Longyear Barry B.

Enemy Papers

INTRODUCTION

Beginning with "Enemy Mine" and The Tomorrow Testament, and continuing with The Last Enemy the Enemy series spans almost the entirety of my writing career to date. There have been a lot of changes in me and in publishing since "Enemy" first appeared in 1979, but there is a strange continuity in the universe that saw three hundred worlds at war as Dracs and humans worked out the steps of their deadly dance.

I am very excited at the prospect of presenting the entire series, this time with "Enemy Mine" greatly expanded, in addition to the portions of the Drac bible, The Talman, that I was able to retrieve with my far-future fax machine.

Incidentally, the stories of The Talman have never before been published. It is a bible by aliens, set on an alien planet, about aliens and for alien readers. For the first time for readers, there is a unique choice. If you read the selections from The Talman first, you will get to read "Enemy Mine" from the perspective of a Drac. If you read "Enemy" first, you can read it from the perspective of a human.

I have included the Drac vocabulary in this volume, in addition to two very different essays. "On Alien Languages" tells some of the funny business of making up alien languages, and "Run Drac Run" tells about the origins and continuation of the Enemy series.

Three persons who deserve historical mention and grateful thanks for their suggestions and support concerning the Enemy series are George Scithers, Isaac Asimov, and Victoria Shochet. The one who deserves the most thanks for her suggestions, support, encouragement, no-nonsense discouragement when needed, not to mention putting up with the author, is Regina B. Longyear, wife, advisor, critic, and defender of the taxpayer.

TALAMAN

The Talman was outlined and partially written as background material for the Enemy series. Although it was never intended for publication, the idea of reading an alien bible interested a number of readers, which is why I include it here, This is what I have of the work, and if enough hue and cry is raised, I might be coaxed into writing the remainder.

"The Story of Uhe" was first written, in Earth terms, about eleven thousand years ago. The origin of "The Myth of Aakva," passed down through Sindie’s oral tradition, predates it by several thousand years.

KODA SINDA

The Myth of Aakva

Sindie was the world.

And the world

Was said to be made by Aakva,

The God of the Day Light.

Aakva was said to make on the world

Special creatures of yellow skin

And hands and feet each of three fingers.

And it was said to make the creatures of one kind,

That each could bear its young,

Or the young of another.

And it was said to make the creatures

Make thought and give voice

That the creatures could worship

The Parent of All.

And it was said that Aakva

Gave its children signs and visions

That they could study,

And from them learn and obey the wishes of Aakva.

For this service,

The God of the Day Light

Was said to set upon the world

The plants and animals to feed and protect its children.

Aakva was said to set in the night sky

A star for each of its children.

Each child's star would guide its footsteps

Along the paths of right during life,

And to Aakva's side after life.

Aakva called its children the Sindie,

After the world it had made.

And the Sindie were made to walk upright

As did no other creature.

This was held to be a proof

That the Sindie were the children

Of the God of the Day Light.

The visions and signs of Aakva

Were complex and mysterious.

And it was said that Aakva charged the Sindie

To appoint servants

Who would make of their lives

The study of Aakva's messages.

The Sindie chose from among their numbers

The ones who would study

The messages of Aakva.

The servants of Aakva

Chose from among their number

A chief who would be responsible

For speaking to the Sindie

For the God of the Day Light.

The first chief was Rhada.

And Rhada had the servants

Go among the Sindie and learn

All of the signs and visions

That were known.

The servants gathered this knowledge

And gave it to Rhada.

For twelve days and twelve nights,

The chief of the servants

Studied the signs and visions,

And sorted the false from the true,

And the tribal lays

From the true Laws of Aakva.

On the thirteenth day,

Rhada spoke to the servants

Of what it had learned.

And Rhada said:

"It is truth

That Aakva is the God of the Day Light

And we are its children;

"It is truth

That the world and everything upon it

Is our gift from Aakva;

"It is Law

That violating the wishes of Aakva is tabu;

"It is Law

That the servants of Aakva

Will speak the wishes of Aakva;

"It is Law

That one who disputes a true vision from Aakva

Will suffer ordeal;

"It is Law

That one who makes false claim to a vision

Will suffer ordeal;

"It is Law

That at least one child out of three

Be made by joining

The fluid of one with the fluid of another;

"It is Law

That the one who bears the child

Is the parent of the child;

"It is Law

That the parent shall keep and provide

For the child

So long as the child is in need;

"It is Law

That the child shall keep and provide

For the parent

So long as the parent is in need;

"It is Law

That the dead are to be burned;

"It is Law

That murder is forbidden;

"It is Law

That the murderer is to be burned

With the murdered;

"It is Law

That theft from another

Or from the tribe is forbidden;

"It is Law

That the thief shall pay to its victim

In kind for its theft;

"It is Law

That to make war is to murder and steal."

And Rhada ordered the servants

To go among the Sindie

And teach the Laws.

It was promised by Rhada,

In the name of Aakva,

That as long as the Sindie listened

To Aakva's servants

And followed the laws

The God of the Day Light made,

There would be peace and plenty.

The Sindie listened to the servants and

Learned and followed the Laws.

They made sacrifice to Aakva through its servants,

And the Sindie prospered and multiplied.

Generations grew and died,

And when Summat was the chief of the servants,

One day a hunter named Daultha

Doubted the laws and the servants of Aakva.

Even as Daultha doubted,

It was said that the God of the Day Light

Watched its servants to see what they would do.

Summat ordered the servants

To bring the light to Daultha's eyes,

And the servants of Aakva scolded Daultha,

But Daultha only laughed at their anger.

Daultha was the chief of the hunt

And much admired by the tribe.

The servants of Aakva feared ordeal,

And did not challenge Daultha.

Other Sindie, seeing this,

Joined Daultha in laughing

At the laws, the servants, and

The God of the Day Light.

The servants of Aakva answered only

With silence.

The chief of the servants

Cast its gaze upon the morning sky,

And Summat said:

"Aakva, God of the Day Light,

Daultha poisons the young of the Sindie against you.

Your servants are weak and faithless.

I am the chief of your servants,

The teacher of these cowards,

And the blame is mine."

Summat raised its stone knife

Toward the face of Aakva.

"With this knife, God of the Day Light,

I leave to your might and anger

What your servants would not do."

Summat then plunged the knife

Through its womb and belly

Until the heart was reached.

The servants of Aakva,

Seeing Summat's still form,

Were shamed, and for shame

Spilled their own blood upon the ground.

The God of the Day Light

Looked upon the bodies of its servants,

and sought out the chief of the hunt.

And to Daultha, Aakva said:

"Hunter, you have laughed at my Laws.

See you then the world without them."

And the God of the Day Light

Made the lands to the west foul and poisonous,

And it made the mountains to the east erupt and melt.

In the space between, Aakva set the Sindie,

One tribe upon another,

And war covered the world.

Daultha saw the world on fire

And heard the cries.

And the hunter begged Aakva

To return the Laws to the Sindie.

Aakva appeared that night

In a vision to Daultha.

And Aakva said:

"You have angered me, Daultha.

All I did

I did for you and your kind.

And you scorned me,

Disobeyed my laws,

And laughed at my servants.

You have their blood

And the blood of my world

On your hands."

Daultha fell to the ground and begged

The God of the Day Light

To forgive the Sindie

And end their punishment

For Daultha's wrong.

And Aakva said:

"Daultha, I will have mercy on the Sindie;

The wars will end.

You have cost me, though,

Summat, my chief servant.

Daultha, you will take Summat's place

And gather again my servants."

Daultha begged that this should be.

Then Aakva heaved and cut the world,

Raised great mountains,

Split the land with wide seas,

Dividing the tribes of the Sindie.

And Aakva gave the Laws to Daultha

To bring to the Sindie.

And Aakva said:

"When all the Sindie once more

Worship me and follow my Laws, Daultha,

There again will be peace and plenty."

Daultha gathered again the servants

Of the God of the Day Light.

They brought the Laws

To all of the tribes of the Sindie.

And the lesson of Daultha

Was passed down through many ages,

Bringing the Sindie peace and plenty.

All praised the wisdom of Aakva.

KODA OVIDA

The Story of Uhe

The peoples of the Sindie were divided by the Akkujah Mountains and the Great Cut into the four Great Tribes: the Mavedah, the Diruvedah, the Kuvedah, and the Irrvedah. And the four tribes obeyed the ancient Laws of Aakva.

Bantumeh ruled the Mavedah, for Bantumeh ruled its clan, and the people of Bantumeh’s clan were the best and wisest of the Mavedah.

The Mavedah ruled the Madah west of the Akkujah Mountains, north to the Ocean of Ice, south to the boiling waters of the Yellow Sea, and west to where Aakva slept in the muds and waters of the Land of Death. The tribe of Bantumeh lived not in any fixed place, but roamed the Madah following the game.

The one called Mijii ruled the Diruvedah, and its tribe hunted for game in the lands of the Dirudah, east of the mountains, past the blue lakes, to the poison air of the Melting Mountains where Aakva began its day in fire. And the Dirudah extended from where the Great Cut split the land, south to the Yellow Sea.

North of the Great Cut and the Dirudah was the Kudah, and the tribe of the Kuvedah was ruled by the twins, Hesheh and Vintah. Their rule extended north to the cold waters where the ice and darkness met. And there the Kuvedah fished and hunted for game.

Tocchah ruled the Irrvedah and the Irrvedah ruled from the heights of the Akkujah Mountains and the depths of the Great Cut and all in between, south to the Yellow Sea. The Irrvedah ate little flesh, save that of the swimming creatures from the waters of the Great Cut. At the bottom of the Cut, and in the mountains, the Irrvedah made plants to grow at will, for it was these plants that fed the Irrvedah.

All of the tribes of the Sindie lived according to the sacred tabus spoken generations before by the Doubter Daultha.

For the Irrvedah, the flesh of creatures that stalked the dry land was tabu. For any tribe to cross the Great Cut or the mountains of Akkujah was tabu. For the Irrvedah to leave the cut or the mountains and enter either the Madah, Kudah, or Dirudah was tabu. For any tribe to place an obligation on another tribe either of service, sacrifice, or obligation was tabu.

Because the lands of the flesh hunters were divided by the land of the plant growers, the land creatures flourished there and there was no cause for mistrust or jealousy.

There was peace and plenty among the four great tribes.

All praised the wisdom of Aakva’s servants.

The year of the black rains came and left the Madah barren. Those lands west of the Akkujah saw no water, and the ground cracked and turned to fine powder. The noon sky burned with a blinding blue, while the morning and evening skies were the reds and yellows of cooling iron. The lakes and rivers became mud and dust, and the creatures that swam within them died. The Ocean of Ice became a black sea of putrid oil. The wild creatures of the land fled from the Madah to the mountains, and from there to the lands of the Diruvedah and the Kuvedah.

The proud hunters of the Mavedah could not blood their spears, and so they watched their children cry and grow thin. Soon the Mavedah became as barren as their land. There was an end to love and conception. The hunters clawed at the land, gathering roots, insects, and the skins of the few trees that still lived. But in time even these were gone. The hunters watched their children scream and stare.

The hunters clawed at the bottoms of streams and wellbeds, chasing the precious water as it left the ground below. But the water ran more swiftly than the hunters could dig. The hunters watched their children die.

The low, slow beat of the death drums started and their rumble filled the Madah both day and night.

The constant prayer wails of the Mavedah were sent upward to the God of the Day Light, but the only answer was the oven-breath of the windstorm. The trees and grasses of the Madah withered and burned. Even the wingmite refused to cross the sky.

And the lips and tongues of the Mavedah became too dry to wail.

The Mavedah became too tired to pray.

The beating of the death drums fed upon itself. Instead of burning the dead, the Mavedah closed its eyes and ate the dead.

It was Bantumeh, the ruler of the masters of the Mavedah, who sent forth the call. The masters of the other clans of the Mavedah trudged to Bantumeh’s fire to discuss plans. But after they ate again of the dead, the masters had not the voice to discuss plans.

Near another fire was a lower servant of Aakva named Uhe. It was not very tall, nor handsome, nor strong. In its eyes, though, could be found the water the wells had lost, for the lowly servant cried. That night Uhe sat and watched its child Leuno die of starvation. The child knew its parent to the end. The dull eyes saw little, but the cracked lips set in that drawn face whispered Uhe’s name before Leuno died. Uhe released its child’s hand and watched as the food preparers carried Leuno’s small body toward the masters' fire.

Uhe looked into the depths of its own fire and whispered to the God of the Day Light, "This, then, is your promise of plenty for keeping your Law of Peace, Aakva? Is this the mercy and bounty of the Parent of All?"

There was, for an answer, only silence. There was a cry and Uhe lifted its gaze until it saw a child gnawing upon a piece of cured tent skin, while the child’s parent, a once-proud warrior, watched with envy in its eyes. Near one of the hunters' fires, eight sat waiting for a child to make its last breath. When that breath ended, the pitifully wasted corpse would be apportioned among the hunters. Uhe studied the faces of the hunters and saw that one of them was mouthing the curse of quick death. The curse was for the child. The one who gave the curse was the child’s parent. In the parent’s eyes was only hunger.

There was fear in Uhe’s heart, but its rage chased its fear into the shadows,

It was before that first night’s fire, the sand cold from the night, that Uhe stood before the tribal masters.

Uhe said:

"Bantumeh, great and honored ruler of the masters of the Mavedah, this night you have tasted the flesh of my child, Leuno."

Bantumeh, once tall, powerful and strong, covered its face with its hands. "Your shame is our shame, poor Uhe."

When its hands pulled away, they uncovered a face wrinkled with age, pain, and the scars of many challenges to the rulership of the Mavedah. "Uhe," said Bantumeh. "We have all tasted either child, sibling, parent, or friend this year. There is no choice. To put our minds aside as we eat to keep the Mavedah alive is our sole hope. Your grief is understood; your reminder is out of place."

At the rebuke Uhe did not retire from the ring of masters, but instead pointed east toward the Akkujah Mountains. "There, Bantumeh, is food for the Mavedah."

Bantumeh stood, its face crossed with anger. "You would have the Mavedah violate the tabus? Aakva’s own law? Could we do such a thing, do you not think that I would already have done so?"

A master named Iyjiia, who was the chief of Aakva’s servants, leaped to its feet. "Uhe, this is a beast standing before the masters, not a servant of Aakva!" Iyjiia faced the other masters and filled its image with voice, for Iyjiia was thin and small in stature.

"The law is clear. The Mavedah is forbidden to enter the domain of the Irrvedah, just as the Irrvedah is forbidden to enter the Madah. It is tabu even for us to ask the Irrvedah for food."

Iyjiia faced Uhe and pointed. "Even to wish this is tabu!"

Most of the masters nodded and muttered their agreement. It was a painful law to obey, but its wisdom was understood by all. To violate that law would again bring the wars to Sindie. This was the promise of Aakva, and the wars were too horrible to contemplate.

Uhe held out its arms and faced the night sky. "But I, Uhe, invoke a new vision from Aakva." The masters, and those at the other fires, muttered in astonishment and doubt at Uhe’s words. "Its old law," continued the servant, "was for a time and a place. Aakva speaks to me that the time is changed. Aakva speaks to us all that the place is changed. It is time for a new law."

Iyjiia stood silent, for there was danger in disputing a claim to a vision. If the claim of the young Uhe were false, Uhe would suffer for it. But Iyjiia would pay the same price if it disputed a vision that turned out to be true law. Iyjiia also saw that many members of the tribe had gathered around the ring of masters. Whether the law be true or not, if it promised food it might find support among that gathering crowd of armed hunters.

Iyjiia returned to its place in the ring of masters and said to Uhe, "Tell us your vision."

As was the custom, Uhe unfastened its covering of skins, let them fall from its frame, and stood naked before them all to show the truth of its words.

"Aakva speaks to me now," said the servant. "It speaks of lush mountains to the east, where fat darghat and suda kneel to drink at the cool waters; where the trees are heavy with sweet fruits; the fields crowded with kadda melon and the white grain.

"Every evening Aakva’s fiery fingers point beyond the Akkujah Mountains as a sign. They show me the Diruvedah and the Kuvedah, their bellies bloated with food, their grasslands crowded with game that leaps upon their spears; their children tall and laughing.

"Every morning Aakva points west of the mountains, to this land of famine, and the God of the Day Light says to me, `Uhe, this is my sign that the Mavedah must leave this place. The masters of the Mavedah must go to their clans, tell them of Aakva’s new Law of War, and have them gather at the foot of the Akkujah Mountains where the cliffs of Akkujah fall to the Yellow Sea. From there the God of the Day Light will lead the Mavedah across the mountains, through the land of the Irrvedah, to the Dirudah. And the Mavedah will defeat the Diruvedah and will drive all those who will not submit from the Great Cut and the southern Akkujah into the northern mountains."

Uhe paused, its arms outstretched. Its voice became low and grave as it continued. "The tribes beyond the Akkujah will try to join against us, but too fast will we attack. With the blood command of Aakva at our backs, we will strike through the mountains and across the plains, brushing them all aside. And then we will flood the lands with our victories!

"The Mavedah will rule all!"

Uhe lowered its arms, then stooped and retrieved its coverings. With its skins replaced, Uhe faced Iyjiia "And that is what the God of the Day Light says to me."

Bantumeh studied Uhe. "Wars? Are we to believe that the God of the Day Light inflicts this ancient punishment upon us? What have we done?"

Uhe bowed. "Bantumeh, you are kind and wise. But you are too kind to meet this need of the Mavedah. It matters not what we have done. Following the old law will see the end of the Mavedah. Aakva’s new Law of War will see us, our children, and the Mavedah live."

Uhe looked around at the faces of the hunters crowded about the masters' fire and said, "I see there to be things worse than war. I see our once-proud hunters whimpering and grubbing in the dirt; I see the Mavedah eating now things too low to rank with waste; I see the Mavedah eating now things too precious and sacred to be food. And I see from this the end of the Mavedah."

Uhe faced the ruler of the Mavedah. "Bantumeh, there are things worse than war."

Iyjiia stood and waved its hands back and forth. "You cannot know this, Uhe. The oldest of us has never seen war. And this is only because we all obey Aakva’s laws."

Uhe faced Iyjiia "A tribe does not fight itself, Iyjiia Mavedah does not fight Mavedah. I see a new tribe coming to Sindie. It will be made of every tribe, all of whom are Sindie. Tribe and world will be one. Once there is nothing but Sindie on this world, there can be no war. Thus we will have both peace and plenty. Iyjiia, do you dispute my vision?"

The hunters crowded more closely around the ring of masters, every gaze fixed on the chief of Aakva’s servants. The tips of the hunters' spears glinted in the firelight. The night was still, save for the relentless press of the death drums.

A chief servant of Aakva had a privileged position. Food for its belly, skins for its back, a privileged place in the master’s ring, and shelter of stretched skins to protect against sun and cold. All this was provided by the tribe in exchange for the servant’s studies and visions. To dispute Uhe’s vision would mean ordeal by stoning or fire. And there was always the possibility that Uhe spoke truly. Iyjiia liked its position. Iyjiia was old. "I do not dispute your vision, Uhe."

The roar of approval from the gathered hunters was cut short as Bantumeh stood and shouted, "I dispute your vision, Uhe!"

Bantumeh turned toward Iyjiia "May Aakva clean its waste with your cowardly tongue!" The ruler of the Mavedah faced Uhe. "I would see which of us Aakva favors with the stones!"

The challenge to ordeal was ended by the hiss of a hunter’s spear. The pointed shaft entered Bantumeh’s chest, and Bantumeh looked at it as though surprised. Up at the hunters went Bantumeh’s gaze. "One has chosen for all," it said, then Bantumeh fell and was still.

Those who surrounded Bantumeh’s still body felt the breath of Aakva’s tabu against murder upon their necks. But no one looked to see who was missing its spear. And no one pulled the spear from Bantumeh’s body to see whose mark the spear carried.

As the food preparers closed on Bantumeh’s body, Uhe pulled the spear from it and held the shaft over its head as it faced around the circle. "See you all that Aakva has spoken." And then Uhe threw the spear into the fire. If there was indeed a mortal’s sign upon the spear’s shaft, it went black before their eyes. And it was said that the shaft carried Aakva’s own sign.

One hunter began the cheer, and then all the hunters cheered until their sound pushed the death drums from the night sky. All swore their obedience to Uhe and Aakva’s new Law of War. The masters left the fire to convey Aakva’s new law to their clans, and the hunters left to begin their preparations for the fighting to come.

As the beat of the death drums again filled the night air, the food preparers brought Bantumeh’s stripped and split bones and placed them in the flames of the masters' fire. Uhe was left alone at the fire, save for a hunter named Conseh who squatted next to the flames. Conseh’s hands were clasped because it carried no spear. The hunter’s face betrayed no feelings.

"Uhe, I have a question."

"Ask, Conseh."

"When Aakva talks to you, Uhe, do you hear it through your head, your womb, or your belly?"

Uhe studied the hunter. It seemed to the servant that Aakva’s tabus had taken ghostly forms and were dancing above the hunter’s head.

"Conseh, you are impertinent."

The hunter stood and the images vanished. "My peace demands an answer, Uhe. Aakva’s new law speaks to most of us through the womb and belly."

"Do you dispute the new law, Conseh?"

The hunter waved its hands at the servant of Aakva. "I would not dispute you, for the God of the Day Light’s new law speaks to us all, and with a voice that cannot be stilled." Conseh looked at the masters' fire where the spear was all but consumed among Bantumeh’s blackening bones. "But it is a law that any one of us could have made."

The servant of Aakva looked toward the fire. The shape of the murderer’s spear was indistinguishable from the fire’s sticks. "I have no answer for you, Conseh."

Conseh looked toward the backs of its fellow hunters as they moved into the night to prepare for war. "It is my wonder what the hunters will do, Uhe, once Aakva stops speaking to their wombs and bellies and begins again to speak to their heads."

The hunter left the fire. And to Uhe the hunter left both a question and a truth.

The call of the Law of War went over the Madah. On the beginning of the first day, Uhe greeted the first light prone over the ashes of the masters' fire. Iyjiia came upon Uhe and heard the new ruler of the masters of the Mavedah begging the bones of Bantumeh for forgiveness. The chief of Aakva’s servants said to Uhe:

"Why do you ask this of Bantumeh? We all saw the spear that killed Bantumeh, and that your hand was not on it."

Uhe pushed itself up slowly from the ashes. When it was to its knees, it faced the first glow of the God of the Day Light coming from behind the back of the distant Akkujah.

"Iyjiia, why are you not bringing the Law of War to your people?"

"I have already done so. My people now move to the southern Akkujah. I have returned as is my place as one of your masters. Why do you ask Bantumeh’s forgiveness?"

Uhe looked down at the ashes. "My hand was upon that spear, Iyjiia, as was yours."

Iyjiia’s face grew dark with anger. "My hand bears no such stain! Nor does yours. Has the hunger taken your mind?"

Uhe stood. "Go back to your people, Iyjiia. To enforce the Law of War I need better than the masters of the Mavedah. I will make my own masters, and they will be masters of war."

"And, Uhe, why may I not be one of your masters of war?"

The light of Aakva crossed the crest of the Akkujah and touched the eyes of Uhe.

"Iyjiia, my warmasters must have the strength of youth, the wisdom of the old hunter, courage beyond self, and eyes that can see only truth.

"You are old and weak, Iyjiia. You have never run the hunt. You have no courage beyond your own skin, and your eyes see only what they choose to see."

With that, Uhe walked from the ashes of Bantumeh’s fire toward the light of Aakva.

At the beginning of the ninth day, half of the clans of the Mavedah were gathered near the foothills of the southern Akkujah, near the Yellow Sea. Camps were made, and as they waited for the rest of the clans, the hunters went into the sea but could take no food from the poisonous waters. Those who entered the waters sickened and died.

The Mavedah continued to eat the dead and beat the drums of death.

And Uhe called to its tent the hunter Conseh, saying to it: "Conseh, you will be my first warmaster."

Conseh’s eyes were sunken and dark with thought, but they narrowed at Uhe’s words. "And why would you have me as your warmaster?"

"You are a respected hunter. You understand the difference between killing game and killing Sindie. You know something of the cost of our enterprise. I believe you will see that we get full value, Conseh."

"Uhe, you speak of our enterprise. Is not the Law of War the invention of Aakva?"

Uhe made no response to Conseh’s words, and the hunter continued. "You would use grief and guilt to serve your ends. Aakva’s new law is a strange one for a god of honor, peace, and justice."

"I serve the Mavedah. Conseh, I will use what is necessary to save the Mavedah. The old peace and tabus of Aakva stand in the way of that salvation. Now I shall make a bargain with you."

"What is your bargain, Uhe?"

"Keep your sarcasms regarding my service to Aakva to yourself. In exchange I will forget whose sign it was I saw on the spearshaft in Bantumeh’s chest."

Conseh’s skin paled as the hunter reached to its stone knife and whispered, "I could buy your silence at a lower price, Uhe."

"If you murder me, Conseh, your first murder would have been for nothing." Uhe turned from the hunter and faced the tent’s wall where a map of the southern Akkujah had been drawn.

"Conseh, we must enter these mountains, cross them, and strike the Irrvedah with more force than they can understand. They are not hunters, but they think of themselves as fighters protected by Aakva. There we will obtain food and make a place for our children for when we strike at the Diruvedah."

"The Diruvedah are skilled hunters," cautioned Conseh.

"Yes, but hunters are not warriors. So we must meet them with both form and intention that they cannot comprehend until it is too late for an effective response. We must meet them as warriors."

Uhe moved to another portion of the tent wall where was drawn blocks made of tiny circles. Uhe pointed at the drawing. "You will search among the hunters and bring for my approval five more. The six of you will become my masters of war. Each warmaster will then find six hunters who will be undermasters. They must choose only those that they know to be strong, obedient, and dependable. In each warmaster’s group, the undermasters will in turn search among the hunters and find six more hunters that they know to be trustworthy."

Uhe swept its hand down the length of the drawing. "And so the whole of the Mavedah will be organized."

Conseh studied the drawing. "Three of the best hunters I know are not from our clan," said Uhe’s first warmaster. "The hunters they most admire come from clans other than their own." Conseh looked at Uhe. "This will mix the clans of the Mavedah. It will take away the power of the masters. The Mavedah will be one people."

"Yes. It is necessary. And if it is also necessary, I will deal with the masters."

"Uhe, what of the children, and who will gather the food?"

Uhe pointed at the drawing. "The first two of each six will be the swiftest of the hunters. They will lead the fight. The first will attack, and then rest upon its victory while the second runs forward to continue the attack. While the second rests upon its victory, the first rushes forward and attacks, repeating as before.

"The next two will be less swift, but they must be strong and durable. It is they who will first hold the land taken by the first two. They will protect the backs of the attackers. And they will be there to move up to support the first two groups should the enemy resistance be unusually strong.

"The fifth and sixth will follow, and they will be composed of our poorest hunters, the tent-makers, the ones who craft our weapons, the gatherers and transporters of food, the healers, the wounded, our old, our servants of Aakva, and all of our children."

Conseh studied the drawing until it was fixed in its head. Then the hunter turned to the opening of Uhe’s tent to leave. Conseh paused, however, and turned back and looked at the drawing.

"Uhe, you have set out to conquer vast lands and mighty tribes. This fight will take years."

"Yes, Conseh."

"And the fighters will be gone from their children for long periods—those who survive. How will the child know its parent?"

"The servants of Aakva will tell the child of its parent, and of the parent’s parent. And the servants will have the child memorize and recite these things as Aakva’s new rite of adulthood. The child will know its parent’s and its ancestor’s deeds before it may pick up its weapon and strive to add to those deeds."

Conseh looked at its ruler as though Uhe was more than a Sindie. "You have thought long upon this. Does Aakva truly speak to you?"

Uhe looked to the ground and clasped its hands behind its back. "It is what you will say to those who ask."

Conseh again turned to the opening of the tent. "Uhe, when will this burden be lifted from us?"

Uhe’s gaze rose and its eyes studied the drawing of the southern Akkujah. "Only when the Mavedah can move at will across Sindie, following the game to where the game chooses to go; then our burden will end."

"We are to be the tribe that lives in the land of war," said Conseh. "We will be Denvedah. Uhe, you are saying that our task is done only when there is no more world to conquer."

"Yes, Conseh. Then we may rest. Go now and choose my warmasters. We attack in thirty days."

As the days passed, and the death drums continued, the hunters of the Madah took on the war order designed by Uhe. Since their place was no longer the Madah, the hunters called their place "of war," and they became the Denvedah.

In that time, Conseh made masters of war: Kessu, Birula, Yaga, and Daes. Kessu and Birula were both chiefs of their clan’s hunts, Yaga was both hunter and mountain guide from the northern Madah. Daes was both master of its clan, a servant of Aakva, and learned in healing.

Daes would master the Sixth Denve, for the Sixth would have the children, aged, and wounded.

The Fifth’s main task was to supply the other five Denve, and Yaga was made master of the Fifth.

Kessu and Birula were wise, sturdy, and respected. And Conseh made Kessu master of the Fourth, and made Birula master of the Third.

Conseh itself would master the First Denve.

The First and Second Denve made up the Tsien Denvedah; the front fighters. The Tsien would always be the first to meet the enemy, and the first to take the enemy’s wrath.

Conseh knew itself to be a good hunter, and able to take action when such was needed. But the warmaster knew that the Tsien Denvedah needed something more in spirit than Conseh itself could provide.

It was during its search for the master of the Second Denve that Conseh happened upon some hunters. The hunters were practicing the accuracy of their spear throwing. The hunters aimed their spears at each other to see and feel the meaning of having Sindie at the ends of spearpoints.

The old food preparer Nuvvea also watched the hunters practice with their spears. Nuvvea had once been chief of the hunt, and as it watched the practice, Nuvvea shook its wrinkled head. Conseh saw this.

"What displeases you, Nuvvea?"

"Warmaster Conseh, I have studied the young hunters with their spears. Although they think otherwise, they still act as though they are on the hunt for darghat. On the hunt, if you throw and miss, the darghat will bolt and run.

A hunter of the Diruvedah still has a spear to throw back. And in close the spear is no use, so the hunter attacks the darghat with its stone knife. The darghat can only bellow and try to strike you with its tail. A hunter of the Diruvedah also has a knife."

Conseh looked at the hunters at their practice. "Your eyes see much, Nuvvea. They are still hunters rather than warriors. What should they do?"

Nuvvea looked down and thought for a long time. "The hunter must keep its spear until it can be certain of both a kill and retrieving the spear. To ward off the enemy weapons until such certainty presents itself, the hunter must be shielded."

"Nuvvea, what is your answer to the problem you have made?"

The old food preparer held out its hands, then dropped them to its sides. "There is an answer. I do not know it yet." Nuvvea faced Conseh. "But there is an answer to the in-fighting when the spear is useless." Nuvvea pulled the food preparer’s ax from its waist and handed it to Conseh.

"A butcher ax?" Conseh studied the hammered, black-metal blade. "Are we to go after the Diruvedah as butchers?"

Nuvvea took back its butcher ax and faced Conseh. "Pull your knife, warmaster."

Conseh studied the old food preparer for a moment, then the warmaster crouched and extended its knife at arm’s length, its point aimed at Nuvvea’s middle. Before the warmaster could react, Nuvvea whipped down its ax upon the knife blade, knocking the knife from Conseh’s hand. When Conseh looked at the ground, it saw the knife, its stone blade shattered.

