live with it," he growled.  "Why
can't they?"  The room fell silent, save for the hum of the whirlpool.
"Go away," he said after a time.  "Leave me alone."  Haezar nodded,
got up, and left.

     The lieutenant headed back down the hall.  Hearing giggling
emitting from Mongoe's quarters, he knocked on the door.

     "Yeah?" came the gruff reply after a moment.

     "It's me.  Got a minute?"

     "Maybe.  Come in."

     Haezar entered to find the large man lying on his stomach on a
couch, naked and being massaged by a luscious, scantily-clad young
woman.  "What--?!" Haezar sputtered, "What are you doing?"

     "Gettin' massaged... and revved up, if ya know what I mean."

     "But... where... what are you doing with that girl?!"

     The young woman giggled and kept massaging.  Mongoe shot Haezar a
twisted smirk.  "Well, see," he explained as if speaking to a curious
adolescent, "first there's this stuff called `foreplay', and then,
when the guy gets nice and h--"

     "Shut up!  What the hell do you think you're doing?"

     "Hey, you heard the Shaheer.  He said we could make use of any of
the services the palace offered."  Mongoe smiled broadly.  "I guess
this is why they call 'em `servants'."

     Haezar scowled.  "You're sick.  Don't you have any morals?"

     "Do you have a sex life?"

     Haezar growled.

     Mongoe chuckled.  He raised his arm and snapped his fingers
twice.  A second young woman emerged from the bedroom.  "Dorna, babe,
do me a favor and give my friend here a nice blow job.  He could use
it."

     "Mongoe!" Haezar snapped.  Dorna sauntered up behind him and ran
her hands over his shoulders and down past his waist.  "Uh... miss...
no.  Please stop."  He tried to push her away.

     "Stop means go," she cooed, and nibbled on his ear.

     "Dorna," Mongoe yawned, "Not here, doll.  His room's across the
hall."

     "Miss, I mean it," Haezar told her, albeit a bit weakly.

     "So do I," she murmured, reaching into his pants.

     "Have fun, Rich Boy," Mongoe said.  "All these babes-- they're
not just meat, y'know.  That Hu-Jin guy assured me that every one was
smart and good conversation.  And each one has at least one special
talent."

     Dorna thrust her hand farther into Haezar's pants.  "Mine's
finding that little spot that makes you squirm," she breathed, and
proceeded to prove it.  Haezar yelped as his back reflexively arched.
Mongoe's massive shoulders shook with laughter.

     "Huh--h-how nice," Haezar squeaked, pulling Dorna's hand away.
"Better show that one to Mongoe.  Goodnight."  He hastily backed out
of the room, shutting the door behind him, then ran to his own
quarters, shutting AND locking the door, for a very long, very cold
shower.



               5. Bedtime Stories and a Nightmare

            The following evening.


     The following morning Mongoe did not get up for breakfast.  When
Haezar went to wake him he found the lieutenant in bed, half a dozen
curvaceous young women curled up against his body.

     "I'm in heaven," Mongoe later remarked as he got dressed, "Pure
heaven."  At breakfast he livened up and stuffed himself, however at
Hu-Jin's briefing he nearly fell asleep.

     "Rough night?" Quarq whispered wryly.  Mongoe chuckled.

     During the briefing Hu-Jin informed the squadron that two
S.C.U.M.  personnel were to remain with Shaheer Dyan at all times, in
addition to the normal number of bodyguards.  Mongoe and Haezar wound
up on the same shift that evening as the young Shaheer prepared for
bed.

     "I feel like I'm babysittin', y'know?" Mongoe grumbled as they
sat in Dyan's quarters.  Haezar did not answer him.  "Aw, whatsa
matter, Rich Boy?  Was it somethin' I said?"  The lieutenant glared at
him, and seemed about to say something rather unpleasant when the
Shaheer came in, dressed in his sleeping clothes.  Haezar's irritated
expression quickly melted into a smile.

     "Hello," he greeted.

     "Hello," the boy returned.  He hopped up onto his bed.  "Are you
here to guard me?"

     Haezar nodded.  "Are you afraid?"

     Dyan glanced at Mongoe.  "Not with a guy as big as him to watch
over me."  The boy smiled.  Mongoe smiled back, then shot a smug grin
at Haezar.  "Anyway," the Shaheer went on with a yawn, "Nobody can
break in here.  And if they do, Hu- Jin will take care of them."

     Time passed.  Dyan fidgeted in bed, then sat up.  He got up and
went over to Haezar, who was sitting on a couch nearby.

     "Can't sleep?" the lieutenant asked.

     The Shaheer shook his head.  "No."  He paused.  "Have you been
all over with the Space Navy?"

     "Yeah, I've been a lot of places.  I've been a lot of places with
my father, too."

     "Have you fought in wars?"

     "One."

     "What was it like?"

     "Unpleasant."

     "Did you ever do anything really neat, like blow something up?"

     "Well, I--"

     "Did you spy on people?"

     Haezar thought for a moment.  "Well, once I--hey!"  The
lieutenant scowled as Mongoe climbed over the back of his couch and
shoved him aside.

     "Kid wants a story, eh?" he said.  "How 'bout it, your
Shaheership?  Wanna real good, true story?"

     Haezar rolled his eyes at the ceiling, but Dyan nodded his head.
"I'd like to hear about something you've done," he replied.

     "Good.  Okay.  Once upon a time in the Qorantian War, there was
this dickhead lieutenant named Haezar who was sent in with his squad
by the Space Navy to help out a certain Sergeant-Major Mongoe and his
troops.  The Sarge and his men had been there for a real long time and
knew the territory real well.  They knew a lot about the enemy, too.
But this jerk Haezar, he fucked things up real good.  See, he wasn't a
bad guy or nothin' but he was one of them know-it-all academy wussies.
Or maybe his jock strap was too tight.  I dunno.

     "Anyway, since Haezar outranked Mongoe, he wouldn't listen to any
of Mongoe's advice, even though Mongoe had been in the military twice
as long and had been in Qorant since the war started.  This got
everyone into trouble.

     "See, one day, dickhead Haezar gets this dumbass scheme: He's
gonna take out one of the enemy's major defensive trenches, right?
Well, Sarge says no, the conditions aren't right, but the stupid jerk
goes on with it anyway.  Half a squadron of Space Navy and Ground
Forces troops later, he realizes his mistake.  But does he retreat
with the rest?  No!  He keeps chargin' the fuckin' trench!  But
Mongoe, bein' the nice guy he is, goes back out and covers the
dickhead's ass just long enough to take a piece of shrapnel in his
side.  So Haezar drags him back to the others, cleans him up, patches
the wound, then like the dumbass he is asks the Sarge, `Are you okay?'
"

     "What did you say?" Dyan asked.

     "Nothin'.  I planted my fist in his jaw and laid him out cold in
the dirt.  But all's well that ends well, y'know.  The squad managed
to pull out, and everybody lived more or less happily ever
after--except the ones who got wiped before their tour was up--and
good ol' Sarge wound up with a huge, ugly scar runnin' from hip to
ribcage.  The end."

     Haezar refused to even look at Mongoe, even after their shift was
over and they went to bed.

     Their grievance did not last long, however, because several hours
later they were awakened by Hu-Jin's frantic cries:

     "The Shaheer is gone!  The Shaheer is gone!"

     A minute later and all of them were assembled in Dyan's room:
Mongoe, Haezar, Quarq, and Hu-Jin.  The place was crawling with
investigative agents.  On the floor were the two S.C.U.M. personnel
who had taken over for Haezar and Mongoe, both neatly beheaded.  Their
hands still held their guns.  Their severed heads, lying several feet
away, were frozen almost amusing, shocked expressions.  There were
laser burns on the walls from their weapons but no indication of
anything else wrong, let alone any other weapon.

     "It's spooky, Advisor," one of the agents told Hu-Jin, "Not one
thing's out of place.  No sign of a struggle, no tracks, no
fingerprints--nothing.  The window is still locked from the inside.
None of the outside guards heard anything, and there's no indication
of anyone unauthorized having been on the Grounds."

     Hu-Jin narrowed his eyes.  "You know what this has to mean," he
replied gravely.  "It was a Nightmare."

     "A what?" Quarq asked.

     "A Nightmare.  They are Neemohne's most questionable legends."

     "I don't understand."

     "The Nightmares, or Nightmare--no one is sure; we assume there
are more than one--are believed to be a group of professional
assassins, spies, and killers, and possibly thieves.  They might be
good or bad, or perhaps neither.  They may work for people or act on
their own.  Maybe both.  They mostly strike at night, hence the name.
Whatever the case, only a Nightmare can do what has been done here."

     "Wait a minute," Mongoe interjected, "You keep saying `maybe' and
`believed to be.'  And then you said something about `questionable
legends.'  Do you know what we're up against or not?"

     "No," Hu-Jin replied.  "No one knows if the Nightmares actually
exist."

     "And why's that?" Quarq inquired.

     "Because no one who sees one lives to tell about it."

     "Aw, come on!" Mongoe snapped.  "What kinda crap are you feeding
us?  Tell your stories to yer kids, man.  I don't believe in ghosts,
and I don't believe in blaming 'em just 'cause someone turns up neatly
dead."

     "This sort of thing has happened throughout the centuries.  It's
always the same: the deaths are clean--by poison or by blade--and
there are no clues."

     "You think the Shaheer is dead, then," Haezar said solemnly.

     "Actually, no," Hu-Jin replied.  "It's obvious the child was
kidnapped.  Whoever is receiving the boy, however, may very well
intend to kill him."

     "What about the Alat crystal?" Quarq broke in.  "Is it still
there?"

     "Yes, I checked.  The Alat is kept in a very secure area to begin
with, and it's recently been moved to an even safer place.  But even
if someone does get it, it will be very hard for them to use it.  The
Alat knows its master.  As long as he or she lives, it won't give in
to a new one so easily."

     "You're talkin' like it's a person," Mongoe grumbled.  "And
whadduya mean, `give in'?"

     "The Alat's a powerful object."

     "Yeah, right.  Sure.  I don't go in for all this magic crap."

     "Mongoe!" Quarq snapped in warning.

     "It's alright," Hu-Jin told him.  He looked over at the agents.
"Keep searching," he told them, then turned back to the threesome.
"Come," he told them, "I'll show you."

     The Advisor led them through the palace to a restricted- access
elevator.  He used a palm-scan to unlock the door guarding the
elevator, then a special code-card to open the doors.  Once inside, he
punched out another code on a series of buttons to turn the elevator
on, then used a tiny key to actually get it moving.  The car descended
several floors.  The four men emerged at the beginning of a long,
plain hall.  Hu-Jin locked up the elevator, then slid another
code-card into a slot on the wall.

     "What are you doing now?" Haezar asked him.

     "Deactivating the security," the Advisor replied.  "Quiet, now."
He looked down the hall and spoke up.  "Deactivation password:
Vulnerable."  There was a momentary pause.  A tone sounded.  "It's
safe to pass now."

     The small group walked to the end of the hall, where Hu- Jin
performed yet another variety of tasks to gain access into a vault.
At the center of the vault, standing silently on within a glass case
on a pedestal, was a dull, grayish lump of crystal.

     "Don't go any closer," Hu-Jin warned.  "The case's security
system is still on."

     "That's it?" Mongoe burst out.  "That's what all the fuss is
over?  That rock?"  Quarq shot him a warning look uglier than his
face, but Hu-Jin smiled.

     "Watch--and listen," he said.  He closed his eyes and, still
smiling faintly, his breathing slowed and his body became relaxed.

     The Alat seemed to light up, only faintly at first, then suddenly
burst into life, a dazzling array of iridescent blue-green light
glowing in its core.  The faint sound of wind chimes could be heard in
the still room.

     "It knows its master's servant," Hu-Jin murmured.

     "Hmph," Mongoe grumped.  "Watcha usin'?  A hundred watt bulb?"

     For the second time Hu-Jin's sadistically pleased grin surfaced.
A wide ray of light shot out from the crystal, catching Mongoe in the
chest and throwing him into the wall.

     "What the--?!" Quarq started.  Hu-Jin opened his eyes, and the
crystal went dark again.

     "Woof," Mongoe gasped as he picked himself up.  "What hit me?"

     "My mind, focused and amplified through the Alat," Hu- Jin
explained, still smiling.  "I am capable of some control with the
crystal due to natural ability and my closeness to Dyan.  What I did
was a simple defense.  Are you convinced now, my friend?"

     Mongoe grumbled something under his breath.  He seemed a bit
humbled.

     "Advisor," Quarq said, looking rather distressed, "We failed to
protect the Shaheer.  I'm sorry.  I take full responsibility."

     "It wasn't your fault," Hu-Jin replied, almost gently.  "In any
case, I have a feeling this isn't over yet."

     "I promise to do my best to get the Shaheer back, sir," Quarq
told him.

     The Advisor looked down at him.  "I'm sure you will," he replied,
although now his words and eyes were flat and cold, almost
threatening.



                  6. "And if you don't... "

           Shaheer's Palace, early morning.


     "Advisor Hu-Jin," greeted one of the servants as the group
returned to the main palace, "There's a woman on the video
communications channel.  She claims she has the Shaheer, and she's
making demands."

     "Where's the signal coming from?" the Advisor asked.

     "We don't know, sir.  It's being routed through one of the public
channels."

     Hu-Jin led the others to a commons room.  A large video screen
adorned one wall, and on it was a poorly broadcasted picture.  The
person on the screen was a woman, but one could only discern this from
her voice and curves; she was shrouded in shadow.

     "I am Hu-Jin, Advisor to the Shaheer," Hu-Jin addressed the
screen.  "I demand--"

     "You are in no position to demand anything," the woman snapped,
then went on in a more silky, amused tone.  "I am known as Shadow.  I
have your Shaheer."  Someone out of camera range thrust Dyan into
view.  The boy seemed unhurt, but there were tear stains on his face.

     "Hu-Jin!  Help me!  Please come get me!" he cried, and was
abruptly pulled away.