Nuvvea laughed at the warmaster. "Your face tells me that my suggestion is a good one. Conseh, we are no longer hunters. We are to become warriors, and a warrior is one who hunts its own kind for the purpose of killing it." Nuvvea held up its ax. "We will be butchers, Conseh, if we are to defeat our enemies."

"Nuvvea, how many of your blades can you make in the next twenty days?"

"Of all the clans, there must be many. In a land without meat, there is little need for a butcher’s ax. In the lands that we shall see, the meat will fight back. The metal workers can make more, perhaps twenty a day if we can supply them with food. Their work is hard."

Conseh thanked the food preparer and returned to watching the hunters at their throwing.

The first warmaster thought upon the things that it had seen and heard, and Conseh made Nuvvea master of the Second Denve.

On the thirty-ninth day of Uhe’s rule of the Mavedah, the six Denve were prepared to cross the mountains and strike into the Irrvedah, a third of the Tsien Denvedah armed with the black metal axes. Uhe was forward counseling its warmasters in the morning shadow of the Akkujah Mountains when Iyjiia approached, followed by the old masters of the Mavedah.

Uhe was speaking to the warmasters of the need to obtain the heights of the first mountain crest before Aakva’s light blinded them, and then waiting until Aakva was at their backs before striking into the valley.

Iyjiia interrupted. "Uhe, the masters of the Mavedah would talk with you."

Uhe turned and studied Iyjiia. "I see that you approach me after working up some great resolve, Iyjiia. What is it that you want?"

"The masters of the Mavedah have come to challenge your vision."

Before Uhe could answer, Daes, the warmaster of the Sixth Denve, walked forward and shoved Iyjiia to the ground. "I am a master, Iyjiia, and I do not challenge the Law of War!"

Iyjiia stood and backed away from Daes. "Daes, you are either fool or blasphemer. Uhe has colored your eyes."

Uhe restrained Daes and indicated that Daes should resume its place with the other warmasters. Then Uhe faced Iyjiia and the old masters. "It is important that the attack is begun at the proper time, Iyjiia. State your business quickly."

Iyjiia brushed the dust from its skins, looked at its followers, and then faced Uhe. "While we kept starvation from us by eating the bodies of our loved ones, you kept us at the foot of the Akkujah for thirty-nine days. You could have spared us this by attacking thirty-nine days ago. It cost us many lives."

"Iyjiia, it was necessary to take the time to turn hunters into warriors. Had we attacked without the proper preparation, it would have cost us many more lives."

Iyjiia paused, and then continued. "By forming this new council of masters to rule your Denve, you have destroyed the identity of each clan within the Mavedah."

"It was necessary to do this to turn a collection of clans into an army." Uhe folded its arms and held back its head. "Is that all?"

"I have more." Iyjiia gestured with its hand toward Conseh and the warmasters. "This new council of masters you have made. Each has selected those who would follow it, while Aakva’s Law says that each clan must choose its own master by vote, ordeal, and challenge. By taking away the powers of the masters, you betray the Mavedah and the laws of Aakva."

Uhe’s eyes closed. "Now I see the lay of this hunt." Uhe opened its eyes and glared at the chief of Aakva’s servants. "Do you think the salvation of the Mavedah less important than your possession of power?" Uhe turned back to face its masters of war. "You have said enough, Iyjiia."

"No!" Iyjiia moved forward until it stood only a breath from the ruler of the Mavedah. "I challenge your vision of the Law of War. I say it is false! And even if a murderer’s spear takes me now, I say it is your law, Uhe, and not from the God of the Day Light."

Uhe turned, brows raised, and faced Iyjiia. "You surprise me. The removal of your power has found you your courage at last, Iyjiia. And I would stand the stones with you, except that there is an attack to supervise."

Iyjiia pointed at Uhe and screamed. "I have challenged your vision! Before all else, you must suffer ordeal, unless you have changed that law as well!"

Uhe looked around and saw that the warriors within hearing had gathered in a circle to observe the confrontation. The ruler of the Mavedah looked back at Iyjiia. "That law has not changed." Some say that Uhe shed tears as it said, "Iyjiia, I say that your challenge is against the new law of Aakva, and that we shall let the stones decide who is right."

Uhe looked among the warriors. "Eighteen of you; each place aside your weapons and choose three killing-stones." Uhe pointed to the ground at its feet. "We will stand the ordeal here."

Nuvvea, master of the Second Denve, walked away from the other warmasters and stopped in front of Iyjiia and Uhe. Nuvvea stabbed its scarred fingers against its broad chest and said to all: "l, Nuvvea, say that Uhe’s vision of the Law of War is true. And I, Nuvvea, shall stand the ordeal in Uhe’s place."

Uhe began to protest, but Conseh walked forward, saying in a loud voice: "Iyjiia is weak with age, while Uhe is younger and stronger. Having them both suffer the same stones would not be fair." Conseh faced Uhe. "Let old Nuvvea stand in your place."

"Conseh, Nuvvea is needed in the attack," protested Uhe.

The warmaster of the First Denve nodded. "You are needed, as well. But if either of you falls, Uhe, the vision of the Law of War is false. If such is the case, there will be no attack."

Conseh looked around at the warriors, now armed with killing-stones, and then looked back at Uhe. "Neither of you will fall, for the vision is Aakva’s true word. As they go into battle, our fighters must have no doubts. We must settle this now the way it should have been settled before Bantumeh’s fire."

Before Uhe could answer, Nuvvea placed its arm around Iyjiia’s shoulders and began walking away from the warriors to give them throwing room. "Come, Iyjiia. Let us go play with the pebbles."

Uhe was left alone with Conseh as everyone moved to either participate in the ordeal or witness it. Once all was set, the warriors began throwing their stones. At the first throw, Iyjiia was down, covering its head, while Nuvvea stood laughing at the warriors, Those stones that Nuvvea had not danced away from it had swatted aside with its leathery hands.

Conseh nodded toward Nuvvea and spoke quietly to Uhe. "Nuvvea has been studying the problem of the warrior who, having thrown its spear, has enemy spears to face. My second warmaster looks to the sky to see the approaching objects that seem not to move. Those are the ones that will strike unless Nuvvea steps aside or diverts their path with a slap of its hand. Nuvvea has practiced this many times, and has taught the method to the Tsien Denvedah."

Uhe watched the second throw. After the stones had landed, Iyjiia was still while Nuvvea remained standing and hooting insults at the warriors.

Uhe looked at the warriors preparing for their third throw and spoke to Conseh. "Nuvvea is served well by the method it has invented. The same method will serve the Denvedah in the times to come." Uhe pointed at the warriors as anger touched its voice. "But the success of the method would not have anything to do with the fact that all of those warriors are Tsien Denvedah, would it, Conseh?"

Conseh stared with eyes of death at the spectacle before them. "It is Aakva’s own law that all cannot be left to the God of the Day Light’s attention. Aakva favors those who prepare well." Conseh placed a hand upon Uhe’s arm and spoke in a whisper. "Ease your mind. These warriors know how to throw, and Iyjiia will not be killed. However Iyjiia will learn a lesson."

The stones of the third throw were loosed, and when their journeys were done Nuvvea stood shouting foul obscenities at the warriors, while Iyjiia remained on the ground, still and quiet. Despite its first warmaster’s comments, Uhe had to acknowledge that most of the stones had been thrown at Nuvvea, and many of the warriors who threw them were aiming for strikes.

Uhe spoke to Conseh: "Have one of Daes’s healers come and see to Iyjiia."

Uhe stepped forward and shouted at the assembly. "The law of Aakva has been satisfied. The Law of War is the law of the Mavedah. Report to your Denve. We attack immediately!"

As many feet threw up the dust in haste, Uhe walked to Iyjiia’s still form. Uhe squatted and turned over the old master’s body. Iyjiia moaned.

"Iyjiia? Iyjiia, can you hear me?"

Iyjiia’s mouth worked at meaningless croaks that became words as the old master’s eyes opened. "It is true! The vision of Uhe is true!"

"Iyjiia?"

The old master turned its head and forced its eyes to focus upon Uhe’s face. "Can you find it in you to forgive me, Uhe?"

Uhe closed its eyes. "There is nothing to forgive, Iyjiia You did what you had to do. I will have one of Daes’s healers attend you."

"I doubted Aakva’s new law, Uhe. Why am I not dead? I should be dead."

Uhe turned its head and watched as the Denve began marching up the darghat trails into the Akkujah. "Aakva knows that the Law of War is not forever. Someday there will be a new Law of Peace. You will be needed to serve that new law when the time comes, Iyjiia"

The old master looked away, then let its pained gaze fall upon the red clouds above the mountains. "l am the chief of Aakva’s servants. Why did not the God of the Day Light choose me to receive its new Law of War?"

Uhe stood and looked down at Iyjiia "The Law of War tastes foul to Aakva’s mouth, Iyjiia The god would choose a less worthy servant to receive the law."

The chief of Aakva’s servants again became quiet, and Uhe remained at the old master’s side until Daes’s healer reported and began to treat Iyjiia Uhe turned toward the Akkujah Mountains to assume command of the Denvedah.

As Uhe walked, it looked at the sky and addressed the light of the red clouds. "Aakva, if you exist, and if you are a God, and if you truly love us, why do you play with your creatures so?"

As Uhe came among its warriors, all cheered the demonstration of the truth of Uhe’s vision of the Law of War. It was then that Uhe asked the metal workers to fashion for it a long knife of black metal.

With the last of their strength, the warriors of the Mavedah climbed to the crest of the Akkujah. Once there, though, the sight of an immense valley, fat and green, could be seen between the peaks. Herds of darghat moved through the gentle foothills, stopping to drink at the ponds and streams. In the sky flew game birds, and in the valley below were fields of white grain and melons. And between the warriors and the fat of this valley there was only a hastily gathered army of farmers.

To ease its conscience somewhat, Uhe thought upon talking to the masters of the Irrvedah, begging them to allow the Mavedah to share their prosperity. There would be many who would object and who would be bitter at the encroachment, but there would be no more murders to add to Uhe’s debt.

In the valley below, though, the clan masters and the servants of Aakva were enraged at the violation of the most sacred tabu of the God of the Day Light.

"The Mavedah has violated the tabus."

"Aakva is with us!"

"Drive the invaders from the Irrvedah!"

"In the name of Aakva!"

"Kill the Mavedah!"

The Irrvedah attacked first, and their effort involved little more than bellows and cries. Conseh and Nuvvea waited until the farmers were close, and then drove through them, the Irrvedah melting before the Tsien Denvedah. Conseh’s Denve moved forward and hacked into the astonished farmers until their arms ached. As the First rested, Nuvvea moved the Second Denve through. Before the day was done, the Irrvedah in the valley who were not dead or wounded had surrendered.

Tocchah ruled the Irrvedah When runners brought the news of the invasion to Tocchah’s fire, the masters of the Irrvedah bellowed their rage. Runners were sent to all of the clans, from the Yellow Sea to the Great Cut, with messages to meet the invaders and throw them back into the Madah. Tocchah and its clan began that night to move west, knowing they fought in the name of Aakva. Before they reached the valley before the Akkujah, though, Tocchah and its clan met Conseh and the First Denve of the Tsien Denvedah on the Sunset Road at the edge of Darker Wood.

Conseh sent forward to Tocchah two captured Irrvedah, Liku and Ahli. They were brought before Tocchah. "Great Tocchah," began Liku, "I come from the First Warmaster of the Mavedah. Conseh asks that you surrender the clans you have assembled here. If you do not surrender, Conseh says that you will be destroyed."

Ahli stood next to Liku and said, "The Mavedah have fierce warriors, terrible weapons, and new ways of fighting." It gestured toward Liku. "Aakva has given a new Law of War to Uhe, chief of the Mavedah. Our clans were annihilated in not much more time than it takes to tell the tale, Great Tocchah. We beg you to acknowledge the new law and surrender."

The chief of the Irrvedah studied the two messengers and then nodded toward the master of its household. "Call a meeting of the clan masters. We will attack now while this Uhe expects us to discuss this blasphemy." Tocchah faced the messengers. "Before you do that, behead and burn these two traitors."

Once the household guards removed the messengers, Tocchah looked upon its chief of servants. "Yatim, the messengers said that a new Law of War has come from the God of the Day Light. When Aakva speaks to you does the god talk of this new law?"

Yatim held its hands before its face. "Great Tocchah, for more generations than our oldest has the mind to recall, the Irrvedah has followed Aakva’s laws. As consequence the Irrvedah has had peace and plenty. Now comes this plunderer and murderer, Uhe, who comes to take from us what Aakva has denied the Madah for their wrongs. There is no new Law of War, Tocchah. There is only the will of this predator, Uhe. Aakva will protect the Irrvedah as we destroy those who have broken the god’s Law of Peace."

Tocchah, then, stood and held its hands out toward the masters of the Irrvedah. "Go to your clans and have them arm themselves. We shall meet three days hence at the crossing of the Western Road with the Great Cut Road on the Plain of the Gods. From there we will march west until we meet this Uhe and its band of robbers. There we will remove this blight on the Law of Peace."

On the evening of the third day, as the scouts reported the approach of Tocchah’s army, the workers of metal presented Uhe with its black knife. Uhe took the knife, tested its edge, and proclaimed it adequate. Juka Li, the chief of the metal workers, said, "Uhe, I pray that all your enemies will fall before your new knife."

Uhe studied the blade, wrapped the knife with hide, and thrust it behind its sash. "I have no doubt, Juka Li, that I will find it useful." Uhe dismissed the metal workers, then joined Conseh deep within the Darker Wood to wait for the attack. Long after Aakva hid its face behind the western mountains, they looked through the trees and saw Tocchah’s army approaching on the Western Road. "Our murders mount, Uhe," said the first warmaster.

The chief of the Mavedah said, "Then, Conseh, have your denve close on Tocchah and take its clans down. Perhaps if we spill enough blood this night, the ones we challenge in the future will be less eager to throw themselves into harm. Leave only enough of them alive to bring the story of the horror to the rest of the Irrvedah and to the Diruvedah. Make certain they understand that Tocchah was first offered the opportunity to surrender, that the blood that will soak the Western Road is not my price but Tocchah’s."

Conseh studied Uhe’s face and said, "You see them before you now: the blood, the bodies?"

"I see them now, Conseh. I never see anything else. Go now and fulfill my vision."

Conseh moved with its undermasters to the edge of the wood where the First Denve was already concealed. The first warmaster waited until Tocchah’s tribe was compressed to only six abreast by the narrowing path through the trees. When most of Tocchah’s people were in the narrows, Conseh bellowed its command, "To battle! Death to Tocchah!"

The First Denve hurled its spears from the north edge of the wood. Nuvvea’s Second Denve, from its concealment along the edge of the southern wood, threw its spears at the same instant. With spears thrown, both denve raised their axes and closed with those left on the road.

After the axes were done, there were a few of the Irrvedah left. They were taken over the Western Road from one end of the narrows to the other and back again. As they walked among the bodies, torches would shed their light upon a face, and then another. Once all of the faces had been seen, Uhe knew that Tocchah’s face was not among them. The leader of the Irrvedah had escaped.

After they had walked the bloody trail and had seen the dead, the surviving Irrvedan soldiers were set free to carry the story of Uhe to the world.

Uhe’s vision of battle served the Denvedah well. The Tsien Denvedah would take the land and the denve resting would turn over the acquired land and its spoils to Kessu’s Third Denve, while the Fourth under Birula would move up to secure the land taken by the next thrust. Yaga and Daes would then bring the Fifth and Sixth Denve up to relieve the fighters, secure the land, and distribute the spoils.

The Denvedah filled itself upon fruit, cake, and grain, and the death drums of the Mavedah ceased their beat. Instead the drums beat an ever-quickening cadence of victory. In nine days Uhe and its warmasters stood upon the crest of the Black Mountains.

As far as Uhe could see toward the east, there was crest following crest, a seemingly endless land of mountains. Once more they waited for Aakva’s light to come at their backs. As they waited, Conseh pointed toward the east. "Uhe, your plan calls for more warriors than we have. The Irrvedah is huge. Should we occupy the great valley from here to the Akkujah and call that our land, leaving the Irrvedah the rest?"

Uhe studied the mountains. "If Aakva bakes this valley with its fire next, what then? We will be forced again to fight, except that the next time the Irrvedah will be better prepared. I will never again condemn us to a patch when there is a world. We do need more soldiers, more denve, though."

Uhe turned its gaze from the mountains and faced its warmasters. "Conseh, Nuvvea, when your warriors fall upon the Irrvedah, you will capture alive as many of them as you can." Uhe faced Daes. "Their children will be sent to the Sixth Denve to become future warriors."

Shifting its gaze from Daes to Conseh, Uhe continued. "The adults captured will be told of Aakva’s new Law of War, and of the ordeal that proved this law true. You will tell them, as well, of the Battle of the Darker Wood Narrows, which has a lesson of its own. Tell your captives that they may become a part of this new tribe, the Denvedah, and by so doing they may serve the new law." Uhe looked at Kessu and Birula. "Place the captives first in the Third and Fourth Denve. Should they prove loyal and fit, then move them to the Tsien Denvedah, Then as we move forward, we shall grow in numbers and strength."

The warmaster of the Third Denve, Kessu, remarked: "Would it not be easier simply to make the Irrvedah slaves? Under guard, they could take the burdens of supply upon their shoulders, thereby relieving Mavedah for service toward the front."

Uhe slapped the face of the warmaster. "Know this, Kessu! As there are worse things than war, there are things worse than eating one’s young. We fight to be free. We do not fight to make slaves."

Kessu then demanded, "What, then, shall we do with those who do not die in battle, but who also refuse to serve the Denvedah? There will be such, Uhe. What shall we do with them?"

Uhe turned until it faced toward the west and the Akkujah Mountains. "Beyond those mountains, Kessu, are the barren wastes once ruled by the Mavedah." Uhe lifted its arm and pointed there. "Should you capture those who refuse to serve Aakva’s Law of War, head them toward the Madah. Say to them that they are now vemadah: outcasts. This will be their new place, and it is a fitting place for those who will fight for neither the Irrvedah or the Denvedah."

Facing its warmasters once again, Uhe said, "But also tell them this: if the time ever comes that sees the water, grass, and game return to the Madah, the Denvedah will come to claim that land for the Sindie, the people of the world. Never again shall one tribe starve because of a boundary, tabu, or law while other tribes live in plenty. We are the Sindie: one people. But one’s place in this people is no birthright. It is a value to be earned. Tell them these things that I tell you and then let them choose."

As Uhe saw it, it came to be.

With each mountain and valley crossed, the Denvedah saw the Irrvedah fight more fiercely for its land. And with each mountain and valley conquered, the Denvedah grew stronger as it fed upon the bounty of the Akkujah and as the captured Irrvedah joined the ranks of the Denvedah. Few Irrvedah chose to inhabit the Madah as outcasts. Tocchah, however, remained elusive.

On the morning of a new day, the scouts reported to their warmasters that half of the Black Mountain crests had been crossed. The Denvedah prepared to advance through the next valley to the next crest.

Aakva’s light had just stained the sky when a lone scout from the First Denve was carried by two warriors and placed at Uhe’s feet. Conseh was with them, and the warmaster commanded the scout: "Speak to Uhe the words you said to me."

The life blood stained the scout’s skins, and its breath was short. "My name is Pitea. My child, Rohmuna, is under Daes’s care with the Sixth Denve."

Pitea opened its eyes and looked up at Uhe. "Ruler of the warmasters, you must see that my child learns of its parent’s deeds."

Uhe squatted next to the scout and supported Pitea’s head with its hands. "Conseh, have you called a healer?"

"Yes."

Uhe looked into the scout’s eyes. "Hear me, Pitea. A healer is coming. But if you should die, I promise that your child will know its parent."

Pitea brought up its hands and held tightly to Uhe’s arms. "Just beyond the next crest. Thousands of the Irrvedah wait for our attack. The near side of the crest is prepared with clever traps. Death pits covered with forest litter such that they look like any other ground. Hills of rock that can be loosed down the mountain with the single blow of a hammer. The warriors are of a new kind. Tocchah has learned from us. Its new warriors carry black metal axes, short spears, and shields of hide."

The scout seemed to drift away until Conseh spoke sharply, "There is more, Pitea."

"Yes." The scout looked again at Uhe. "After counting the traps and fixing their positions, Lekki and I stole across the crest to count the Irrvedah To hide their numbers they burn no fires, but Lekki and I are hunters. We moved around and through them and felt their numbers. Waiting for the Denvedah there are eight thousand Irrvedah warriors." The scout looked to its wound and then back at Uhe. "We were captured. Lekki died."

The scout maintained its grip upon Uhe’s arms. "I promised Lekki that if I returned alive Lekki’s two children would know their parent."

Uhe nodded. "I will see that it is done. What are their names?"

The scout’s hands released their grip and dropped to the ground. Conseh squatted across from Uhe and helped lower Pitea’s head. Once the body was arranged in death, Conseh spoke to Uhe. "Our northern scouts report that the Irrvedah also waits for us to our left. There are another eleven thousand waiting for us there. They too have weapons of black metal. But although they are better prepared this time, the Denvedah outnumbers them, and with better warriors. We can defeat them, Uhe."

Uhe stood as the healer called by Conseh arrived. Uhe spoke to the healer. "It is too late. Arrange the rites for this warrior."

The healer nodded and stooped to pick up Pitea’s body, but was halted by Uhe’s hand. "But before that, I want you to go to the Sixth Denve and bring to me a child named Rohmuna, born of Pitea." Uhe faced Conseh. "Did Pitea tell you the names of Lekki’s children?"

Conseh nodded. "They are called Mos and Fanda."

Uhe placed its hand upon the healer’s shoulder. "Bring to me as well Mos and Fanda, born of Lekki."

As the healer left to do Uhe’s bidding, Conseh pointed toward Aakva’s light. "It grows late, Uhe. Shall I begin the attack?"

"No. Have the warmasters give their Derive a day of rest. Double the camp guards and send out day scouts. I want careful maps and a detailed accounting of the Irrvedah’s numbers, positions, and weapons."

Anger crossed Conseh’s face. "Uhe, we have all this information. We can defeat them! We are trained, and we outnumber them."

"Do as I say, Conseh." When the warmaster did not move, Uhe stared into Conseh’s eyes. "Yes, we can wade into them and slaughter them, and by so doing we can also lose many good warriors. All hunters know that it takes no skill with a spear to get a kill when the weapon is flung into a herd. But think upon this, Conseh. Waiting out there are almost two derive of armed Sindie with the will it takes to face an army that has seen nothing but victory. Think of what they and their weapons would mean if they were added to the Denvedah. This is what I will be thinking of as I tell the children of Lekki and Pitea the nature of the price paid by their parents. Now go and do my bidding, Conseh. I will never again justify my orders to you."

Conseh watched as Uhe turned and went into its tent. And then the warmaster gathered its runners, telling them to give Uhe’s order to the warmasters of the other denve. After the runners had left, Conseh squatted next to the dead scout’s body. And the warmaster asked:

"Pitea, we have invaded their land, taken their crops, and killed their children, siblings, parents, and friends. And now they wait for us, sharp metal in their hands, praying to Aakva for our blood. From where you are now, Pitea, can you see how Uhe will transform this army that waits to blood us into faithful Denvedah?"

The warmaster looked back toward the lightening skies. The breath of a prayer touched Conseh’s lips, then shame covered its face. "Do I feel this shame, Pitea, because I pray to that in which I do not believe? Or do I feel this shame because I offer to my true god the prayer of a murderer?"

Conseh stood and walked away, letting the dead scout keep its answers.

That evening, as Aakva sank into the Land of Death, the inside of Uhe’s tent was bright with torch light. Gathered upon the ground before Uhe were five scouts, and Kioe, the maker of maps. After Uhe dismissed them, the warmasters were called. When they had assembled in the tent and were seated around the map, Uhe spoke to them:

"The scouts have confirmed what Pitea paid with its life to bring to us. Facing us are eight thousand. To the north are eleven thousand more. All are armed and stand ready to fight."

Birula pointed at the map. "And for this we have wasted an entire day? This we already knew."

"There is more." Uhe squatted next to the map and pointed. "This is the valley where we are now." Uhe’s finger moved. "Here upon the mountainside facing us are the traps prepared by the Irrvedah, and behind them, beyond the crest, are the eight thousand." Uhe’s finger moved again. "But beyond the eight thousand there is another mountain, and upon it stands the ruler of the Irrvedah, the Great Tocchah."

Uhe rested its arms upon its knees and clasped its hands. "You should know this, as well. The Irrvedah was surprised that we did not attack this morning. This has had three results. First, the eight thousand spends this night in a different place than was planned. Their supplies of food are still being held by the eleven thousand to the north."

Yaga held out its hands. "Missing a day’s food is no great burden."

Uhe smiled and nodded at Yaga. "Not to those who have had to eat their young, Yaga. But the Irrvedah has never known hunger. But listen. They build fires and fill their bellies with wine, for they believe us to be afraid of them."

The warmasters laughed. Conseh, however, remained impassive. "Uhe, how does this avoid a battle?"

"Perhaps it does not, Conseh. But consider this: Tocchah has not organized its warriors in stages as we have done. Tocchah commands directly even the smallest of units."

Conseh rubbed its chin and nodded. "As with the pida bug, if its head is removed, its many legs are without direction."

Uhe looked around at the faces of its warmasters. "The Irrvedah makes light, noise, and free with melon wine this night. Conseh, you will have your first undermaster order its sedenve to darken their skins with mud, and have them carry only their butcher axes. They will wait until full dark and then they will move east. Have them memorize well the positions of the traps on the mountainside in order that they may avoid them. The sedenve then shall move quietly through the eight thousand Irrvedah and capture Tocchah alive."

There was a murmur of surprise among the warmasters. As soon as they quieted, Uhe continued. "Those of our warriors who are captured must not reveal the plan. If any are wounded, they are to be put to death. Any who are captured alive must end their own lives."

Uhe pointed again at the map. "The Third and Fourth Denve will hold this place here where we now stand, and the Tsien Denvedah shall move west, and they must run. Before morning’s light, the Tsien Denvedah must reach the western end of the eleven thousand Irrvedah to the north, go around it, and then spread out on the high ground behind them. It is vital that knowledge of their action not be known until I choose to reveal it."

Uhe stood and looked at Conseh. "I will march with the sedenve that seeks the capture of Tocchah."

The first warmaster stood. "Is that, wise? Should you die, what of the Denvedah?"

Uhe looked down at the map. "In answer to your second question, Conseh, if I fall, you will take my place, and your first undermaster will take the place of first warmaster. The Denvedah shall continue to fulfill Aakva’s Law of War."

Conseh then asked: "And in answer to my first question?"

"Is it wise?" Uhe clasped its hands behind its back. "I have a message to bring to Tocchah."

"All of us have been taught since the womb how to memorize. Anyone can bring Tocchah your message. Again I ask you, is it wise?"

Uhe studied many things, including the dark places in its mind. The ruler of the Denvedah concluded its search and faced its first warmaster. "I shall not wait for your runners to bring me Tocchah’s answer; I will be there myself to receive it. In answer to your question, it is probably not wise. Nevertheless, I have given my order, and the order stands."

After the details of the plan had been discussed and the warmasters had been dismissed, Conseh remained behind. "Uhe, in case you fall, what is the message you wish to bring to Tocchah?"

Uhe lowered itself to its sleeping skins and looked up at nothing. "I am not certain. I will be certain only when I see Tocchah."

Conseh went to the opening of the tent. "I must see to your orders." The first warmaster stopped at the entrance and looked back at Uhe. "It is hard to wait for the results of one’s orders, is it not?"

Uhe closed its eyes. "Yes, Conseh. It is hard. Call me when your first sedenve is ready."

Conseh left to do its ruler’s bidding.

That night, Tocchah, ruler of the Irrvedah, sat before its fire studying the flames for Aakva’s message. The rogues of the Mavedah had not acted as the servants of Aakva had predicted. The lack of food for one day would not harm the warriors, but constant reports of complaining came to Tocchah’s hearing.

Why had the Mavedah not attacked?

Could they fear the Irrvedah? Tocchah studied the facts and put aside its fantasies. Enough was known to say with conviction that the Mavedah feared nothing.

Then why had they not attacked?

Why, why, why?

Tocchah stood and walked beyond its fire. It stopped as it saw the fires of its warriors on the mountainside across the valley. Tocchah waved its hand at the fires in disgust. "Warriors, dah!"

They celebrated a victory that did not exist. Most of them, farmers, harvesters, and fruit pickers, had never faced war. Although they had trained hard to meet the Mavedah, they still knew more about planting than fighting. Yet they celebrated; celebrated the fact that they had not been attacked.

Tocchah looked up at the mystery of the stars. The Mavedah would not be captured alive. But there were a few Irrvedah that fought for the Mavedah that had been captured. And they spoke of the hand of the God of the Day Light. Its name was Uhe, and Uhe ruled the Mavedah, which now called itself Denvedah. The prisoners spoke of Aakva’s new Law of War, and that this was Uhe’s charge.

Tocchah looked down into the blackness of the valley below. It was clear that the warriors of Uhe were well-trained, and that they had numbers far exceeding those that Tocchah had been able to bring to oppose them.

But why then oppose them? Would the Irrvedah defeat the Mavedah? No.

Would the invaders go back to the Madah? No.

Any injury inflicted upon the Mavedah would be more than compensated for by the captured Irreveden who would join the enemy’s ranks.

Even the Diruvedah would not be served by feeding warriors into the ranks of the Mavedah, and the Irrvedah had no interest that would be served by protecting the Diruvedah.

Tocchah looked again at the stars. "Yet we stand here to fight the Mavedah. Aakva, I ask your children of the night, how did the Irrvedah come to this pass?"

The ruler of the Irrvedah listened to the laughter coming from the next mountain, and it lowered its head. How many would die in order that the living could proudly say that they went down fighting?

And how would such serve the living if, in truth, what they fought was Aakva’s true law?

Tocchah turned and looked around at the emptiness of the light cast by the fire. The ruler of the Irrvedah had dismissed its council of masters, no longer being able to stand the empty boasts of ignorant minds. Tocchah’s own staff had been given permission to join the celebrations of the warriors who had never warred, leaving only a few guards.

"And do I leave myself thus exposed by design?" Tocchah addressed again the stars. "Do I invite my own removal from this play?"

The sounds of hunter’s feet brushed the night air, and Tocchah felt its chest tighten. Unless the feet belonged to Mavedah, there was no need for skulking in the brush. And no clumsy farmer of the Irrvedah could walk so quietly.

Tocchah faced the darkness. "Come out, Mavedah. I am ready for you."

Seven blackened figures emerged from the brush beyond the firelight. The feeling that many others remained in the brush was with Tocchah. One of the figures spoke to the ruler of the Irrvedah:

"You are Tocchah?"

"I am."

The blackened figure spread its hands, then let them fall to its sides. "I missed greeting you at the Darker Wood. I greet you now, Tocchah. I am Uhe, ruler of the Denvedah. I come to tell you of Aakva’s new Law of War, and to ask you to join me in fulfilling the desires of the God of the Day Light."

"You would have me hand over my people and their lands without a fight? What must you think of the Irrvedah?"