     "I have no desire to hurt the child," Shadow went on.  "All I
want is the Alat.  Unfortunately, your security was simply too good.
You see, I ran out of thieves to steal the crystal for me, so I made
special arrangements to steal the boy instead.  My demands are simple.
You will exchange the Alat for the Shaheer.  I will require proof that
the crystal is genuine."

     "I will give you any sum of money for the Shaheer," Hu- Jin
replied.  "The Alat is of no use to anyone but the Qol.  It has been
proven.  No one will buy it from you."

     "No deals!" Shadow insisted.  "What I want and plan to do with
the Alat is not your concern!"

     "I do know.  I'm no fool.  You're in this with Zyal.  You're a
third party hired to do his dirty work."

     "Stop jerking me around, Advisor.  You will agree to the
arrangement."

     "And if I don't?"

     "And if you don't," Shadow cooed, "I'll have no choice but to
kill the child."

     Quarq pulled Hu-Jin aside.  "The Shaheer's life is more important
than the Alat," he said quietly.  "Agree to the trade.  Hopefully my
troops can stop it before it goes through.  If they can't, keep in
mind that we can always go after the Alat, but the Shaheer is
irreplaceable."

     The Advisor nodded.  "You're right.  Since the woman is Zyal's
hireling, my own men can take action against her.  We can help you."

     At this point Mongoe leaned close.  "I don't think she's working
for Zyal," he said.

     "What makes you think so?"

     "When you accused her of working for him, she made a quick
comeback.  No hesitation, no change of expression.  She didn't flinch
or shift or move at all.  I know people, sir, and I could tell she
didn't know what you were talking about.  Trust me on this one."

     "Hmm... whatever the case, I agree with Quarq."  Hu-Jin turned
back to Shadow.  "I'll make the trade," he said.

     "Good," she replied.  "You will bring the Alat to Quarry Ten.
Come alone."

     The Advisor frowned.  "I told you, I'm no fool."

     Shadow gave a somewhat exasperated sigh.  Although her face
remained unseen, he gaze could be felt shifting to the commandoes.
"Alright," she said, waving the argument off with her hand, "You can
bring these three Westerners with you, but that's all.  If I see or
hear anyone else, the boy dies."

     "Agreed," Hu-Jin replied with a nod.  "When will we do this?"

     "Now," Shadow told him.

     "Now?!"

     "Well, I can't give you time to prepare, can I?" the woman
laughed, toying with a lock of her hair.  "I estimate that it will
take you five minutes to get the Alat out of the place where you keep
it, and I know it takes ten minutes to get from the palace to Quarry
Ten.  I will expect you in fifteen minutes.  Don't be late."  The
screen went dark.

     "I'll get the troops organized while you get the Alat," Haezar
told Hu-Jin.

     "Our troops don't know the area, and neither do you," Quarq
replied.  "We'll have to use Hu-Jin's men."

     "No," Hu-Jin replied, "I won't risk the Shaheer's life.  We don't
have time to think up an offensive."

     "Maybe a sniper?" Haezar suggested.

     "No," the Advisor repeated.  "Quarry Ten is on high ground.  It's
dug out of a mountain side.  Whoever's there can see anyone coming,
and there are plenty of places to hide lookouts and troops.  We'll do
what the woman says.  But," he added, lovingly caressing the hilt of
his sword, "should the opportunity present itself, I'm sure four fine
warriors like us will do just fine."  He smiled his eerie smile again.
"Go prepare yourselves while I get the Alat."


             *        *        *


     "Varkeshna," Zyal of the Moran-shan clan said to the huge bodyguard
at his side as he spun lazily in his office chair, "Make a note in my
log, will you?"  Varkeshna stationed himself before a desk-top
computer and rested his fingers lightly on the keyboard, prepared to
type.  "Tenth day of Sixth Month," Zyal began.  "While
experimenting with my video broadcast equipment, I came upon a pirate
transmission on a public channel to the Shaheer's Palace.
Apparently--to my horror, of course--Shaheer Dyan has been kidnapped
and is being held for ransom by a mercenary woman calling herself
Shadow.  The ransom is the Alat, to be brought by Advisor Hu-Jin and
three visiting Western Loords to the old Quarry Ten.  Since I fear for
the Shaheer's life, I have decided to send a very small force in after
Hu-Jin arrives there.  When the mercenary is convinced of her safety
and is focusing her attention on Hu-Jin, my people will move in and
hopefully rescue the Shaheer.  End of entry."

     Zyal leaned back in his seat as Varkeshna finished typing.
"Varkeshna," he said, "take our best sniper and go to Quarry Ten.  It
is our duty to save our dear Shaheer, as well as the Alat.  When he
and the mercenary and any of her people are out in the open, have the
sniper open fire."  Zyal gave a tight, unpleasant smile.
"Unfortunately, poor Dyan will take a stray shot.  What a... tragic
end to my heroic attempt to save him."  He chuckled.  "But we will
manage to save the Alat.  You understand, Varkeshna?"

     "Yes, sir," the bodyguard rumbled.

     "Good.  Go."  The huge man turned to leave.  "Oh, and
Varkeshna--"

     "Yes, sir?"

     "If one of those stray shots should also happen to hit Hu-Jin...
."

     Varkeshna replied with a wicked grin.  "I'm sure we'll enjoy his
grand warrior's funeral feast, despite our grief."



         7. Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones, but Particle
           Acceleration Beams Really Do a Nasty Job

             A short time later.


     "Ready to go?" Haezar asked as he came into Mongoe's quarters.
Both of them were in battle armor, however Mongoe's was older and much
heavier, and made him look twice as large than he actually was.  His
gear was in fact the same as he had used in Qorant.  There was a thick
welded and bolted on metal patch on the torso piece's side where it
had been pierced.  Haezar mentally winced from the reminder.

     "Yeah, just about," the large lieutenant replied.  He pulled a
case out from the closet, laid it on a table, and opened it.  Inside
was a large, outdated bazooka, meant to be braced against the side,
and not placed on the shoulder.  Despite its battered and worn casing,
it was obvious that new parts had been added and that the back and
front of the barrel had been modified.  Mongoe checked the weapon
over, fastened a strap to it, and slung it over his shoulder.  "Now
I'm ready," he informed Haezar.

     "You still have that thing?" Haezar returned in disbelief.
"Haven't they caught you yet?"

     "Nope."

     "You can't use that!  Quarq could report you!"

     "So let him."

     "Oh, you seem real concerned," Haezar sneered.  "We'll see how
smug you are when someone in the right place finds out what really
happened to their experimental weapons!"

     Mongoe frowned.  "Look, shit-fer-brains," he rumbled, "You
could've reported me a hundred times between Qorant and now, but you
didn't.  You know why?  `Cause my baby here saved your ass.  Maybe
today it'll save it again.  Maybe the Shaheer's, and maybe even
Quarq's, too.  People tend to overlook little details when you save
their life, right, Rich Boy?"

     "Um... right."

     "So shuddup and mind your own business."  Mongoe made his way to
the door.  "I'd rather be demoted than dead, anyway," he mumbled.
"Come on."

     Ten minutes later Hu-Jin pulled an unmarked hovercar off the main
road and up a narrower, winding trail.  Before the foursome lay a
grouping of barren, rocky hills, quietly baking in the living desert
of Qol.  Even from a distance the old, abandoned quarry, which had
been scooped out of the side of the largest hill, seemed large and
foreboding.

     "Mongoe," Quarq said as he eyed the lieutenant's "baby", "what is
that thing?"

     "Just an old bazooka, sir," Mongoe replied.

     "I've never seen one like that before."

     Mongoe shot Haezar a discreet look through his sunglasses.  "Oh,
hell," Haezar put in after a slight hesitation, "my uncle used to use
one of those things.  That piece of crap's so ancient, I'm surprised
the Ground Forces haven't retired it."

     "They're just stingy, that's all," Mongoe laughed.  "Had to be
modified just to, ah, pack a noticeable whollop against today's
equipment."

     "Mm," Quarq replied, and returned his attention to the quarry
ahead.  "Remember," he said, "first sign of a slip-up on the enemy's
part and we move for the kill.  Otherwise, don't do anything stupid or
without my or Hu-Jin's orders."  The commander reached into his pocket
and pulled out a curious device which he proceeded to place over his
sighted eye.  It fitted like an eye patch, and looked like half a pair
of goggles.

     "What's that?" Mongoe asked him.

     "Just some insurance," Quarq replied.  "I've only got one eye
left; I don't plan on losing it."

     When Hu-Jin pulled into Quarry Ten, no one could be seen.  The
only thing stirring was the dust cloud the hovercar's engines kicked
up.

     "Turn the engine off!" a woman's voice, presumably Shadow's,
demanded through a speaker or megaphone.  The Advisor obliged her.
"Get out of the car."  Hu-Jin and the commandoes stepped out.  "Good.
Now walk to the center of the quarry."  The foursome obeyed without
hesitation.  "Put down your weapons."

     "I ain't stupid, lady!" Mongoe shouted back.

     "Funny, you look stupid to me," Shadow returned.

     "Where is the Shaheer?!" Hu-Jin yelled, his hand on the grip of
his sword as he scanned the high walls of the quarry.

     Shadow's chuckling echoed across the quarry.  "You men are such
morons," she mused.  "Patience, oh Balding One, and don't get carried
away.  You're past your prime."

     Hu-Jin snorted.  "Come down here, bitch," he said, his horrible
grin adorning his features, "and I'll show you how quickly I can flay
a person without killing them."

     The mercenary laughed.  "Alright," she said, "keep your little
toys.  But keep them sheathed or in their holsters.  Now, where is the
Alat?"

     Hu-Jin reached into his jacket and produced a pouch.  "It's in
here."

     "Show me."  Reluctantly, the Advisor took the crystal out and
held it up.  As if sensing the proximity of the Shaheer, it lit up
with a warm glow.  The sound of chimes echoed off the rocks.
"Excellent.  Put it down and back away."

     "So your people can kill us?" Quarq spoke up.

     "My people," Shadow replied with distaste, "have all been
slaughtered while attempting to steal the Alat.  And they called
themselves thieves."  She sighed.  "Well, no small loss, especially
now that I am currently employing more reliable help.  I have no
desire to start a fight.  I only want the Alat."

     "Show yourself," Hu-Jin demanded, "and the Shaheer.  Otherwise
there's no deal."

     There was a long pause, and then the sound of footsteps on
gravel.  Two figures appeared on the opposite end of the quarry.  One
was a tall, slender offworlder woman with long raven-hued hair.  The
other was much smaller, quite obviously the Shaheer.

     "Hu-Jin!  Hu-Jin!" Dyan cried.

     "It's alright, little master," the Advisor returned, for the
first time looking worried, "You'll be fine."  He looked around, and
his eyes fell upon a double set of rails leading across the quarry.
On each pair of tracks was an old cart, probably used at one time for
transporting rubble or ore.  He went over to one, disengaged the
brake, and with a grunt gave it a good shove.  To his surprise it was
in fair condition after so much disuse; it glided easily across the
quarry.  "Woman," he called with a sneer, "Put the Shaheer in the cart
and push him back--if you can.  I'll put the Alat in this cart here,
and push it to you.  Agreed?"

     "Agreed," Shadow replied.

     "No, Hu-Jin!" the Shaheer yelled, "Don't!"

     "Don't worry, master," Hu-Jin replied.  "Do as I tell you."

     "And no tricks!" Shadow snapped.  "I know what the boy can do
with the stone."  She drew a pistol with an aiming scope.  "If
anything funny starts happening when the boy passes the Alat, I'll
kill him."

     "And what assurance do we have that your `reliable help' won't
fire down on him anyway?"

     "You don't.  But then, you're in no place to argue."  Shadow
dragged Dyan over to the cart and set him inside.  "Put the Alat in
your cart."  Hu-Jin did as told.  He and Shadow locked stared at each
other from across the quarry, then almost simultaneously set their
carts in motion.  The mercenary, contrary to Hu-Jin's assumption, had
little difficulty with the task.  For a moment the Advisor seemed
impressed.

     When the two carts drew near, a large man suddenly appeared from
the rocks, running at breakneck speed toward the cart holding the
Alat.

     "What the--?!" Quarq started.  He and the others instinctively
raised their weapons, but by that time the man had already grabbed the
Alat and jumped off.  Quarq and Haezar--and Shadow, to their
surprise--squeezed off several shots which hit the vacated cart as the
man fled across the quarry and up into the rocks.

     "Get him!" Haezar yelled, and ran after the man.

     "Wait!" Mongoe called, and was ignored.  He started after the
lieutenant, then halted.  A shot from somewhere above and to the left
scorched a piece of abandoned equipment he had been leaning against.
"SNIPER!" he bellowed, and dove for cover behind the machine.  Hu-Jin
and Quarq joined him.  A shot hit the front right wheel of the cart
the Shaheer rode in, and it ground to a halt.  Dyan crowded his small
body into a corner, pulling rubble and old tools around him.

     "The Shaheer!" the Advisor exclaimed, horrified.  He got up and
ran toward the second cart, dodging behind rocks and equipment as he
went.

     "Come back, sir!" Quarq shouted.  He growled and turned to
Mongoe.  "Go after Haezar!" he snapped, his face a hideous mask of
rage.  The lieutenant took off as Quarq fired in the general direction
the sniper's shots were coming from in an attempt to cover Hu-Jin.

     Haezar, meanwhile, stopped abruptly in his tracks as he heard a
sharp cry of pain.  He clutched his rifle tightly as he cautiously
advanced.  His prey had vanished through a narrow pass in the rocks
and had turned to the right before he had lost sight of him.  Moving
as quietly as possible, Haezar quickly sidestepped through the pass
and spun out, his weapon at the ready.  No one was there.

     No one living, that is.

     The large man's body lay crumpled on the rocks.  His head was
nowhere in sight.  Nervously, the lieutenant advanced and turned the
body over.  Underneath, still in his hand, was the Alat.  Haezar
gingerly picked it up.

     Something hit him in the back.  With a cry of alarm, he spun
around, firing his rifle.  He hit only the rocks.  No one was in
sight.  He looked down at his feet to see what had struck him, and saw
the dead man's head staring up at him, wearing an expression of pure
terror.