"I think the Irrvedah to be growers and eaters of plants." The dark figure swept its hand to indicate the terrain behind the fire. "With me there are over a thousand of my warriors facing the backs of your celebrants." The figure pointed across the dark valley toward the Irrvedah’s fires. "Upon the face of the next mountain, and in the valley between, there are four denve; over thirty thousand Denvedah."

Tocchah feared even to think of the eleven thousand Irrvedah to the north, should the dark figure discover them. It was a caution without purpose.

The blackened figure continued: "To the north, behind the eleven thousand Irrvedah you have facing us, I have placed my Tsien Denvedah; over fifteen thousand of my best warriors. I answer your question now, Tocchah. I think you and your people to be reasonable. I would have them join Aakva’s cause."

Tocchah studied the blackened figure. "As you said, we are farmers, not warriors."

"I know this, Tocchah. But they have the spirit to become warriors, and the Denvedah will make warriors of them."

Tocchah inhaled, and then let its breath escape slowly. "Uhe, how am I to know what to do?"

"You may guess, you may take the advice of another, or you may consult that which you know to be true and act accordingly."

Tocchah nodded. "All three tell me to do as you say. But there is another choice: Aakva."

"Then ask Aakva." The blackened figure remained as still as stone.

"I have asked Aakva. And my words fall upon the God of the Day Light’s deaf ear." Tocchah looked again at the stars. "If I do not agree, am I to die ?"

The blackened figure answered: "It would simplify the destruction of the forces that now oppose Aakva’s new law. But I will not have you killed. You will be sent to the Madah."

"Murder has many names." Tocchah looked at the ground between it and Uhe. "And if I join you, do my people then follow you?"

"They will follow us."

"And do they then go east to take the lands of the Diruvedah?"

"They will cover all of Sindie to make the peoples of Sindie one." The blackened figure moved more closely to Tocchah. "I would have you at my side in this quest, Tocchah."

The ruler of the Irrvedah turned its back upon Uhe and pointed toward the fires beyond the valley. "This is not a decision that I can make for my tribe. I do not have that power. If I am free to go, I shall argue your offer before my clan masters."

Uhe motioned toward one of the other blackened figures. "Conseh, bring two of your warriors." Uhe turned back to Tocchah. "You may go, and we will come with you. My first warmaster’s blade-swingers can entertain your people with a demonstration of arms."

Tocchah looked over its shoulder at Uhe. "And you will be there to cut off the head of the Irrvedah in case my people are reluctant to join your quest."

"It should add passion to your argument, Tocchah." Uhe held out its hand toward the valley. "We will follow you."

As Tocchah walked toward the fires of its people, the footsteps of hunters close behind, there were profound questions.

Why does Aakva inflict the blight and flood on the Irrvedah to show its hand?

Why does not the God of the Day Light show itself with help when the threat is the most severe?

Tocchah continued walking, but spoke to the darkness that followed it. "Have you ever noticed, Uhe, that you can never find a god when you need one?"

"Yes, Tocchah. I have noticed."

The party continued in silence toward the fires.

That night the Irrvedah became Denvedah. The new warriors were spread throughout the Denvedah, and three new denve were organized, becoming the Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth Denve. The Seventh was trained to become Tsien Denvedah, while the Eighth and Ninth were sent north to secure all of the lands of the Irrvedah for the Denvedah.

Staaga was one of Conseh’s undermasters, and Staaga was made warmaster of the Seventh Denve. Two of Nuvvea’s undermasters, Chiya and Gidyada, were made warmasters of the Eighth and Ninth Denve, while Nuvvea was appointed overmaster to command the southern denve.

Undermasters Motah and Dosteh were appointed the new warmasters of the First and Second Denve, while Conseh was appointed overmaster of the Northern Denvedah.

Nuvvea and the Southern Denvedah were charged with raising two more denve, but to keep the majority of the Irrvedah at their farming, mining, and metalworking to supply all of the Denvedah.

Daes’s Sixth Denve secured the Southern Akkujah, and Yaga’s Fifth maintained the route of supply from the mountains out into the lands of the Diruvedah where the three denve of the Tsien Denvedah, and the Third and Fourth Denve, brought the war to the north. All of the denve of the Denvedah spoke to each other at night with shielded fires, and in the day with polished butcher blades reflecting Aakva’s light.

A line marking the lands brought under the control of the Denvedah spread out from the Southern Akkujah toward the east and the north, while sedenve attacked beyond the line at concentrations of Diruvedah hunters. The captured Diruvedah were given the same choice as had been given to the Irrvedah, and most chose to enlist in Aakva’s cause.

Again the new warriors were spread among the old, and three new denve were formed: the Tenth, Eleventh, and Twelfth. The warmaster of the Fifth Denve, Yaga, was made overmaster of the three new denve, and Shuri was appointed warmaster of the Fifth. Three of Yaga’s undermasters were promoted to become warmasters: Bataar to master the Tenth, Aturah, the Eleventh; and Lin, the Twelfth.

Uhe called Yaga’s command the Western Denvedah, and had Yaga’s warriors patrol the captured lands of the Diruvedah and protect the farmers Nuvvea sent from the Akkujah to make the land rich with fruit and grain.

Soon after, Nuvvea sent a message to Uhe that the Northern Denvedah had added two entire denve to its ranks, and that they would be the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Denve, mastered by Hogas and Zemlos. Nuvvea also reported that the Southern Denvedah awaited only orders to move east and enter the Kudah.

It was two years since Uhe had led its tribe from the Madah. The Diruvedah, under the rule of Mijii, had been driven until it was trapped in a corner formed by the Great Cut and the poison lands of the Melting Mountains. On the edge of the towering cliffs that formed the northern wall of the Great Cut, the land was thick with brush and trees. The Diruvedah hunters would hide in the trees, unleashing showers of poisoned darts down upon any Denvedah that dared enter the forest. Life was bought with life, and advance was slow. Uhe was in its tent, discussing the situation with Conseh and Tocchah.

Uhe pointed at the map upon the ground. "Even with its two new denve, Nuvvea does not have the numbers necessary to invade the Kudah. The Kuvedah has had two years to prepare for us. Nuvvea must wait until we have dealt with Mijii and the Diruvedah. Then we can cross the Great Cut and attack from the north while Nuvvea attacks from the west."

Conseh rubbed its chin and looked at Uhe. "If Yaga’s Eastern Denvedah joined Nuvvea in the mountains, their chances would improve."

"True, but too many of the Diruvedah have slipped by us. Yaga is needed to keep the land we have captured in the north secure. We must end the resistance of the Diruvedah before moving into the Kudah."

Conseh waved its hand at the map. "Why do we not burn them from the forest? It is dry."

Uhe studied the map, then shook its head. "Unknown thousands of the Diruvedah are in the forest. There too are their children. I would avoid such slaughter if I can." Uhe glanced up at Conseh. "Have my terms been sent to Mijii?"

"Yes. It has sent no answer."

Uhe pushed itself to its feet, walked to the entrance to the tent, and looked toward the distant forest. "Why does not Mijii answer? It is not possible that it does not see its position as hopeless. Does Mijii bargain with the rulers of the Kuvedah for help?"

Tocchah stood and joined Uhe at the tent’s entrance. "Mijii bargains with no one." The former ruler of the Irrvedah thought as it studied the expanse of the forest. "Uhe, I believe Mijii feels something I once felt. It was a feeling that the Denvedah should be resisted. Resisted until breath and blood stops."

Uhe snorted and looked at Tocchah. "That is foolishness. What is served by such a gesture?"

"I did not say, Uhe, that the feeling was in the best interests of either the Irrvedah or the Diruvedah. I say only that the feeling was there. I think it is stronger in Mijii than it was in me."

"Dah!" Uhe stepped outside its tent and looked around at the sea of prepared warriors. "Does Mijii think to buy itself a place next to Aakva’s side with such a performance? Must I spend the lives of valuable warriors to satisfy what Mijii’s feelings demand?" n the distance, a wisp of smoke rose from the forest. It was soon joined by another. Uhe looked in horror as a third began. "Conseh, your warriors are burning the forest!"

Conseh rushed outside and looked at the spires of smoke, now five in number. "It is impossible, Uhe. I would not disobey you, and my warmasters would not disobey me." Conseh studied the forest more closely. "Look, Uhe! The Diruvedah sets its own fires!"

And it was true. The fires could be seen to begin deep within the forest, far beyond the limits of the Denvedah. The gentle winds blew south toward the Great Cut. The first tongues of flame became visible above the treetops.

Uhe took a step forward, its fist in the air, and screamed, "Mijii! Mijii! You are insane!"

Uhe turned to Conseh. "Have the order spread to the front lines that any of the Diruvedah trying to escape the flames are to be allowed to do so. Take them, and guard them, but let them through."

Conseh ran toward its staff of runners. Uhe looked back at the forest. The entire front was smoke and flame, obscuring the unburned trees behind. "This is a crime you do, Mijii! A crime against Aakva! A crime against the Sindie!"

Tocchah came to a stop next to Uhe. "Watch those flames, ruler of the Denvedah. I would not—did not, could not—do the same. But you cannot imagine the pride I feel at this moment."

"Pride?" Uhe’s eyes were wide as they turned to stare at Tocchah. "Pride?"

"They would rather die at their own hands than at yours or the Madah’s. They would rather burn themselves and their children than serve your cause. Yes. Pride."

Uhe grabbed Tocchah’s arm. "It is not my cause, Tocchah! It is Aakva’s!"

Tocchah pulled its arm free and looked at the ruler of the Denvedah. "You say that there are worse things than war; worse things than eating one’s young! I tell you this, Uhe: there are worse things than dying in the manner of the Diruvedah!"

Tocchah left, and Uhe stared at the burning forest. The ruler of the Denvedah stood for two days and nights watching the flames and smoke. Upon the morning of the third day, a runner approached Uhe bearing food. Uhe ignored the food, but told the runner: "Bring word to Nuvvea. The Northern Denvedah is to go down into the lands of the Kuvedah. Tell Nuvvea that Conseh will take the Northern Denvedah and will cross the Great Cut here. Conseh will be in the land of the Kuvedah within three days. Go."

The runner left, and Uhe was overheard to say: "And by the bones of my child, Leuno, if the Kuvedah prefers death to the Denvedah’s victory, then let them be quick about it. I would spend no more good warriors' lives upon meaningless gestures. You disgust me, Mijii; and you corrupt the memory of a great people. If you refused me your service by dying with a blade in your hand, perhaps then you would be hero. But you are a coward and you have murdered your people."

The ruler of the Denvedah lowered its head and began walking toward the forest of ashes.

In the burned forest, the trunks of trees standing like so many blackened teeth, the Denvedah searched for days. Charred flesh and bones, arranged in ceremonial rings, were found by the warriors. All were dead, the only sounds being the hiss and crack of the few remaining fires.

It was Uhe who found the lone survivor. It was a baby, half-covered by the body of its parent. The baby’s legs were burned, and the ruler of the Denvedah had Daes send a healer to treat the child. When Uhe was certain that the child would live, it had the child sent back with the healer to the Sixth Denve to be reared as its own.

Uhe named the child "of the world," and it was forever after called Sindieah.

The finish of the next year saw the surrender of the last of the Kuvedah and the Denvedah victorious across the face of Sindie. On the top of Butaan Mountain, a mighty hill of rock near the Akkujah, just north of the Great Cut, Uhe gathered its warmasters and overmasters. And Uhe spoke:

"You have fulfilled Aakva’s new Law of War. Now I tell you that a new Law of Peace is the wish of the Parent of All. The servants of Aakva shall meet here in ten days. At that time, they shall choose from their number a chief of servants, who will then see to keeping the new law.

"You will disband your warriors and make them hunters and farmers again, keeping only one sedenve of the Tsien Denvedah to do the bidding of the chief of servants in its quest to bring this world to peace and plenty. The rest shall return to raising children, hunting, living, and worshipping Aakva."

Conseh stood forth from the gathering. "Uhe, the servants must choose you as the chief of servants."

"No." Uhe looked down at the rocks of Butaan Mountain. "You will go now and do my bidding." Uhe motioned toward the old Mavedah chief of servants. "Iyjiia, you shall remain here."

The assembled warmasters walked slowly from the mountain. When they had gone, Iyjiia held out its hands and then let them fall to its sides. "What do you want of me, Uhe? Am I to be killed to clear the way for this new Sindie chief of servants?"

Uhe pulled the hide-wrapped black metal knife from its sash and pointed it at the old servant. Uhe spoke: "Things must change, Iyjiia Those who obstruct the salvation of the Sindie must step aside. Laws that obstruct this same salvation must be put aside. Do you understand this?"

Iyjiia bowed its head. "I understand."

Uhe removed the hide covering from the knife and let the skin fall to the ground. 'Iyjiia, I will end my life upon this mountain."

"No! You have brought us this far. You have unified the people. You must live to rule the Sindie."

Uhe knelt, looked up, and faced the God of the Day Light. "Iyjiia, what it takes to conquer a world is different than what is needed to rule a world."

"Perhaps this is fact, Uhe. But how do you know that you lack what it takes to rule a world?"

"I know, Iyjiia I have lied; I have stolen; I have murdered. Never should the ages be able to describe a Sindie ruler in such terms."

Iyjiia knelt next to Uhe, and placed a hand upon Uhe’s shoulder. "These were the necessities of war, of survival, of the times. We are all tainted."

"The times have changed, Iyjiia There is no need for war now, and no need for a master of warmasters. I must step aside. The servants must search among the Sindie and find one who is neither thief, blasphemer, murderer, or coward. Choose that one for your chief." Uhe looked at the old servant. "Iyjiia, will you hear my prayer?"

Iyjiia removed its hand from Uhe’s shoulder. "I will hear it."

Uhe faced the God of the Day Light. "Aakva, your old Law of Peace was wrong, and I have set it right. This is my crime, and my claim to virtue. Aakva, make yourself known to the Sindie, your children; feed them, keep them warm, and keep them safe. Aakva, in the name of your children, become a more perfect god."

Uhe then lifted its blade and fell upon it. It took but a moment and Uhe was dead.

It was Iyjiia who gathered the brush and sticks to burn Uhe’s body, allowing the pyre to carry Uhe’s life to the side of Aakva. Iyjiia remained upon Butaan Mountain for ten days and nights, praying as the servants gathered there. On the morning of the eleventh day, Iyjiia stood and addressed the servants:

"I have spoken with the God of the Day Light." Iyjiia pointed at the ashes of Uhe’s pyre. "Here we shall erect a tomb so that the ashes of Uhe the Conqueror may always be in peace. Around this tomb we shall construct a great temple that all may come and learn the story of Uhe. And around this temple the Sindie will settle and build a great city through which the people may learn, practice, and enjoy the lessons and blessings of Aakva."

A servant named Osa spoke to Iyjiia. "Has the God of the Day Light revealed to you the name of the next chief of the Sindie servants?"

"There is a child that Uhe took from the ashes of the Diruvedah. Uhe named the child Sindieah. Before it died, Uhe said that the ruler of the Sindie must be one who is not tainted by either war or cowardice. Too young to know war, Sindieah cannot be tainted by war. And it had the courage to live when its people had only the courage to die.

"We, the servants of Aakva, shall rear this child. And when it performs the rites of adulthood, we shall make Sindieah the chief and ruler of the Sindie."

The tomb was built, the temple begun, and the city named Butaan soon covered the mountain, while the world surrounding the mountain lived in peace and plenty under the rule of Sindieah.

All praised the wisdom of Aakva.

KODA NUVIDA

The Story of Shizumaat

I, Mistaan, set down before you the words of Namndas and Vehya who recited before me the life of Shizumaat and the second truth.

I am Namndas, child of Piera, who was the child of Rukor, who was the child of Ivey, warrior of Uhe’s Seventh Denve. I stand before you here to speak of Shizumaat, for I was Shizumaat’s childhood friend and companion, and I was the one who stood the watch at the mark.

Sindieah Nu the Ancient was the child of Sindieah, Born of Fire. The rule of Sindieah Nu was marked by an increase in the road system begun by its parent, the expansion of cultivated crops in both the Kudah and the Dirudah, and the beginning of the great project to irrigate the Madah by tapping the hidden reservoirs in the Akkujah Mountains.

Regional centers, each governed by a servant appointed by Sindieah Nu, settled disputes, caused way stations and granaries to be built, and built and maintained the roads.

The works ordered by the servants and their chief were accomplished by each Sindie’s performance of Aakva’s Laws of Gift and Labor handed down by the servants during Sindieah’s rule. When the harvests were plentiful, the Law could be served by giving one-twelfth of the harvest to be stored in the granaries. When the crops were poor, each adult over the age of four years had to spend at least one day out of twelve working under the direction of the servants. In exchange for this, the workers were fed from the granaries administered by the servants of Aakva.

The firstborn of Sindieah Nu was Sindieah Ay. And after its parent had retired from the servants, and during Sindieah Ay’s rule of the servants of Aakva, the Temple of Uhe was completed. The cut-stone walls of the temple were as tall as eight Sindie and they enclosed an area of sixty by ninety paces. The roof of wooden beams and slabstone was supported by square stone columns arranged in six proportionate rectangles. At the center of the smallest rectangle was the great stone tomb that covered Uhe’s ashes.

The eastern wall of the temple was an open row of stone columns. Northern and southern walls each had center doorways only two paces wide. The wall facing the Madah had no opening. During the day, light was provided by the Parent of All; during the night, light was provided by the three hundred oil lamps that were suspended from the temple’s great ceiling.

The shelters around the temple were separated by narrow streets, and were made of both stone and wood. In one of these houses, covered by the afternoon shadow of the temple, a Sindie shaper of iron, in Butaan to perform its duty to Aakva through labor, gave birth to a child. The shaper of iron’s name was Caduah, and Caduah named its offspring Child of Duty, Shizumaat.

Because of the birth of the child, and because Caduah had received from those who served Sindieah Ay’s court several commissions for iron house ornaments, the shaper of iron made its permanent home in Butaan. Caduah was a dutiful worshipper of Aakva, and Caduah instructed its child in the ways and truths of the God of the Day Light, and of the servants. Shizumaat learned the story of creation, the laws as revealed to Rhada, and the story of Uhe.

On the beginning of Shizumaat’s third year, Caduah entered its child in the temple to perform before the servants the rites of adulthood. Shizumaat recited the story of creation, the laws, and the story of Uhe; and then Shizumaat recited its family line from its parent, Caduah, to the founder of its line, the Mavedah hunter called Limish.

And when the rites were completed, Caduah applied for Shizumaat to become a servant of Aakva.

Ebneh was the servant who had heard the child’s recitation, and Ebneh was sufficiently impressed by the performance that it enrolled Shizumaat into the Aakva Kovah, the School of God. The nights Shizumaat would spend in its parent’s house; the days Shizumaat would spend in the temple learning the secrets, signs, laws, wishes, and visions of the Parent of All.

I, Namndas, had entered the Aakva Kovah the year before Shizumaat, and was placed in charge of Shizumaat’s class. I drew this duty because the servants of the temple considered me the least worthy of my own class. While my companions sat at the feet of the servants and engaged in learned discourse, I would chase dirt.

My charges were assigned a place in the darkness next to the Madah wall where my own class had begun the year before. On the morning of the first day of their instruction, Shizumaat’s class sat upon the smooth stone floor and listened as I spoke the rules of the temple.

"I, Namndas, am your charge-of-class. You are the lowest class in the temple, and for this reason, the care and cleaning of the temple is left to you. I tell you now that I will never find as much as a single fleck of dust in the temple while I am your charge-of-class. You will clean the filth from the air before it lands upon these stones; you will wash the dust from the feet of those who enter the temple." I pointed toward the soot-blackened ceiling. "Every evening it is your responsibility to trim and fuel the temple’s lamps. Through all of this, you will keep clean yourselves. Your bodies will be clean and your robes clean and mended."

Shizumaat stood. It was tall for its age, and there was a strange brightness to its eyes. "Namndas, when are we to be given our instruction? When will we learn?"

I felt my face grow hot. Such impudence! "You shall be allowed to receive instruction when I inform Servant Ebneh that you are worthy. Sit and be silent!"

Shizumaat resumed its seat upon the floor, and I issued a glare that encompassed all nine of them. "You will not speak except in answer to a question from me or from one of the servants. You are here to learn, and the first thing you must learn is obedience."

I returned my glare to Shizumaat and saw it carrying an enigmatic expression upon its face. I spoke to Shizumaat. "I cannot read your face, new-charge. What does it say?"

Shizumaat remained seated upon the floor, but looked at me as it spoke. "Does Aakva, then, judge its servants by how well they imitate the dumb animals, and their skill at wielding a scrub rag?"

"Your words court disaster."

"Namndas, when you asked your question, did you want from me lies or truth?"

"This is a temple of truth. What are you called?"

"I am called Shizumaat."

"Then, Shizumaat, I must tell you that I see little hope for your graduation from the Madah wall to the center of the temple."

Shizumaat nodded and looked past the forest of columns toward Uhe’s tomb. "I think the truth serves you at last, Namndas."

The days passed, and although it remained silent, Shizumaat performed its temple duties well enough. Shizumaat, however, always appeared restless; and it listened to all the talk of the temple as though trying to memorize it. By the time two new classes were formed, and my charges occupied the south end of the Madah Wall, Ebneh stood before the class to hear their recitations of Aakva, Rhada, Daultha, and Uhe.

When all had completed their recitations, Ebneh held out its hands. "We call the Story of Uhe the Koda Ovida; and what is the first truth?"

There are, of course, many truths within the first Koda. The student’s task is to draw from the story the greatest truth. The first student stood and spoke the accepted truth of the story: "That it is Aakva’s law that the servants of Aakva will speak the true wishes of Aakva."

Ebneh nodded, pleased. "And do you all agree?"

All of the students nodded, except for Shizumaat. My rebel stared through the columns at Uhe’s tomb until Ebneh called out. "Shizumaat, were you listening?"

Shizumaat’s eyes turned toward Ebneh. "I was listening."

"Do you agree to this student’s interpretation of the Koda Ovida?"

"No." Shizumaat looked back toward Uhe’s tomb.

"No? No?" Ebneh stood next to Shizumaat. "You will stand and explain!" Shizumaat stood and looked at Ebneh. "What truth do you see in the Koda Ovida?" demanded the servant.

"Ebneh, I see that a rule stood between the Mavedah and survival; I see that the rule was nothing sacred, but made by Sindie; and I see that Uhe saw this and cast the rule aside to save its people. The truth I see, then, is that rules are meant to serve the Sindie; the Sindie is not meant to serve rules."

Ebneh stared in shock at Shizumaat for a long moment; and then it asked: "Then, Shizumaat, should we or should we not obey the wishes of Aakva handed down by the servants?"

"If the rule is good, it should be obeyed; if it is not good, it should be cast aside as Uhe cast aside the Law of Peace."

Ebneh’s eyes narrowed, and those who sat near Shizumaat edged away from it to avoid the wrath that all could see gathering above Caduah’s child. The servant continued with a voice filled with menace. "Shizumaat, do you say that the laws of Aakva can be false?"

I closed my eyes. Ebneh was tricking Shizumaat into blasphemy. I sent a warning with my eyes, but Shizumaat ignored me. It knew what Ebneh was doing. Shizumaat was too stubborn, however, to bow to the pain the servants would inflict on its body upon the admission of the blasphemy. It would not recant and would be broken. Shizumaat spoke: "If the laws come from the servants, then the laws come from mortal, fallible creatures, and can be false."

Ebneh stood upright. "But if the laws come from Aakva?"

"Then either Aakva is fallible, or there is no Aakva. This I saw in the Story of Uhe."

A terrible silence came down upon the temple. I rushed up to Shizumaat and grabbed it by the arm. "Think, Shizumaat! Think upon what you say!"

Shizumaat pulled its arm away from my grasp. "I have thought upon it, Namndas. That is why I answered as I did."

Ebneh pushed me away from the student. "Stand you away, Namndas, unless you choose eternity by the Madah Wall!" The servant was so angry spittle from its lips flew into my face. I was too frightened to wipe it away. Slowly Ebneh turned and faced Shizumaat. "Do you know what you will suffer because of your words?"

The young one smiled. "Yes, Ebneh. I know the rules."

"You know them, yet you scorn them?"

"I do not scorn them. I question them. I question their source. I question their validity. I know the servants will beat me for what I have said; but I ask you this: will beating me prove the existence of Aakva and the truth of its laws?"

The servant made a sound as though it was being strangled, then it ran from the Madah Wall, shouting orders as it hurried away. Shizumaat was to face the God of the Day Light.

In the morning, with the Parent of All illuminating the eastern columns of the temple, I climbed the steps and found Shizumaat on its knees between the columns, its face resting against the paving stones. The stones were stained with the deep yellow of the student’s blood. Shizumaat’s eyes were closed, its chest heaving. Behind Shizumaat were two servants holding long whipping rods. Ebneh stood to Shizumaat’s side and ordered, "Look up, Shizumaat. Look up!"

Shizumaat placed its hands upon the blood-stained stones and pushed until it sat back upon its heels, the morning light of Aakva showing the gray of Shizumaat’s face. "I am looking."

"What do you see?"

Shizumaat teetered for a moment, its eyes squinted, then it took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I see the great morning light we call Aakva."

Ebneh bent over and hissed into the student’s ear. "And is that light a god?"

"I do not know. When you say god, what do you mean?"

"God! God is God! Are you stupid?"

"A timely question, Ebneh. Quite timely."

Ebneh grabbed Shizumaat’s shoulder with one hand and pointed at Aakva with the other. "Is that the Parent of All?"

Shizumaat’s shoulders slumped and it slowly shook its head. "I do not know."

"What does your back tell you, Shizumaat?"

"My back tells me many things, Ebneh. It tells me that you are displeased with me; it tells me that live meat whipped with sufficient enthusiasm will split and bleed; it tells me that the process is painful." Shizumaat looked up at Ebneh. "It does not tell me that Aakva is a god; it does not tell me that the laws of the servants are sacred truths."

Ebneh pointed at the two rod-carrying servants. "Lay into this one until its back does speak to it of Aakva!"

One of the servants dropped its rod, turned, and walked into the temple. The other studied Shizumaat for a moment, and then handed its rod to Ebneh. "Shizumaat’s back has learned all that a rod can teach it. Perhaps, Ebneh, you can think of a more persuasive argument." Then the second servant turned and went into the temple.

Ebneh stared after the departing servant, then threw away the rod and looked down at Shizumaat. "Why do you defy Aakva? Why do you defy me?"

"I do not defy either, Ebneh. I only tell the truth that I see. Would you prefer that I lie to you? Would that somehow serve your truth?"

Ebneh shook its head. "You will shame your parent."

Shizumaat bowed its head until Ebneh turned and stormed off into the temple. Then Shizumaat looked up at me. "Namndas, help me to your room. I cannot make it by myself."

I pulled the student to its feet. "Do you not want me to take you to your own home?"

Shizumaat laughed, although the effort pained it. "A beating in defense of my truth is one thing, Namndas. I am not up to my parent beating me because I was beaten. That seems a little overdone."

Shizumaat closed its eyes and slumped into my arms. I lifted it and carried the student from the temple to my room off the square.

When Shizumaat recovered, it again took its place on the Madah Wall with its class. I was surprised to see it there, yet even more surprised to see myself still charge-of-class. The only thing that changed was that Ebneh no longer took the recitations of the new students. The servant called Varrah took its place. Varrah heard Shizumaat’s recitation as well as its individual discourse on the Laws of Aakva and the meaning of the Story of Uhe.

The beating it had taken had not changed the words of Shizumaat’s discourse by as much as a single grunt. Varrah, though, made no comment. Instead it listened, took the recitations of the other students, and then complimented me on the brilliance of my charges and the energy of their thinking.

The terror of not knowing the safe path, it haunted me. My life, my future, was at stake. If by some lapse of the gods I should manage to graduate to the center of the temple, I would at least have food and a place to sleep when the years caught me. If the servants should cast me off, though, I might as well be hawking sand in the Madah. It was as though I could see the future, though. My charge Shizumaat would somehow put me between the servants and itself, and I could no longer keep myself clear. All I knew for certain, though, was that my heart would not allow Shizumaat ever again to be beaten.

The days passed, and Shizumaat continued to ask questions and come to conclusions that delighted Varrah and horrified me as well as the rest of my charges. Varrah, though, encouraged Shizumaat to think and question, and soon all of us were thinking and speaking in new ways about new things. Once I told my charge that I believed that someday it would eventually change even the name the servants used to address the God of the Day Light.

"Varrah is the key, Namndas, not I," Shizumaat answered. "Questions, new ideas, different ways of thinking, these come naturally. Varrah allows them to happen by not forbidding them."

It was different, going to the Madah Wall, excited about what we would learn each morning, delighted to be part of Uhe’s Temple, and eager to explore the future. Before the winter rains came, Varrah heard all of our recitations and moved our class off the Madah Wall and within the first row of columns. Varrah kept me as charge of the promoted class, even though I was still a student.

The one lesson that hovered above me, though, waiting for the least-expected moment to inflict itself, was that everything changes. What is up will be down, what is light will be dark, what is happy will be sad, what is good will be found out and destroyed. Before the lesson, though, we investigated, challenged, and learned. As always, Shizumaat was our leader.

Now that our class was in the second rectangle, Varrah told us that we must take what we had learned and apply it to the world outside the temple. "Learn what is, challenge it, and seek to improve or replace with something better."

Some of the students were sent to the Denvedah to learn war. Some of the students were sent to the farms to learn growing. Some of the students were sent to the artisans, markets, and moneylenders to learn the ways of making, buying, and selling. Shizumaat and I were sent to the last of the nomads to learn the ways of the hunt.

I complained to Shizumaat that we had drawn the assignment with the least opportunity. After all, the days of the nomads were over. The world was growing crops and livestock, and trading in markets for things manufactured by the artisans. Nomads created nothing, learned nothing, and made no knowledge upon which greater knowledge could be built. That was, I concluded, what kept the old tribes the same for thousands of years until Uhe shattered the world’s ways of doing things.

Shizumaat said to me, "Namndas, every person, place, and thing can teach us, if we have the wit to learn." And with that, we went to Shizumaat’s aged parent. Caduah was pleased that Varrah had advanced Shizumaat with its class, and that the servant had such a high opinion of its child. We bid Caduah good-bye and struck out for the land of the Kuvedah where the last of the nomadic tribes still followed the darghat.

When we climbed the step trail up the southern wall of the Great Cut ten days later, we stood upon the northernmost edge of the great plain of the Kudah. It was as flat as a griddle stone, thick with waist-high grasses, and dotted at great intervals by massive menosa trees. Shizumaat and I aimed our steps toward the south, stopping nights beneath the protection of the trees.

In the dark, while I prepared a meal for us, Shizumaat would go out to study Aakva’s children spread out above us on the blanket of night. On one such night, Shizumaat came back to the camp, took a brand from the fire, and said to me, "Namndas, I am going to walk toward the north with this flame. When the light from this brand seems the same size as the lights from Aakva’s children, lift two brands above your head and wave them. Call my name, too."

"What are you trying to see?" I asked.

My fellow student only smiled and said, "Let me see it, first, then I will tell you what I saw."

Shizumaat left, holding the burning stick above its head, and began walking toward the north. I studied the light, and did not let its flame leave my sight for more than an eyeblink. After one of those eyeblinks, though, I could not again pick out the flame from Aakva’s Children low on the horizon. I lifted the brands, waved them, and called out Shizumaat’s name. When it returned to the fire it brought with it a most fantastic, fascinating, and blasphemous idea.