     A leather-gloved hand closed tightly around the back of Haezar's
neck.  The lieutenant immediately moved to counter, but the new
intruder's fingers dug into his spine and held on with an iron grip.
Haezar's knees buckled.  The unseen attacker shifted his hold ever so
slightly and squeezed a bit harder.  Haezar cried out in pain.  The
rifle dropped from his right hand, but his left refused to part with
the Alat.

     "Stupid boy," the man behind him growled.  "Shall I snap your
neck now?  Perhaps.  But first, give me the crystal."

     Haezar grit his teeth.  "No," he managed.  "You can... take it...
off my dead... body."

     His attacker laughed.  "Stupid, stupid, boy!"  With almost
inhuman strength, he threw Haezar against the rock wall.  "That is
exactly how I intended it in the first place!"

     The lieutenant looked up.  Standing over him was a man clad
entirely in the blackest of black clothing imaginable, his head
covered by a black hood, his face hidden by a visor attached to a
lightweight helm.  At his side was a long, slender, black-handled
sword with a black, skull-shaped pommel, nestled in a black scabbard.
There were other bladed items fastened to his belt as well, ones which
Haezar could not recognize.

     "Who--?" Haezar gagged, almost in a whimper.  There was something
utterly terrifying about this strange man.

     In each hand, the man took a curious weapon from his belt.  They
consisted of a handle with the skull pommel (black, of course) and a
short length of chain which ended in a foot-long, very sharp-looking
blade.  The man began to twirl the blades in patterns at dizzying
speeds.  "You are fortunate to have seen me," he murmured, "Few do."
He paused, then proclaimed, "I am your death!  Know me, boy--I am
Sorasta, Champion of the Dancing Blades!"

     Haezar cringed.  He heard something off to the side as Sorasta
bore down on him; quite like the sound of a very muffled cannon blast.
Suddenly Sorasta seemed to glow.  His expression of astonishment could
be felt through his visor as he looked down at his midsection, only to
find it was rapidly disintegrating.  An instant later he was gone.

     Mongoe plodded up to his companion, hawked and spit on the rocks,
and affectionately patted his strange bazooka.  "An' I'm Mongoe,
Bearer of the Unauthorized Custom Particle Acceleration Beam," he
snorted.

     "You--you saved my life!" Haezar squawked, wide-eyed.

     Mongoe rolled his eyes.  "Brilliant observation.  Man, you're
flakier than an unwashed jock strap!"  He hauled the lieutenant to his
feet.  "Come on," he grunted.  He disappeared back through the pass.
Haezar paused briefly.  He picked up one of the strange twirling
weapons, which Sorasta had dropped just before his atoms had
scattered, and followed Mongoe.

     Down in the main area of the quarry, Shadow ducked behind a pile
of gravel and fired off several shots at Hu- Jin.

     "You lousy bastards!" she screamed.  She tore a grenade from her
belt and pitched it at the Advisor.  The explosive went wide, however,
and he managed to escape unharmed.  She unslung a high-powered rifle
from her back, switched it into rapid fire mode, and fired across the
quarry at Quarq.

     "You stupid crazy bitch!" he bellowed after the first volley
narrowly missed him.

     "We did what you said!" Hu-Jin shouted.  "Have you no honor?!"

     Shadow let loose a burst of fire which came dangerously close to
the cart the Shaheer lay in.  "Call off your sniper or I'll blow the
boy to hell!"

     "Our sniper?!  That's not my sniper!  He's been shooting at me,
or haven't you noticed?"

     Shadow's face flushed in anger and humiliation as she realized
her mistake.  `But,' she thought, `if the sniper isn't theirs, and
it's definitely not mine--not unless Sorasta's gone trigger-happy,
which he shouldn't have, for what I'm paying him--then who's firing at
us?'  She moved along through the rubble, scanning the rocks above for
the gunman.  "What the hell is going on here?" she muttered.  Several
shots from somewhere above came dangerously close to hitting her.
"Alright," she snarled, "now I'm pissed!"  She ducked behind a rock
and fired blindly up in the direction the shots had come from.

     Hu-Jin, realizing the sniper was now occupied with the mercenary,
made a dash for the cart.  He plucked the Shaheer from his hiding
place and ran back toward Quarq.  The sniper realized what had
happened and fired at the Advisor.  The man was moving astonishingly
well for his age, however, and somehow managed to get back to Quarq
only singed and slightly bloody from a shot which had grazed his back
instead of cutting him in half at the waist.

     "Are you alright?" the commander asked him.

     "Never better," Hu-Jin replied, setting Dyan down.  "Nothing like
an annoying flesh wound to get you really pissed and ready to lop off
a few limbs!"  He drew his sword, a wide and powerful blade, etched
with designs and brightly polished.  "I'm going to try to sneak around
and up," he said.  "Maybe I can find the bastard and jump him from
behind.  Cover me."  Without waiting for Quarq's approval, he
scampered off.

     No sooner had he gone than Mongoe and Haezar came out of the
rocks behind the commander.

     "That guy's toast, and Haezar's got the crystal," Mongoe informed
him.

     "Where's Hu-Jin?" Haezar asked.

     Dyan smiled a wicked little grin, a perfect copy of the
Advisor's.  "He went to kick ass," he replied.

     The sniper's firing, however, continued to pour down.  Mongoe,
deciding that it was not worth the risk to Hu-Jin, set his particle
acceleration beam aside, pulled a laser pistol, and fired back at the
unseen foe along with Haezar and Quarq.

     At length Hu-Jin returned.  "I know where he is," he huffed.

     "So why didn't you ace him?" Mongoe asked.

     "I couldn't.  He didn't see me, but I saw his face.  He had the
diamond tattoo--the mark of the Morin-shans.  I cannot kill him."

     "He doesn't seem to give a shit about killing you!"

     "It does not matter.  The situation is such that I cannot risk
violating our treaty."

     "Morin-shan?" Quarq muttered, "Maybe Zyal sent him."

     "Maybe," Mongoe grunted.  "Who cares?"  He picked up his
bazooka--or rather, the weapon which appeared to be a bazooka.  "Where
is he?"

     Hu-Jin pointed.  "Up there."

     "Hey," Quarq remarked, shooting a glance back at Mongoe, "That
thing's not loaded!"

     Mongoe quickly jumped into the open and fired.  A large portion
of the top of the quarry disintegrated.

     Quarq's mouth fell open.  "What the--?"

     "Yeah!" Mongoe laughed.  "End of problem."

     The commander looked over at him, astonished.  "What is that
thing?"

     The lieutenant kissed the barrel of his weapon.  "My baby," he
replied.

     Hu-Jin got to his feet.  "Well, that's more or less settled," he
remarked, "except for that blasted woman.  At least we have the
Shaheer and the Alat back.  Good work, Lieutenant."  He turned to
Haezar.

     The man was facedown in the gravel, quite unconscious.

     The Alat was nowhere in sight.


             *        *        *


     In his office, Zyal closed his eyes and reached out with his
mind.  He could feel the Alat moving away from the quarry.  He
frowned.  It was not moving toward him.  His expression darkened.

     `Varkeshna and the sniper must have failed', he thought angrily.
`Either that or they've betrayed me.'  He sought out the crystal a
second time.  To his surprise, the Alat was not moving toward the
Shaheer's Grounds.  It was moving quite rapidly and very definitely in
the direction of the aerospaceport.

     He left his office and called for his chauffeur.


             *        *        *


     Shadow smiled as she pulled into Qol's aerospaceport.  Her ship was
there, and in minutes she and the Alat would be safely in it.  With a
little luck, air traffic control would give her priority takeoff for
some reason she'd make up, and she'd be off the planet before anyone
caught on to what was happening.

     Briefly she wondered about Sorasta.  She had not seen him leave the
quarry, but then, the only time she actually had seen him was when he
had brought her Dyan, and even then he had been a dark form lurking in
the shadows.  She did not dwell on his whereabouts for long.  He had
already been well paid for his services, and his kind could very
easily take care of themselves, from what she had heard.

     She smuggled the Alat easily through what she considered to be the
Qols' rather primitive customs system, then drove on to her ship.  It
was docked with numerous other small, private ships in a hangar out
beyond the main take-off sites.

     As she opened the cargo bay hatch so she could get her hovercar in, a
man in expensive attire strode up to her.

     "What do you want?" she asked him as she worked.

     "I have come for something," the man replied in cultured tones.

     "Yeah?"  There was something about him Shadow did not care for.

     "You have in your possession something which belongs to my people."

     Shadow froze for an instant, then casually put her hands on her hips.
Her fingers carefully made their way toward the gun tucked under her
jacket.  "I don't know what you're talking about," she said.

     "You do," the visitor replied.  "It's in the satchel you're
wearing.  Kindly hand it over, and I will allow you to leave
Neemohne."

     Shadow sneered and drew her gun.

     Her arm froze.

     The man smiled faintly.  "What's wrong, my dear?  Have your joints
locked?  Having a little trouble pulling that trigger, hm?  Take a
look at your satchel."

     The mercenary briefly glanced down at the bag.  She could make out a
faint glow from under the front flap.

     "You have the Alat," Zyal smiled, "and I know that for a fact
because I'm using it against you."

     Shadow growled and tried to will her finger to pull the trigger.  She
failed.  Her antagonist narrowed his eyes and breathed in sharply.
Her whole body froze.  "Let me go!" she demanded.

     Zyal looked into her eyes.  "Relax," he commanded in a deep, quiet
voice.  "Look into me.  Deep into me."  Shadow's face became calm.
Bewilderment showed through in her eyes.  "Board your ship and
prepare for takeoff.  I will arrange for your immediate departure."

     "Buh... bastard... "

     "Your will is mine until you leave here!" Zyal hissed.  Inside the
satchel, the Alat began to glow more brightly.  "Now, you may move
your arm--the one without gun.  Give me the Alat."

     "Nnnnnoooo... ." Shadow moaned, but the limb did as told.  Zyal
took the crystal.

     "Put away the gun."  Again, his command was obeyed, although now
the woman was scowling terribly.  Beads of sweat dotted her forehead
as she tried to resist.  Zyal stared hard into her eyes and
concentrated.  "Relax... ," he commanded.  The Alat throbbed with
light.  "Load your ship, get in, and leave when you are cleared!  Is
that clear?"

     "Yes," Shadow replied.

     Zyal backed off.  "My, you're a spunky one," he smiled.  "When
you leave this world, you will not remember our encounter or what
business you had here.  You will not return.  Now go."

     Shadow eventually did remember the Alat--Zyal did not tell her to
forget that, only her business in Qol--however, by the time she did
and managed to put the pieces together, she was much to far away to do
anything about it.



                   8. Temper Tantrum

  Shaheer's palace, shortly after the incident at the quarry; Zyal's
             mansion, shortly after that


     "Tell me again what happened," Hu-Jin prompted Haezar as they sat
in the Advisor's office.

     The lieutenant put a fresh cold pack to the lump at the base of
this skull.  "I chased the guy with the Alat through a passage in the
rocks.  When I came through he was dead.  I picked up the Alat.
Someone through his head at me, but when I turned around no one was
there.  Then someone else dressed in black tried to kill me, but
Mongoe got to him first."

     "Shouldn't've stopped to recite his damn poetry," Mongoe put in.
"Fuckin' looney."

     "Poetry?" Hu-Jin inquired.

     "Yeah.  He said somethin' about bein' So-and-so of the Dancing
Blades.  `Know your death, boy,' and all that."

     The Advisor's eyes narrowed in concentration.  "How did he try to
kill you, Lieutenant?"

     Haezar reached into his fatigue pocket and produced the strange,
bladed weapon he had picked up at the quarry.  "With a couple of
these," he said, handing it over to Hu-Jin.

     "Did he carry a firearm?"

     "Not that I could see."

     "How interesting," Hu-Jin remarked as he looked the weapon over.
"I do believe the two of you encountered a Nightmare."  He paused.
"Imagine that.  You saw and killed a Nightmare.  Extraordinary.  I'll
have to go look at the remains."

     "Uh... ," Mongoe mumbled, "There aren't any."

     "None?  Not even parts?"

     "No."

     "No blood?"

     "No.  Sorry."

     Hu-Jin snorted.  "What a dull kill."

     Quarq came into the room.  "We contacted the authorities, then
called the aerospaceport," he informed the Advisor, "but we were too
late.  A woman answering to Shadow's description was cleared for
priority takeoff before we got a chance to do anything."

     "Damn," Hu-Jin growled, raking his fingernails across his desk.
With each passing second, he was looking less like the kindly, aging
man the commandoes had originally met.

     "The people at air traffic control told me Zyal gave the order
for her clearance."

     With a roar, Hu-Jin leapt to his feet, drew his sword, and buried
it in the desk.  Haezar involuntarily jerked away while Quarq remained
unmoved.  Mongoe looked on, amused and impressed.

     "I'll throttle him with his entrails!" the Advisor declared.  It
was far from an idle threat.  "I'll feed him his privates!  I'll--!"

     He was cut short as Dyan entered the office.  Immediately his
furor melted, or at least became masked by a placid expression.  "What
are you doing out of bed, master?"  he inquired.  "You should be
resting."

     The boy approached and ran his hand along the flat of Hu-Jin's
sword.  "I went to sleep and had a dream," he said.  He seemed somehow
upset or disturbed.  "The Alat was pulling me.  It was crying and
telling me to come and asking me to help."

     Hu-Jin leaned forward.  "Do you still feel the pulling now?"

     "Yes," Dyan replied, and began to cry.  "I can feel it and I can
see it and I can hear it in my head!"

     The Advisor picked the boy up.  "Then the woman does not have
it," he said.  "If you feel this strongly, it's somewhere nearby.  He
affectionately tousled the child's hair.  "Reach out," he told the
Shaheer.  "Who has it?  Where is it?"

     Dyan sniffled, closed his eyes, and remained quiet for a time.
"Someone's trying to make it do things it doesn't want to," he said at
length.  "There's a lot of power.  There's... a mansion... ."

     "Zyal?" Quarq inquired.

     Hu-Jin nodded.  "He must have taken the Alat from the mercenary."
He set Dyan down.  "Go back to your room now," he told the boy.
"We'll get the Alat."