"Think of this, Namndas. If Aakva is a great fire circling our universe, and if Aakva’s Children are still more fires but at great distances, is it not possible that they circle other universes? And those other universes, might they not contain their own living beings?" Shizumaat looked up at the night sky. "For these answers I would suffer much. To meet those beings, see them, touch their thoughts, I would exchange my life."

I looked up and studied Aakva’s Children, and thought that the Sindie would lose much if Shizumaat’s idea was true. If it was true, then the child that was placed in the night sky by Aakva for me was neither placed in the sky by Aakva nor was it for me. I looked back at Shizumaat, and asked, "How will you argue this before the servants? What will you use for proof?"

"Short of growing the wings that can take me before Aakva and its Children, I do not know. I will keep myself open to an idea."

After nineteen day’s walking south, we met a Kuvedah hunting party. Its servant, Gatu, gave us directions to the tribal camp and the tent of Buna, the tribe’s chief of servants. Gatu said that the chief of the tribe, Kangar, Master of Masters, was near its death, and that Buna ruled in Kangar’s stead.

When we reached the camp, we saw the skin tents crowding both banks of a stream in a grove of menosa trees. We were directed to Buna’s tent, offered our respects, and were welcomed inside.

Buna was very old and wore skins instead of cloth. Its skins were hooded over its head as though it could not keep warm. The chief of servants listened as we related Varrah’s charge to us. "A very wise one, your teacher," said Buna. "The knowledge one acquires with the hands carries greater truths than the kind one acquires by exploring the inside of one’s own head."

We were shown where to put up our shelter, and when that was done, it was evening and we gathered with the others in the camp to watch the return of the hunters. Buna stood with us and in a low voice told us the significance of what we were seeing. "The tall hunter with the scar down its left arm, it is Haruda, the leader of the hunt and the greatest hunter of the Kuvedah."

"Haruda carries no game," Shizumaat observed.

Buna nodded. "That is because Haruda is the one who got the kills. It is for those who killed nothing to carry in Haruda’s kills."

"Buna, why is Haruda’s success at the hunt so much greater than the others this day?"

"It is the same all days, Shizumaat. Haruda is a great hunter."

"What does Haruda do differently?" I asked.

Buna held back the edge of its hood with one hand and peered at me. "Friend Namndas, it is a god-gift to Haruda."

"But," I insisted, "what does Haruda do?"

The old chief of servants grinned and said, "This is why you two are here, yes?" Upon that, Buna retired to a treegrove to meditate and give thanks to Aakva for the success of Haruda’s hunt.

I felt Shizumaat pull on my skins as it said, "Come, Namndas. Let us answer your question." Shizumaat and I followed Haruda and watched as the hunter barked orders at the less successful hunters and supervised the distribution of the game to the cookers and smokers. When Haruda was finished, it sat before its hut and began to clean its weapons and examine their stone points in case they needed dressing. Haruda looked up at the pair of us and said, "There are questions in your eyes, strangers."

"Yes," answered Shizumaat. My friend introduced both of us to the hunter and Haruda nodded at a place before it. We sat and the hunter said, "Let us hear your first question."

Then my friend asked a question that surprised me. "Haruda," began Shizumaat, "the size of the kill you return with every day; it could make you master of this tribe’s clan masters. Your ability to fill the mouths of the Kuvedah could fill your hands with power. Yet you remain a hunter. Why are you not the Kuvedah’s master of masters?"

Haruda studied Shizumaat, then laughed. "Is it your mind that my success at hunting would also make me a success at ruling the Kuvedah?"

Shizumaat thought. "No. It would not make you a success at ruling the tribe. Nevertheless, it is common to see those who turn the thing they can do into a means to force others to make them something they cannot do so well, but for which they will be well rewarded."

The hunter shook its head. "I do no such thing."

"Still, you could force your rule upon the tribe if you wanted. Is it simply that you do not want to rule?"

The great hunter looked up from dressing a stone point and frowned at Shizumaat. "I am what I want to be, young one. The path to my happiness does not cross that of either Kangar’s or Buna’s. I have no desire to rule."

Shizumaat thought some more. "Haruda, do you not think that one graced with a godly gift is meant to rule, rather than grub for food?" I looked at my friend as though Shizumaat had gone mad. Why was it baiting this great hunter?

Haruda stood and its skin changed from yellow to red-brown. "I hunt, young one with all the questions. I do not grub. And my skill at hunting I earned. It is no gift."

"One more question, Haruda." I was torn between wanting to run from the hunter’s presence and strangling my friend.

"Be quick," ordered Haruda.

"If your skill at hunting is no gift, what then do you do differently? Why do the other hunters bring in so much less game?"

"They have their ways, and I have mine. My ways are better." Tired of the questions, at last, the hunter stood, turned, and entered its hut.

Silently cursing Shizumaat for offending Haruda, I waited until we returned to our shelter. A food preparer brought us some cooked meat, and by the time we had finished eating, my anger had passed. Still, when we stretched out to go to sleep, I asked, "Why did you question Haruda in that manner? Most of the things you asked had nothing to do with hunting."

"No, Namndas, but they did have everything to do with the hunter."

"What do you mean, Shizumaat?"

"Now I know Haruda. I can now put aside studying Haruda and can concentrate my study upon what Haruda does."

Before Aakva’s light touched the sky, the hunters began stirring. We ate cold cakes and drank leaf tea with them and Shizumaat went to Buna and begged for us to be allowed to accompany the hunters. Buna laughed at Shizumaat. "The hunt is difficult enough without being burdened with two youths who never ran the grass."

"Namndas and I are to be denied this experience because we have no experience?"

"Yes," answered Buna.

Feeling as though I should say something, I said, "But to get experience don’t we need to experience the experience?" Each word that came out of my mouth sounded more stupid than the one that preceded it. I was cursing my mouth when Shizumaat nodded approvingly at me.

"Very well said, my friend."

"Impossible," said Buna, despite my pithy argument.

"I will take the pair of them with me," said Haruda. We turned and looked. The chief of the hunt had been listening to us.

Buna frowned, yet its lips seemed eager to smile. "Haruda, we rely upon your skill now more than ever that the game has thinned. These young ones would hamper you, would they not?"

Haruda turned from Buna and looked through the tent opening at the other hunters as they packed their food and weapons for the hunt. "Many times I have claimed to be able to teach my hunting ways to the other hunters. Just as many times, they have all said that it is a god gift, and continued to bring in less each season. It is my intention to take these two soft temple creatures with me on the hunt, and by dark the tribe will proclaim Shizumaat and Namndas next to me as the greatest hunters on the Kudah. Perhaps then the other hunters will allow me to show them what I know."

The hunters, when they were told Shizumaat and I were to become great hunters, laughed at what they thought was Haruda’s joke. There was Buna’s prayer for a good hunt, then, upon Haruda’s silent signal, the hunters began walking east toward the mountain of the morning sun.

By the time Aakva was above the mountain, its light making us shield our eyes, the hunters had broken into smaller parties and had gone in different directions. Shizumaat, Haruda, and I were left by ourselves. Shizumaat and I followed Haruda farther to the east until Aakva was a hand’s breadth above the mountain. It then stopped, turned about and faced us.

"You wished to know what I do differently from the others. Today you shall learn. The most important thing you should learn is that I am no more talented or gifted than the other hunters. Why I bring down more game is simply the manner in which I hunt. First, though, we shall see how the others hunt."

Haruda crouched and began running in a great arc toward the left. We raced after it, and soon we began ascending a slight rise in the plain. Just before reaching the crest, Haruda crouched and Shizumaat and I crouched next to it. Haruda pointed down toward the west and we looked. "See, there? There in the stalks just before the trees. It is Vorusma’s head. In the distance there should be game."

I strained my eyes and could just make out the movement of stalks in the still air. The hunter called Vorusma crept silently toward the movement. Vorusma stopped as a horned head atop a long neck came up from the moving stalks. It was a fine, huge darghat. The head, almost without perceptible motion, surveyed the beast’s surroundings. When the creature’s gaze came to rest upon Vorusma, the beast reared up, turned, and fled. Vorusma hefted its weapons and followed at a dead run, trying to mount its spear in its throw-sling.

I had never seen anyone run as fast as that hunter, but Haruda laughed and pointed as the darghat outdistanced Vorusma. The hunter did not quit running until it dropped into the stalks, exhausted.

"Young ones," said Haruda, "I could show you the same act a hundred times today, for this is how the Kuvedah hunts the darghat and has always hunted the darghat since before Daultha had its doubts. Sometimes the darghat is old and slow, sometimes stupid. Sometimes the others bring in game, but not often. Now I shall show you how Haruda hunts the darghat; and how you shall become great hunters."

We moved to a treegrove, and rested in the top of a thorn tree. Through its branches the plain could be seen for a day’s hard walk. After a few moments, the hunter pointed at a movement in the distant stalks. "There. Do you see it?"

The tall grass moved and I faced the hunter. "I see the stalks moving," I answered.

Shizumaat whispered, "A darghat!"

I looked back. In the distance I could the see the distinctive long neck and horned head rising above the tips of the stalks.

Shizumaat looked at Haruda. "Do we give chase?"

The hunter slowly shook its head. "If you want to sleep in the grass like Vorusma, you may do so." The hunter pointed again at the darghat. "That one is testing the ground, sniffing the air for danger. If he thinks it is safe, he will summon the remainder of his herd. Sit quiet. Watch."

The darghat male examined the surrounding territory for many moments, and then tossed back its head and bleated. Far behind the creature, the stalks stirred, and twenty horned heads appeared above the stalks. Shizumaat clutched Haruda’s arm. "Now? Do we give chase now?"

"No. We will wait. If the herd passes this way without danger, this is the way it will return. Mark their path. When the herd returns, we shall catch and kill a few."

"Haruda, how do you know this?"

"I watch. I listen. I learn. This I have seen the darghat herds do thousands of times. Because of this, they will do so again."

When the herd had moved out of sight, Haruda had Shizumaat and I help in rigging snares across the path that the darghats had taken. The snares consisted of several fiber loops joined together at their draw-ends. Haruda explained. "Several of the darghat will become snared in the same set of loops and will fight and pull against each other until they are exhausted. Then we will move in with spears."

I studied upon it and saw in my mind that the simple scheme would work—had already worked, if Haruda’s reputation as a hunter was any evidence. But it seemed so simple. That is the way it happened, though. With the three of us wielding the spears at the tired, helpless darghats, our kill that day better than tripled the catch of any other three hunters that day. Among the greatest hunters of the Kuvedah, their reputations made in one day as Haruda had promised, were Shizumaat and Namndas.

I said to Shizumaat that night, "It is a wonderful thing to be a great hunter, is it not?"

"Our reputations will not last past tomorrow’s hunt, Namndas."

"Not last? Why?"

Shizumaat giggled and said, "Haruda proclaimed to all of the hunters that it would take two fools and make them better hunters than all of the experienced hunters in the tribe just by showing them something new. Because of their beliefs, and because they were frightened to learn something new, they never wanted to see what Haruda had to show them. I think some of them do now. Most won’t, but a few will look at the new way. Haruda has put the proof to its claim."

The next evening showed me the truth of Shizumaat’s words. Most of the hunters passed off Shizumaat’s and my kills as trickery or magic. Four experienced hunters asked Haruda to show them what it had showed us, and before Aakva’s light again died in the west, great hunters in the Kudah were becoming as common as grass. There were, though, other things to learn, and perhaps other things to teach.

Shizumaat’s experience with the hunters had it thinking many things over and asking many questions. It studied the things the Kuvedah did with and about everything. Why do the pregnant Kuvedah go to Kachine for advice? Why did the one called Vijnya make the best spear points? Shizumaat listened to the advice Kachine gave, and it watched Vijnya make its spear points. And Shizumaat studied every member of the tribe. Thus passed the year until Kangar’s death.

All gathered at the bank of the stream to watch Kangar’s pyre illuminate the night, the flames sending the old master of master’s spirit to Aakva’s Children. Since the time of choosing the new master through combat had long since passed, the clan masters gathered before their own fire to select the new master of masters. From the stories we had both heard as children, such councils were notorious for their rancor and resulting feuds. This council, though, had only one name on its lips: Mantar, the wise leader of its clan. Buna cast the colored fires and read in them that Mantar’s rule would be long and prosperous.

On the next morning, Buna talked to Shizumaat and me about places within the Kuvedah, to become teacher-ones, those who pass on lessons to the tribe’s young. To become a teacher-one of the Kuvedah we would have to reveal a great truth at our first night before the fires of the meeting lodge. Most teacher-ones would reveal mystical truths about the wishes and ways of the gods and great figures of the past. Such truths were profound, and mostly impossible to question. I chose such a truth, and I spoke of Uhe and how it had to do war to find peace and how the peace it found, if kept, should keep the Sindie united and at peace for eternity.

But Shizumaat chose to reveal a truth about the Sindie. It stood between the two fires, faced Banu and Mantar, and lifted its arms. Those in the meeting lodge quieted.

"Each thing that we do, no matter how slight, is to achieve a goal. There are countless goals and countless ways in which we try to achieve them. A goal is the present altered in some way in order that the future will contain that which the present does not contain. To achieve the same goal, though, the ways we each choose are different because we each see by different lights. There are ways that bring the achievement of the goal quickly, ways that achieve the goal slowly, ways that achieve the goal poorly, and ways that achieve the goal not at all."

Shizumaat reached into its pouch and brought forth a long sliver of grainless stone. It held it in its hands so that all could see, "This is a stone spear point fashioned by Kijnya. Kijnya’s points are known by all the Kuvedah as the best. But Kijnya cannot make enough of them."

"This is true," said Haruda, chief of the hunt. "If we had to rely only upon Kijnya’s points, we would starve." There were laughs and agreeing nods from those seated around the fires.

Shizumaat drew forth another spear point from its pouch and held it up. "This is a spear point fashioned by Uline. Most of the hunters tip their spears with Uline’s points."

The chief of the hunt nodded. "They are not as sharp as Kijnya’s points, nor as true, but Uline makes them quickly. The hunters can always obtain new points from Uline."

Shizumaat drew forth a third point from its pouch and held it up. "This was taken from a child’s play spear. It was fashioned by Akkar, the child of Soam." Shizumaat walked between the fires and handed the spear point to Haruda. "Judge this."

The chief of the hunt studied the point, tested it with its fingers, then handed it back Shizumaat. "It is made well enough, but it is too short and too narrow. It would not allow the shaft to penetrate to the deep heart of a darghat."

Shizumaat handed Haruda another point. "And this one?"

The chief of the hunt laughed as it took it. "This stone has a heavy, loose grain, and watch." Haruda pressed the point between a thumb and finger. The point crumbled. "I doubt if this point could penetrate water."

As the laughter in the lodge waned, Shizumaat retrieved the pieces from Haruda. By the time the laughter had died, Shizumaat had resumed its place before the two fires.

"The fourth point was made by Pelard." There was more laughter, for all knew old Pelard had gone dark in its mind years ago. When the lodge was again quiet, Shizumaat held out its hands.

"The goal was to tip a shaft with a point sharp enough, strong enough, and true enough to bring down the big game. But to achieve this same goal, four different ways were used." Shizumaat held up Kijnya’s point. "Kijnya’s way achieves the goal well, but slowly." U line’s point was held up next. "Uline’s way achieves the goal quickly, but not as well." Shizumaat then held up Akkar’s point. "The child Akkar’s point achieves the goal poorly." Shizumaat dropped the pieces of Petard’s point upon the ground. "And poor Pelard’s point achieves the goal not at all."

Mantar, chief of the Kuvedah, held out its hand. "And Shizumaat, what do you see in these things? What great truth have you gleaned from your spear points?"

Shizumaat faced the chief. "Mantar, in all that we try to achieve we use ways. These points prove that some ways are superior to others. The ways of Kijnya and Uline are obviously superior to the ways of Akkar and Pelard."

Mantar nodded its agreement. "But Shizumaat, what of Kijnya and Uline? Which of their ways is the superior?"

"Mantar, if the goal is to tip one spear in the best manner, Kijnya’s way is superior. But if the goal is to tip many spears in the best manner, Uline’s way is the superior." Shizumaat turned from the chief and looked at those seated around the lodge fires. "But is there a way superior to Kijnya’s and Uline’s?"

Mantar shook its head. "It is well known they are the best point makers in the Kuvedah. How can there be a way superior to theirs?"

"There may be no better way now, but cannot we imagine one?"

Haruda, chief of the hunt, thought upon the question, then looked at Shizumaat. "In my mind it would be a way that would produce points as quickly as Uline does, but of the same quality of points as those fashioned by Kijnya. But as to specifics, I know not."

Shizumaat motioned toward the back of the lodge, and two strong Sindie carried out a large tan stone, while a third Sindie carried smaller stones of different sizes and several lengths of bone. They placed the large stone before Shizumaat, and the smaller stones and bones upon the large stone.

Shizumaat squatted before the large stone and picked up one of the smaller stones in its left hand. Twice it hit the edge of the large stone, causing a long splinter of rock to be broken free. Quickly Shizumaat picked up the splinter and began shaping it with one of the smaller rocks. With the point in the shape the teacher-one desired, it then picked up a bone and tapped it rapidly along the edges of the point, causing tiny chips to fly away, leaving the edges sharp. It was finished almost before anyone realized it. Shizumaat stood and handed the point to Haruda. "Judge that."

The chief of the hunt studied the point, tested its edge for sharpness, hefted it for weight, then nodded at Shizumaat. "It is as fine as anything Kijnya has fashioned."

Kijnya stood up in its place at the back of the lodge. "Shizumaat, I would see the spear point you made." The point was passed back to the point maker. Kijnya studied the point, then looked up and around at those seated in the meeting lodge. "Shizumaat came to study my way of making points, and this is a fine piece of work. But even I cannot make one that rapidly."

Across the lodge from Kijnya, Uline stood. "I would see it. Pass me the spear point." The point was passed to Uline. It studied the point, then looked at Shizumaat. "You made this point as quickly as any that I have fashioned, but it is truly of finer quality." Uline looked at Kijnya. "Shizumaat studied my way of point making as well."

The point was passed around the lodge until it came to Mantar. The chief studied it, then passed it to Shizumaat. "And your great truth is a better way of point making?"

Shizumaat took the point. "No, Mantar. My truth is this. In all things that we do, some ways are better than others. Of all of the better ways, some are the best. Of the best that exist, still better ways wait to be discovered and invented."

Shizumaat held up the spear point that it had fashioned. "At this moment, my way of making points is the best, and I will show anyone who wants to learn how it is done. I can imagine, though, the requirements of a better way—a host of better ways. If they could be made even faster, even sharper, or of strong metal, these would be better ways. If the spear could be replaced by a quicker, lighter, more efficient weapon, then that would be a better way. If weapons and the hunt could be eliminated, freeing us to improve our lands and make homes, this too would be a better way. This is true, as well, for every goal we seek to achieve, from feeding our children, learning, and living an honorable life, to worshipping the gods."

Shizumaat stood between the fires and studied those seated around the walls of the lodge. "The Kuvedah must search for these ways, in our minds, and among each other; for there is always a talma, a superior path. Make the talma your quest in life for all things, and your life will become talma. This is the great truth I reveal this night."

Mantar stood and addressed those seated in the meeting lodge. "Namndas has told us a very old and very valuable truth, and has earned its post as a teacher-one to the Kuvedah."

I bowed toward Mantar, and the chief nodded at me in return. Mantar then faced Shizumaat. "You have earned your post as teacher-one to the Kuvedah, as well. Your truth will require much thought. Therefore, Shizumaat, I command you to teach this truth to the Kuvedah. Further, I command the Kuvedah to learn this truth, and to live by it. Finally, from this night forward, each new child born shall learn this talma before it may enter the rites of adulthood."

We taught Shizumaat’s truth the length and breadth of the Kudah, following the tribe as it followed the hunt. When the last of them had learned the truth, new students of Varrah’s came to the Kuvedah to replace us. Shizumaat and I bid farewell to Buna, Mantar, Haruda and the rest, then aimed our feet for the north, the Dirudah, the city of Butaan, and the Temple of Uhe.

We had learned many things with the Kuvedah, and we talked of all of the ways to apply talma to the things we do and wish to do, and again we played with burning brands beneath Aakva’s Children. As the rains began we entered Butaan and walked the streets and ways of the city, our eyes drinking in all of the changes that had been made since we had left for the Kudah. When we reached the temple, we washed the road from our feet, and found our class at its place within the next row of columns. Our fellow students greeted us with embraces and we hastily begged for their stories and what they had learned through their adventures. Before anyone could reply, though, Ebneh approached and took its place in the center of our class. I looked to Shizumaat, and Shizumaat looked to Ebneh. The old servant who had caused Shizumaat to be beaten looked up at us and wearily shook its head. "Varrah is dead, its pyre cold these twenty days." Ebneh lifted its hand toward Shizumaat, and let it fall to its lap. "I am terribly sorry, Shizumaat. I know from what Varrah told me how much you loved your teacher. I loved Varrah, too. Perhaps even more."

I could see the tears on Shizumaat’s face, and was not surprised to feel them on my own. My surprise was saved for when I saw tears on Ebneh’s face, and saw Shizumaat go and embrace the old servant. Pity, forgiveness, putting the past to rest, these too are talmas to a better future. I joined in the embrace, and remembering Varrah and the freedom of a thought were the lessons for the day.

The Story of Shizumaat (Continued)

Fragment: Namndas

That night, first I noticed that the temple lights had not all been raised to the proper height. Then I saw young Shizumaat, its face upraised, dancing in slow whorls upon Uhe’s Tomb! I rushed to the center of the temple and came to a stop with my hands upon the stone cover of the vault.

"Shizumaat! Shizumaat, come down! Come down or I will execute you before the servants can get at you with their rods!"

Shizumaat stopped its dance and looked down at me. "Namndas, come up here and join me. I have the most wonderful thing to show you."

"You would have me dance upon Uhe’s grave?"

"Come up here, Namndas."

Shizumaat returned to its whirling, and I grabbed the edge of the cover and pulled myself up, swearing to break Shizumaat into three hundred pieces. Once I stood, Shizumaat pointed toward the ceiling. "Look up, Namndas."

The force in its words compelled me to look up, and what I saw was the disarray of temple lights. Their heights were arranged so that the lights were equally distant from a point just above the tomb, forming a hemisphere. And not all of the lamps were lit.

"Shizumaat, we will both be driven from the temple for this night’s work."

"Don’t you see it? Look up, Namndas! Don’t you see it?"

"See what?"

"Dance, Namndas. Dance. Turn to your right."

I turned, saw the lights whirl about me, then I stopped and faced my charge. "Shizumaat, this only makes my head swim. We must climb down from here before we are discovered!"

"Aaah!" cried the youth in disgust. Shizumaat jumped from the tomb and hit the stone floor running toward the eastern wall. I jumped and ran after it. When I reached the top of the great stairs, still stained with Shizumaat’s blood, Shizumaat itself was standing far into the dark center of the city square.

I ran down the stairs, across the square, and stopped in the center as I angrily grabbed Shizumaat’s left arm. "I shall gladly take a rod and do the servants' work for them, you fool!"

"Look up, Namndas! Curse your thick skull! Look up!"

Still holding onto its arm, I looked up. What I saw were Aakva’s children arranged in a pattern similar to the pattern of the temple’s lights but tilted toward the blue light of The Child Who Never Moves. "You have reproduced the arrangement of the night sky with the lamps."

"Yes!"

"But this will not save your skin, Shizumaat."

Shizumaat pointed toward that speck of blue light. "Turn your face toward The Child Who Never Moves. Then, Namndas, turn slowly to your right."

I did so. The implications of what I saw turned my legs to water. I sat with a thump upon the stones of the square. I put out my hands and touched the unyielding, motionless stone. "It cannot be!"

Shizumaat squatted next to me. "Then you have seen it, too!"

I nodded. "Yes, I have seen it."

With the morning’s light, the servants of Aakva found both of us dancing upon Uhe’s tomb…

We stood there on the crest of the Akkujah, the mortar drying upon our hands, and Shizumaat pointed at the column of rocks we had built. "You shall wait for me here, Namndas, at this mark. Guard it, allow none of the servants to move it or tear it down." Shizumaat pointed one hand toward the west. "I leave for the Madah, ever to follow Aakva’s dying path. If I am correct, I shall meet you again, and at this place." It held up its other arm toward the Morning Mountains. "I will come to you, though, from there."

I looked from the Akkujah out over the parched lands of the Madah, then back at Shizumaat. "If you do not return? What then, Shizumaat?"

"Then either I am wrong about the shape of this world, or I did not have the wit and strength to prove myself correct."

"If you fail, Shizumaat, what should I do?"

Shizumaat placed a hand upon my arm. "Poor Namndas. As always, it is your choice. You can forget me; you can forget the things we have learned; or you can attempt to prove that which I am attempting to prove."

Fragment: Mistaan

You are young, Mistaan. To brave this wall of hate and warriors' iron that surrounds me shows me your youth. When you are older you shall call this youth foolishness.

The brute is unpredictable.

If the brute were predictable, though, it would no longer be fearsome. Have the warriors caged you in my pen to die with me? Or would they have you do for them the task that they fear to do? It would please the brute to have Mistaan, the student of Vehya, murder Vehya’s teacher.

I answered Shizumaat by saying: Shizumaat, Aakva’s servants would have you condemn yourself from your own mouth. This is why they let me record your words.

The brute listens, does it? Perhaps the brute can learn. It is possible. This trial might be a talma to such learning.

Then, Mistaan, I stand before them as I stand before you, and as I stand before all of the ages that follow, for they too shall be my magistrates. Let this be my trial.

Should I plead my innocence? Since no crime has been committed, I cannot be innocent of its commission.

By that same truth, though, I cannot plead my guilt. There can be no guilt without a crime.

It is such a puzzle.

It thrives on puzzles, Shizumaat.

The brute thrives on puzzles, does it?

Know this, Mistaan: the brute derives its nourishment by making puzzles; not by solving them. Once the puzzles are solved, the brute’s excuse for existence is lost. Only by continued strife and suffering can the brute justify its existence.

Let us rise to the challenge of this puzzle, Mistaan. Let us decide how I should plead.

The stonewood poles surround us. The fire makes the night clouds red. These are preparations for criminal punishment. Perhaps I am being suspicious, but I suspect that the matter of my guilt is already settled.

Do you hear the death chant?

They beg their god to turn its hand against this criminal once the flames have left nothing but ash and spirit. Does Aakva listen to such prayers? I ask Uhe’s spirit, is it possible that Aakva is that imperfect a god?

To some it might appear to be in bad order to prepare for the execution before the trial, and to have the trial before the crime. But the brute rules this insignificant patch of time, and this is the order that the brute calls efficiency.

We shall follow in kind, then, Mistaan. I shall make my plea at the end of my trial.

Are you ready with your skin that speaks? Then let us begin.

Fragment: Shizumaat

"The first given is existence; its fact, not its form, nor its manner of change, nor the purposes ascribed to its aspects by its creatures."

Fragment: Shizumaat

"Instead believe this: question everything, accept the wholeness of no truth nor the absolute rightness of any path. Make this your creed and in it you will find eventual comfort and security, for in this creed is your right to rule the lower creatures of the Universe, for in this creed is your right to choose your talma, for in this creed stands your right to freedom."

Fragment: Shizumaat

"With neither my agreement or permission, you take your words and place them on my tongue. It is not my belief that talma is The Way, as you put it. There are an infinite number of paths from any existence to any imagined future. The Madah servants had a way. Uhe’s way was superior. There were ways superior to Uhe’s, and further ways superior to those. Some paths we know, some we do not know. Some paths we can imagine and bring into being. Some paths we can imagine we cannot bring into being until other paths have been traveled. Some paths we can imagine but cannot be brought into being because to do so the universe would have to be shattered.

The Way does not exist; only the ways we use and the ways we invent and choose. Talma is not The Way; talma is a way for finding ways."

Fragment: Shizumaat

"As do all creatures, we seek the comfort and the security of the safe path, its direction to be found through eternal knowns and indestructible verities. But to be creatures of choice, we must necessarily abandon the comfort and security of instinct, for all our knowns are probabilities, and all our truths are doctrines amendable when truer truths are presented."

KODA AYVIDA

The Story of Mistaan

It was Mistaan who invented writing and who first recorded The Myth of Aakva, The Story of Uhe, and The Story of Shizumaat, as told by Namndas and by Mistaan’s own observations of Shizumaat’s trial and execution. It was Mistaan who heard Shizumaat’s claim of another race existing in a far land; a race different from the Sindie.

Fragment: Mistaan

"Talma shows each one its path. But, as beings of choice, we can choose not to see the signs."

Fragment: Mistaan

"There are those who would fit the wanderer into a place in this Universe, and one seeking such a place might accept this. Moreover, one might find such a place already constructed and accept this as one’s own. However, places that are found are not for creatures such as us. To fit a unique being of choice into roles and places fabricated by others or found by chance is to diminish that being’s choices and its individuality. Each being of choice, who would remain so, must forge its own place."

KODA SCHADA

The Story of Ioa and Lurrvanna

The rule of Kulubansu, the overthrow and destruction of the Servants of Aakva, Ioa and the establishment of the first Talman Kovah. Lurrvanna takes over as master of the Talman Kovah. The first invasion of the Orange Ones. The rule of Rodaak the Barbarian, the Talman Kovah destroyed, the persecution of the Talmani.

Fragment: Ioa

"Nothingness is a tool of the mind: the useful naught of the mathematician, builder, and accounts keeper. Nothingness is not a state either of mind or of being. All that exists will always exist; all who exist will always exist. All that changes is form and the perception of form."

Fragment: Ioa

Consider the one who observes that which is around it then asks "What do these objects and events tell me?" Such is the way and the manner of life; such is the tool of those who would live. Consider, as well, the one who searches only through its mind to determine what is, and what is not, and then looks only to the objects and events that support its conclusions and says "This is truth." Such is the way and the manner of purposeless sacrifice; such is the tool of the mad, the criminal, and those who hunger for power.

Fragment: Lurrvanna

Lurrvanna looked up from its bandaged stumps and spoke to its masters and students: "The Talman is forbidden to us. The temple in which we study talma, our Talman Kovah, has been destroyed. The Talmani have been either murdered or frightened into hiding. Our writings earn their authors the loss of their hands. Rodaak and its soldiers would have The Talman disappear from memory.

"But memory is the refuge of the Talmani, and it is there where we shall hide The Talman from Rodaak. Fix the words into your minds; then take them, whisper The Talman to others, and have those others pass the words on to still others."

Fragment: Lurrvanna

"Time is our friend. In time, Rodaak and its police will no longer be. In time, we shall make known again the value of talma. In time, The Talman will again be written and the walls of a new Talman Kovah will stand upon these broken stones. In time, tomorrow will come."

KODA ITHEDA

Aydan and The War of Ages

The War of Ages between the Orange Ones, called the Lleghis, and the Sindie.

For over a thousand years the races war for control of the world. The rise of Aydan who turned war, then peace, into sciences. Aydan’s army and a peace of complex balances ends the War of Ages.

Fragment: Aydan

"Aydan," spoke Niagat, "I would serve Heraak; I would see an end to war; I would be one of your warmasters."

"Would you kill to achieve this, Niagat?"

"I would kill."

"Would you kill Heraak to achieve this?"

"Kill Heraak, my master?" Niagat paused and considered the question. "If l cannot have both, I would see Heraak dead to see an end to war."

"That is not what I asked."

"And, Aydan, I would do the killing."

"And, now, would you die to achieve this?"

"I would risk death as does any warrior."

"Again, Niagat, that is not my question. If an end to war can only be purchased at the certain cost of your own life, would you die by your own hand to achieve peace?"

Niagat studied upon the thing that Aydan asked. "I am willing to take the gamble of battle. In this gamble there is the chance of seeing my goal. But my certain death, and by my own hand, there would be no chance of seeing my goal. No. I would not take my own life for this. That would be foolish. Have I passed your test?"

"You have failed, Niagat. Your goal is not peace; your goal is to live in peace. Return when your goal is peace alone and you hold a willing knife at your own throat to achieve it. That is the price of a warmaster’s blade."

Fragment: Aydan

There will come to you at times a blinding vision that fills your eyes and mind, announcing itself as Truth. Step back and strike down this vision and beat it as though it were a brain-sucking monster.

Then, with it lying there limp, bent, and tarnished, if it still claims to be Truth, accept it with great caution, remembering that the most dangerous lies arrive in the most highly polished armor.

Fragment: Aydan

"Should the goal make honorable the means necessary to achieve that goal? Or does the honorableness of the means employed sanctify whatever goal is achieved through them? Or is right rooted in the honor of both means and ends? One choice makes the leader capable of leading a people at war. The other choice makes the leader capable of ruling a world at peace."

KODA HIVEDA

The Story of Tochalla

Against violent and almost successful opposition, Tochalla begins the movement to reassemble the Talmani and to rebuild the Talman Kovah.

Fragment: Tochalla

Tochalla told those who would listen about lessons and a discipline that had been crushed and forbidden five centuries before. In the intervening five hundred years, the surviving memories and fragments of talma had become things twisted by faulty memories and embellished by generations of the ignorant and the imaginative.

"We will take it all," wrote Tochalla. "We will gather in everything, much as Rhada did with the many versions of the Laws of Aakva, and we will examine, test, discuss, and challenge everything. If we are honest and mean only to serve truth, then what remains will be the truth of it."

Fragment: Tochalla

I look at a battlefield and see the combatants twisted in death, seemingly still battling in that existence beyond, and I see this knife before me and see an argument for joining the dead. It is so clear to the Talmanist, this wonderful future of health, prosperity, and freedom, and all that needs to be done is to protect this freedom. "Here is everything you need and want in this little box," I cry to the fighters. "All you need to do is open it!"

But first there must be a war to determine if the box should be opened, who should open the box, who should interpret the meaning of the contents, who should select the recipients of the gifts, who should distribute them, and who should tax them and at what percentage.

There is something so deceptively clean about a knife. Suicide is the powerless one’s illusion of killing the Universe. It is a powerful illusion, though. Its temptation draws me to the edge, but it is at the edge where I remember the words of my old teacher, Bakkni Liu, now dead these thirty years. "It would be a shame to end your life the moment before the talma you need to achieve your goals appears."

That is my fear: to open my veins and have revealed to me the answer I seek just as the last drop of my blood hits the ground. I put the knife away, then, and remind myself that the only entity who knows all the paths of talma is the Universe. As a part of the Universe, I will exercise patience and wait for the rest of the Universe to inform this part what the proper path is.

KODA TAKMEDA

The Story of Cohneret

Cohneret who, under the rule of the wise Ponu Li, studied the role of accidents and their uses, and the rules governing love and the other passions.

Fragment: Cohneret

"In the past are the mistakes we made. In the future are the mistakes we will make. In the present are the mistakes we are making. Curse the mistakes, rail at them, regret them, learn from them. But do not wish for the perfection of time when mistakes will no longer be made, for that is what we call death."

Fragment: Cohneret

Passion is a creature of rules. This does not mean do not love, do not hate. It means that where your passion limits talma, you must step outside of the rules of your love and hate to allow talma to serve you.

KODA NUSCHADA

The Story of Maltak Di

Maltak Di and the codification of The Talman, the teachings, and the rituals: systematized problem-solving strategies, investigated truth, observation, and the method of the witness.

Fragment: Maltak Di

"The Talman does not contain all truth, and never will it. For this generation, and for all the generations of all the futures, newer and better truths exist. We must keep The Talman open to these truths, or see talma become another curious myth of the past. To all of those generations and futures, then: if you have such a truth, stand before the Talman Kovah, as did Uhe before the Mavedah, and speak it."

Fragment: Maltak Di

"Choice' is not an empty word that I use, Arlan; it is the nature of our race. To be alive is to have the ability to have goals; to be of this special life, is to have the ability to choose; and to choose anything is to choose goals.

"Without a goal, Arlan, you are simply taking up space not only in this room, and this kovah, but in this Universe. Either find a goal, or turn the space over to one who does have a goal."

Fragment: Maltak Di

And Maltak Di said to the student: "I have sixteen beads in my hand. I’ll give you six beads, how many beads will I have in my hand?"

"You will have ten, Jetah."

"Hold out your hand." And the student did so. Maltak Di then dropped six beads into the student’s hand and opened its own hand to show that it was empty.

"You lied, Jetah!"

"Yes. Your response to my question should have been Jetah, open your hand and let me, first, see the sixteen beads. Instead you answered from ignorance."

"Jetah, that is not fair!"

"Now you answer from stupidity."

Fragment: Maltak Di

Maltak Di drew upon the slate a circle and a square, and then it connected the two figures with two lines. Of the first student, Maltak Di asked: "Nyath, how many different paths are there from the circle to the square?"

"There are two paths, Jetah."

"Nyath, you may not stay; you cannot learn." Maltak Di faced the second student. "Oura, how many different paths are there from the circle to the square?"

"Jetah, if the two paths are repeated turn-in-turn, there can be many."

"Oura, you may stay; perhaps you can learn." Maltak Di faced the third student. "Irrisa, how many different paths are there from the circle to the square?"

"A number without finite limit, Jetah."

"Irrisa, you must stay. Perhaps one day you can teach."

KODA OVSINDA

The Story of Lita

Lita’s further investigations of truth and the realities of illusions

Fragment: Lita

The unintentional chain of events we call an accident describes paths as real as any path planned, diagrammed, and executed in principle with talma. And if the accident alters the present to the more desirable future, this special kind of path has the advantage of having already been proven valid.

Fragment: Lita

"Without a key, a door is a wall. Without a door, a key is but matter. A door with a key in the presence of mind is an opening. Without mind, neither the key, the door, nor the opening can exist.

Fragment: Lita

"Are we to ignore a truth revealed through crime because the method of obtaining the truth is somehow tainted? Nonsense. Truth is truth. The crime would be to ignore it."

KODA SIOVIDA

The Story of Faldaam

Faldaam, first Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah, supervised the movement of the Talman Kovah from Butaan to the new city of Namndas’s Mark. Faldaam investigated the problems of meaning and language.

Fragment: Faldaam

"Words are maps to existence. Once you travel a portion of reality, it is possible to know the meaning of its words. If all you have before you, though, are words, all you can consider are meaningless croaks and marks."

Fragment: Faldaam

The student asked, "Ovjetah, what is knowledge?"

Faldaam studied the question, and the student. "Knowing that you do not know, bright light, is knowledge."

KODA SINUVIDA

The Story of Zineru

Zineru taught talma through individual and team sports. Its principal work investigates communication and the casting of lessons.

Fragment: Zineru

The learned student has much to contribute to the game. However, the hard truths, the ones that cannot be manipulated, will be told to us by the players.

The players have seen and felt the metal; the students have only theorized about it.

KODA SIAYVIDA

The Story of Ro

Ro extended the application of the principles of talma to crime and the law. A militant movement among a sect of the Talmani to remove the Myth of Aakva from The Talman was opposed and defeated by Ro. Students of Ro’s were the discoverers of the projected death of the Planet Sindie.

Fragment: Ro

We place these words on paper and carve them into stone which gives them more authority than any words deserve. As future generations learn, these words may become less guides to truth and more objects of mindless reverence unless those future students retain the courage to amend the incorrect and discard the false. Truth above self; truth above family; truth above clan, tribe, and nation; truth above gods; truth above all.

Fragment: Ro

The tool of the one who acts becomes the one who acts. The one who murders is no more responsible than the one who orders the murder and provides the weapon and compensation—and no less.

KODA SISHADA

The Story of Atavu

Atavu was Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah at the time of the civil war between the supporters of the Talmani and the Tieyki, those who would remain. Upon the end of the war and the victory of the Talmani, Atavu and the Jetai Diea of the Talman Kovah left with the generation ships.

Fragment: Atavu

Sometimes I contemplate this awful vastness of the space we travel through. Giant stars are but particles of dust in the scheme of this Universe. And we search for an even smaller particle upon which to refound our race. It is an awesome task. But is it as frightening a task as Uhe’s vision set before it? In out hearts we only challenge the Universe as we know it, and we know it very well.

Uhe challenged what it thought to be God.

Fragment: Atavu

Truth of nature and import of meaning are not matters determinable by a consensus. If only one being understands the meaning, the meaning is understood. If only one being sees the truth, the truth is seen.

KODA SHITEDA

The Story of Poma

After seventy-one generations aboard the ships, Poma was the Jetah who discovered and chose the planet upon which the race was refounded. The planet was named Draco for the elderly Ovjetah who died as the ships made landfall. Poma became the first Ovjetah of Planet Draco’s Talman Kovah set in the camp that eventually became the city of Sindie.

KODA SIHIVEDA

The Story of Eam

As the explorers of Draco began the colonization of other planets, Eam formulated its talma of colonization.

KODA SITAKMEDA

The Story of Namvaac

The Thousand-Year War, where thirty-one planets of the Rutaan Alliance combined to separate from Draco. Hundreds of years into the rebellion, Planet Draco under siege, the Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah chose Namvaac to take the Talman Kovah and its students and hide them within the vastness of space.

Fragment: Namvaac

And the student said to Namvaac, "Jetah, the darkness covers all the Universe. It is such an all-powerful evil, I feel so small and helpless within it. Next to this darkness, the black of death seems so bright."

Namvaac studied the hooked blade, then handed it back to the student. "Where you are now, child, Tochalla has been before you. It, too, was in darkness. It, too, had a knife. But Tochalla also had talma."

KODA SINUSHADA

The Story of Ditaar

The end of the Thousand-Year War under the stewardship of Ovjetah Ditaar, who designed and formed the Dracon Chamber to govern the seventy-two planets colonized from Planet Draco.

"What are the goals? What are the intended goals? Whose goals are served by the event? Whose goals are intended to be served by the event?

"The more of the truths you acquire that you need to satisfy these questions, the closer you will be to understanding the situations that arise between creatures. And understanding the event is but a particle away from controlling its nature and effects."

"I have stood where the Kathni have stood, and the universe is a different thing through their eyes. Long ago Lurrvanna taught us that logic is a creature of context and invention. If this was true for beings inhabiting the same planet for uncounted thousands of years, can it be less true for beings evolving from separate environments, inhabiting different planets?"

KODA NUSINDA

The Eyes of Joanne Nicole

Written by the first Ovjetah of Earth’s Talman Kovah, Tessia Lewis, it is the story of Joanne Nicole, a USEF soldier captured during the USE-Draco War, and who became part of a talma to peace. Its publication for human audiences was under the title, The Tomorrow Testament.

ENEMY MINE

The Drac’s three-fingered hands flexed. In the thing’s yellow eyes I could read the desire to have those fingers around either a weapon or my throat. As I flexed my own fingers, I knew it read the same in my eyes.

"Irkmaan!" the thing spat.

"You piece of Drac slime." I brought my hands up in front of my chest and waved the thing on. "Come on, Drac; come and get it."

"Irkmaan vaa, koruum su!"

"Are you going to talk, or fight? Come on!" I could feel the spray from the sea behind me—a boiling madhouse of white-capped breakers that threatened to swallow me as it had my fighter. I had ridden my ship in. The Drac had ejected when its own fighter had caught one in the upper atmosphere, but not before crippling my power plant. I was exhausted from swimming to the grey, rocky beach and pulling myself to safety. Behind the Drac, among the rocks on the otherwise barren hill, I could see its ejection capsule. Far above us, its people and mine were still at it, slugging out the possession of an uninhabited corner of nowhere. The Drac just stood there and I went over the phrase taught us in training—a phrase calculated to drive any Drac into a frenzy. "Kiz da yuomeen Shizumaat!" Meaning: Shizumaat, the most revered Drac philosopher, eats kiz excrement. Some thing on the level of stuffing a Moslem full of pork.

The Drac opened its mouth in horror, then closed it as black anger literally changed its color from yellow to reddish-brown.

I had taken an oath to fight and die over many things, but that venerable rodent didn’t happen to be one of them. I laughed, and continued laughing until the guffaws in combination with my exhaustion forced me to my knees. I forced open my eyes to keep track of my enemy. The Drac was running toward the high ground, away from me and the sea. I half-turned toward the sea and caught a glimpse of a million tons of water just before they fell on me, knocking me unconscious.

"Kiz da yuomeen, Irkmaan, ne?"

My eyes were gritty with sand and stung with salt, but some part of my awareness pointed out: "Hey, you’re alive." I reached to wipe the sand from my eyes and found my hands bound. A straight metal rod had been run through my sleeves and my wrists tied to it. As my tears cleared the sand from my eyes, I could see the Drac sitting on a smooth black boulder looking at me. It must have pulled me out of the drink. "Thanks, toad face. What’s with the bondage?"

"Ess?"

I tried waving my arms and wound up giving an impression of an atmospheric fighter dipping its wings. "Untie me, you Drac slime!" I was seated on the sand, my back against a rock.

The Drac smiled, exposing the upper and lower mandibles that looked human —except, that instead of separate teeth, they were solid. "Eh, ne, Irkmaan." It stood, walked over to me and checked my bonds.

"Untie me!"

The smile disappeared. 'Ne!" It pointed at me with a yellow finger. "Kos son va?"

"I don’t speak Drac, toad face. You speak Esper or English?"

The Drac delivered a very human-looking shrug, then pointed at its own chest. "Kos va son Jeriba Shigan." It pointed again at me. "Kos son va?"

"Davidge. My name is Willis E. Davidge."

"Ess?"

I tried my tongue on the unfamiliar syllables. "Kos va son Willis Davidge."

"Eh." Jeriba Shigan nodded, then motioned with its fingers. "Dasu, Davidge."

"Same to you, Jerry."

"Dasu, dasu!" The toad face began sounding a little impatient. I shrugged as best I could. The Drac bent over and grabbed the front of my jumpsuit with both hands and pulled me to my feet. "Dasu, dasu, kizlode!"

"All right! So dasu is get up. What’s a kizlode?"

Jerry laughed. "Gavey kiz?"

"Yeah, I gavey."

Jerry pointed at its head. "Lode." It pointed at my head. "Kizlode, gavey?"

I got it, then swung my arms around, catching Jerry upside its head with the metal rod. The Drac stumbled back against a rock, looking surprised. It raised a hand to its head and withdrew it covered with that pale pus that Dracs think is blood. It looked at me with murder in its eyes. "Gefh! Nu Gefh, Davidge!"

"Come and get it, Jerry, you kizlode sonofabitch!"

Jerry dived at me and I tried to catch it again with the rod, but the Drac caught my right wrist in both hands and, using the momentum of my swing, whirled me around, slamming my back against another rock. Just as I was getting back my breath, Jerry picked up a small boulder and came at me with every intention of turning my melon into pulp. With my back against the rock, I lifted a foot and kicked the Drac in the midsection, knocking it to the sand. I ran up, ready to stomp Jerry’s melon, but he pointed behind me. I turned and saw another tidal wave gathering steam, and heading our way. "Kid" Jerry got to its feet and scampered for the high ground with me following close behind. With the roar of the wave at our backs, we weaved among the black water and sand-ground black boulders until we reached Jerry’s ejection capsule. The Drac stopped, put its shoulder to the egg-shaped contraption, and began rolling it uphill. I could see Jerry’s point. The capsule contained all of the survival equipment and food either of us knew about. "Jerry!" I shouted above the rumble of the fast-approaching wave. "Pull out this damn rod and I’ll help!" The Drac frowned at me. "The rod, kizlode, pull it out!" I cocked my head toward my outstretched arm.

Jerry placed a rock beneath the capsule to keep it from rolling back, then quickly untied my wrists and pulled out the rod. Both of us put our shoulders to the capsule, and we quickly rolled it to higher ground. The wave hit and climbed rapidly up the slope until it came up to our chests. The capsule bobbed like a cork, and it was all we could do to keep control of the thing until the water receded, wedging the capsule between three big boulders. I stood there, puffing.

Jerry dropped to the sand, its back against one of the boulders, and watched the water rush back out to sea. "Magasiennal"

"You said it, brother." I sank down next to the Drac; we agreed by eye to a temporary truce, and promptly passed out.

My eyes opened on a sky boiling with blacks and greys. Letting my head loll over on my left shoulder, I checked out the Drac. It was still out. First, I thought that this would be the perfect time to get the drop on Jerry. Second, I thought about how silly our insignificant scrap seemed compared to the insanity of the sea that surrounded us. Why hadn’t the rescue team come? Did the Dracon fleet wipe us out? Why hadn’t the Dracs come to pick up Jerry? Did they wipe out each other? I didn’t even know where I was. An island. I had seen that much coming in, but where and in relation to what? Fyrine IV; the planet didn’t even rate a name, but was important enough to die over.

With an effort, I struggled to my feet. Jerry opened its eyes and quickly pushed itself to a defensive crouching position. I waved my hand and shook my head. "Ease off, Jerry. I’m just going to look around." I turned my back on it and trudged off between the boulders. I walked uphill for a few minutes until I reached level ground.

It was an island, all right, and not a very big one. By eyeball estimation, height from sea level was only eighty meters, while the island itself was about two kilometers long and less than half that wide. The wind whipping my jumpsuit against my body was at least drying it out, but as I looked around at the smooth-ground boulders on top of the rise, I realized that Jerry and I could expect bigger waves than the few puny ones we had seen.

A rock clattered behind me and I turned to see Jerry climbing up the slope. When it reached the top, the Drac looked around. I squatted next to one of the boulders and passed my hand over it to indicate the smoothness, then I pointed toward the sea. Jerry nodded. "Ae, gavey." It pointed downhill toward the capsule, then to where we stood. "Echey masu, nasesay."

I frowned, then pointed at the capsule. "Nasesay? The capsule?"

"Ae, capsule nasesay. Echey masu." Jerry pointed at its feet.

I shook my head. "Jerry, if you gavey how these rocks got smooth"—I pointed at one—"then you gavey that masuing the nasesay up here isn’t going to do a damned bit of good." I made a sweeping up and down movement with my hands. "Waves." I pointed at the sea below. "Waves, up here." I pointed to where we stood. "Waves, echey."

"Ae, gavey." Jerry looked around the top of the rise, then rubbed the side of its face. The Drac squatted next to some small rocks and began piling one on top of another. "Viga, Davidge."

I squatted next to it and watched while its nimble fingers constructed a circle of stones that quickly grew into a dollhouse-sized arena. Jerry stuck one of its fingers in the center of the circle. "Echey, nasesay."

The days on Fyrine IV seemed to be three times longer than any I had seen on any other habitable planet. I use the designation "habitable" with reservations. It took us most of the first day to painfully roll Jerry’s nasesay up to the top of the rise. The night was too black to work and was bone-cracking cold. We removed the couch from the capsule, which made just enough room for both of us to fit inside. The body heat warmed things up a bit; and we killed time between sleeping, nibbling on Jerry’s supply of ration bars (they taste a bit like fish mixed with cheddar cheese), and trying to come to some agreement about language.

"Eye."

"Thuyo."

"Finger."

"Zurath."

"Head."

The Drac laughed. "Lode."

"Ho, ho, very funny."

"Ho, ho."

It was when the talking stopped and the sleeping was to begin that I would find myself inside my own head, behind enemy lines. It’d be right there, a few centimeters away, a Drac. Yellow, loathsome, slick-skinned, noseless, toad face.

The rolls on my ship had a lot of blank spaces because of the pilots the Dracs had whacked. I knew a lot of the names: Ozawa, Chandler, the Starov twins: Mikhail and Whatsisname.

Whatsisname.

I knew a lot of names, I could remember a lot of faces. I didn’t know anyone, though. I felt bad when my fellow pilots went down, but only because it meant my team had taken a hit. It wasn’t as though any friends had taken one.

Friends. Who were my friends?

That one group commander, Dunlap, the one before Santos, used to say, "If you have to ask questions like Who are my friends, you are in trouble."

Dunlap was trying to get us to hang together, rely on each other, work as a team—no. Work as a family.

I asked the question, who are my friends, and still didn’t have an answer an hour later. I wondered how much trouble Dunlap would say I was in.

In the dim green glow of one of the capsule’s fading battery lights, I looked at the Drac and realized that I had spent more time in close contact with this thing than I had with any human, except my parents.

Trouble. Dunlap didn’t know what trouble was.

At dawn on the second day, we rolled and pushed the capsule into the center of the rise and wedged it between two large rocks, one of which had an overhang that we hoped would hold down the capsule when one of those big soakers hit. Around the rocks and capsule, we laid a foundation of large stones and filled in the cracks with smaller stones. ' By the time the wall was knee high, we discovered that building with those smooth, round stones and no mortar wasn’t going to work. After some experimentation, we figured out how to break the stones to give us flat sides with which to work. It’s done by picking up one stone and slamming it down on top of another.

We took turns, one slamming and one building. The stone was almost a volcanic glass, and we also took turns extracting rock splinters from each other. It took nine of those endless days and nights to complete the walls, during which waves came close many times and once washed us ankle deep. For six of those nine days, it rained. ; The capsule’s survival equipment included a plastic blanket, and that became our roof. It sagged in at the center, and the hole we put in it there allowed the water to run out, keeping us almost dry and giving us a supply of fresh water. If a wave of any determination came along, we could kiss the roof goodbye; but we both had confidence in the walls, which were almost two meters thick at the bottom and at least a meter thick at the top.

After we finished, we sat inside and admired our work for about an hour, until it dawned on us that we had just worked ourselves out of jobs.

"What now, Jerry?"

"Ess?"

"What do we do now?"

The Drac looked at the shelter, then up at the gloomy sky. "Now wait, we." The Drac shrugged. "Else what, ne?"

I nodded. "Gavey."

I got to my feet and walked to the passageway we had built. With no wood for a door, where the walls would have met, we bent one out and extended it about three meters around the other wall with the opening away from the prevailing winds.

The never-ending winds were still at it, but the rain had stopped. The shack wasn’t much to look at, but looking at it stuck there in the center of that deserted island made me feel good. As Shizumaat observed, "Intelligent life making its stand against the universe." Or, at least, that’s the sense I could make out of Jerry’s hamburger of English. I shrugged and picked up a sharp splinter of stone and made another mark in the large standing rock that served as my log. Ten scratches in all, and under the seventh, a small x to indicate the big wave that just covered the top of the island.

I threw down the splinter. "Damn, I hate this place!"

"Ess?" Jerry’s head poked around the edge of the opening. "Who talking at, Davidge?"

I glared at the Drac, then waved my hand at it. "Nobody."

"Ess vanobody?"

"Nobody. Nothing."

"Ne gavey, Davidge."

I poked at my chest with my finger. "Me! I’m talking to myself! You gavey that stuff, toad face!"

Jerry shook its head. "Davidge, now I sleep. Talk not so much nobody, ne?" It disappeared back into the opening.

"And so’s your mother!" I turned and walked down the slope. Except, strictly speaking, toad face, you don’t have a mother—or father. "If you had your choice, who would you like to be trapped on a desert island with?" I wondered if anyone ever picked a wet freezing corner of Hell shacked up with a hermaphrodite.

Half of the way down the slope, I followed the path I had marked with rocks until I came to my tidal pool that I had named "Rancho Sluggo." Around the pool were many of the water-worn rocks, and underneath those rocks, below the pool’s waterline, lived the fattest orange slugs either of us had ever seen. I made the discovery during a break from house building and showed them to Jerry.

Jerry shrugged. "And so?"

"And so what? Look, Jerry, those ration bars aren’t going to last forever. What are we going to eat when they’re all gone?"

"Eat?" Jerry looked at the wriggling pocket of insect life and grimaced. "Ne, Davidge. Before then pickup. Search us find, then pickup."

"What if they don’t find us? What then?"

Jerry grimaced again and turned back to the half-completed house. "Water we drink, then until pickup." He had muttered something about kiz excrement and my tastebuds, then walked out of sight.

Since then I had built up the pool’s walls, hoping the increased protection from the harsh environment would increase the herd. I looked under several rocks, but no increase was apparent. And, again, I couldn’t bring myself to swallow one of the things. I replaced the rock I was looking under, stood and looked out to the sea. Although the eternal cloud cover still denied the surface the drying rays of Fyrine, there was no rain and the usual haze had lifted.

In the direction past where I had pulled myself up on the beach, the sea continued to the horizon. In the spaces between the whitecaps, the water was as grey as a loan officer’s heart. Parallel lines of rollers formed approximately five kilometers from the island. The center, from where I was standing, would smash on the island, while the remainder steamed on. To my right, in line with the breakers, I could just make out another small island perhaps ten kilometers away. Following the path of the rollers, I looked far to my right, and where the grey-white of the sea should have met the lighter grey of the sky, there was a black line on the horizon.

The harder I tried to remember the briefing charts on Fyrine IV’s land masses, the less clear it became. Jerry couldn’t remember anything either—at least nothing it would tell me. Why should we remember? The battle was supposed to be in space, each one trying to deny the other an orbital staging area in the Fyrine system. Neither side wanted to set foot on Fyrine, much less fight a battle there. Still, whatever it was called, it was land and considerably larger than the sand and rock bar we were occupying.

How to get there was the problem. Without wood, fire, leaves, or animal skins, Jerry and I were destitute compared to the average poverty-stricken caveman. The only thing we had that would float was the nasesay. The capsule. Why not? The only real problem to overcome was getting Jerry to go along with it.

That evening, while the greyness made its slow transition to black, Jerry and I sat outside the shack nibbling our quarter portions of ration bars. The Drac’s yellow eyes studied the dark line on the horizon, then it shook its head. "Ne, Davidge. Dangerous is."

I popped the rest of my ration bar into my mouth and talked around it. "Any more dangerous than staying here?"

"Soon pickup, ne?"

I studied those yellow eyes. "Jerry, you don’t believe that any more than I do." I leaned forward on the rock and held out my hands. "Look, our chances will be a lot better on a larger land mass. Protection from the big waves, maybe food."

"Not maybe, ne?" Jerry pointed at the water. "How nasesay steer, Davidge? In that, how steer? Ess eh soakers, waves, beyond land take, gavey? Bresha," Jerry’s hands slapped together."Ess eh bresha rocks on, ne? Then we death."

I scratched my head. "The waves are going in that direction from here, and so is the wind. If the land mass is large enough, we don’t have to steer, gavey?"

Jerry snorted. "Ne large enough, then?"

"I didn’t say it was a sure thing."

"Ess?"

"A sure thing; certain, gavey?" Jerry nodded. "And for smashing up on the rocks, it probably has a beach like this one."

"Sure thing, ne!"

I shrugged. "No, it’s not a sure thing, but, what about staying here? We don’t know how big those waves can get. What if one just comes along and washes us off the island? What then?"

Jerry looked at me, its eyes narrowed. "What there, Davidge? Irkmaan base, ne?"

I laughed. "I told you, we don’t have any bases on Fyrine IV."

"Why want go, then?"

"Just what I said, Jerry. I think our chances would be better."

"Ummm." The Drac folded its arms. "Viga, Davidge, nasesay stay. I know."

"Know what?"

Jerry smirked, then stood and went into the shack. After a moment it returned and threw a two-meter long metal rod at my feet. It was the one the Drac had used to bind my arms. "Davidge, I know."

I raised my eyebrows and shrugged. "What are you talking about? Didn’t that come from your capsule?"

"Ne, Irkmaan."

"I bent down and picked up the rod. Its surface was uncorroded and at one end were arabic numerals—a part number. For a moment a flood of hope washed over me, but it drained away when I realized it was a civilian part number. I threw the rod on the sand. "There’s no telling how long that’s been here, Jerry. It’s a civilian part number and no civilian missions have been in this part of the galaxy since the war. Might be left over from an old seeding operation or exploratory mission…"

The Drac nudged it with the toe of his boot. "New, gavey?"

I looked up at it. "You gavey stainless steel?"

Jerry snorted and turned back toward the shack. "I stay, nasesay stay; where you want, you go, Davidge!"

With the black of the long night firmly bolted down on us, the wind picked up, shrieking and whistling in and through the holes in the walls. The plastic roof flapped, pushed in and sucked out with such violence it threatened to either tear or sail off into the night. Jerry sat on the sand floor, its back leaning against the nasesay as if to make clear that both Drac and capsule were staying put, although the way the sea was picking up seemed to weaken Jerry’s argument.

"Sea rough now is, Davidge, ne?"

"It’s too dark to see, but with this wind…" I shrugged more for my own benefit than the Drac’s, since the only thing visible inside the shack was the pale light coming through the roof. Any minute we could be washed off that sandbar. "Jerry, you’re being silly about that rod. You know that."

"Surda." The Drac sounded contrite if not altogether miserable.

"Ess?"

"Ess eh Surda?"

"Jerry remained silent for a moment. "Davidge, gaveynot certain not is?"

I sorted out the negatives. "You mean possible, maybe, perhaps?"

"Ae, possiblemaybeperhaps. Dracon fleet Irkmaan ships have. Before war buy; after war capture. Rod possiblemaybeperhaps Dracon is."

"So, if there’s a secret base on the big island, surda it’s a Dracon base?"

"Possiblemaybeperhaps, Davidge."

"Jerry, does that mean you want to try it? The nasesay?"

"Ne."

"Ne? Why, Jerry? If it might be a Drac base—"

"Ne! Ne talk!" The Drac seemed to choke on the words.

"Jerry, we talk, and you better believe we talk! If I’m going to death it on this island, I have a right to know why."

The Drac was quiet for a long time. "Davidge."

"Ess?"

"Nasesay you take. Half ration bars you leave. I stay."

I shook my head to clear it. "You want me to take the capsule alone?"

"What you want is, ne?"

"Ae, but why? You must realize by now there won’t be any pickup."

"Possiblemaybeperhaps."

"Surda, nothing. You know there isn’t going to be a pickup. What is it? You afraid of the water? If that’s it—"

"Davidge, up your mouth shut. Nasesay you have. Me ne you need, gavey?"

I nodded in the dark. The capsule was mine for the taking; what did I need a grumpy Drac along for—especially since our truce could expire at any moment? The answer made me feel a little silly—human. Perhaps it’s the same thing. The Drac was all that stood between me and utter aloneness. Still, there was the small matter of staying alive. "We should go together, Jerry."

"Why?"

I felt myself blush. If humans have this need for companionship, why are they also ashamed to admit it? "We just should. Our chances would be better."

"Alone your chances better are, Davidge. Your enemy I am."

I nodded again and grimaced in the dark. "Jerry, you gavey loneliness?"