     "But--"

     "Go."

     The Shaheer turned to leave, then paused briefly to consider the
massive sword stuck in the Advisor's desk.  "You really shouldn't do
that to your sword," he offered thoughtfully.  "It dulls the blade."
He managed a slight smile and left the office.

     Hu-Jin sighed as he removed the weapon from his desk.  "We have
no proof that Zyal hired the woman," he informed the others as he
sheathed it, "but he did send the sniper and the other man.  Still, I
want to go to him as civilly as possible and request that he return
the Alat.  I want the three of you to come with me, and I want you to
bring your troops.  If things are anything less than civil," he added,
smiling evilly, "I want to be able wash my hands in the Morin-shans'
blood without causing a war."


             *        *        *


     The Alat was fascinating, invigorating--Zyal could not put it
down.  He sat in his office, so absorbed with his newfound power he
did not respond to the person pounding on for some time.  Finally, he
tore his attention away from the Alat, hid it in his desk, and
answered the door.  His security chief greeted him, looking somewhat
ill at ease.

     "Sir," he said, "Advisor Hu-Jin has been spotted heading this
way.  He's leading a small squadron of foreign troops."

     Zyal considered.  "Fine.  Let them in."

     "Sir?"

     "Do as I say.  I'll grant them audience."

     "Yes, sir," the security chief replied, and exited the office.

     Zyal went to his desk and removed the Alat.  `And then I'll
destroy them.'


             *        *        *


     "And what can I do for you, Advisor?" Zyal smiled as both his and
the S.C.U.M. troops stood in his meeting hall.

     "It has come to my attention," Hu-Jin replied stiffly, "that you
have the Alat."

     Zyal simply looked at him, his hands behind his back.

     "I thank you for recovering it.  All of Qol will thank you."  The
Advisor was outwardly calm, yet it was obvious from his stance that he
was fighting to control his temper.

     "Why have you brought all these soldiers here?" Zyal asked.  He
briefly glanced at his own troops, lined up on either side of the
hall.

     "Simply to ensure the Alat's safe return to the palace," Hu-Jin
replied.

     "Why are they foreign troops?"

     "They were sent here to assist me in certain matters.  Right now
my own forces are fully occupied with making sure no further harm will
come to our Shaheer."

     "I see."

     Hu-Jin held out his hand.  "Now, if you please, the Alat."

     Zyal brought out the crystal from behind his back.  It pulsed
with energy.  He could feel the power oozing through his veins as he
stared deep into the brilliant color emanating from its center.  He
concentrated.

     "No," he replied, "I DON'T please."

     The hall became hushed as confused murmurings broke out amongst
Zyal's security troops.

     "So," Hu-Jin said in a low voice, "you did hire the woman."

     "I did not," Zyal replied.  "Her coincidental appearance here
only provided the necessary vehicle for my ascension to Shaheership."

     "Dyan is the Shaheer."

     "Dyan is a child!" Zyal snapped, still absorbed in the Alat.  "I
am a man.  I am fit to rule."

     "If enough of your people side with you, you will restart the
ancient blood feud."

     "No matter.  With the Alat, I am more powerful than any army.
Now, old man, arrange for Dyan to relinquish his position."

     "No," Hu-Jin replied firmly.  "Give me the Ala--" His words were
cut off as a burst of light shot from the crystal, caught him in the
chest, and bowled him across the hall.  The S.C.U.M. troops raised
their weapons.  Zyal's troops readied theirs.

     "That was a warning," Zyal announced as Hu-Jin picked himself up
with a groan.  The Advisor's face darkened.  He pulled his sword from
its scabbard.

     "Come face me like a man!" he shouted.

     Zyal laughed at him.

     With an enraged cry, Hu-Jin sent the large blade soaring through
the air at Zyal.  A bubble of light appeared around the younger man,
and the sword bounced off, skimming across the marble floor until it
came to rest some distance away.

     "Do as I've told you!" Zyal shouted.  "This is your last warning!
Now go!"

     "Give me the Alat!" Hu-Jin seethed.

     Zyal eyed his troops.  "Remove these people!" he ordered.

     "G'wan and try!" Mongoe replied.  He fired his "baby" at the
grouping of guards to the left.  They vanished, and so did a large
portion of the wall behind them, a good deal of furniture in the next
room, the wall after that, and the wall after that...

     Zyal smiled wickedly as he watched the two factions collide.  He
wanted this.  He wanted another excuse to use the Alat.  He wanted to
blast them all into eternity with a thought, to watch them die at his
fancy.  He concentrated harder as the crystal in his hands throbbed.
The pleasant, chime-like noises it usually emitted turned to squeals
and shrieks.  He channeled his anger into the Alat, sending rays of
pure hatred out at the battling troops.  One of the S.C.U.M. soldiers
quite literally exploded, causing him to roar with laughter.  Another
caught on fire.  His aim was off the third time; he managed to
disintegrate one of his own men.  `No matter,' he thought.  `I don't
need him--or any of them.  I am more powerful than them all.'

     Across the hall, Quarq found himself pinned facedown on the floor
by a man easily twice his size.  He fought, kicked, and struggled, but
his attacker managed to plant a knee in the back of his neck, pinning
him to the floor.  The soldier then drew a rifle across his neck and
pulled back, throttling him as worked on breaking the lieutenant
commander's neck.  Quarq got his hands on the rifle and pushed forward
as hard as he could in a desperate attempt to stay alive.  He looked
up and saw Hu-Jin not far away, retrieving his sword.

     "Advisor!" he croaked.

     Hu-Jin drew near.  "I'm sorry," he said, looking rather awkward
through his anger, "I cannot kill him!  He is Morin- shan!"

     "I think Zyal's already broken the treaty," Quarq gasped.  "Help
me, damn you!"

     Hu-Jin disappeared.

     Quarq's attacker laughed.  "Relax and I'll snap your neck
quickly," he sneered.  Quarq merely growled and fought on.

     He did not have to struggle much longer, as Hu-Jin's sword
planted itself firmly between the guard's shoulder blades.

     "Oh, my!" Hu-Jin said, terribly overacting, "I seem to have
tripped over this poor man, fumbling my weapon with terrible,
unfortunate results.  What a dreadful accident."

     Quarq hauled himself out from under the dead man's body.
"Thanks."

     Zyal, meanwhile, found that his attacks were becoming
increasingly difficult.  Every time he used the Alat offensively,
there seemed to be a wall blocking the channel through the crystal, a
wall which, if he did not concentrate hard enough, would bounce his
anger back at him and made his head spin.  It was tiring him, but it
also made him more determined and more furious.  He tried again and
again, though each time it became harder to use the Alat.  His attacks
became weaker and more sporadic.

     Sensing Zyal's difficulties, Hu-Jin broke free of the melee and
charged him.  Zyal saw him coming.  A burst of energy tripped the
Advisor up, and then a tendril of light wrapped around his legs and
arms and dragged him in.  Grinning with insane pleasure, Zyal bent
over him.

     "You, old man," he growled, "you I'll kill slowly."  He put his
hand to the Advisor's chest and bore down with his mind.  His
fingertips began to glow.  Still held by the cords of light, Hu-Jin
could do no more than stiffen and groan in pain.

     "Hey!" Mongoe shouted, bringing his particle acceleration beam to
bear on Zyal, "Let him go!"

     "Are you crazy?!" Haezar cried as he threw off one of Zyal's men,
"If you fire you'll take out the Advisor and the Alat!"

     With a sneer, Mongoe fired to the right of Zyal and Hu- Jin.  The
wide beam melted the wall behind them, then continued on its way
through the mansion.  "Next time I'll narrow the beam, and the same'll
happen to you!"

     "You can't narrow the beam!" Haezar snapped, cutting down several
oncoming guards with a burst of gunfire.

     "He doesn't know that," Mongoe replied.

     Zyal, however, did not seem to care.  He removed his free hand
from Hu-Jin and lashed it out in the lieutenants' general direction.
Haezar knocked Mongoe to the floor as a deadly burst of energy
scorched the air above them.  Satisfied that this would do, Zyal
returned his attention to torturing Hu-Jin.  Mongoe, Haezar, and Quarq
gathered together several troops and rushed the man.  Again the
defensive bubble rose up around him.  Nothing got through, not even
lasers.  Zyal ignored them all as he worked on killing the Advisor.

     "This is crazy," Quarq growled.  "There's got to be something we
can--" He broke off as his attention fell on the Alat.  The crystal
was glowing more brightly than any of them had ever seen, no longer
throbbing, but with a steady, blinding light.

     Even Zyal seemed startled.  "What the--?" he began.

     "STOP!!" someone called in a shrill voice, and everyone did
exactly that.  Literally.

     Both commandoes and security guards froze in their tracks, and
stayed that way, unable to move or speak.  Confusion played over their
features.

     There came the padding of small feet on marble, and Dyan appeared
in the hall, looking very fearsome for someone not quite a decade old.

     "You leave Hu-Jin alone!" the boy shrieked.  Inside his glowing
bubble, Zyal, the only one apparently uneffected by Dyan's command,
took his hand off the Advisor.  The light bonds vanished as well.
Hu-Jin went limp and crumpled to the floor.

     "You're MEAN!" Dyan declared.  "You're mean and you take things
that don't belong to you!"

     Zyal stood up to his full height.  He smiled, then laughed.  "Oh,
my," he chuckled.

     "Dyan," Hu-Jin groaned, his chest heaving, "get away from here."

     "I HATE YOU!" the Shaheer shrieked at Zyal.  The Alat began to
glow red deep within the blinding light.  "GIVE THE ALAT BACK!"

     Zyal glanced down at Hu-Jin.  "I detest insolent children," he
said.  "Haven't you taught the boy any manners?"  He paused, chuckled.
"I suppose I'll have to punish him."

     "No!" the Advisor protested.

     "Shut up," Zyal sneered, and lay his hand on the older man's
chest again.  Hu-Jin cried out in agony.

     "I SAID LEAVE HU-JIN ALONE!" Dyan bellowed at the top of his
lungs.  The Alat's light throbbed once.  Zyal was blown back against
the wall, the crystal still in his hand.  He picked himself up.

     "DIE!" he shouted, and focused every ounce of hate and jealousy
in him on the Alat.

     With Dyan present, the wall he had encountered before now became
impenetrable.  Some of the energy was absorbed, but not channeled
through.  The rest bounced back in his face.  He screamed as his own
mental violence burned his face, chest and arms.  He fell to his knees
and dropped the Alat.

     The crystal rose into the air.  The frozen soldiers watched in
amazement as it floated into the Shaheer's waiting arms.  The chime
noises were no longer shrieking, but were becoming louder now as the
light within the brightness turned from red to rays of yellow and
blue.

     "You'll never be mean to me or Hu-Jin or the Alat again!" Dyan
declared.  The blue and yellow lights enveloped Zyal.  He cried out
once.  When the light receded, he was pressed to the wall, curled up
and whimpering.  The soldiers present suddenly found they could move,
but they did not resume their fight.  The hall was quiet.

     Haezar helped Hu-Jin up.  "Are you alright?"

     The Advisor nodded.  "I think so."  He went over to Zyal, who
shied away as he came.

     "Get away from me!" he cried as he cowered, "Please stay away!"

     "It's okay now, Hu-Jin," Dyan said.  "I took care of him."

     "What did you do?" the older man asked.

     "He's scared now," the boy explained.  "Of you, me, and the
Alat."

     "You did that?"

     "Mm-hm."

     "Good.  Very good.  And since you didn't kill him, the
Yun/Morin-shan treaty is unbroken.  Excellent."  He went over to the
Shaheer and put his arm around the boy's shoulder.  "But you still
shouldn't have come here, especially alone."

     "But I told you," Dyan protested, "the Alat was calling me.  I
had to come."

     "Alright, alright," Hu-Jin murmured.

     "Are you angry?"

     "No.  Come on, let's go home."  The Advisor lead Dyan out.  Quarq
called his troops together and followed.

     Mongoe paused on his way out to consider his handiwork, and to
attempt to soak in what had just happened.  He found it difficult.

     "In-fucking-credible," he muttered, and, shaking his head,
followed the others out of the hall.



                    9. The Beginning

      Third High Commander Noril's office, several weeks later.


     "I must compliment you all on the success of your first mission,"
Third High Commander Noril told Quarq, Haezar, and Mongoe.  "The War
Council is impressed, and the High Council has decided to give me the
funding to expand the S.C.U.M.  project further.  However,"--he shot
an angry look at Mongoe- -"there is one more matter to be dealt with."
Noril paused, looking rather grave.  "I received a very long, very
angry complaint by several wealthy families, including Zyal's, among
the Qol.  According to the complaint, on the day of your hostile
encounter with Zyal, a large section of the outer wall surrounding his
mansion melted.  Melted. Melted and vanished with almost no residue.
A pale blue-violet light emerged from the wall, went through the
neighbor's wall and every room in their house, continued out through
the opposite wall, and halfway through the next neighbor's home before
dispersing completely.  The same light with the same effects came out
of the back of the mansion and went through a couple more homes.  Half
of Zyal's family mansion, where the light came from, has been gutted."
Again Noril paused, staring intensely at Mongoe.  "I'd say that sounds
like the effects of a particle acceleration beam, wouldn't you,
Lieutenant?"

     "Yes, sir," Mongoe replied.

     "Now, I wonder how one of those got into the hands of a S.C.U.M.
commando?  By my records, the only hand-held particle acceleration
weapons were issued to Special Forces for a brief period of time,
during which the soldiers using them experienced power failures and
self-destruction of the weapons.  I believe you're familiar with this,
Lieutenant."

     "Yes, sir."

     "You should be--your platoon was issued them.  And coincidentally
enough, according to records, you were disciplined over the
disappearance of some of the weapons which turned up unaccounted for."

     "Some were lost in battle, sir."

     "I'm sure they were.  You have one, don't you?"

     No reply.

     "Someone who worked on the project told me that after the
hand-held pieces, they tried making shoulder cannons, but they were
too heavy and clumsy for the average soldier.  He told me these things
were about the size of... oh, I believe he said bazookas.  You did
bring your bazooka like I asked you to, didn't you?"