"Ne gavey."

"Lonely. Being alone, by myself."

"Gavey you alone. Take nasesay; I stay."

"That’s it… see, I don’t want to. It’s—"

"You want together go?" interrupted the Drac. A low, dirty chuckle came from the other side of the shack. "You Dracon like? You me death, Irkmaan." Jerry chuckled some more. "Irkmaan poorzhab in head, poorzhab."

"Forget it!" I slid down from the wall, smoothed out the sand, and curled up with my back toward the Drac. The wind seemed to die down a bit and I closed my eyes to try and sleep. In a bit, the snap, crack of the plastic roof blended in with the background of shrieks and whistles and I felt myself drifting off, when my eyes opened wide at the sound of footsteps in the sand. I tensed, ready to spring.

"Davidge?" Jerry’s voice was very quiet.

"Yeah?"

I heard the Drac sit on the sand next to me. "You loneliness, Davidge. About it hard you talk, ne?"

"So what?" The Drac mumbled something that was lost in the wind. "What?" I turned over and saw Jerry looking through a hole in the wall.

"Why I stay. Now, you I tell, ne?"

I shrugged. "Okay; why not?"

Jerry seemed to struggle with the words, then opened its mouth to speak. Its eyes opened wide. "Magasienna."

I sat up. "Ess?"

Jerry pointed at the hole. "Soaker!"

I pushed it out of the way and looked through the hole. Steaming toward our island was an insane mountainous fury of white-capped rollers. It was hard to tell in the dark, but the one in front looked taller than the one that had wet our feet a few days before. The ones following it were bigger. Jerry put a hand on my shoulder and I looked into the Drac’s eyes. We broke and ran for the capsule. We heard the first wave rumbling up the slope as we felt around in the dark for the recessed doorlatch. I just got my finger on it when the wave smashed against the shack, collapsing the roof. In half a second we were underwater, the currents inside the shack agitating us like socks in a washing machine.

The water receded, and as I cleared my eyes, I saw that the windward wall of the shack had caved in. "Jerry!" Through the collapsed wall, I saw the Drac staggering around outside.

"Irkmaan?" Behind him I could see the second roller gathering speed.

"Kizlode, what’n the hell’re you doing out there? Get in here!"

I turned to the capsule, still lodged firmly between the two rocks, and found the handle. As I opened the door, Jerry stumbled through the missing wall and fell against me. "Davidge… forever soakers go on! Forever!"

"Get in!" I helped the Drac through the door and didn’t wait for it to get out of the way. I piled in on top of Jerry and latched the door just as the second wave hit. I could feel the capsule lift a bit and rattle against the overhang of the one rock.

"Davidge, we float?"

"No. The rocks are holding us. We’ll be all right once the breakers stop."

"Over you move."

"Oh." I got off Jerry’s chest and braced myself against one end of the capsule. After a bit, the capsule came to rest and we waited for the next one. "Jerry?"

"Ae?"

"What was it that you were about to say?"

"Why I stay?"

"Yeah."

"About it hard me talk, gavey?"

"I know, I know."

The next breaker hit and I could feel the capsule rise and rattle against the rock. "Davidge, gavey 'vi nessa?"

"No."

"Vi nessa… little me, gavey?"

The capsule bumped down the rock and came to rest. "What about little you?"

"Little me… little Drac. From me, gavey?"

"Are you telling me you’re pregnant?"

"Possiblemaybeperhaps."

I shook my head. "Hold on, Jerry. I don’t want any misunderstandings. Pregnant… are you going to be a parent?"

"Ae, parent, two-zero-zero in line, very important is, ne?"

"Terrific. What’s this got to do with you not wanting to go to the other island?"

"Before, me vi nessa, gavey? Tean death."

"Your child, it died?"

"Ae!" The Drac’s sob was torn from the lips of the universal mother. "I in fall hurt. Tean death. In sea us bang. Tean hurt, ne?"

"Ae, I gavey."

So Jerry was afraid of losing another child. It was almost certain that the capsule trip would bang us around a lot, but staying on the sandbar didn’t appear to be improving our chances. The capsule had been at rest for quite a while, and I decided to risk a peek outside. The small canopy windows seemed to be covered with sand, and I opened the door. I looked around, and all of the walls had been smashed flat. I looked toward the sea, but could see nothing. "It looks safe, Jerry…"

I looked up, toward the blackish sky, and above me towered the white plume of a descending breaker. "Maga damn sienna!" I slammed the hatch shut.

"Ess, Davidge?"

"Hang on, Jerry!"

The sound of the water hitting the capsule was beyond hearing. We banged once, twice against the rock, then we could feel ourselves twisting, shooting upward. I made a grab to hang on, but missed as the capsule took a sickening lurch downward. I fell into Jerry, then was flung to the opposite wall, where I struck my head. Before I went blank, I heard Jerry cry "Tean! Vi tean!"

The lieutenant pressed his hand control and a figure—tall, humanoid, yellow—appeared on the screen.

"Dracslime!" shouted the auditorium of seated recruits.

The lieutenant faced the recruits. "Correct. This is a Drac. Note that the Drac race is uniform as to color; they are all yellow." The recruits chuckled politely. The officer preened a bit, then with a light wand began pointing out various features. "The three-fingered hands are distinctive, of course, as is the almost noseless face, which gives the Drac a toad-like appearance. On average, eyesight is slightly better than human, hearing about the same, and smell…" The lieutenant paused. "The smell is terrible!" The officer beamed at the uproar from the recruits. When the auditorium quieted down, he pointed his light wand at a fold in the figure’s belly. "This is where the Drac keeps its family jewels—all of them." Another chuckle. "That’s right, Dracs are hermaphrodites, with both male and female reproductive organs contained in the same individual." The lieutenant faced the recruits. "You go tell a Drac to go boff himself, then watch out, because he can!" The laughter died down, and the lieutenant held out a hand toward the screen. "You see one of these things, what do you do?"

"KILL IT…"

The Drac on the screen frightened me, I hated it so much. I hated it because it was so terrible, and what made it so terrible was that I hated it so much. I had seen pictures of aliens before. In school and on the vids. On my way to flight training I even saw a group of Vikaans in Denver on their way from the USE fighter school base outside the city. Tall, thin, pale. They wore their new wings as they hefted their flight bags and filed down the sleeve that would take them to their ship and from there into the meatgrinder that had already cost billions of lives.

The Vikaans were volunteers fighting on the human side of the war with the Dracs. I had hated them, too.

I cleared the screen and computer sighted on the next Drac fighter, looking like a double x in the screen’s display. The Drac shifted hard to the left, then right again. I felt the autopilot pull my ship after the fighter, sorting out and ignoring the false images, trying to lock its electronic crosshairs on the Drac.

"Come on, toad face… a little bit to the left…" The double cross image moved into the ranging rings on the display and I felt the missile attached to the belly of my fighter take off. "Gotcha!" Through my canopy I saw the flash as the missile detonated. My screen showed the Drac fighter out of control, spinning toward Fyrine IV’s cloud-shrouded surface. I dived after it to confirm the kill… skin temperature increasing as my ship brushed the upper atmosphere. "Come on, dammit, blow!" I shifted the ship’s systems over for atmospheric flight when it became obvious that I’d have to follow the Drac right to the ground. Still above the clouds, the Drac stopped spinning and turned. I hit the auto override and pulled the stick into my lap. The fighter wallowed as it tried to pull up. Everyone knows the Drac ships work better in atmosphere… heading toward me on an interception course… why doesn’t the slime fire… just before the collision, the Drac ejects.

Power gone; have to deadstick it in. I track the capsule as it falls through the muck, intending to find that Dracslime and finish the job…

It could have been for seconds or years that I groped into the darkness around me. I felt touching, but the parts of me being touched seemed far, far away. First chills, then fever, then chills again, my head being cooled by a gentle hand. I opened my eyes to narrow slits and saw Jerry hovering over me, blotting my forehead with something cool. I managed a whisper. "Jerry."

The Drac looked into my eyes and smiled. "Good is, Davidge. Good is."

The light on Jerry’s face flickered and I smelled smoke. "Fire."

Jerry got out of the way and pointed toward the center of the room’s sandy floor. I let my head roll over and realized that I was lying on a bed of soft, springy branches. Opposite my bed was another bed, and between them crackled a cheery camp-fire. "Fire now we have, Davidge. And wood." Jerry pointed toward the roof made of wooden poles thatched with broad leaves.

I turned and looked around, then let my throbbing head sink down and closed my eyes. "Where are we?"

"Big island, Davidge. Soaker off sandbar us washed. Wind and waves us here took. Right you were."

"I, I don’t understand; ne gavey. It’d take days to get to the big island from the sandbar."

Jerry nodded and dropped what looked like a sponge into a shell of some sort filled with water. "Nine days. You I strap to nasesay, then here on beach we land."

"Nine days? I’ve been out for nine days?"

Jerry shook his head. "Seventeen. Here we land eight days…" The Drac waved its hand behind itself.

"Ago. Eight days ago."

"Ae. Eight days ago."

Seventeen days on Fyrine IV was better than a month on Earth. I opened my eyes again and looked at Jerry. The Drac was almost bubbling with excitement. "What about tean, your child?"

Jerry patted its swollen middle. "Good is, Davidge. You more nasesay hurt."

I overcame an urge to nod. "I’m happy for you." I closed my eyes and turned my face toward the wall, a combination of wood poles and leaves "Jerry?"

"Ess?"

"You saved my life."

"Ae."

"Why?"

Jerry sat quietly for a long time. "Davidge. On sandbar you talk. Loneliness now gavey." The Drac shook my arm. "Here, now you eat."

I turned and looked into a shell filled with a steaming liquid; yellow beads of fat floated on top of the water. "What is it, chicken soup?"

"Ess?"

"Ess va?" I pointed at the bowl, realizing for the first time how weak I was.

Jerry frowned. "Like slug, but long."

"An eel?"

"Ae, but eel on land, gavey?"

"You mean snake?"

"Possiblemaybeperhaps."

I nodded and put my lips to the edge of the shell. I sipped some of the broth, swallowed and let the broth’s healing warmth seep through my body. "Good."

"You custa want?"

"Ess?"

"Custa." Jerry reached next to the fire and picked up a squareish chunk of clear rock. I looked at it, scratched it with my thumbnail, then touched it with my tongue.

"Halite! Salt!"

Jerry smiled. "Custa you want?"

I laughed. "All the comforts. By all means, let’s have custa."

Jerry took the halite, knocked off a corner with a small stone, then used the stone to grind the pieces against another stone. It held out the palm of his hand with a tiny mountain of white granules in the center. I took two pinches, dropped them into my snake soup and stirred it with my finger. Then I took a long swallow of the delicious broth. I smacked my lips. "Fantastic."

"Good, ne?"

"Better than good; fantastic." I took another swallow, making a big show of smacking my lips and rolling my eyes. Salt in my fatty snake soup. I could just imagine the ship’s dietary staff going into vapor lock.

"Fantastic, Davidge, ne?"

"Ae." I nodded at the Drac. "I think that’s enough. I want to sleep."

"Ae, Davidge, gavey." Jerry took the bowl and put it beside the fire. The Drac stood, walked to the door and turned back. Its yellow eyes studied me for an instant, then it nodded, turned and went outside. I closed my eyes and let the heat from the campfire coax the sleep over me.

In and out I drifted, the warmth of the shack at last driving the memory of the cold from my bones. There was a cover over me that was very warm and smelled like cinnamon. Jerry had found some kind of moss that came up off the rocks in sheets. Dried out, it made a terrific blanket, if a little itchy. It took a while, but at last I realized I had no clothes on. That, and my bed was clean. Unless I’d been holding it for a month, the Drac had been cleaning up after me. As squeamish as Jerry was about icky stuff, the Drac cleaning me raised a tangle of emotions: shame, gratitude, an inexplicable sadness that again brought the tears to my eyes.

Aloneness.

I thought of being alone. There was a joke among the other pilots in the squadron. Willis E. Davidge, the Lone Buzzard. When attentions turned to getting high or playing cards or talking about loves, battles, or wing gossip, the Buzzard would be somewhere else all by himself, reading stories, listening to music, daydreaming.

It wasn’t that I wanted to be alone. I just didn’t know how to be any different. And here was a toad-faced alien hermaphrodite doing what I could never do: be there for someone else.

I dreamed about my father, always gruff and distant, never strong. My mother, as gray and emotionally flat as the Kansas plain where she was born. Never ask for help, they would tell me. They said it as though it were a matter of pride, but I knew, even as a young child, that it was because they were frightened. Frightened of needing help, frightened to ask for it, frightened that it would be refused, frightened to accept it.

And that was the sadness that made me cry. I was frightened, too.

In two days I was up in the shack trying my legs, and in two more days Jerry helped me outside. The shack was located at the top of a long gentle rise in a scrub forest; none of the trees was any taller than five or six meters. At the bottom of the slope, better than eight kilometers from the shack, was the still-rolling sea. The Drac had carried me all that way.

Our trusty nasesay had filled with water and had been dragged back into the sea soon after Jerry pulled me to dry land. With it went the remainder of the ration bars. Dracs are very fussy about what they eat, but hunger finally drove Jerry to sample some of the local flora and fauna—hunger and the human lump that was rapidly drifting away from lack of nourishment. The Drac had settled on a bland, starchy type of root, a green bushberry that when dried made an acceptable tea, and snakemeat. When I was well enough, Jerry taught me where to find the snakes and how to catch them.

The snakes stick their heads out of holes near mudpools and you have to grab them before they can pull themselves back in, and it’s a serious tug-of-war to get one of them out. Then there is the rather unpleasant task of driving off the critter’s spirit. Using our skills acquired on the sandbar, you take one rock and smack it down on top of another, with the snake’s head in between. The real trick is trying to wrestle one of those things down long enough for the scalp treatment. The things were like greased fire hoses on steroids.

Exploring, Jerry had found a partly eroded salt dome. In the days that followed, I grew stronger and added to our diet with several types of sea mollusk and a fruit resembling a cross between a pear and a plum. The one fish I caught from the ocean was so scary looking neither of us wanted to risk eating it. Besides the teeth, claws, and spines, it had long trailing purple appendages that secreted some sort of green pus. The smell was enough to gag a sewer rat. The next morning, on the sand where I had left the fish from hell, I saw the tracks of something else that had come from the sea, grabbed the dead fish, and dragged that tasty morsel back into the water. The Drac and I decided that seafood was not going to be one of the planet’s big export items.

At night, as we chewed on the rubbery mollusks, I said to the Drac, "It’s getting colder, Jerry."

"Warm some tomorrow morning."

I shook my head. "I mean colder, day-by-day. Every night now it freezes and it takes longer every morning to melt off."

Those yellow eyes stared at me for a long time, then it said, "Ice season?"

"I think we have to face it. This planet has a winter."

"How long? How cold?"

I held out my hands. "Unknown." I pointed with my thumb toward the door. "Some of those trees out there are losing their leaves now, though. The protection they give us from the winds is going with them. If it snows, we’re going to have to have food and firewood stored up."

The Drac looked around at the interior of the shack it had built. "Another place, we find. Need ." The Drac bent forward and scooped a handful of dirt from the ground and pointed at the hole its scraping had left. "Cudall, ne?"

"Cave," I answered. "You’re right. We need a cave."

Food was first. When dried next to the fire, the berrybush and roots kept well, and we tried both salting and smoking snakemeat. With strips of fiber from the berrybush for thread, Jerry and I pieced together the snake skins for winter clothing. The design we settled on involved two layers of skins with the down from berrybush seed pods stuffed between and then held in place by quilting the layers.

It took three days of searching to find our first cave, and another three days before we found one that suited us. The mouth opened onto a view of the eternally tormented sea, but was set in the face of a low cliff well above sea level. Around the cave’s entrance we found great quantities of dead wood and loose stone. The wood we gathered for heat; and the stone we used to wall up the entrance, leaving only space enough for a hinged door. The hinges were made of snake leather and the door of wooden poles tied together with berrybush fiber. The first night after completing the door, the sea winds blew it to pieces; and we decided to go back to the original door design we had used on the sandbar.

Deep inside the cave, we made our living quarters in a chamber with a wide, sandy floor. Still deeper, the cave had natural pools of water, which were fine for drinking but too cold for bathing. We used the pool chamber for our supply room. We lined the walls of our living quarters with piles of wood and made new beds out of snakeskins and seed pod down. In the center of the chamber we built a respectable fireplace with a large, flat stone over the coals for a griddle. The first night we spent in our new home, I discovered that, for the first time since ditching on that damned planet, I couldn’t hear the wind.

During the long nights, we would sit at the fireplace making things—gloves, hats, packbags— out of snake leather, and we would talk. To break the monotony, we alternated days between speaking Drac and English, and by the time the winter hit with its first ice storm, each of us was comfortable in the other’s language.

We talked of Jerry’s coming child.

"What are you going to name it, Jerry?"

"It already has a name. See, the Jeriba line has five names. My name is Shigan; before me came my parent, Gothig; before Gothig was Haesni; before Haesni was Ty, and before Ty was Zammis. The child is named Jeriba Zammis."

"Why only the five names? A human child can have just about any name its parents pick for it. In fact, once a human becomes an adult, he or she can pick any name he or she wants."

The Drac looked at me, its eyes filled with pity. "Davidge, how lost you must feel. You humans—how lost you must feel."

"Lost?"

Jerry nodded. "Where do you come from, Davidge?"

"You mean my parents?"

"Yes."

I shrugged. "I remember my parents."

"And their parents?"

"Sure, I remember my mother’s father. When I was young we used to visit him."

"Davidge, what do you know about this grandparent?"

I rubbed my chin. "It’s kind of vague… I think he was in some kind of agriculture. I don’t know."

"And his parents?"

I shook my head. "The only thing I remember is that somewhere along the line, English and Germans figured. Gavey Germans and English?"

Jerry nodded. "Davidge, I can recite the history of my line back to the founding of my planet by Jeriba Ty, one of the original settlers, one hundred and twenty-nine generations ago. At our line’s archives on Draco, there are the records that trace the line across space to the racehome planet, Sindie, and there back seventy generations to Jeriba Ty, the founder of the Jeriba line."

"How does one become a founder?"

"Only the firstborn carries the line. Products of second, third, or fourth births must found their own lines."

I nodded, impressed. "Why only the five names? Just to make it easier to remember them?"

Jerry shook its head. "No. The names are things to which we add distinction; they are the same, commonplace five so that they do not overshadow the events that distinguish their bearers. The name I carry, Shigan, has been served by great soldiers, scholars, students of philosophy, and several priests. The name my child will carry has been served by scientists, teachers, and explorers."

"You remember all of your ancestors' occupations?"

Jerry nodded. "Yes, and what they each did and where they did it. You must recite your line before the line’s archives to be admitted into adulthood as I was twenty-two of my years ago. Zammis will do the same, except the child must begin its recitation," Jerry smiled, "with my name, Jeriba Shigan."

"You can recite almost two hundred biographies from memory?"

"Yes."

I went over to my bed and stretched out. As I stared up at the smoke being sucked through the crack in the chamber’s ceiling, I began to understand what Jerry meant by feeling lost. A Drac with several dozens of generations under its belt knew who it was and what it had to live up to. "Jerry?"

"Yes, Davidge?"

"Will you recite them for me?" I turned my head and looked at the Drac in time to see an expression of utter surprise melt into joy. It was only after years had passed that I learned I had done Jerry a great honor in requesting its line. Among the Dracs, it is a rare expression of respect, not only of the individual, but of the line.

Jerry placed the hat it was sewing on the sand, stood and began.

"Before you here I stand, Shigan of the line of Jeriba, born of Gothig, the teacher of music. A musician of high merit, the students of Gothig include Datzizh of the Nem line, Perravane of the Tuscor line, and many lesser musicians. Trained in music at the Shimuram, Gothig stood before the archives in the year 11,051 and spoke of its parent Haesni, the manufacturer of ships…"

As I listened to Jerry’s singsong of formal Dracon, the backward biographies—beginning with death and ending with adulthood—I experienced a sense of time-binding, of being able to know and touch the past. Battles, empires built and destroyed, discoveries made, great things done—a tour through thousands of years of history, but perceived as a well-defined, living continuum.

Against this: I, Willis of the Davidge line, stand before you, born of Sybil the housewife and Nathan the second-rate civil engineer, one of them born of Grandpop, who probably had something to do with agriculture, born of nobody in particular. Hell, I wasn’t even that! My older brother carried the line; not me. I listened and made up my mind to memorize the line of Jeriba.

We talked of war:

"That was a pretty neat trick, suckering me into the atmosphere, then ramming me."

Jerry shrugged. "Dracon fleet pilots are best; this is well known. I saw a Vikaan pilot once. He was very good, but Dracon fleet pilots are best."

I raised my eyebrows. "That’s why I shot your tail feathers off, huh?"

"Lucky shot."

"And ramming my ship with a crippled fighter at five times the speed of sound with no pilot wasn’t a lucky shot, is that it?"

Jerry shrugged, frowned, and continued sewing on the scraps of snake leather. "Why do the Earthmen invade this part of the galaxy, Davidge? All this horrible business on Planet Amadeen. We had thousands of years of peace before you came."

"Hah! Why do the Dracs invade? We were at peace too. What are you doing here? We didn’t start things, you know."

"We settle these planets. It is the Drac tradition. We are explorers and founders."

"Well, toad face, what do you think we are, a bunch of homebodies? Humans have had space travel for less than a hundred years, but we’ve settled almost twice as many planets as the Dracs—"

Jerry held up a finger. "Exactly! You humans spread like a disease. Ashrak—criminals! Enough! We don’t want you here!"

"Well, we’re here, and here to stay until every last Drac is off Amadeen. Now what are you going to do about that?"

"You see what we do, Irkmaan, we fight!"

"Phooey! You call that little scrap we were in a fight? Hell, Jerry, we were kicking you junk jocks out of the sky—"

"Haw, Davidge! That’s why you sit here sucking on smoked snake!"

I pulled the little rascal out of my mouth and pointed it at the Drac. "I notice your breath has a snake flavor too, Drac!"

Jerry snorted and turned away from the fire. I felt stupid. I mean, what’s the point in trading macho shots with a hermaphrodite? Anyway, we weren’t going to settle the problems of war in between snake snacks. Also, I wanted to have Jerry check my recitation. I had over a hundred generations memorized. The Drac’s side was toward the fire, leaving enough light falling on its lap to see its sewing.

"Jerry, what are you working on?"

"We have nothing to talk about, Davidge."

"Come on, what is it?"

Jerry turned its head toward me, then looked back into its lap and picked up a tiny snakeskin suit. "For Zammis." Jerry smiled and I shook my head, then laughed.

We talked of philosophy:

"You studied Shizumaat, Jerry; why won’t you tell me about its teachings?"

Jerry frowned. "No, Davidge."

"Are Shizumaat’s teachings secret or something?"

Jerry shook its head. "No. But we honor Shizumaat too much for talk."

I rubbed my chin. "Do you mean too much to talk about it, or to talk about it with a human?"

"Not with humans, Davidge; just not with you."

"Why?"

Jerry lifted its head and narrowed its yellow eyes. "You know what you said… on the sandbar."

I scratched my head and vaguely recalled the curse I laid on the Drac about Shizumaat eating it. I held out my hands. "But, Jerry, I was mad, angry. You can’t hold me accountable for what I said then."

"I do."

"Will it change anything if I apologize?"

"Not a thing."

I stopped myself from saying something nasty and thought back to that moment when Jerry and I stood ready to strangle each other. I remembered something about that meeting and screwed the corners of my mouth in place to keep from smiling. "Will you tell me Shizumaat’s teachings if I forgive you… for what you said about Mickey Mouse?" I bowed my head in an appearance of reverence, although its chief purpose was to suppress a cackle.

Jerry looked up at me, its face pained with guilt. "I have felt bad about that, Davidge. If you forgive me, I will talk about Shizumaat."

"Then I forgive you, Jerry."

"One more thing."

"What?"

"You must tell me of the teachings of Mickey Mouse."

"I’ll… uh, do my best."

We talked of Zammis:

"Jerry, what do you want little Zammy to be?"

The Drac shrugged. "Zammis must live up to its own name. I want it to do that with honor. If Zammis does that, it is all I can ask."

"Zammy will pick its own trade?"

"Yes."

"Isn’t there anything special you want, though?"

Jerry nodded. "Yes, there is."

"What’s that?"

"That Zammis will, one day, find itself off this miserable planet."

I nodded. "Amen."

"Amen."

The winter dragged on until Jerry and I began wondering if we had gotten in on the beginning of an ice age. Outside the cave, everything was coated with a thick layer of ice, and the low temperature combined with the steady winds made venturing outside a temptation of death by falls or freezing. Still, by mutual agreement, we both went outside to relieve ourselves. There were several isolated chambers deep in the cave; but we feared polluting our water supply, not to mention the air inside the cave. The main risk outside was dropping one’s drawers at a wind chill factor that froze breath vapor before it could be blown through the thin face muffs we had made out of our flight suits. We learned not to dawdle.

One morning, Jerry was outside answering the call, while I stayed by the fire mashing up dried roots with water for griddle cakes. I heard Jerry call from the mouth of the cave. "Davidge!"

"What?"

"Davidge, come quick!"

A ship! It had to be! I put the shell bowl on the sand, put on my hat and gloves, and ran through the passage. As I came close to the door, I untied the muff from around my neck and tied it over my mouth and nose to protect my lungs. Jerry, its head bundled in a similar manner, was looking through the door, waving me on. "What is it?"

Jerry stepped away from the door to let me through. "Come, look!"

Sunlight.

Blue sky and sunlight.

In the distance, over the sea, new clouds were piling up; but above us the sky was clear. Neither of us could look at the sun directly, but we turned our faces to it and felt the rays of Fyrine on our skins. The light glared and sparkled off the ice-covered rocks and trees. "Beautiful."

"Yes." Jerry grabbed my sleeve with a gloved hand. "Davidge, you know what this means?"

"What?"

"Signal fires at night. On a clear night, a large fire could be seen from orbit, ne?"

I looked at Jerry, then back at the sky. "I don’t know. If the fire were big enough, and we get a clear night, and if anybody picks that moment to look…" I let my head hang down. "That’s always supposing that there’s someone in orbit up there to do the looking." I felt the pain begin in my fingers. "We better go back in."

"Davidge, it’s a chance!"

"What are we going to use for wood, Jerry?" I held out an arm toward the trees above and around the cave. "Everything that can burn has at least fifteen centimeters of ice on it."

"In the cave—"

"Our firewood?" I shook my head. "How long is this winter going to last? Can you be sure that we have enough wood to waste on signal fires?"

"It’s a chance, Davidge. It’s a chance!"

Our survival riding on a toss of the dice. I shrugged. "Why not?"

We spent the next few hours hauling a quarter of our carefully gathered firewood and dumping it outside the mouth of the cave. By the time we were finished and long before night came, the sky was again a solid blanket of grey. Several times each night, we would check the sky, waiting for stars to appear. During the days, we would frequently have to spend several hours beating the ice off the wood pile. Still, it gave both of us hope, until the wood in the cave ran out and we had to start borrowing from the signal pile.

That night, for the first time, the Drac looked absolutely defeated. Jerry sat at the fireplace, staring at the flames. Its hand reached inside its snakeskin jacket through the neck and pulled out a small golden cube suspended on a chain. Jerry held the cube clasped in both hands, shut its eyes, and began mumbling in Drac. I watched from my bed until Jerry finished. The Drac sighed, nodded, and replaced the object within its jacket.

"What’s that thing?"

Jerry looked up at me, frowned, then touched the front of its jacket. "This? It is my Talman—what you call a Bible."

"A Bible is a book. You know, with pages that you read."

Jerry pulled the thing from its jacket, mumbled a phrase in Drac, then worked a small catch. Another gold cube dropped from the first and the Drac held it out to me. "Be very careful with it, Davidge."

I sat up, took the object, and examined it in the light of the fire. Three hinged pieces of the golden metal formed the binding of a book two-and-a-half centimeters on an edge. I opened the book in the middle and looked over the double columns of dots, lines, and squiggles. "It’s in Drac."

"Of course."

"But I can’t read it."

Jerry’s eyebrows went up. "You speak Drac so well, I didn’t remember… would you like me to teach you?"

"To read this?"

"Why not? You have an appointment you have to keep?"

I shrugged. "Nohing that can’t wait." I touched my finger to the book and tried to turn one of the tiny pages. Perhaps fifty pages went at once. "I can’t separate the pages."

Jerry pointed at a small bump at the top of the spine. "Pull out the pin. It’s for turning the pages."

I pulled out the short needle, touched it against a page, and it slid loose of its companion and flipped. "Who wrote your Talman, Jerry?"

"Many. All great teachers."

"Shizumaat?"

Jerry nodded. "Shizumaat is one of them."

I closed the book and held it in the palm of my hand. "Jerry, why did you bring this out now?"

"I needed its comfort." The Drac held out its arms. "This place. Maybe we will grow old here and die. Maybe we will never be found. I see this today as we brought in the signal fire wood." Jerry placed its hands on its belly. "Zammis will be born here. The Talman helps me to accept what I cannot change."

"Zammis, how much longer?"

Jerry smiled. "Soon."

I looked at the tiny book. "I would like you to teach me to read this, Jerry."

The Drac took the chain and case from around its neck and handed it to me. "You must keep the Talman in this."

I held it for a moment, then shook my head. "I can’t keep this, Jerry. It’s obviously of great value to you. What if I lost it?"

"You won’t. Keep it while you learn. The student must do this."

I put the chain around my neck. "This is quite an honor you do me."

Jerry shrugged. "Much less than the honor you do me by memorizing the Jeriba line. Your recitations have been accurate, and moving." Jerry took some charcoal from the fire, stood, and walked to the wall of the chamber. That night I learned the thirty-one letters and sounds of the Drac alphabet, as well as the additional nine sounds and letters used in formal Drac writings.

Squiggle squiggle, dot, break, dot dot, loop, squiggle, break…

"I, Mistaan, who created the marks-that-speak, set down before you the words of Shizumaat who recited before me the Myth of Aakva, the Story of Uhe and the First Truth."

It was Genesis and the Garden of Eden for hermaphrodites. And there was a time when all of the sayings and signs of the god, Aakva, were gathered before a head priest, the "chief of the servants of Aakva," and Rhada sorted through it all to determine the true laws of Aakva. And then the laws were doubted and the god took them away, plunging the world into war. After the horror of the war, the laws of the god were no longer doubted and the god was begged for their return. The world was divided, separating the warring peoples of the Sindie, and then there was peace and plenty, until the next doubting, and the next war.

There is a fabric to things, patterns, weaves, and an occasional pulled thread. Once in awhile everything unravels and goes up in flames. An awfully old story.

I felt a bit like when I was back in college. A universe of problems, endless tons of worthless attempts at solutions, and snotty kids a couple of years past acne looking to philosophers, ancient and modern, to flash a bit of magic on us and solve all of the predicaments.

I headed for the wind and the cold outside to spit my curses into the winds, wondering if the universe will ever grow up.

The wood eventually ran out. Jerry was very heavy and very, very sick as Zammis prepared to make its appearance, and it was all the Drac could do to waddle outside with my help to relieve itself. Hence, wood gathering, which involved taking our remaining stick and beating the ice off the dead standing trees, fell to me, as did cooking.

On a particularly blustery day, I noticed that the ice on the trees was thinner. Somewhere we had turned winter’s corner and were heading for spring. I spent my ice-pounding time feeling great at the thought of spring, and I knew Jerry would pick up some at the news. The winter was really getting the Drac down. I was working the woods above the cave, taking armloads of gathered wood and dropping them down below, when I heard a scream. I froze, then looked around. I could see nothing but the sea and the ice around me. Then, the scream again.

"Davidge!"

It was Jerry. I dropped the load I was carrying and ran to the cleft in the cliff’s face that served as a path to the upper woods. Jerry screamed again; and I slipped, then rolled until I came to the shelf level with the cave’s mouth. I rushed through the entrance, down the passageway until I came to the chamber. Jerry writhed on its bed, digging its fingers into the sand.

I dropped on my knees next to the Drac. "I’m here, Jerry. What is it? What’s wrong?"

"Davidge!" The Drac rolled its eyes, seeing nothing; its mouth worked silently, then exploded with another scream.

"Jerry, it’s me!" I shook the Drac’s shoulder. "It’s me, Jerry. Davidge!"

Jerry turned its head toward me, grimaced, then clasped the fingers of one hand around my left wrist with the strength of pain. "Davidge! Zammis… something’s gone wrong!"

"What? What can I do?"

Jerry screamed again, then its head fell back to the bed in a half-faint. The Drac fought back to consciousness and pulled my head down to its lips. "Davidge, you must swear."

"What, Jerry? Swear what?"

"Zammis… on Draco. To stand before the line’s archives. Do this."

"What do you mean? You talk like you’re dying."

"I am, Davidge. Zammis two-hundredth generation… very important. Present my child, Davidge. Swear!"

I wiped the sweat from my face with my free hand. "You’re not going to die, Jerry. Hang on!"

"Enough! Face truth, Davidge! I die! You must teach the line of Jeriba to Zammis… and the book, The Talman, gavey?"

"Stop it!" Panic stood over me almost as a physical presence. "Stop talking like that! You aren’t going to die, Jerry. Come on; fight, you kizlode sonofabitch!"

Jerry screamed. Its breathing was weak and the Drac drifted in and out of consciousness. "Davidge."

"What?" I realized I was sobbing like a kid.

"Davidge, you must help Zammis come out."

"What… how? What in the Hell are you talking about?"

Jerry turned its face to the wall of the cave, "Lift my jacket."

"What?"

"Lift my jacket, Davidge. Now!"

I pulled up the snakeskin jacket, exposing Jerry’s swollen belly. The fold down the center was bright red and seeping a clear liquid. "What… what should I do?"

Jerry breathed rapidly, then held its breath. "Tear it open! You must tear it open, Davidge!"

"I can’t do that."

"Do it! Do it, or Zammis dies!"

"What do I care about your goddamn child, Jerry? What do I have to do to save you?"

"Tear it open," whispered the Drac. "Take care of my child, Irkmaan. Present Zammis before the Jeriba archives. Swear this to me."

"Oh, Jerry…"

"Swear it!"

I nodded, hot fiat tears dribbling down my cheeks. "I swear it…" Jerry relaxed its grip on my wrist and closed its eyes. I knelt next to the Drac, stunned. "No. No, no, no, no."

Tear it open! You must tear it open, Davidge!

I reached up a hand and gingerly touched the fold on Jerry’s belly. I could feel life struggling beneath it, trying to escape the airless confines of the Drac’s womb. I hated it; I hated the damned thing as I never hated anything before. Its struggles grew weaker, then stopped.

Present Zammis before the Jeriba archives. Swear this to me.

I swear it.

I lifted my other hand and inserted my thumbs into the fold and tugged gently. I increased the amount of force, then tore at Jerry’s belly like a madman. The fold burst open, soaking the front of my jacket with the clear fluid. Holding the fold open, I could see the still form of Zammis huddled in a well of the fluid, motionless.

I vomited. When I had nothing more to throw up, I reached into the fluid and put my hands under the Drac infant. I lifted it, wiped my mouth on my upper left sleeve, and closed my mouth over Zammis’s and pulled the child’s mouth open with my right hand. Three times, four times, I inflated the child’s lungs, then it coughed. Then it cried. I tied off the two umbilicals with berrybush fiber, then cut them. Jeriba Zammis was freed of the dead flesh of its parent.

I held the rock over my head, then brought it down with all of my force upon the ice. Shards splashed away from the point of impact, exposing the dark green beneath. Again, I lifted the rock and brought it down, knocking loose another rock. I picked it up, stood and carried it to the half-covered corpse of the Drac. "The Drac," I whispered. Good. Just call it "the Drac." Toad face. Dragger.

My enemy. Call it anything to insulate those feelings against the pain.

I looked at the pile of rocks I had gathered, decided it was sufficient to finish the job, then knelt next to the grave. As I placed the rocks on the pile, unmindful of the gale-blown sleet freezing on my snakeskins, I fought back the tears.

I smacked my hands together to help restore the circulation. Spring was coming, but it was still dangerous to stay outside too long. And I had been a long time building the Drac’s grave. I picked up another rock and placed it into position. As the rock’s weight leaned against the snakeskin mattress cover, I realized that the Drac was already frozen. I quickly placed the remainder of the rocks, then stood.

The wind rocked me and I almost lost my footing on the ice next to the grave. I looked toward the boiling sea, pulled my snakeskins around myself more tightly, then looked down at the pile of rocks.

There should be words. You don’t just cover up the dead, then go to dinner. There should be words.

But what words? I was no religionist, and neither was the Drac. Its formal philosophy on the matter of death was the same as my informal rejection of Islamic delights, pagan Valhallas, and Judeo-Christian pies in the sky. Death is death; finis; the end; the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out.

Still, there should be words.

I reached beneath my snakeskins and clasped my gloved hand around the golden cube of The Talman.

I felt the sharp corners of the cube through my glove, closed my eyes, and ran through the words of the great Drac philosophers. But there was nothing they had written for this moment.

The Talman was a book on life. Talma means "life," and this occupies Drac philosophy. They spare nothing for death. Death is a fact; the end of life. The Talman had no words for me to say. The wind knifed through me, causing me to shiver. Already my fingers were numb and pains were beginning in my feet. Still, there should be words. But the only words I could think of would open the gate, flooding my being with pain—with the realization that the Drac was gone.

Still… still, there should be words.

"Jerry, I—"

I had no words. I turned from the grave, my tears mixing with the sleet.

With the warmth and silence of the cave around me, I sat on my mattress, my back against the wall of the cave. I tried to lose myself in the shadows and flickers of light cast on the opposite wall by the fire. Images would half-form, then dance away before I could move my mind to see something in them.

As a child I used to watch clouds, and in them see faces, castles, animals, dragons, and giants. It was a world of escape—fantasy; something to inject wonder and adventure into the mundane, regulated life of a middle-class boy leading a middle-class life. All I could see on the wall of the cave was a representation of Hell: flames licking at twisted, grotesque representations of condemned souls. I laughed at the thought. We think of Hell as fire, supervised by a cackling sadist in a red union suit. Fyrine IV taught me this much: Hell is loneliness, hunger, and endless cold.

I heard a whimper, and I looked into the shadows toward the small mattress at the back of the cave. Jerry had made the snakeskin sack filled with seed pod down for Zammis. It whimpered again, and I leaned forward, wondering if there was something it needed. A pang of fear tickled my guts. What does a Drac infant eat? Dracs aren’t mammals. All they ever taught us in training was how to recognize Dracs—that, and how to kill them. Then real fear began working on me. "What in the hell am I going to use for diapers?"

It whimpered again. I pushed myself to my feet, walked the sandy floor to the infant’s side, then knelt beside it. Out of the bundle that was Jerry’s old flight suit, two chubby three-fingered arms waved. I picked up the bundle, carried it next to the fire, and sat on a rock. Balancing the bundle on my lap, I carefully unwrapped it. I could see the yellow glitter of Zammis’s eyes beneath yellow, sleep-heavy lids. From the almost noseless face and solid teeth to its deep yellow color, Zammis was every bit a miniature of Jerry, except for the fat. Zammis fairly wallowed in rolls of fat. I looked, and was grateful to find that there was no mess.

I looked into Zammis’s face. "You want something to eat?"

"Guh."

Its jaws were ready for business, and I assumed that Dracs must chew solid food from day one. I reached over the fire and picked up a twist of dried snake, then touched it against the infant’s lips. Zammis turned its head.

"C’mon, eat. You’re not going to find anything better around here."

I pushed the snake against its lips again, and Zammis pulled back a chubby arm and pushed it away. I shrugged. "Well, whenever you get hungry enough, it’s there."

"Guh meh!" Its head rocked back and forth on my lap, a tiny, three-fingered hand closed around my finger, and it whimpered again.

"You don’t want to eat, you don’t need to be cleaned up, so what do you want? Kos va nu?"

The child’s face face wrinkled, and its hand pulled at my finger. Its other hand waved in the direction of my chest. I picked Zammis up to arrange the flight suit, and the tiny hands reached out, grasped the front of my snakeskins, and held on as the chubby arms pulled the child next to my chest. I held it close, it placed its cheek against my chest, and promptly fell asleep.

"Well. I’ll be damned."

Until the Drac was gone, I never realized how closely I had stood near the edge of madness. My loneliness was a cancer—a growth that I fed with hate: hate for the planet with its endless cold, endless winds, and endless isolation; hate for the helpless yellow child with its clawing need for care, food, and an affection that I couldn’t give; and hate for myself. I found myself doing things that frightened and disgusted me. To break my solid wall of being alone, I would talk, shout, and sing to myself—uttering curses, nonsense, or meaningless croaks.

Its eyes were open, and it waved a chubby arm and cooed. I picked up a large rock, staggered over to the child’s side, and held the weight over the tiny body. "I could drop this thing, kid. Where would you be then?" I felt laughter coming from my lips. I threw the rock aside. "Why should I mess up the cave? Outside. Put you outside for a minute, and you die! You hear me? Die!"

The child worked its three-fingered hands at the empty air, shut its eyes, and cried. "Why don’t you eat? Why don’t you crap? Why don’t you do anything right, but cry?" The child cried more loudly. "Bah! I ought to pick up that rock and finish it! That’s what I ought…"

A wave of revulsion stopped my words, and I went to my mattress, picked up my cap, gloves, and muff, then headed outside. Before I came to the rocked-in entrance to the cave, I felt the bite of the wind. Outside I stopped and looked at the sea and sky—a roiling panorama in glorious black and white, grey and grey. A gust of wind slapped against me, rocking me back toward the entrance. I regained my balance, walked to the edge of the cliff, and shook my fist at the sea.

"Go ahead! Go ahead and blow, you kizlode sonofabitch! You haven’t killed me yet!"

I squeezed the wind-burned lids of my eyes shut, then opened them and looked down. A forty-meter drop to the next ledge, but if I took a running jump, I could clear it. Then it would be a hundred and fifty meters to the rocks below. Jump. I backed away from the cliff’s edge.

"Jump! Sure, jump!" I shook my head at the sea. "I’m not going to do your job for you! You want me dead, you’re going to have to do it yourself!"

I looked back and up, above the entrance to the cave. The sky was darkening and in a few hours night would shroud the landscape. I turned toward the cleft in the rock that led to the scrub forest above the cave.

I squatted next to the Drac’s grave and studied the rocks I had placed there, already fused together with a layer of ice. "Jerry. What am I going to do?"

The Drac would sit by the fire, both of us sewing. And we talked.

"You know, Jerry, all this," I held up The Talman, "I’ve heard it all before. I expected something different."

The Drac lowered its sewing to its lap and studied me for an instant. Then it shook its head and resumed its sewing. "You are not a terribly profound creature, Davidge."

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

Jerry held out a three-fingered hand. "A universe, Davidge. There is a universe out there, a universe of life, objects, and events. There are differences, but it is all the same universe, and we all must obey the same universal laws. Did you ever think of that?"

"No."

"That is what I mean, Davidge. Not terribly profound."

I snorted. "I told you, I’d heard this stuff before. So I imagine that shows humans to be just as profound as Dracs."

Jerry laughed. "You always insist on making something racial out of my observations. What I said applied to you, not to the race of humans."

I spat on the frozen ground. "You Dracs think you’re so damned smart." The wind picked up, and I could taste the sea salt in it. One of the big blows was coming. The sky was changing to that curious darkness that tricked me into thinking it was midnight blue, rather than black. A trickle of ice found its way under my collar.

"What’s wrong with me just being me? Everybody in the universe doesn’t have to be a damned philosopher, toad face!" There were millions—billions—like me. More maybe. "What difference does it make to anything whether I ponder existence or not? It’s here; that’s all I have to know."

"Davidge, you don’t even know your family line beyond your parents, and now you say you refuse to know that of your universe that you can know. How will you know your place in this existence, Davidge? Where are you? Who are you?"

I shook my head and stared at the grave, then I turned and faced the sea. In another hour, or less, it would be too dark to see the whitecaps. "I’m me, that’s who."

But was that "me" who held the rock over Zammis, threatening a helpless infant with death? I felt my guts curdle as the loneliness I thought I felt grew claws and fangs and began gnawing and slashing at the remains of my sanity.

I turned back to the grave, closed my eyes, then opened them. "I’m a fighter pilot, Jerry. Isn’t that something?"

"That is what you do, Davidge; that is neither who nor what you are."

I knelt next to the grave and clawed at the ice-sheathed rocks with my hands. "You don’t talk to me now, Drac! You’re dead!"

I stopped, realizing that the words I had heard were from The Talman, processed into my own context. I slumped against the rocks, felt the wind, then pushed myself to my feet.

"Jerry, Zammis won’t eat. It’s been three days. What do I do? Why didn’t you tell me anything about Drac brats before you…" I held my hands to my face.

"Steady, boy. Keep it up, and they’ll stick you in a home." The wind pressed against my back, I lowered my hands, then walked from the grave.

I sat in the cave, staring at the fire. I couldn’t hear the wind through the rock, and the wood was dry, making the fire hot and quiet. I tapped my fingers against my knee, then began humming. Noise, any kind, helped to drive off the oppressive loneliness. "Sonofabitch." I laughed and nodded. "Yea, verily, and kizlode va nu, dutschaat."

I chuckled, trying to think of all the curses and obscenities in Drac that I had learned from Jerry. There were quite a few. My toe tapped against the sand and my humming started up again. I stopped, frowned, then remembered the song.

"Highty tighty Christ almighty,

Who the Hell are we?

Zim zam, Gawd Damn,

We're in Squadron B."

I leaned back against the wall of the cave, trying to remember another verse.

A pilot's got a rotten life,

no crumpets with our tea;

we have to service the general's wife

and pick fleas from her knee.

"Damn!" I slapped my knee, trying to see the faces of the other pilots in the squadron lounge. I could almost feel the whiskey fumes tickling the inside of my nose. Vadik, Wooster, Arnold—the one with the broken nose—Demerest, Kadiz. I hummed again, swinging an imaginary mug of issue grog by its imaginary handle.

"And, if he doesn't like it,

I'll tell you what we'll do:

We'll fill his ass with broken glass,

And seal it up with glue."

The cave echoed with the song. I stood, threw up my arms and screamed. "Yaaaaahoooooo!"

Zammis began crying. I bit my lip and walked over to the bundle on the mattress. "Well? You ready to eat?"

"Unh, unh, weh."

The infant rocked its head back and forth. I went to the fire, picked up a twist of snake, then returned. I knelt next to Zammis and held the snake to its lips. Again, the child pushed it away. "Come on, you. You have to eat." I tried again with the same results. I took the wraps off the child and looked at its body. I could tell it was losing weight, although Zammis didn’t appear to be getting weak. I shrugged, wrapped it up again, stood, and began walking back to my mattress.

"Guh, weh."

I turned. "What?"

"Ah, guh, guh."

I went back, stooped over and picked the child up. Its eyes were open and it looked into my face, then smiled.

"What’re you laughing at, ugly? You should get a load of your own face."

Zammis barked out a short laugh, then gurgled. I went to my mattress, sat down, and arranged Zammis in my lap. "Gumma, buh, buh." Its hand grabbed a loose flap of snakeskin on my shirt and pulled on it.

"Gumma, buh, buh to you, too. So, what do we do now? How about I start teaching you the line of Jeriban? You’re going to have to learn it sometime, and it might as well be now."

I looked into the kid’s eyes. "When I bring you to stand before the Jeriba archives, you will say this: Before you here I stand, Zammis of the line of Jeriba, born of Shigan, the fighter pilot." I smiled, thinking of the upraised yellow brows if Zammis continued: "and by damn, Shigan was a helluva good pilot, too. Why, I was once told he took a smart round in his tail feathers, then pulled around and rammed the kizlode sonofabitch, known to one and all as Willis E. Davidge."

I shook my head. "You’re not going to get your wings by doing the line in English, Zammis." I began again:

"Naatha nu enta va, Zammis zea does Jeriba, estay va Shigan, asaam naa denvadar."

For eight of those long days and nights, I feared the child would die. I tried everything—roots, dried berries, dried plumfruit, snakemeat dried, boiled, chewed, and ground. Zammis refused it all. I checked frequently, but each time I looked through the child’s wraps, they were as clean as when I had put them on. Zammis lost weight, but seemed to grow stronger. By the ninth day it was crawling the floor of the cave. Even with the fire, the cave wasn’t really warm. I feared that the kid would get sick crawling around naked, and I dressed it in the tiny snakeskin suit and cap Jerry had made for it. After dressing it, I stood Zammis up and looked at it. The kid had already developed a smile full of mischief that, combined with the twinkle in its yellow eyes and its suit and cap, make it look like an elf. I was holding Zammis up in a standing position. The kid seemed pretty steady on its legs, and I let go. Zammis smiled, waved its thinning arms about, then laughed and took a faltering step toward me. I caught it as it fell, and the little Drac squealed.

In two more days Zammis was walking and getting into everything that could be gotten into. I spent many an anxious moment searching the chambers at the back of the cave for the kid after coming in from outside. Finally, when I caught it at the mouth of the cave heading full steam for the outside, I had had enough. I made a harness out of snakeskin, attached it to a snake-leather leash, and tied the other end to a projection of rock above my head. Zammis still got into everything, but at least I could find it.

Four days after it learned to walk, it wanted to eat. Drac babies are probably the most convenient and considerate infants in the universe. They live off their fat for about three or four Earth weeks, and don’t make a mess the entire time. After they learn to walk, and can therefore make it to a mutually agreed upon spot, then they want food and begin discharging wastes. I showed the kid once how to use the litter box I had made, and never had to again. After five or six lessons, Zammis was handling its own drawers. Watching the little Drac learn and grow, I began to understand those pilots in my squadron who used to bore each other—and everyone else—with countless pictures of ugly children, accompanied by thirty-minute narratives for each snapshot.

Before the ice melted, Zammis was talking. Its first word was aimed at the nasty weather. It said "Damnwind." I could only guess where it picked up language like that.

I taught Zammis to call me "Uncle."

For lack of a better term, I called the ice-melting season "spring." It would be a long time before the scrub forest showed any green or the snakes ventured forth from their icy holes. The sky maintained its eternal cover of dark, angry clouds, and still the sleet would come and coat everything with a hard, slippery glaze. But the next day the glaze would melt, and the warmer air would push another millimeter into the soil.

I realized that this was the time to be gathering wood. Before the winter hit, Jerry and I working together hadn’t gathered enough wood. The short summer would have to be spent putting up food for the next winter. I was hoping to build a tighter door over the mouth of the cave, and I swore that I would figure out some kind of indoor plumbing. Dropping your drawers outside in the middle of winter was dangerous. My mind was full of these things as I stretched out on my mattress watching the smoke curl through a crack in the roof of the cave. Zammis was off in the back of the cave playing with some rocks that it had found, and I must have fallen asleep. I awoke with the kid shaking my arm.

"Uncle?"

"Huh? Zammis?"

"Uncle. Look."

I rolled over on my left side and faced the Drac. Zammis was holding up its right hand, fingers spread out. "What is it, Zammis?"

"Look." It pointed at each of its three fingers in turn.

"One, two, three."

"So?"

"Look." Zammis grabbed my right hand and spread out the fingers.

"One, two, three, four, five!"

I nodded. "So you can count to five."

The Drac frowned and made an impatient gesture with its tiny fists. "Look." It took my outstretched hand and placed its own on top of it. With its other hand, Zammis pointed first at one of its own fingers, then at one of mine. "One, one." The child’s yellow eyes studied me to see if I understood.

"Yes."

The child pointed again. "Two, two." It looked at me, then looked back at my hand and pointed. "Three, three." Then he grabbed my two remaining fingers. "Four, five?" It dropped my hand, then pointed to the side of its own hand. "Four, five?"

I shook my head. Zammis, at less than four Earth months old, had detected part of the difference between Dracs and humans. A human child would be—what—five, six, or seven years old before asking questions like that. I sighed. "Zammis."

"Yes, Uncle?"

"Zammis, you are a Drac. Dracs only have three fingers on a hand." I held up my right hand and wiggled the fingers. "I’m a human. I have five."

I swear that tears welled in the child’s eyes, Zammis held out its hands, looked at them, then shook its head. "Grow four, five?"

I sat up and faced the kid. Zammis was wondering where its other four fingers had gone. "Look, Zammis. You and I are different… different kinds of beings, understand?"

Zammis shook his head. "Grow four, five?"

"You won’t. You’re a Drac." I pointed at my chest. "I’m a human." This was getting me nowhere. "Your parent, where you came from, was a Drac. Do you understand?"

Zammis frowned. "Drac. What Drac?"

The urge to resort to the timeless standby of "you’ll understand when you get older" pounded at the back of my mind. I shook my head. "Dracs have three fingers on each hand. Your parent had three fingers on each hand." I rubbed my beard. "My parent was a human and had five fingers on each hand. That’s why I have five fingers on each hand."

Zammis knelt on the sand and studied its fingers. It looked up at me, back to its hands, then back to me. "What parent?"

I studied the kid. It must be having an identity crisis of some kind. I was the only person it had ever seen, and I had five fingers per hand. "A parent is… the thing…" I scratched my beard again. "Look… we all come from someplace. I had a mother and father—two different kinds of humans—that gave me life; that made me, understand?" Zammis gave me a look that could be interpreted as "Mac, you are full of it." I shrugged. "I don’t know if I can explain it."

Zammis pointed at its own chest. "My mother? My father?"

I held out my hands, dropped them into my lap, pursed my lips, scratched my beard, and generally stalled for time. Zammis held an unblinking gaze on me the entire time. "Look, Zammis. You don’t have a mother and a father. I’m a human, so I have them; you’re a Drac. You have a parent—just one, see?"

Zammis shook its head. It looked at me, then pointed at its own chest. "Drac."

"Right."

Zammis pointed at my chest. "Human."

"Right again."

Zammis removed its hand and dropped it in its lap. "Where Drac come from?"

Sweet Jesus! Trying to explain hermaphroditic reproduction to a kid who shouldn’t even be crawling yet! "Zammis…" I held up my hands, then dropped them into my lap. "Look. You see how much bigger I am than you?"

"Yes, Uncle."

"Good." I ran my fingers through my hair, fighting for time and inspiration. "Your parent was big, like me. Its name was Jeriba Shigan." Funny how just saying the name was painful.

"Jeriba Shigan was like you. It only had three fingers on each hand. It grew you in its tummy." I poked Zammis’s middle. "Understand?"

Zammis giggled and held its hands over its stomach. "Uncle, how Dracs grow there?"

I lifted my legs onto the mattress and stretched out. Where do little Dracs come from? I looked over to Zammis and saw the child hanging upon my every word. I grimaced and told the truth. "Damned if I know, Zammis. Damned if I know." Thirty seconds later, Zammis was back playing with its rocks.

Summer, and I taught Zammis how to capture and skin the long grey snakes, and then how to smoke the meat. The child would squat on the shallow bank above a mudpool, its yellow eyes fixed on the snake holes in the bank, waiting for one of the occupants to poke out its head. The wind would blow, but Zammis wouldn’t move. Then a flat, triangular head set with tiny blue eyes would appear. The snake would check the pool, turn and check the bank, then check the sky. It would advance out of the hole a bit, then check it all again. Often the snakes would look directly at Zammis, but the Drac could have been carved from rock. Zammis wouldn’t move until the snake was too far out of the hole to pull itself back in tail first. Then Zammis would strike, grabbing the snake with both hands just behind the head. The snakes had no fangs and weren’t poisonous, but they were lively enough to toss Zammis into the mudpool on occasion.

The skins were spread and wrapped around tree trunks and pegged in place to dry. The tree trunks were kept in an open place near the entrance to the cave, but under an overhang that faced away from the ocean. About two thirds of the skins put up in this manner cured; the remaining third would rot.

Beyond the skin room was the smokehouse: a rock-walled chamber that we would hang with rows of snakemeat. A greenwood fire would be set in a pit in the chamber’s floor; then we would fill in the small opening with rocks and dirt.

"Uncle, why doesn’t the meat rot after it’s smoked?"

I thought upon it. "I’m not sure; I just know it doesn’t."

"Why do you know?"

I shrugged. "I just do. I read about it, probably."

"What’s read?"

"Reading. Like when I sit down and read The Talman."

"Does The Talman say why the meat doesn’t rot?"

"No. I meant that I probably read it in another book."

"Do we have more books?"

I shook my head. "I meant before I came to this planet."

"Why did you come to this planet?"

"I told you. Your parent and I were stranded here during the battle."

"Why do the humans and Dracs fight?"

"It’s very complicated." I waved my hands about for a bit. The human line was that the Dracs were aggressors invading our space. The Drac line was that the humans were aggressors invading their space. The truth? "Zammis, it has to do with the colonization of new planets. Both races are expanding and both races have a tradition of exploring and colonizing new planets. I guess we just expanded into each other. Understand?"

Zammis nodded, then became mercifully silent as it fell into deep thought. The main thing I learned from the Drac child was all of the questions I didn’t have answers to. I was feeling very smug, however, at having gotten Zammis to understand about the war, thereby avoiding my ignorance on the subject of preserving meat. Uncle?"

"Yes, Zammis?"

"What’s a planet?"

As the cold, wet summer came to an end, we had the cave jammed with firewood and preserved food. With that out of the way, I concentrated my efforts on making some kind of indoor plumbing out of the natural pools in the chambers deep within the cave. The bathtub was no problem. By dropping heated rocks into one of the pools, the water could be brought up to a bearable—even comfortable—temperature. After bathing, the hollow stems of a bamboolike plant could be used to siphon out the dirty water. The tub could then be refilled from the pool above. The problem was where to siphon the water. Several of the chambers had holes in their floors. The first three holes we tried drained into our main chamber, wetting the low edge near the entrance. The previous winter, Jerry and I had considered using one of those holes for a toilet that we would flush with water from the pools. Since we didn’t know where the goodies would come out, we decided against it. I was glad we had.

The fourth hole Zammis and I tried drained out below the entrance to the cave in the face of the cliff. Not ideal, but better than answering the call of nature in the middle of a combination ice storm and blizzard. We rigged up the hole as a drain for both the tub and toilet. As Zammis and I prepared to enjoy our first hot bath, I removed my snake-skins, tested the water with my toe, then stepped in. "Great!" I turned to Zammis, the child still half dressed. "Come on in, Zammis. The water’s fine." Zammis was staring at me, its mouth hanging open. "What’s the matter?"

The child stared wide-eyed, then pointed at me with a three-fingered hand. "Uncle. What’s that?"

I looked down. "Oh." I shook my head, then looked up at the child. "Zammis, I explained all that, remember? I’m a human."

"But what’s it for?"

I sat down in the warm water, removing the object of discussion from sight "It’s for the elimination of liquid wastes… among other things. Now, hop in and get washed."

Zammis shucked its snakeskins, looked down at its own smooth-surfaced, combined system, then climbed into the tube. The child settled into the water up to its neck, its yellow eyes studying me. "Uncle?"

"Yes?"

"What other things?"

Well, I told Zammis. For the first time, the Drac appeared to be trying to decide whether my response was truthful or not, rather than its usual acceptance of my every assertion. In fact, I was convinced that Zammis thought I was lying—probably because I was.

Winter began with a sprinkle of snowflakes carried on a gentle breeze. I took Zammis above the cave to the scrub forest. I held the child’s hand as we stood before the pile of rocks that served as Jerry’s grave. Zammis pulled its snakeskins against the wind, bowed its head, then turned and looked up into my face. "Uncle, this is the grave of my parent?"

I nodded. "Yes."

Zammis turned back to the grave, then shook its head. "Uncle, how should I feel?"

"I don’t understand, Zammis."

The child nodded at the gravel "I can see that you are sad being here. I think you want me to feel the same. Do you?"

I frowned, then shook my head. "No. I don’t want you to be sad. I just wanted you to know where it is."

"May I go now?"

"Sure. Are you certain you know the way back to the cave?"

"Yes. I just want to make sure my soap doesn’t burn again."

I watched as the child turned and scurried off into the naked trees, then I turned back to the grave. "Well, Jerry, what do you think of your kid? Zammis was using wood ashes to clean the grease off the shells, then it put a shell back on the fire and put water in it to boil off the burnt-on food. Fat and ashes. The next thing, Jerry, we were making soap. The kid’s first batch almost took the hide off us, but the formula’s improving."

I looked up at the clouds, then brought my glance down to the sea. In the distance, low, dark clouds were building up. "See that? You know what that means, don’t you? Ice storm number one. By this time tomorrow there’ll be five centimeters of ice over everything." The wind picked up and I squatted next to the grave to replace a rock that had rolled from the pile. "Zammis is a good kid, Jerry. I wanted to hate it. After you died, I wanted to hate it. Zammis is pretty hard to hate, though."

I replaced the rock, then looked back toward the sea. "I don’t know how we’re going to make it off planet, Jerry—"

I caught a flash of movement out of the corner of my vision. I turned to the right and looked over the tops of the trees. Against the grey sky, a black speck streaked away. I followed it with my eyes until it went above the clouds. I listened, hoping to hear an exhaust roar, but my heart was pounding so hard, all I could hear was the wind. Was it a ship? I stood, took a few steps in the direction the speck was going, then stopped. Turning my head, I saw that the rocks on Jerry’s grave were already capped with thin layers of fine snow. I shrugged and headed for the cave.

"Probably just a bird."

Zammis sat on its mattress, stabbing several pieces of snakeskin with a bone needle. I stretched out on my own mattress and watched the smoke curl up toward the crack in the ceiling. Was it a bird? Or was it a ship? Damn, but it worked on me. Escape from the planet had been out of my thoughts, had been buried, hidden for all that summer. But again, it twisted at me. To walk where a sun shined, to wear cloth again, experience central heating, eat food prepared by a chef, to be among… people again.

I rolled over on my right side and stared at the wall next to my mattress. People. Human people. I closed my eyes and swallowed. Girl human people. Female persons. Images drifted before my eyes—faces, bodies, laughing couples, the dance after flight training… what was her name? Dolora? Dora?

There was that one fighter jock in the squadron. Carmia Jackman. Hard as nails, but beautiful. Worshipped her from afar, then there was a date. Dinner along the rec corridor, a walk in the hydroponic gardens, and a vid, then a strange goodnight. There was a kiss, then she held me at arm’s length, frowned at me, and then said that very strange thing. "I don’t know where you are, Will, but you’re not here." Then she went into her quarters. I always thought there would be time for another try. Perhaps another time I would be there.