     Mongoe held up his carrying case.  "Yes, sir."

     "Take it out and put it on my desk."  Mongoe did as told.  Noril
looked it over.  "What is this thing?"

     "It's a bazooka, sir."

     The High Commander toyed with the weapon, looking at it more
closely.  "Yes, it is.  An old one, too."  He looked up at the
lieutenant, his eyes cold.  "With an almost plugged barrel and that
odd addition on the front end."  He took several tools from his desk,
pried open the back of the weapon, and began tearing parts,
insulation, and padding out of it.  "What is this?" he demanded,
gesturing to the array of parts on the desk.

     "It's... it's the modified remains of several particle
acceleration guns," Mongoe muttered.

     "I see."  Noril looked at Quarq.  "And you didn't notice anything
peculiar?"

     "I... I didn't realize what it was, sir."

     "Why is it that in your report you write that several mansions,
including Zyal's, were damaged, but you don't say by what?"

     "I wasn't sure what it was, sir."

     Noril scowled.  "Mongoe, Quarq--I could fry both your asses over
this--especially you, Lieutenant!  But I'm not going to.  Not now,
anyway."

     "Sir?" Quarq replied.

     "If I dismiss and discipline you now, it'll make me look bad.  I
thought I was dealing with three--well, at least two--highly
disciplined officers, and so did the War Council.  They're under the
impression that everything went smoothly.  I want to keep it that way.
If I dismiss any of you now for improper conduct, my whole project
could be scrapped."  Noril turned to Quarq.  "You--I'll overlook your
error.  Your record's clean.  Between you and me, we'll say Mongoe
here kept the damn thing on your blind side the whole time.  As for
you," he went on to Mongoe, "you watch yourself.  Durn just barely
managed to convince me to let you in.  One more foul-up, in any way,
and I'll see you court-martialled.  Understood?"

     "Yes, sir," Quarq and Mongoe replied.

     "You and Haezar keep an eye on this shithead, Quarq."  Noril
picked up the bazooka casing and shoved it into Mongoe's arms.  "Get
rid of this," he snarled.  "Dismissed."


             *        *        *


     Late that night, Mongoe sat in his quarters, the remains of his
"baby" on his lap.  He didn't have the heart to dispose of it.  He
stroked the barrel affectionately and sighed, then set the weapon down
on the bed.

     He got onto the floor and reached underneath his bed, digging
through the assorted junk, gear, and boxes.  At last he found what he
was looking for.  He pulled out a box, taped shut and addressed as if
it were to be mailed, and cut it open.  After digging through the
styrofoam bits and tissue paper, he reached in and smiled.

     He pulled out two large, awkward-looking, hand-held particle
acceleration guns.

     `Yeah,' he thought as he sat down next to the old bazooka casing
and went to work, `I think I'm gonna like this job.'


______________________________________________________________________

Faye Levine is a Freshman in Carnegie Mellon University's Art/Design
core program.  After spending her high school years writing a novella
and a 500+ page novel (Single spaced!  Wow!), she's having a little
trouble writing SHORT stories.  Her recent endeavors include becoming
addicted to "GrimJack", blowing up a borrowed amplifier, fending off
mushy attacks from a suitor, and teaching innocent bunnies to stalk
and kill Elvis impersonators.  In her friends' opinions, "She's gone
funny."

[e-mail]
______________________________________________________________________


         The Painted Viper Cries

             --- Albert L. Evans

         I.

         I remember my first kill.
    Were you there, in a form?
    I've always felt as if someone were watching.
    I hated you for not helping me.
    The blood... the blood was all around me
    it sprayed into my hair.
    A thousand years passed
    and still the red stains my hair.


    II.

         He never told me, you see,
    when he took me to bed.
    And when he bit me
    (yes, it was on the neck, just like Dracula)
    I cried out.
    He said I would live forever.
    But to live is to kill.
    You can resist, sure.  But the pain...
    Eventually it takes control.
    It's easier to submit,
    make it clean.
    Eventually we gathered together
    his past lovers.
    We killed him as only a vampire can
    and swore on his corpse
    never to visit our fate on another.


    III.

         A vampire lives forever.  It's a curse.
    Even vampires fall in love.
    My blood burns when I lie with you.
    My mind controls the urge,
    an instinct
    to kill you.
    My body wants your blood;
    I need your heart.


    IV.

         The men begin to blur,
    faces melting into one, one man.
    I've loved you for a thousand years.
    I even loved you when you bit me,
    and later, when I killed you.
    I've watched you die a hundred times.
    Once you called me a painted viper
    and I didn't understand.
    You'd seen me, blood running from my lips;
    I would have spared you that,
    but you pry so hard sometimes...
    You question the news and wonder.
    Everywhere we go, people disappear.
    Painted, hiding the truth.
    I never bit you.


    V.

         You're old.
    Lines on your face
    cut my eyes.
    You never understand when I tell you.
    Go away, I said.  Stupid bastard
    Vampires live forever!
    You didn't know I'd have to watch you die
    when you decided to stay.
    And I couldn't send you away, you see
    because I love you.
    I knew.
    Damn you, I knew.


______________________________________________________________________

Bert Evans is an Information Systems/Computer Science/Creative Writing
Major at Carnegie Mellon who likes to write about anything and
everything in any format.  A football player for the Tartans (please
don't ask him about "diskette day") he likes to do just about
everything.  He loves to write and receive mail.

[e-mail]
______________________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________________

                  Fair Play

              Kenneth A. Kousen

              Copyright (c) 1990
______________________________________________________________________


     In the cold of the desert night, two figures huddled shivering
around a flickering fire.  At first glance, they looked rather alike.
Both were of medium height and medium build.  Both had dark hair and
dark eyes.  Both leaned in closely to the fire, in an effort to warm
themselves.

     Closer examination, however, revealed striking differences
between the two men.  The face of one showed an expression of worry
and fear, as though expecting at any moment to be attacked.  His eyes
darted from side to side, peering into the darkness.  His ears heard
every sound, both real and imagined, from the scampering of small
burrowing animals to the whistling of the wind through the rolling
tumbleweed.

     The other man, by contrast, was calm.  He too shivered, but from
the cold instead of fear.  His face looked placid, except for an eerie
smile.  He leaned his shoulder towards the first man and spoke.

     "You do not have a choice, Vol.  If you are going to survive this
night, you must kill me," he said.

     "Shut up, Aanoch," Vol replied.

     "You know full well that I would kill you if I were able.  You
can not watch me all night.  I assure you that the first chance I get,
I will slit your throat."  He leaned back, satisfied.

     Vol jumped to his feet.  "Damn it, I said shut up!  I will listen
to no more of your foul treachery.  If you are not silent, I will---"

     "You will what?  Kill me?  Fine."  He grinned.  "Like I said, it
is really your only option."

     With a growl, Vol stormed away, but the cold and the darkness
prevented him from venturing too far from the fire.  Instead, he paced
back and forth, beating his arms with his hands to keep his
circulation going.  Aanoch watched him intently, trying to make eye
contact.  Vol finally looked up, and for a moment the two stared at
each other.  Aanoch suddenly grinned, and lunged toward the fire.

     "No!" Vol yelled, running to his aid.  He grabbed Aanoch by the
blanket that was wrapped around him, and threw him back onto to the
ground.  In the process, the blanket surrounding Aanoch fell away,

     The loss of the blanket revealed another difference between the
two men.  Aanoch was bound hand and foot with heavy ropes.

     He laughed.  "You see?" he said.  "You can not stop me forever.
If you untie me, I will kill you.  If you do not, I will find a way to
kill myself.  If you leave me in the desert alone, I will freeze to
death.  One way or another, I will be dead by morning."  He paused.
"And you will pay the penalty."

     "You are insane.  I can not help that."

     "It does not matter.  You will die."

     Vol trembled, both from the cold and from anger.  "Does your life
mean nothing to you?" he said.

     Aanoch grinned at him.  "On the contrary," he replied.  "My life
is most precious.  But my death means more.  My death accomplishes
your own, and that is a sacrifice I am willing to make."

     "But what of your clan?  Would you sentence them to death as
well?  Have you no honor?"

     For the first time, the smile left Aanoch's face.  "Do not talk
to me about honor, you Hull cur.  Your clan knows nothing about it.
It is we who shall die, to a man if necessary, to achieve the
extinction of the Hull clan."

     Vol's eyes flashed menacingly.  He seized the blanket from the
ground and advanced towards Aanoch, poised to smother the bound man.
Aanoch watched him calmly.

     "Good," Aanoch said.  "Inefficient, but effective."  He bared his
neck to his opponent, and closed his eyes.

     With a scream of frustration, Vol threw the blanket at Aanoch and
stormed off.  He looked back just in time to see Aanoch moving toward
the fire once again.  Vol ran back and pulled Aanoch away.

     "Now stop that, will you?"  He grabbed Aanoch by the rope binding
his wrists and dragged him away from the camp into the darkness.
Aanoch made no move to interfere.  Instead, he began whistling an odd,
rambling tune.  Vol dropped him about thirty paces from camp and
returned to the fire.  He sat down heavily.

     "You can freeze for all I care!" he yelled to Aanoch, who just
continued whistling a tuneless, melancholy song.


             *        *        *


     The Cooperation Duel was formed to accomplish what centuries of
ceaseless fighting had not---the safety of people fortunate enough to
have been born in a clan other than that of Hull and Malmeus.  Prior
to its establishment, the twin clans of Hull and Malmeus had fought an
unending war of revenge and counterrevenge, each side performing
successively worse acts of brutality until the senses became dulled to
the horrors.  Children of each clan were taught the use of weapons at
an early age and then loosed upon one another.  Those who survived
were hard and strong, and completely dedicated to the destruction of
the other side.  Each atrocity brought new cries of vengeance; an eye
for an eye trying to make the whole world blind.

     Though many outside clans deplored the violence, the majority of
the people took no action.  Rather, they felt that the overall good
was best served by having the Hulls and the Malmeusians continue to
kill each other until both were gone, thus eliminating the problem.
Unfortunately, however, innocent outsiders had a habit of `getting in
the way' of traps left by one warring clan for the other.  Such
casualties started occurring with increasing frequency, and when Iir,
the only son and heir of the plutarch, died in a Hull explosion, the
situation had degenerated too far.

     The plutarch wanted to stop the fighting entirely, but he knew
that was impossible.  Instead, he hit upon an ingenious compromise:
The Cooperation Duel.  Any time a member of each clan came into
conflict, they were captured by the plutarch's troops, bound together,
and sent into the desert at the Tir Oasis.  Their only hope for escape
was to reach, on foot, the Oasis of Sil, which lay forty miles to the
southwest, deep in the heart of the desert.  The ultimate requirement,
however, was that they must reach this goal TOGETHER.  Neither side
was allowed to leave without the other.  If either emerged alone, he
was put to death and his nearest clansman was sent out in his place.
This process would continue until either a Hull and a Malmeusian both
arrived at Sil, alive and together, or until there were no members of
either clan left to be banished into the desert.  Either way, the
fighting would be over.

     Naturally, both the Hull and Malmeus clans protested.  They soon
realized, however, that the weight of public opinion (and, far more
importantly, the power of the plutarch's army) was against them.  In
addition, some of the more aggressive members of each clan viewed the
prospect of single combat in the desert with enthusiasm.  Among the
most vocal of these were Vol, eldest son of the Casar of Clan Hull,
and Aanoch, Warrior Chieftan of Clan Malmeus.  They were sentenced to
be the first pair sent into the desert; to emerge together, or not at
all.


             *        *        *


     Vol slumped listlessly in front of the fire.  He was no longer
sure how long they had been in the desert.  He only knew that what had
seemed to be an adequate amount of supplies was nearly exhausted.  He
thought about this, and decided for the hundredth time that this must
be due to Malmeusian trickery and sabotage.  He certainly didn't
remember using them himself, although he was forced to admit that
there were several blank periods of time in his own memory since their
entry into the desert.

     Staring into the fire tired him.  Slowly, his eyelids drooped
downward and his head fell forward.  A thought jolted him.  If he
slept now, he realized that Aanoch would freeze to death before he
reawakened.

     "Just a few minutes, or maybe half an hour," he muttered.
"Surely Aanoch can survive that.  Let him suffer, anyway."

     "He will not survive.  His condition is as bad as yours."

     Vol rose with a start.  He looked around in panic for the source
of the answering voice.

     "Over here," it said.

     He whirled around.  Directly behind him, leaning with one leg
propped upon a rock, was the Stranger.  He was dressed in desert garb,
and had a heavy, dark beard that flecked with grey.  He looked relaxed
and confident, and his eyes bore into Vol with painful intensity.

     "Who are you?" Vol asked.

     The Stranger raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.  "You do not
remember?"

     "No, of course not.  Where did you . . . ."  Vol's voice trailed
off into silence.  The Stranger did seem vaguely familiar, but Vol
couldn't quite place him.

     "No matter.  Place another log on the fire and we will talk."

     Mystified, but too tired to argue, Vol complied.  The Stranger
moved toward the fire and warmed himself.  "Feel better now?" he
asked.

     Vol realized that he did feel better.  Much of the fear had left
him, and with it, much of his exhaustion.  He nodded.

     "Good.  Then you realize that there is a solution to your
dilemma."

     "There is?" Vol asked, astonished.  "What is it?  I must know."

     The Stranger regarded him with a wry smile.  "You do know.  You
just don't remember it yet."

     "Damn you, don't give me any of your riddles!  Just tell me the
answer."  Vol thumped the ground in frustration.  "I am in no mood to
be trifled with."

     The Stranger yawned and stretched elaborately.  "All right, ask
me yes-or-no questions and I will try to answer."

     "I do not wish to play any foolish games."

     The Stranger didn't reply.

     Vol sighed.  "Who are you?"

     "Yes."

     "Yes?  What kind of an answer is `yes'?"

     "No?" the Stranger inquired.

     Vol rolled his eyes.  "Very well, have it your way.  Do I know
you?"

     "Yes."

     "Are you a member of my clan?"

     "Yes."

     "Are you related to me?"

     "Yes."

     "Yes?  That is impossible.  I do not recognize you at all.  How
can you be related to me?"

     The Stranger simply looked at him.

     The shivers that had left at the Stranger's arrival now returned.
Vol rose and paced back and forth in front of the fire.  Suddenly he
stopped and stared in awe at the Stranger.

     "Are you real?" he asked, quietly.

     "Real enough," the Stranger replied.  "Look, leave me out of it
for the time being, will you?  Aanoch is dying and you are wasting
time."

     Vol turned and looked toward where he had left his bound
companion.  He realized that the whistling had stopped some time ago.
"I should just let him die," he muttered.

     "No."

     "No?"

     "No."

     "Then I should go save him?"

     "Yes."

     Vol spat in disgust.  "Surely you are not telling me I should
forget all of the Malmeusian crimes and walk out of here with him."

     The Stranger smiled.  "No.  I said that there was a way out of
YOUR dilemma.  Not necessarily out of HIS."

     A light dawned on Vol's face, as though a long-suppressed memory
had forced its way to the surface.  He smiled an evil smile.  "Yes,"
he said.

     "Yes," he answered.


             *        *        *


     When Aanoch regained consciousness, his immediate reaction was to
cry out with joy and relief.  The frost demons that had haunted his
nightmares had treated him with contempt, both for bringing about his
own death, and for condemning others in his clan to the same fate.
The horrible image of his younger brother Roul staggering in the
desert, dying of thirst, had shaken him to the core.  How foolish he
had been, to force such an end on his own brother!

     The image of death still hovered just beyond the horizon.  Aanoch
shuddered.  It was one thing to speak of defying death with bravery;
it was quite another thing to actually have to face it.  His mind
rebelled at the memory.  He turned away, and accidentally looked
directly into the nearby fire.

     Nearby fire? he thought with astonishment.  He then realized that
the ropes binding his wrists and ankles were gone.  He was covered
with a blanket, resting next to the fire in their encampment.  He sat
up abruptly and rubbed his stiffened joints.

     "Feeling better?" said a voice behind him.

     Aanoch turned and faced the speaker.  It was Vol, but somehow not
the Vol he had left.  This Vol did not fear the darkness.  Instead, he
seemed to welcome it.  This Vol laughed malevolently.

     "Can you move?" Vol asked.

     "Yes, I believe so," Aanoch answered, flexing his legs.  "You
saved me," he said, surprised.

     "Yes."

     "Why?"

     "So I can exact my revenge."

     With a laugh, Vol lunged toward Aanoch.  Aanoch barely had time
to stagger to his feet and dodge the unexpected onslaught.  Vol rushed
toward him again, fists flailing.  One struck Aanoch on the jaw, and
he lost his balance.  In the process, however, he managed to trip Vol,
whose momentum carried him forward until he landed in a heap a few
yards away.  As Vol started to rise, Aanoch looked around desperately
for some way to protect himself.  He saw the pile of torchwood off to
the left, and seized a log.  Swinging it back and forth, he yelled at
Vol.

     "Stay away!  I don't want to have to kill you!"

     Vol stood and began talking to himself.

     "He really doesn't want to kill me, does he?" he said.

     "Yes," he answered.

     Vol laughed hysterically and jumped at Aanoch, who swung the
torchwood at Vol's legs.  He connected with a sickening thud, and Vol
collapsed, still laughing.  Crippled as he was, he began crawling
towards Aanoch.

     "Get away!" Aanoch yelled, but Vol kept coming forward.  Aanoch
ran to the other side of the fire, where he found the ropes that had
until recently bound his own limbs.

     "Stop!" he said.  "I mean it.  Do not make me tie you up."

     Vol continued his crawl.  With a scream of frustration, Aanoch
ran to Vol.  He managed to dodge Vol's punches and bites long enough
to bind his wrists.  Hurt or not, Vol tried to kick him, and Aanoch
was forced to bind his ankles as well.  He dragged Vol over to a rock
in front of the fire and left him there.

     Vol appeared to calm down, but as the adrenalin left his system
he began to shiver.  Aanoch picked up the discarded blanket and
wrapped it around Vol's shoulders.

     "There," Aanoch said.  "Now be quiet and let me think."  He moved
toward the other side of the fire and sat down.

     "You do not have a choice, Aanoch.  If you are going to survive
this night, you must kill me," Vol said.

     Aanoch stared at him in astonishment. "What did you say?" he
said.

     "I will kill you the first chance I get.  You can not watch me
all night."  He leaned back, satisfied.

     Angry, Aanoch jumped to his feet.  "No!  Do not do this!  Stop,
or I will be forced---"

     "To do what?  Kill me?  Fine."  He grinned.  "Like I said, it's
really your only option."

     "Please!" Aanoch begged.  "We must stop this.  We must break the
cycle, or we will be doomed to repeat it until we both die.  Does that
not matter to you?"

     Vol grinned at him.  "Certainly," he replied.  "My life is most
precious.  But my death means more.  My death accomplishes your own,
and that is a sacrifice I am willing to make."

     Aanoch pulled his hair in frustration.  "But what of your clan?
Would you sentence them to death as well?  Have you no honor?"

     The smile left Vol's face.  "Do not talk to me about honor, you
Malmeusian cur.  Your clan knows nothing about it.  It is we who shall
die, to a man if necessary, to achieve the extinction of the
Malmeusian clan."

     "You are not listening!  You have not heard a word I have said!"

     Vol leaned in ominously toward the fire.

     Realizing what he intended, Aanoch ran toward him and pulled him
away from the fire.  He dragged him about thirty paces into the
desert, and dumped him onto the ground.  He returned to the camp and
collapsed.  He looked dejectedly into the fire, and listened as Vol in
the distance whistled an off-key, melancholy tune.

     "We are lost," Aanoch said out loud.  Tears began to pour from
his eyes.  "I can not save him, or he will kill me.  I can not kill
him, or I and others of my clan will die.  Somebody please tell me
what to do."

     "You must save him," said the Stranger.

     Aanoch whirled around and faced him.  "What?"

     "Surely you realize there is a way out of your dilemma."

     "There is?  What is it?  I must know."

     "You do know," the Stranger replied.  "You just do not remember."

     Aanoch covered his face with his hands.  "Of course I remember,
but I do not wish to.  The cycle must be broken."

     "You would rather die?"

     Once again, Aanoch saw the Spectre of Death hovering over him,
and he could not face it.  Aanoch's shoulders slumped forward.  He
desperately wanted to say yes, but he knew he could not.  "No," he
said.  "I will do what I must.  Yes," he said.

     "Yes," he replied, as his mind slipped back into the madness.

______________________________________________________________________

Kenneth A. Kousen is an Associate Research Engineer at United
Technologies Research Center in East Hartford, CT.  When he's not
writing fiction, he works on computational models for the aerodynamics
inside turbomachinery.  Of the two, he says, writing is much harder.

[e-mail]
______________________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________________

                      Being There

                 by Christopher Kempke

                   Copyright (c) 1990
______________________________________________________________________


                   Student

     On the side of a mountain in Colorado, a young woman shifted her
backpack and peered off of the trail into the brush for the fiftieth
time in as many minutes.  The trail itself was remarkable only in that
it appeared well used, for it was a good distance off of any road and
practically inaccessible overland.  The woman had herself had arrived
via helicopter to a small clearing some ways down the mountain.

     After a time she seated herself on a rock, pulled a sandwich from
a coat pocket, and began to eat, never ceasing her relentless scan of
the surrounding terrain.  Thus, she saw the hiker approach without his
seeing her.  A quick examination led her to believe he was no more
than what he appeared, and she resumed eating.  A soft peal of thunder
rolled up the mountain a moment later, and her eyes snapped back to
the hiker.  He was no longer there, leaving the trail as empty as it
had been most of the day.

     "Damn," she muttered under her breath, and began the easy descent
to where she had seen him last.  Reaching it, she sat down again and
waited.

     The wait paid off about an hour later when the hiker reappeared
in a flash of light that made her grin with some private joke.

     "You need to work on that, kiddo."  The hiker stiffened and spun
at the sound of her voice.

     "Who are you?"

     "Currently, a damsel in distress.  I need to get into the
Academy.  I've found the ventilation shafts, but doors seem to be a
commodity you folks don't have."

     "Of course not.  What use is a door to..."  He halted, uncertain,
tried to look stern.  "Just who are you?"

     "I'm not a Teletrix, obviously.  Would you be so kind as to take
me in?"

     He still looked uncertain.  "I'm just a student, I don't think I
can do that.  But I'll tell Mr. Morlen that you're here.  What did you
say your name was?"

     "June Kendall."

     He was obviously nervous; the peal of thunder that rolled down
the mountain at his disappearance made June's head hurt.  By contrast,
Anthony Morlen's appearance, a few minutes later, was silent.  A tall
man in a business suit, he merely WAS, where a moment before he was
not.

     Anthony smiled "Good day, Mrs. Kendall.  I apologize for keeping
you waiting out here, but we had no idea you were coming.  Why didn't
you just call?  We could have brought you here quite easily, you
know."

     "I needed the fresh air and I like flying."  She gestured
expansively.  "And the mountains are beautiful this time of year."
She paused, fixed her gaze firmly on him.  "Are you going to invite me
in?"

     Anthony looked around, as if just now noticing their surrounding.
He smiled, and a moment later, they stood in a plush office.  He sat
behind the heavy desk, motioned for June to take a seat as well.

     "How can I help you?"  His smile, if not handsome, was at least
sincere.  June didn't smile at all.

     "I want to know where Martin is.  I haven't seen him for two
weeks.  No phone call, nothing.  Last time I saw him, he was on his
way here."

     Anthony didn't lose his smile, but his face showed concern as
well.  "It's strange that he wouldn't call.  But I'm afraid that he's
on Academy business, and I can't tell you where he is.  Rules, you
know."

     "Damn your rules.  I think something's happened to him."

     "I'm sure he's just fine.  Quite sure."

     June relaxed, sat back a little bit.  "All right, all right. Can
you get a message to him?"

     Anthony nodded, June continued.  "Just ask him to call home as
soon as he can."

     "I will, but it may be a while.  Can I do anything else for you?"

     "Yes, as a matter of fact.  You could feed me dinner.  My husband
is always raving about the food here."

     Anthony smiled broadly.  "Then he was indeed raving.  But I'll
arrange it immediately.  One moment."  He vanished.

     June was up instantly, crossing the room to the large file
cabinet on the wall.  It was locked tight, in that annoying habit of
the Teletrix, but she produced a lockpick from a pocket and opened it
in a few seconds.

     Acting quickly, she emptied the folder labeled "Kendall, Martin"
into her knapsack, filled it with papers pulled randomly from nearby
folders, and closed the drawer.

     She was back in the chair before Anthony reappeared.



     By the time the helicopter landed at a friend's private airfield,
she was completely familiar with the contents of the folder, including
the short addition.  "Wife: June Kendall, Chemistry Teacher,
Springfield High.  Harmless."  She was somewhat amazed at the number
of missions her husband ran for the academy -- almost a dozen in the
last year alone.  She had thought his connection with the academy
almost nonexistent, and knew of his distaste for the administration
that ran it.  Not for the first time, she wondered just how powerful
the academy and its rather special graduates were.

     As for Martin himself, the folder placed him in Glasgow,
investigating the disappearance of several Teletrix there.  Anthony
Morlen had lied about at least one point; the folder listed his status
as "missing, whereabouts unknown."  She forced herself rather sternly
to remain calm.  The folder was remarkably sparse on details.

     She took her friend's car to her home, parked across the street,
observing her house.  After a short time, she saw someone moving in
the living room.  June started the car, and drove away.

     A few minutes later, she pulled up in front of the Springfield
High School and let herself in with the master key.  The halls were
deserted; apparently Anthony had not sent anyone here to intercept
her.  A storeroom door covered with "DANGER" signs opened to her key,
as did a small refrigerated chest in the back.  From the rows of
chemical vials therein, she selected about two dozen, placing them
with some others in a protected case in her knapsack.

     Before leaving, she placed a long distance collect call.
Anthony's voice came on the other end.  She cut him off.

     "Nice try.  You can tell the dudes in my house to forget it. I
won't be attending their party.  And if anything has happened to
Martin..."  She let the threat trail off, hung up before he could
answer.



     Less than 24 hours later she stepped off a bus in Glasgow.  She
had taken rather a roundabout path to get here, since the Academy
appeared to be taking an active interest in her, but she had little
problem getting a flight; money talks loudly, and June Kendall talked
fast.  She got lucky going through customs, her handbag was not
searched, the chemicals in the false bottom remained undiscovered.

     Her first stop was in a small hotel on the opposite side of town
from the one in which Martin supposedly resided.  She got a room
without difficulty, a fairly small but modern one, comfortable but not
plush enough to attract attention.  The innkeeper's accent amused her
briefly, her attempt to mimic it back was apparently successful; the
Scottish dialect was familiar to her from several vacations with
Martin.  The thought of him kept her moving quickly, but with caution.
It had taken her hours to cross the sea; if a Teletrix found her
snooping, it would take less than a second to make the return trip.

     Safely in her room, she spread out an array of bottles and vials,
and looked them over carefully.  It took only a few minutes to mix the
concoctions she needed.

     When she emerged from her room an hour later, no one would have
recognized her.  Her usually-light hair was a burgundy so deep it
would pass for black, tied in a fashion different from her usual
style.  All of her visible skin had been lightened by several shades.
A short stop to a local clothing shop completed her change.  In her
new purse, three vials of a light powder were carefully protected from
jarring.

     In this guise she approached Martin's hotel.  It was a larger
structure than the one in which she had decided to stay, several
stories high and built of attractive red brick.  She scanned the
outside briefly, then entered.  The lobby contained various brochures
and posters, and several large stuffed chairs.  Two of them were
occupied by men reading; one paid no attention at all to her, the
second surveyed her briefly as she entered, then looked back to his
book.  He might be innocent; then again, he might be a Teletrix.
Careful not to show too much of her face to him, she sat down in the
seat next to him and opened her purse.  Carefully, she dumped one of
the vials of powder into her makeup kit, then withdrew it.  The man
next to her continued his reading, but looked up to scan each new
arrival in the room.

     She took a small brush out of the makeup case as if to apply the
powder to her face, but sneezed violently instead.  The man next to
her looked up at the sneeze, brushing away the cloud of dust that had
formed about him.  June grinned shyly, hiding her face and holding her
breath until the cloud settled.  He mumbled something and went back to
his reading.  A few seconds later, as the sleep powder took effect,
his head dropped back in the chair.

     June looked around.  The incident had not disturbed the other
reader, and passing guests had abandoned the lobby for rooms within.
She approached the desk and rang the bell.

     A short man approached and politely asked how she could be
helped.

     "I'm looking for Martin Kendall.  I'm his wife, and I understand
he has a room here."

     The clerk's eyes snapped briefly to the sleeping man in the
chair.  June noticed.

     "I'd really rather you didn't tell that man I'm here.  I know he
wanted you to watch out for me, but he's certainly not a friend of
mine."  She slid a few pound notes across the table to him.

     The clerk pushed them back.  "That isn't necessary.  I didn't
really like his attitude anyhow."  The clerk signalled for a bellhop,
handed him a key.  The bellhop accepted it, vanished.

     "Mr. Kendall has not checked in, but he called and said to hold
that room for him, and that he'd be back in a couple of days.  This
was about two weeks ago, though."

     "And that man?"  June prompted.

     "He said he was a friend of Mr. Kendall, sent to meet his wife
when she arrived.  I was supposed to point you out to him."

     June nodded.  "Thanks for not giving me away."

     "Are you in some sort of trouble?  I could call the police and
have him removed."  The man seemed genuinely concerned.

     June grinned at the thought of a Teletrix in jail.  "It wouldn't
do any good.  Besides, it would let him know I'm here."

     The clerk shrugged, but his eyes said that he didn't approve of
her decision.  "If you need help, don't hesitate to let me know.  The
bellhop should be making up your husband's room now, so you should be
ready in a few..."

     A tremendous explosion shook the building, pulling pictures down
from the walls and throwing both June and the clerk to the floor.
Beams split from the ceiling, raining debris down upon the occupants
of the lounge.  June rolled under the desk as a rafter crashed down
where she had been standing.  The clerk looked at her from the other
side his eyes wide with confusion and fear; she gestured at him to
cover his head, then did so herself without waiting to see if he
complied.

     After a few long moments the rubble ceased and the constant rain
of debris turned to a lingering cloud of dust.  She pulled herself up,
and shortly realized that reaching the door would now be impossible,
but there appeared little immediate danger and plenty of air, so she
settled back to wait for rescue.

     Only seconds later a human figure emerged from the air, looking
around with a look of shock on his face.  June recognized him at once.

     "Martin!"

     Martin Kendall immediately turned in the direction of her voice.

     "June?  Are you okay?"  The piles of rubble around her vanished
without a trace, fresh air wafted over her.  Martin himself covered
the distance in a few short steps, taking her into his arms as she
stood.  The clerk behind them stood up uncertainly, shaking his
clothes to clear them of dust.  Martin nodded briefly in the clerk's
direction, then led June around a ceiling beam that jutted out nearby.

     The moment they were obscured from the clerk's vision, the ruined
hotel ceased to exist, replaced by a plushly furnished room.  Martin
gestured toward one of the chairs, seated himself in the other.

     "Good morning," he said, without a trace of humor in his voice.
There was an implied question in the tone.

     "Came looking for you.  What's going on?"

     Martin shrugged.  "I wish I knew.  Fifteen Teletrix have
disappeared here in the last couple months.  Inexperienced ones seem
to vanish from the Earth, more powerful ones are murdered.  The
explosion you just, uh, experienced was probably a bomb in my
"reserved" room.  I took this one instead under an assumed name when I
got here."

     "How would they know where you were going to be?"

     "Apparently the people responsible have access to the Academy's
records.  Since you managed to find me, I have to guess that those
records aren't as secure as they might be."  He grinned.

     June extracted his file from the remains of her tote, tossed it
to the table.  "Anthony figured it out, of course.  He's been chasing
me down since I got them."

     Martin nodded.  "Probably for your protection.  Whatever game is
going on here is quite dangerous.  He's a good man, if a bit sticky on
the rules sometimes."

     "Apparently.  I take it that this is why you didn't call home?"

     "Exactly.  I want my file to read `missing.'  I'd rather have
people believe me dead.  Sorry I couldn't let you know, but I'm being
very careful.  For a while I even suspected that these people had a
device that could detect teleportation, so I didn't want to risk a hop
home."

     "You don't think so any more?"

     "No.  I'm fairly sure I was found more as a result of impeccable
record- keeping on the part of Anthony.  Any Teletrix who knew where
those records were located could get a hold of them at any time."

     "You think it's a Teletrix?"

     "Who else would know of our existence?  Or care enough to try to
kill us?  And the murders have all succeeded, with the exception of
mine.  It's very hard to kill a Teletrix - you have to do it almost
instantly, and so unexpectedly that they cannot react.  Usually it's
been bombs."

      He reached under the nightstand, pulled out several manila
folders.  "Here's everything I've been able to come up with on the
cases.  Some of this is information Anthony gave me before I left,
most of it I gathered myself from police reports.  I can't find
anything in it, but maybe I'm looking too hard.  Take a peek yourself
and tell me if you can find anything I missed."

     June shook her head, and a small cloud of dust dropped off it.
"A shower first, I think.  Care to join me?"


                   Teacher

     June Kendall saw the young blond woman standing by the luggage
claim, and carefully eased a syringe out of her purse.  The maneuver
was almost too easy; she slid the needle into the blond woman's leg,
then had it back in her purse before anyone could notice.  The blond
woman spun around quickly at the sharp pain, her eyes going wide.

     "Sorry," June said, a moment before the blond woman slumped into
her arms.

     "She seems to have fainted," June said aloud, "give me some
room."  Carefully supporting her unconscious burden, she backed out of
the crowd and headed for the ladies room.  Several people offered to
help, but she turned them down.  "This happens all the time to her,
all it takes is some cold water to bring her back."

     Across the wide aisle, Martin Kendall waited until the bathroom
door closed, then teleported them all back to the hotel.

     "Nice job," he said.  "How long will that keep her out?"

     "Only a few minutes, but I'll give her something before she wakes
up to keep her asleep for eight to ten hours."  Even as she spoke, she
was filling her hypodermic with a clear liquid.

     They waited several minutes until the woman's breathing slowed to
almost imperceptible, then stripped her quickly, wrapping her in a
hotel bathrobe.  June quickly dressed in her clothes, making an
occasional adjustment to cover the relatively poor fit.  Martin
arranged June's hair as closely as they could to the blond woman's
style.

     "Why would a Teletrix take a plane, anyhow?", she said as he
worked.

     "Probably she doesn't have enough experience to leap overseas, or
she's never been here before.  Or maybe Anthony's working on my
teleport detection theory."

     "He certainly doesn't protect his files any better."  Martin had
teleported the files here earlier, allowing them to meet the young
woman at the airport.  They had been returned equally easily.  Since
the woman had arrived on schedule, Anthony had not noticed the
absence.

     An hour later, June was back on the street, Martin following at a
cautious distance, maintaining a teleportation "shield" around her.
They walked several blocks without incident, arriving at last at a
small inn.

     "Marie Jacobsen, I have a reservation," June said to the
innkeeper, just loudly enough that others in the room could hear.

     "Of course, Lass.  Room twelve."  He placed the key on the
counter.

     June didn't touch it.  "Twelve's my unlucky number, I'm afraid.
Can I have another room?"

     The innkeeper shrugged.  "Fine w' me.  How 'bout seven?  Canna be
unlucky."

     June nodded.  "That would be fine."  She took the new key, left
the lobby for the hall.  As soon as she was out of sight, a man stood
up quickly in the lobby and headed for the door.

     Martin, who had entered during the exchange, stepped in front of
him.

     "Going places?  Maybe you have something to report to someone?"

     The man's eyes flickered only for an instant.  He was a
professional, it seemed.  His hands snapped to his belt, emerged with
a knife, which promptly vanished.

     "Next time that will be your hand," Martin warned.  "Take a walk
out the door, and don't even think of running away."

     As the man complied, Martin teleported a bit of June's sleep
serum into him.  Clearly in the prime of health, the assassin managed
almost a dozen steps before collapsing to the street.  Checking that
there was no one in sight, Martin teleported the man back to the hotel
room, and went to look for June.



     Martin Kendall handed his binoculars to his wife.  The two of
them were perched on a hilltop overlooking a mansion on the edge of
the moors.  Below, guards walked the perimeter of the mansion's garden
wall, but they were apparently ornamental; none carried a weapon that
either Kendall could see.  The house itself was clearly still
inhabited by wealth; the gardens were impeccable, the manor in
excellent repair.

     Both Martin and June were disguised quite thoroughly.  They would
pass for travellers at worst, displaced natives at best.  June carried
a smaller tote than usual, a secret pocket within concealing the usual
array of sleeping powders, mixed chemicals, and three grenades Martin
had "borrowed" from an armory somewhere.  Martin had only himself as a
weapon, more than sufficient for any probable confrontation.

     After confirming that no more could be learned from here, June
backed down the hill and stood up.  Martin followed.  The last light
was just fading from the sky as they rounded the bottom of the hill
toward the mansion.

     One of the guards challenged them immediately.

     "Sorry to bother you," Martin replied, "but our car seems to have
stopped working.  Any chance we could use your phone?"

     The guard nodded.  "Shouldn't be any problem with that.  I'll
have one of the servants show you to it."  He touched an intercom on
the wall, spoke briefly into it.  He turned back a few moments later.

     "Actually, the master of the house will meet you at the door.
It's just up the path, but be careful of the roses."  He smiled.

     "Thank you," Martin said, then turned and led June up the path to
the door.  They knocked gently.

     An elderly man met them at the door.

     "Good evening, and welcome to my house.  I am Mr. Cavendal, but
you may call me `Robert.'  Should you require it, please feel free to
be my guests tonight; there are always guest rooms prepared."

     "Thanks," said Martin, closing the door.  "But I think we'd
rather just talk to you, if you don't mind.  You have arranged
numerous times for assassinations in the last few months, and we'd
really like to know why."

     Robert paled.  "Assassinations?  I was told that...  Oh dear."
He turned and retreated into the room behind him, gesturing absently
for the Kendalls to follow.  Several elegant chairs and a few
comfortable-looking ones waited in the other room.  Robert selected
one of the latter and sat down.  June did the same, Martin stood.

     "You were saying?" he prompted.

     "Yes, yes.  Are you the police?  I really think that we should
call the police."

     "I assure you, Mr. Cavendal, that the police could do nothing
about this.  Try telling us what you know.  If it will make you feel
more comfortable, you may record the conversation."

     "Please call me Robert.  No, I don't think that recording will be
necessary.  It's all very clear to me now.

     "Behind the manor are some old buildings that were once used as
stables.  I'm rather afraid of horses, and my children are in England
at the University, so there wasn't much point in my keeping them open.
I placed an advertisement, and some men came to look at the buildings.
They agreed to rent, and converted them into some sort of
laboratories.  Occasionally they would leave envelopes with me to give
to specific people who came to the door.  I always assumed it was for
equipment...  Are you sure the police shouldn't know about this?"

     June withdrew a badge from her tote, passed it to Robert.  "We
are the police, Robert.  I am Marie Johnson, and this is my husband
Richard.  We're with special investigations."  The badge had been
forged earlier; Martin grinned at her when she produced it.

     Robert looked somewhat relieved.  "How can I help you?"

     "By not mentioning that we were here.  I think we'd better take a
look at that lab."

     "By all means; it's behind the house.  They use the rear entrance
to get to it, but you can just take the path through the rear garden."

     June stood up.  "Thank you for your help.  Don't concern yourself
about this matter, it's clear that you are innocent of wrongdoing.
Simply continue to behave as before, and things should be taken care
of in a few days."

     Robert led them through the maze of the household, showed them
the path they needed to follow.

     The stables were clearly of a bygone era, spacious and
well-built, apparently more than capable of housing humans.  There was
an elaborate electronic lock on the door, Martin teleported it a few
feet away and opened the door.

     Within, surgically clean tables stood in neat rows, most with
nothing on them.  On the walls, shelves were covered with books,
chemical equipment and assorted small items.  Several large white rats
wandered about in cages on a few of the tables.

     June moved to examine these.  Housed in small cages, the rats
appeared well-fed, climbing about on various miscellaneous objects
within the cages.  It was an odd collection of objects, pens, lab
equipment, articles of clothing, things which should not have been in
a rat's cage.

     As she puzzled it out, a rat vanished from one cage, reappearing
in another at the same moment with a flash of light.  Thunder sounded
softly.  June spun instantly, but Martin's attention was fixed on
something on the other side of the room.

     "Martin, could you come here a minute?"

     Her husband complied silently.

     "Watch the cage."  She continued to state intently at it.  A few
moments later, a rat teleported to the water bottle in another cage.
The soft peal of thunder was repeated, as was the light.

     June looked at her husband, who returned the look with wide eyes.

     "Rats?  I didn't think that TP occurred except in humans.
Something's weird here.  Keep looking."  He himself continued to state
at the cage, as if unable to convince himself of what he saw.

     June walked to a large door on the side of the room, with a heavy
handle and a lock.  "Martin?"

     Martin looked up long enough to remove the lock, then returned
his scrutiny.  June pulled the door open.  A wave of cold air rolled
out, along with the hum of refrigerators.  She stepped into the
doorway and froze.

     "Oh my god."

     The soft exclamation of horror brought Martin to her side.  He
peered into the freezer.

     Within, seventeen bodies lay on tables, all surgically opened and
in various stages of dismemberment.  Martin stood, staring, for a few
moments before he spoke.

     "Only the experienced Teletrix were murdered publicly.  Those
less cautious simply vanished."  He looked at several faces, looked
away.  "That's them.  Every single one."  He pushed the door closed
with anger, just before the light in the main lab snapped on.

     A man stood in the doorway, a gun levelled at Martin's chest.

     He started to say something, never managed it.  Martin teleported
away the gun and half his arm, a crash of thunder testifying that the
Teletrix's control was nearly gone.  The gunman crumpled to the floor
clutching the remains of his arm.  His white lab coat was splattered
red.

     Martin covered the distance to him in a flash, June took a few
seconds longer.  The man on the floor looked up at him, whispered "my
arm..."

     Martin knelt and slapped him.  "If you go into shock on me you're
a dead man.  And if you want to see a hospital soon enough to save
your life, you'd damn well better tell me what this lab is for.in a
big hurry."

     The man started talking incoherently, stopped himself and started
again.

     "It's for development and production of a teleportation drug.
Help me!"

     "Tell me more about the drug, first."

     "It's a derivative of the spinal fluids of natural teleporters.
It gives people who can't produce the chemicals naturally the ability
to teleport."

     "Why all the bodies?"

     "For the spinal fluids.  A single natural teleporter can produce
ten or twelve doses.  The drug is extremely addicting, so Anthony
needs about four doses a week, now.  Used to be we could get by with
latent teleporters, but now it takes ones who have been using the
ability, producing the teleport chemicals in large quantities.  We're
trying to refine the process.  Enough?"

     "Anthony who?"

     "Morlen.  He's the one who funds all this, tells us when the
teleporters are arriving, which ones to have killed and which ones to
subdue for fluids.  He invented the process himself a few years ago."

     Martin's eyes flashed.  "Anthony Morlen's not a natural
teleporter?  " His tone was carefully neutral, dangerously controlled.

     "Yes.  But we're trying to make the killing unnecessary.  We've
almost been able to produce the chemical artificially..."

     Martin cut him off with a wave of his hand.  "Your research is
over, is that understood?  If even one more Teletrix is killed, I will
return here and take you and your associates apart a little bit at a
time."

     "Help me."

     "I will.  But only so you can pass that warning on to your
co-workers.  And I expect you to make sure that those bodies are
returned to their families.  How you do that, and what you tell them,
is up to you."

     The man slumped; there was no way to know if he had heard
Martin's last words.  Martin looked at his wife.

     "I'll take him to the hospital.  Keep your disguise and catch the
first plane back to the United States.  I'll meet you at your mother's
house after I kill Anthony."

     "I'm coming along."

     "No you're not.  Anthony isn't an amateur, he knows that you
can't protect yourself and that I can't afford to protect us both."

     "I can help you with..."

     "No.  I'm sorry, but I've got to do this one myself."

     "But..."  June trailed off.  Martin was no longer there.


                  Academics

     Martin reappeared silently beneath the Colorado Mountains, in
Anthony Morlen's plushly furnished office.  The Teletrix Academy
director was not there, but his desk was.  One at a time, the contents
of the drawers appeared on the top of the desk.  In the back of the
bottom one, Martin found the syringe and several small bottles of a
pale reddish liquid.  More was in the bottom file cabinet drawer,
still more in the safe behind the desk.  Satisfied that he had found
all this office had to offer, he teleported all save a single bottle
into the sun.

     The remaining bottle he lifted and stared into for a few moments.
The liquid within glistened with sterilized purity, but to Martin's
mind it looked like blood.  Still, he had unconsciously wished for
years that such a drug existed, a way to give his wife the same
abilities and protection that he possessed.  That her life should be
subject to the whims of nature, traffic accidents she could not
control, cancers she could not remove, bullets and knives she could
not protect her body against, this was the secret fear he lived with
constantly; that she be taken from him because she could not protect
herself as he could.  It was too bad that the drug had to be purchased
at a cost in human lives.  With a sigh that did nothing to soothe his
anger, he flung the final bottle to the limits of his abilities, into
the dark emptiness of infinity.

     "I have more, you know."  The soft voice behind him carried a
menace that could almost be physically felt.  Martin spun to face
Anthony Morlen.

     The director stood, his unruffled business suit giving him an
impression of confidence that was somehow amusing.  Anthony Morlen had
been the director of the Teletrix academy for two years, a physician
who had discovered the existence of the Teletrix and chemically
duplicated their abilities, although the process required killing a
natural teleporter.  When he had manifested this ability a few times,
he had been picked up by a Seeker, and brought to the Academy.  When
the previous director died, Anthony's administrative experience and
more-than-average age made him the logical replacement.  It was not
quite the life Anthony had envisioned as a Teletrix, but it gave him
access to an unlimited supply of "naturals" when he needed them.
Caution, and the elimination of those who might suspect him, were all
that were required to keep his position and his supply.  However, his
net had missed in a single, important case, and both men now knew the
other for what he was; Anthony Morlen a powerful and dangerous killer,
and Martin Kendall, an equally dangerous and seethingly angry enemy.

     Martin tried to teleport a large section of Anthony's body across
the room, knowing that it wouldn't work.  It didn't.  Both men were
protecting themselves, teleporting a thousand times a second into the
same place, in effect "hardening" their bodies against physical and
other threats.  It was the first lesson the academy taught after its
students could control the Teletrix grid, an unconscious mechanism
that could be maintained, if necessary, even while asleep.  The only
reason it wasn't constantly in use was that it interfered with normal
movement and eating, as well as causing a hard-to-explain
imperviousness to touch and pressure.

     Anthony didn't even notice the attempt.  "So it's a stalemate,
no?  You can't hurt me, I can't hurt you.  I have more of the drug,
hidden in places you'd never think to look."

     Martin teleported away a large section of the floor.  Anthony
continued to hover in the air, looking down once with a trace of
puzzlement in his eyes, then flashed to the edge of the new pit.
Martin struggled to think of an effective attack.

     Anthony met his gaze.  "And if you continue to make things
difficult, I'll have your wife killed."

     "I can protect her, too.  And I've been doing this longer than
you have, Anthony.  I was born to this, you weren't.  Are you so
confident that you can challenge me?"

     "So far, the challenge hasn't been great.  Do you think I got to
be director of the Academy because of my good looks?  We're equals in
the art, and we both know we're safe."

     Martin suspected he was right, but didn't say so.  " Yes, but my
ability is permanent.  Eventually your stores of the drug will be
wiped out.  You can't make more, I've destroyed the laboratory and the
notes.  If you attempt to create another one, I'll lobotomize the
researchers if necessary to keep it from being produced."

     Anthony's eyes flickered for a brief instant at the threat.  "I
have enough for now.  And I know enough of the process to produce
more, without aid.  I'll just be a bit less, ah, efficient about it."
His grin was not at all pleasant.

     Martin slapped his finger down on the desk intercom, spoke
quickly and loudly.

     "Students!  Protect yourselves and don't let it drop until I say
so!  Ignore any request from anyone else, especially Mr. Morlen!  Your
lives are at stake!"

     Anthony blinked.  "They'll never believe you."

     "If I gave you the same warning, would you ignore it?  Where are
you going to find Teletrix now?"

     Anthony laughed.  "How about the latents?  How about the students
who haven't learned how to maintain protection?  How about the
students who aren't here, and the ones who I can surprise while
they're eating?  I'm completely beyond your control, Kendall."

     Anthony vanished.



     June Kendall appeared in the bedroom of a small house.  With her
was Marie Jacobsen, whom not eleven hours ago June had kidnapped from
a Scotland Airport.  Now however, they appeared to be the best of
friends, talking jovially as though they had know each other for
years.

     "Ain't much, but I call it home," Marie piped, pushing piles of
clothing off a bookcase.  She continued to rummage, occasionally
teleporting small objects out of her way, until with a triumphant grin
she pulled a small folder from the depths of a sheaf of papers.  "Here
it is."

     The two women took seats on the opposite side of a table,
spreading the contents of the folder between them.  Marie carefully
examined each sheet of paper, June glanced at them quickly before
selecting one in the center of the pile.  A picture of Anthony Morlen
was paper-clipped to the upper left corner, the sheet itself contained
various pieces of information about him.  His home address was printed
near the top.

     "Baltimore.  Been there?"

     Marie nodded.  "I think I can take us to a hotel room that I
stayed in once.  But it might be occupied -- I don't know what the
safe-jumping points there are."

     "We don't have much choice.  I need to get there."

     Marie considered, but her trained reluctance to allowing
outsiders to witness teleportation gave way to June's obvious need.
"Okay.  Prepare yourself again."

     June decided not to point out that she was quite used to
teleportation as a method of travel.  "I'm prepared.  Let's go."

     The bedroom was replaced by one slightly larger.  In the center
of the bed, a young couple ceased their activities suddenly to look up
at the two intruders who had suddenly appeared by the side of the bed.

     "Aren't peeping Tom's terrible?"  June asked conversationally as
she crossed to the door and pulled it open.  "But everyone needs some
excitement in their life, don't you think?"  June and Marie exited
quickly, pulling the door closed behind them.

     Another ten minutes brought them to Anthony's house.  Marie
"unlocked" a window, and the two of them slid quickly into the house.
June headed at once for the kitchen, but a careful search turned up
nothing.  She had just started examining the living room when Marie's
voice summoned her upstairs.

     The blond woman help up a bottle of reddish-clear liquid.
"There's about twenty of these in a hollow of the wall, along with a
syringe."  She knocked once on the wall, a slight echo emphasizing her
point.

     June nodded.  "That has to be it.  Keep looking, there's probably
more around."



     Twelve hours later, Martin Kendall entered the main auditorium of
the Teletrix academy, his face barely showing the strain of hours
without sleep or food.  Thirty faces looked up at him, he scanned them
cursorily a moment, then his eyes widened as he saw his wife sitting
in the back row.  Instantly, he tried to extend his protection to her,
discovered that she was already invulnerable.  After a few seconds
confusion, he recognized Marie Jacobsen sitting next to her.

     He had expected June to follow him, but hadn't considered the
possibility of her enlisting the aid of the Teletrix they had
"waylaid."  June flashed him a smug smile, he returned a helpless one.

     "Keep yourself protected," he said loudly, directing it at her as
well as the students in the auditorium.  He moved his eyes from her to
address the class before he spoke again.

     "For the reasons I discussed earlier, Anthony probably won't be
here to give the lecture today, so you get me as a guest-speaker of
sorts."  He smiled, but the tension was clear in the faces of the
students, especially the younger ones who were not yet sure of their
ability to maintain their protections.

     Martin ignored it.  "The topic today is momentum."  He waited
until the tension relaxed a bit and some of the students began taking
notes.  "Although the same visualization techniques that you use to
see the Teletrix grid takes care of fixing the velocity of teleported
objects, it is possible to overrule them and change the velocity of an
object relative to you during transportation.  This is useful, for
example, if a priceless Ming vase were falling off a cliff.  If you
simply transported it to yourself using grid visualization, it would
smash into the ground at your feet, or worse, injure you.

     "It's not much harder to teleport off your own power as it is off
the grid, but it will tire you quickly, and there's some flashy side
effects.  Most of you remember the thunder that accompanied your first
experiences with teleportation.  That's a matter of not putting air
back when you move the object -- you force it out of the way on the
other end, too; that's what causes the light flash, although I
couldn't tell you the exact method.  When you deal with rapidly moving
or falling objects, you need to remember to put air back in the right
place and at the right speed, or you get the same effects."

     Everyone was paying attention now.  Martin tested the protections
of all of them; they held.  He smiled and continued.

     "Okay, here's the technique.  Changing velocity can be hard
without combining it with actual transportation, so the easiest method
is to stop the object first by the `pushing' technique we learned last
week, then teleport it.  However, if you remember, this caused
problems objects more breakable than, say, titanium.  A general-case
solution it's not."

     He actually got some laughs from that one.  One came from the
doorway, causing Martin to turn.

     Anthony stood there, an empty vial in one hand, which he casually
tossed to Martin.  It vanished halfway through it's arc.

     "Just so you know," Anthony said softly.  Then, more loudly,
"Please, continue."

     Martin made one attempt to kill him, then turned back to the
class.  No one was even pretending to be calm now.  Martin clapped for
their attention and continued his lecture.

     "Observe, please."  Martin pulled a rubber eraser from his
pocket, threw it full force toward the other side of the room.  An
instant later, it reappeared in another place, to bounce off the top
of Anthony's head.  The director showed no signs of having noticed,
but a nervous laughter broke out among the assembled.

     "This is what happens when you fail to negate the momentum.  On
the other hand, a careful Teletrix would do it like this:" The eraser
reappeared in his hand; he threw it again.  A moment later it appeared
in front of Anthony's face, motionless for an instant until it
plummeted to the floor.  Anthony blinked, then doubled over.  Martin's
eyes widened briefly, but he recovered fast enough to make another
teleportation attempt on the director's heart.  It failed; Anthony was
maintaining his protection despite his apparent pain.

     Another spasm appeared to shake Anthony's body, this time
dropping him to the floor.  Martin looked to the students and
shrugged.  They held onto desks, seats, and notebooks, knuckles
universally white, not understanding what they saw.  The one person
who did understand spoke softly.

     "Cyanide," June Kendall said, standing up carefully and walking
to the front of the room.  "Marie and I put a sizable quantity of it
into the drugs we found in his house."

     Anthony's eyes looked up toward her as he spasmed again, a
mixture of pain, hatred, and other less pure emotions; whatever attack
he made on her in that instant failed, and his eyes closed.

     Martin looked at his wife.  June shook her head quickly.  "It
will take about another minute, but I doubt he'll regain
consciousness."

     For the next several minutes they watched as Anthony's breathing
slowed, then stopped.  Even after there was no sign of life, no one
made a sound for long minutes.

     Finally Martin turned back to the class.  His voice was soft, but
carried in the silence.

     "It would appear, ladies and gentlemen, that this lesson is
over."

______________________________________________________________________

Christopher Kempke is a graduate student in computer science at
Oregon State University.  He is generally acknowledged to have gone
insane trying to decide on a plural form of "Teletrix."  He would
like to thank his fans for their electronic flurry of mail, but this
is the LAST Teletrix story he intends to produce for a while.

[e-mail]
______________________________________________________________________

          If you enjoyed Quanta,  you might want to
          check out the following publications also
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                       ---------------------------



      Athene is a free network "magazine" devoted to amateur fiction
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  The Magazine of the Dargon Project         Editor:  Dafydd <White@DUVM>

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