I shook my head, rolled over and sat up, facing the fire. Why did I have to see whatever it was? All those things I had been able to bury—to forget—boiling over.

"Uncle?"

I looked up at Zammis. Yellow skin, yellow eyes, noseless toad face. I shook my head. "What?"

"Is something wrong?"

Is something wrong, hah. "No. I just thought I saw something today. It probably wasn’t anything." I reached to the fire and took a piece of dried snake from the griddle. I blew on it, then gnawed on the heat-softened strip.

"What did it look like?"

"I don’t know. The way it moved, I thought it might be a ship. It went away so fast, I couldn’t be sure. Might have been a bird."

"Bird?"

I studied Zammis. It’d never seen a bird; neither had I on Fyrine IV. "An animal that flies."

Zammis nodded. "Uncle, when we were gathering wood up in the scrub forest, I saw something fly."

"What? Why didn’t you tell me?"

"I meant to, but I forgot"

"Forgot!" I frowned. "In which direction was it going?"

Zammis pointed to the back of the cave. "That way. Away from the sea." Zammis put down its sewing. "Can we go see where it went?"

That was the same direction in which my bird had been flying. I shook my head. "The winter is just beginning. You don’t know what it’s like. We’d die in only a few days."

Zammis went back to poking holes in the snakeskin. The winter would kill us. But spring would be something else. We could survive with double layered snakeskins stuffed with seed pod down, and a tent. We had to have a tent. Zammis and I could spend the winter making it, and packs. Boots. We’d need sturdy walking boots. Have to think on that.

It’s strange how a spark of hope can ignite, and spread, until all desperation is consumed. Was it a ship? I didn’t know. If it was, was it taking off, or landing? I didn’t know. If it was taking off, we’d be heading in the wrong direction. But the opposite direction meant crossing the sea. Whatever. Come spring we would head beyond the scrub forest and see what was there.

The winter seemed to pass quickly, with Zammis occupied with the tent and my time devoted to rediscovering the art of boot making. I made tracings of both of our feet on snakeskin, and, after some experimentation, I found that boiling the snake leather with plumfruit made it soft and gummy. By taking several of the gummy layers, weighting them, then setting them aside to dry, the result was a tough, flexible sole. By the time I finished Zammis’s boots, the Drac needed a new pair.

"They’re too small, Uncle."

"Waddaya mean, too small?"

Zammis pointed down. "They hurt. My toes are all crippled up."

I squatted down and felt the tops over the child’s toes. "I don’t understand. It’s only been twenty, twenty-five days since I made the tracings. You sure you didn’t move when I made them?"

Zammis shook its head. "I didn’t move."

I frowned, then stood. "Stand up, Zammis." The Drac stood and I moved next to it. The top of Zammis’s head came to the middle of my chest. Another sixty centimeters and it’d be as tall as Jerry. "Take them off, Zammis. I’ll make a bigger pair. Try not to grow so fast."

Zammis pitched the tent inside the cave, put glowing coals inside, then rubbed fat into the leather for waterproofing. It had grown taller, and I had held off making the Drac’s boots until I could be sure of the size it would need. I tried to do a projection by measuring Zammis’s feet every ten days, then extending the curve into spring. According to my figures, the kid would have feet resembling a pair of attack transports by the time the snow melted. By spring, Zammis would be full grown. Jerry’s old flight boots had fallen apart before Zammis had been born, but I had saved the pieces. I used the soles to make my tracings and hoped for the best.

I was doing my nightly reading of The Talman, absorbing the wisdom of Maltak Oi, who wrote its message to me, and to a few others: "The Talman does not contain all truth, and never will it. For this generation, and for all the generations of all the futures, newer and better truths exist. We must keep The Talman open to these truths, or see The Way become another curious myth of the past. To all of those generations and futures, then: if you have such a truth, stand before The Talman Kovah, as did Uhe before the Mavedah, and speak it—"

"Uncle?"

"What?"

"Existence is the first given?"

I shrugged. "That’s what Shizumaat says; I’ll buy it."

"But, Uncle, how do we know that existence is real?"

I lowered my work, looked at Zammis, shook my head, then resumed stitching the boots. "Take my word for it."

The Drac grimaced. "But, Uncle, that is not knowledge; that is faith."

I sighed, thinking back to my sophomore year at the University of Nations—a bunch of adolescents lounging around a cheap flat experimenting with booze, powders, and philosophy. At a little more than one Earth year old, Zammis was developing into an intellectual bore. "So, what’s wrong with faith?"

Zammis snickered. "Come now, Uncle. Faith?"

"It helps some of us along this drizzle-soaked coil."

"Coil?"

I scratched my head. "This mortal coil; life. Shakespeare, I think."

Zammis frowned. "It is not in The Talman."

"He, not it. Shakespeare was a human."

Zammis stood, walked to the fire and sat across from me. "Was he a philosopher, like Mistan or Shizumaat?"

"No. He wrote plays—like stories, acted out."

Zammis rubbed its chin. "Do you remember any of Shakespeare?"

I held up a finger. " To be, or not to be; that is the question."

The Drac’s mouth dropped open; then it nodded its head. "Yes. Yes! To be or not to be; that is the question!" Zammis held out its hands. "How do we know the wind blows outside the cave when we are not there to see it? Does the sea still boil if we are not there to feel it?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"But, Uncle, how do we know?"

I squinted at the Drac. "Zammis, I have a question for you. Is the following statement true or false: What I am saying right now is false."

Zammis blinked. "If it is false, then the statement is true. But… if it’s true… the statement is false, but…" Zammis blinked again, then turned and went back to rubbing fat into the tent "I’ll think upon it, Uncle."

"You do that, Zammis."

The Drac thought upon it for about ten minutes, then turned back. "The statement is false."

I smiled. "But that’s what the statement said, hence it is true, but…" I let the puzzle trail off. Oh, smugness, thou temptest even saints.

"No, Uncle. The statement is meaningless in its present context." I shrugged. "You see, Uncle, the statement assumes the existence of truth values that can comment upon themselves devoid of any other reference. I think Lurrvena’s logic in The Talman is clear on this, and if meaninglessness is equated with falsehood…"

I sighed. "Yeah, well—"

"You see, Uncle, you must first establish a context in which your statement has meaning."

I leaned forward, frowned, and scratched my beard. "I see. You mean I was putting Descartes before the horse?"

Zammis looked at me strangely, and even more so when I collapsed on my mattress cackling like a fool.

Deep in winter, I saw a crack of sunlight come through the clouds. As I stood next to Jerry’s grave in the scrub forest, I watched the sunbeams touch the ocean and became overwhelmed at the beauty of it. Before I could take a few steps toward the cave to call Zammis out to see it, the sight had vanished in a snow squall, returning the world to whites and endless grays. I sat on the ice next to Jerry’s grave.

"Maybe it’s a good thing Zammis didn’t see it, Jerry. It’d have us dragging all our firewood outside for signal fires." I thought for a moment. "Maybe not. The kid doesn’t seem to hate the place like you and me. The way Zammis explores and collects rocks, maybe it’ll be a geologist. It collects plants and bugs, too. Did I tell you about that one bug Zammis dragged in at the end of last summer? It was dead, but it had an egg sac full of nasty little biters who were very much alive. We had to boil, crush, or shovel out damn near everything in the cave to get rid of the little bastards."

I laughed at the memory and imagined Jerry laughing, too. God, I wished that Jerry could see Zammis; that Zammis could meet and know its parent. Then words came into my head, Tochalla in the Koda Hiveda, The Talman. It was Tochalla who began the movement to reassemble the Talmani and to rebuild the Talman Kovah after its destruction half a millennium earlier. Tochalla faced a tougher problem than I had trying to tell Zammis about its parent. Tochalla was trying to tell the world about lessons and a discipline that had been crushed and forbidden five centuries before. In the intervening five hundred years, the surviving memories and fragments had taken on lives of their own, twisted by faulty memories and embellished by generations of imaginative, self-serving scoundrels. "We will take it all," wrote Tochalla. "We will gather in everything, much as Rhada did with all the many versions of the Laws of Aakva, and we will examine, test, discuss, and challenge everything. If we are honest and mean only to serve truth, then what remains will be the truth of it."

The truth of it.

All I had was a few memories and a lot of feelings. Perhaps, instead of hiding them, if I gave them freely to Zammis, some part of the truth of its parent and its line would come through.

I glanced up and saw another sunbeam reach the sea as a crack opened in the cloud cover. I raced to the top of the path to call down to Zammis, but, far below me, I saw the kid standing at the edge of the cliff, looking over the sea at the light from above. Its arms were outstretched. The opening in the cloud cover closed, Zammis lowered its arms, and went into the cave.

"Uncle, why does the line of Jeriba have only five names? You say that human lines have many names."

I put down my sewing and nodded. "The five names of the Jeriba line are things to which their bearers must add deeds. The deeds are important—not the names."

"Gothig is Shigan’s parent as Shigan is my parent."

"Of course. You know that from your recitations."

Zammis frowned. "Then I must name my child Ty when I become a parent?"

"Yes. And Ty must name its child Haesni. Do you see something wrong with that?"

"I would like to name my child Davidge, after you."

I smiled and shook my head. "The Ty name has been served by great bankers, merchants, inventors, and—well, you know your recitation. The name Davidge hasn’t been served by much. Think of what Ty would miss by not being Ty."

Zammis thought a while, then nodded. "Uncle, do you think Gothig is alive?"

"As far as I know."

"What is Gothig like?"

I thought back to Jerry talking about its parent, Gothig. "It taught music, and is very strong. Jerry… Shigan said that its parent could bend metal bars with its fingers. Gothig is also very dignified. I imagine that right now Gothig is also very sad. Gothig must think that the line of Jeriba has ended."

Zammis frowned and its yellow brow furrowed. "Uncle, we must make it to Draco. We must tell Gothig the line continues."

"We will."

"How do you know we will?"

"I made a promise to your parent, Zammis. I promised to teach you line and book and to stand with you before the Jeriba archives and see you into adulthood."

"How will you keep this promise, Uncle?"

"I don’t know. The Talman tells me to do the best I can and leave the rest to the event stream of the universe."

"But how, Uncle?"

I lowered my sewing to my lap and looked at Zammis. "In the spring we’re going to see where those birds were going. Maybe that’s how." I shrugged and returned to my sewing. "Maybe not. How it turns out isn’t up to us."

"Faith again, Uncle?"

"Reality, Zammis. Genuine, washable, colorfast, one hundred percent, guaranteed non-shrinkable reality, and that’s a fact."

Spring. The winter’s ice began thinning, and boots, tent, and packs were ready. We were putting the finishing touches on our new insulated suits. As Jerry had given The Talman to me to learn, the golden cube now hung around Zammis’s neck. The Drac would drop the tiny golden book from the cube and study it for hours at a time.

"Uncle?"

"What?"

"Why do Dracs speak and write in one language and the humans in another?"

I laughed. "Zammis, the humans speak and write in many languages. English is just one of them."

"How do the humans speak among themselves?"

I shrugged. "They don’t always; when they do, they use interpreters—people who can speak both languages."

"You and I speak both English and Drac; does that make us interpreters?"

"I suppose we could be, if you could ever find a human and a Drac who want to talk to each other. Remember, there’s a war going on."

"How will the war stop if they do not talk?"

"Good question. Maybe they’ll run out of ammunition or bodies to kill. I suppose they will talk, eventually."

Zammis smiled. "I think I would like to be an interpreter and help end the war." The Drac put its sewing aside and stretched out on its new mattress. Zammis had outgrown even its old mattress, which it now used for a pillow. "Uncle, do you think that we will find anybody beyond the scrub forest?"

"I hope so. If we don’t, it’ll be one hell of a long hike for nothing."

"If we find someone, will you go with me to Draco?"

"I promised your parent that I would."

"After I make my recitation, what will you do?"

I stared at the fire, a question I never asked myself smoking on the table. "I don’t know." I shrugged. "The war might keep us from getting to Draco for a long time."

"After that, what?"

"I suppose I’ll stay in the service."

Zammis propped itself up on an elbow. "Go back to being a fighter pilot?"

"Sure. That’s about all I know how to do."

"And kill Dracs?"

I put my own sewing down and studied the Drac. Things had changed since Jerry and I had slugged it out—more things than I had realized. I shook my head. "No. I probably won’t be a pilot—not a service one. Maybe I can land a job flying commercial ships." I shrugged. "Maybe the service won’t give me any choice."

Zammis sat up, was still for a moment; then it stood, walked over to my mattress, and knelt before me on the sand. "Uncle, I don’t want to leave you."

"Don’t be silly. You’ll have your own kind around you. Your grandparent, Gothig, Shigan’s siblings, their children—you’ll forget all about me."

"Will you forget about me?"

I looked into those yellow eyes, then reached out my hand and touched Zammis’s cheek. "No, I won’t forget about you. But, remember this, Zammis: you’re a Drac and I’m a human, and that’s how this part of the universe is divided."

Zammis took my hand from his cheek, spread the fingers and studied them. "Whatever happens, Uncle, I will never forget you."

The ice was gone, and the Drac and I stood in the wind-blown drizzle, packs on our backs, before the grave. Zammis was as tall as I was, which made it a little taller than Jerry. To my relief, the boots fit. Zammis hefted its pack up higher on its shoulders, then turned from the grave and looked out at the sea. I followed Zammis’s glance and watched the rollers steam in and smash on the rocks. I looked at the Drac. "What are you thinking?"

Zammis looked down, then turned toward me. "Uncle, I didn’t think of it before, but… I will miss this place."

I burst out with a laugh. "Nonsense! This place?" I slapped the Drac on the shoulder. "Why would you miss this place?"

Zammis looked back out to sea. "I have learned many things here. You have taught me many things here, Uncle. My life happened here."

"Only the beginning, Zammis. You have a life ahead of you." I nodded my head at the grave. "Say goodbye."

Zammis turned toward the grave, stood over it, then knelt to one side and began removing the rocks. After a few moments, it had exposed the hand of a skeleton with three fingers. Zammis nodded, then wept. "I am sorry. Uncle, but I had to do that. This has been nothing but a pile of rocks to me. Now it is more." Zammis replaced the rocks, then stood.

I cocked my head toward the scrub forest. "Go on ahead. I’ll catch up in a minute."

"Yes, Uncle."

Zammis moved off toward the naked trees, and I looked down at the grave. "What do you think of Zammis, Jerry? It’s bigger than you were. I guess snake agrees with the kid." I squatted next to the grave, picked up a small rock, and added it to the pile. "I guess this is it. We’re either going to make it to Draco, or die trying." I stood and looked at the sea. "Yeah, I guess I learned a few things here. I’ll miss it, in a way." I turned back to the grave and hefted my pack up. "Ehdevva sahn, Jeriba Shigan. So long, Jerry."

I turned and followed Zammis into the forest.

The days that followed were full of wonder for Zammis. For me the sky was still the same, dull grey, and the few variations of plant and animal life that we found were nothing remarkable. Once we got beyond the scrub forest, we climbed a gentle rise for a day, and then found ourselves on a wide, flat, endless plain. It was ankle deep in a purple weed that stained our boots the same color. The nights were still too cold for hiking, and we would hole up in the tent. Both the greased tent and suits worked well, keeping out the almost constant rain. In time there were clumps of scrub trees resembling the ones above the cave. We made camp there, giving us some relief from the winds.

Nights we slept. Days we hiked and talked and sang. I avoided teaching Zammis some of the raunchier barracks ditties I knew, but there were others. Some of them made me think. I mean, just how long had it been since anyone worked on a railroad? The song wasn’t particularly meaningful or catchy, but there it was, being sung by a Drac on a planet that never even saw a railroad. Verily, someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah, playing on the old banjo.

In response to Zammis’s question, we stopped in one of the scrub clumps, pitched the tent, and began constructing a banjo. With the end off a hollow log, some snakeskin stretched over it, a stick scraped flat for a neck, and some dried and twisted snakegut for strings, we had something that sounded like a ukulele being played underwater. I remembered how to tune a uke, but I couldn’t do more than play a few chords and pick out a couple of tunes. Back on the hike, Zammis took to the crude instrument and began picking. Soon we had music for our singing, and I broke down and taught Zammis just a couple of the not too raunchy service songs.

It was fun. More fun than I remembered ever having with anyone. If we never found a ship or anything else, I could happily spend the rest of my life hiking with Zammis, singing songs, and seeing what’s over the horizon.

One day, shortly after beginning our day’s hike, we saw it. A ship. It screamed overhead, then disappeared over the horizon before either of us could say a word. I had no doubt that the craft I had seen was in landing attitude.

"Uncle! Did it see us?"

I shook my head. "No, I doubt it. But it was landing. Do you hear? It was landing somewhere ahead."

"Uncle?"

"Let’s get moving! What is it?"

"Was it a Drac ship, or a human ship?"

I cooled in my tracks. I had never stopped to think about it. I waved my hand. "Come on. It doesn’t matter. Either way, you go to Draco. You’re a noncombatant, so the USE forces couldn’t do anything, and if they’re Dracs, you’re home free."

We began walking. "But, Uncle, if it’s a Drac ship, what will happen to you?"

I shrugged. "Prisoner of war. The Dracs say they abide by the interplanetary war accords, so I should be all right." Fat chance, said the back of my head to the front of my head. The big question was whether I preferred being a Drac POW or a permanent resident of Fyrine IV. I had figured that out long ago. "Come on, let’s pick up the pace. We don’t know how long it will take to get there, or how long it will be on the ground."

Pick 'em up; put 'em down. Except for a few breaks, we didn’t stop—even when night came. Our exertion kept us warm. The horizon never seemed to grow nearer. The longer we slogged ahead the duller my mind grew. It must have been days, my mind gone numb as my feet, when I fell through the purple weed into a hole. Immediately, everything grew dark, and I felt a pain in my right leg. I felt the blackout coming, and I welcomed its warmth, its rest, its peace.

"Uncle? Uncle? Wake up! Please, wake up!"

I felt slapping against my face, although it felt somehow detached. Agony thundered into my brain, bringing me wide awake. Damned if I didn’t break my leg. I looked up and saw the weedy edges of the hole. My rear end was seated in a trickle of water. Zammis squatted next to me. "What happened?"

Zammis motioned upward. "This hole was only covered by a thin crust of dirt and plants. The water must have taken the ground away. Are you all right?"

"My leg. I think I broke it." I leaned my back against the muddy wall. "Zammis, you’re going to have to go on by yourself."

"I can’t leave you. Uncle!"

"Look, if you find anyone, you can send them back for me."

"What if the water in here comes up?" Zammis felt along my leg until I winced. "I must carry you out of here. What must I do for the leg?"

The kid had a point. Drowning wasn’t in my schedule. "We need something stiff. Bind the leg so it doesn’t move."

Zammis pulled off its pack, and kneeling in the water and mud, went through its pack, then through the tent roll. Using the tent poles, it wrapped my leg with snakeskins torn from the tent. Then, using more snakeskins, Zammis made two loops, slipped one over each of my legs, then propped me up and slipped the loops over its shoulders. It lifted, and I blacked out.

On the ground, covered with the remains of the tent, Zammis was shaking my arm. "Uncle? Uncle?"

"Yes?" I whispered.

"Uncle, I’m ready to go." It pointed to my side. The skins from the tent were covering a lump of something. "Your food is here, and when it rains, just pull the tent over your face. I’ll mark the trail I make so I can find my way back."

I nodded. "Take care of yourself."

Zammis shook its head. "Uncle, I can carry you. We shouldn’t separate."

I weakly shook my head. "Give me a break, kid. I couldn’t make it. Find somebody and bring 'em back." I felt my stomach flip, and cold sweat drenched my snakeskins. "Go on; get going."

Zammis reached out, grabbed its pack, and stood. The pack shouldered, Zammis turned and began running in the direction that the craft had been going. I watched until I couldn’t see it. "Remember me," I whispered.

I faced up and looked at the clouds. "You almost got me that time, you kizlode sonofabitch, but you didn’t figure on the Drac… you keep forgetting… there’s two of us."

I drifted in and out of consciousness, felt rain on my face, then pulled up the tent and covered my head. In seconds, the blackout returned.

"Davidge? Lieutenant Davidge?"

"Waa." I opened my eyes, watched the lights swim around for a bit then settle down into something I hadn’t seen for four Earth years: a human face. "Who are you?"

The face, young, long and capped by short blond hair, smiled. "I’m Captain Steerman, ship’s medical officer. How do you feel?"

I pondered the question and smiled. "Like I’ve been shot full of very high-grade junk."

"You have. You were in pretty bad shape by the time the survey team brought you in."

"Survey team?"

"I guess you don’t know. The United States of Earth and the Dracon Chamber have established a joint commission to supervise the colonization of new planets. The war is over."

"Over?"

"Yes."

"How? What about Amadeen?"

"The planet’s quarantined. I don’t know what they’re going to do down on Amadeen, but the USE and the Dracs are out of it." Something heavy lifted from my chest.

"Where’s Zammis?"

"Who?"

"Jeriba Zammis; the Drac that I was with."

The doctor shrugged. "I don’t know anything about it. If there was a Drac with you when you were picked up, I suppose the Draggers are taking care of it."

Draggers.

I’d once used the term myself. As I listened to it coming out of Steerman’s mouth, it seemed foreign: alien, repulsive. "Zammis is a Drac, not a Dragger."

The doctor’s brows furrowed, then he shrugged. "Of course. Whatever you say. Just you get some rest, and I’ll check back on you in a few hours."

"May I see Zammis?"

The doctor smiled. "Dear, no. You’re on your way back to the Delphi USEB. The, ah, Drac is probably on its way to Draco. That’s where he belongs, right?" He nodded, then turned and left.

God, I felt lost. I looked around and saw that I was in the ward of a ship’s sick bay. The beds on either side of me were occupied. The man on my right shook his head and went back to reading a magazine. The one on my left looked angry.

"You damned Dragger suck!" He turned on his left side and presented me his back.

Home again, home again, jiggety jig.

Alien Earth.

As I stepped down the ramp onto the USE field in Orleans, those were the first two words that popped into my head. Alien Earth. I looked at the crowds of USE Force personnel bustling around like so many ants, inhaled the smell of industrial man, then spat on the ramp.

"How you like, put in stockade time?"

I looked down and saw a white-capped Force Police private glaring up at me. I continued down the ramp. "Get bent."

"Quoi?" The FP marched over and met me at the end of the ramp.

"Get bent." I pulled my discharge papers from my breast pocket and waved them. "Gavey short-timer, kizlode?"

The FP took my papers, frowned at them, then pointed at a long, low building at the edge of the field. "Continuez tout droit."

I smiled, turned and headed across the field, thinking of Zammis asking about how humans talk together. And where was Zammis? I shook my head, then entered the building. Most of the people inside the low building were crowding the in-processing or transportation-exchange aisles. I saw two bored officials behind two long tables and figured that they were the local customs clerks. A multilingual sign above their stations confirmed the hunch. I stopped in front of one of them. She glanced up at me, then held out her hand. "Votre passeport?"

I pulled out the blue and white booklet, handed it over, then stood holding my hands as I waited. I could feel the muscles at the back of my neck knot as I observed an old anti-Drac propaganda poster on the wall behind her. It showed two yellow, clawed hands holding a miniature Earth before a fanged mouth. Fangs and claws. The caption read: "They would call this victory" in seven languages.

"Avez-vous quelque chose à déclarer?"

I frowned at her. Ess?"

She frowned back. "Avez-vous quelque chose à déclarer?"

I felt a tap on my back. "Do you speak English?"

I turned and saw the other customs clerk, a man with a big black mustache, a potgut, and a pension. My upper lip curled. "Surda; ne surda. Adze Dracon?"

His eyebrows went up as he mouthed the word "Drac." He turned to the other clerk, took my passport from her, then looked back at me. He tapped the booklet against his fingertips, then opened it, read the ident page, and looked back at me. "Come with me, Mister Davidge. We must have a talk." He turned and headed into a small office. I shrugged and followed. When I entered, he pointed toward a chair. As I lowered myself into it, he sat down behind a desk. "Why do you pretend not to speak English?"

"Why do you have that poster on the wall? The war is over."

The customs clerk clasped his hands, rested them on the desk, then shook his head. "The fighting is over, Mister Davidge, but for many the war is not. The Draggers killed many humans."

I cocked my head to one side. "A few Dracs died, too." I stood up. "May I go now?"

The customs clerk leaned back in his chair. "That chip on your shoulder you will find to be a considerable weight to bear on this planet."

"I’m the one who has to carry it."

The customs clerk shrugged, then nodded toward the door. "You may go. And good luck, Mister Davidge. You’ll need it."

"Dragger suck."

As an invective the term had all of the impact of several historical terms—Quisling, heretic, fag, nigger-lover—all rolled into one. That, though, was only the beginning of my problems. Ex-Force pilots were a drag on the employment market, with no commercial positions open, especially not to a pilot who hadn’t flown in four years, who had a gimpy leg, and who was a Dragger suck.

Transportation to North America, and after a period of lonely wandering, to Dallas. Mistan’s eight-hundred-year-old words from The Talman would haunt me: Misnuuram va siddeth; Your thought is loneliness. Loneliness is a thing one does to oneself.

Jerry shook his head that one time, then pointed a yellow finger at me as the words it wanted to say came together. "Davidge… to me loneliness is a discomfort—unpleasant, and a thing to be avoided, but not a thing to be feared. I think you would prefer death to being alone with yourself."

Of course, I had a special gift: right in the center of the biggest crowd anyone ever saw, I could find loneliness.

Mistan observed: "If you are alone with yourself, you will forever be alone with others." A contradiction? The test of reality proves it true. I was out of place on my own planet, and it was more than a hate that I didn’t share or a love that, to others, seemed impossible—perverse. Deep inside of myself, I had no use for the creature called "Davidge." Before Fyrine IV there had been other reasons—reasons that I could not identify; but now, my reason was known. My fault or not, I had betrayed an ugly, yellow thing called Zammis, as well as the creature’s parent. "Present Zammis before the Jeriba archives. Swear this to me."

Oh, Jerry…

Swear this!

I swear it…

Forty-eight thousand credits in back pay, and so money wasn’t a problem. The problem was what to do with myself. Finally, in Dallas, I landed a job in a small book house translating manuscripts into Drac. It seemed that there was a craving among Dracs for Westerns:

"Stick 'em up naagusaafi"

"Nu geph, lawman." Thang, thang! The guns flashed and another kizlode shaddsaat bit the dust.

I quit.

There were a lot of us on Earth, and scattered throughout the rest of the quadrant as well, I suppose. Discharged vets, stumbling around, trying to make sense of things, trying to find where they fit, or if they fit. A news report on the vids said that newly discharged vets had the highest suicide rate among the groups studied.

Yay, team.

"You know how much yellow blood I got on my hands?" a vet asked me in a bar. I didn’t venture a guess, but the guy, a USEF assault force warrant officer, didn’t notice. He sat at the bar, staring at his hands and muttering something about having more in common with the Dracs than he did with the street slime back on Earth.

I finally called my parents. Why didn’t you call before, Willy? We’ve been worried sick. We thought you were dead.

Had a few things I had to straighten out, Dad.

Things?

I can’t explain right now.

Well, we understand, son… It must have been awful—

Dad, I’d like to come home for a while.

Home? Why, sure. Sure, son.

Even before I put down the money on the used Dearman Electric, I knew I was making a mistake going home. I felt the need of a home, but the one I had left at the age of eighteen wasn’t it. But I headed there because there was nowhere else to go.

I drove alone in the dark, using only the old roads, the quiet hum of the Dearman’s motor the only sound. The December midnight was clear, and I could see the stars through the car’s bubble canopy. Fyrine IV drifted into my thoughts, the raging ocean, the endless winds. I pulled off the road onto the shoulder and killed the lights. In a few minutes, my eyes adjusted to the dark and I stepped outside and shut the door.

Kansas has a big sky, and the stars seemed close enough to touch. Snow crunched under my feet as I looked up, trying to pick Fyrine out of the thousands of visible stars.

Fyrine is in the constellation Pegasus, but my eyes were not practiced enough to pick the winged horse out from the surrounding stars. I shrugged, felt a chill, and decided to get back in the car. As I put my hand on the doorlatch, I saw a constellation that I did recognize, north, hanging just above the horizon: Draco. The Dragon, its tail twisted around Ursa Minor, hung upside down in the sky. Eltanin, the Dragon’s nose, is the homestar of the Dracs. Its second planet, Draco, was Zammis’s home, if Zammis was there. We called the snake-like string of stars Draco for the Dragon. The Dracs call their planet Draco for an all-but-forgotten Ovjetah. Coincidence! Why not?

Zammis. Where was Zammis?

Commitment. That’s something the Dracs knew how to do. In the Koda Itheda, when Aydan was searching for the warmasters who would lead its armies and the world to peace, it wanted the warmasters to commit to peace. There was Niagat’s little "test."

"Aydan," spoke Niagat, "I would serve Heraak; I would see an end to war; I would be one of your warmasters."

"Would you kill to achieve this, Niagat?"

"I would kill"

"Would you kill Heraak to achieve this?"

"Kill Heraak, my master?" Niagat paused and considered the question. "If I cannot have both, I would see Heraak dead to see an end to war."

"That is not what I asked."

"And, Aydan, I would do the killing."

"And now, Niagat, would you die to achieve this?"

"I would risk death as does any warrior."

"Again, Niagat, that is not my question. If an end to war can only be purchased at the certain cost of your own life, would you die by your own hand to achieve peace!"

Niagat studied upon the thing that had been asked. "I am willing to take the gamble of battle. In this gamble there is the chance of seeing my goal. But my certain death, and by my own hand—there would be no chance of seeing my goal. No, I would not take my own life for this. That would be foolish. Have I passed your test?"

"You have failed, Niagat. Your goal is not peace; your goal is to live in peace. Return when your goal is peace alone and you hold a willing knife at your own throat to achieve it. That is the price of a warmaster’s blade."

Niagat never did get its warmaster’s blade, but Aydan did eventually fill its ranks with warmasters and warriors who placed peace before everything. Where in the universe to find such conviction, to find such commitment.

Commitment.

That was the thing that was crippling my life. I had made a promise to Jerry. It was a promise that sat on the other side of the bloody quadrant, but it was still waiting to be kept.

Headlights from an approaching car blinded me, and I turned toward the car as it pulled to a stop. The window on the driver’s side opened and someone spoke from the darkness. "You need some help?"

I shook my head. "No, thank you." I held up a hand. "I was just looking at the stars."

"Quite a night, isn’t it?"

"Sure is."

"Sure you don’t need any help?"

I shook my head. "Thanks… wait. Where is the nearest commercial spaceport?"

"About an hour ahead in Salina."

"Thanks." I saw a hand wave from the window, then the other car pulled away. I took another look at Eltanin, then got back in my car.

There was a rathole motel in Salina that had all I needed for a reasonable price. I went to a market and an office supply center, then posted my "do not disturb" notice on the room’s computer and got to work. What was strange was that I couldn’t write it. I needed to recite it. I switched the computer to voice input, did the calibration, and then began speaking in English, the translation moving automatically through my mind:

I, Mistaan, who created the marks-that-speak, set down before you the words of Shizumaat who recited before me the Myth of Aakva, the Story of Uhe and the First Truth.

Sindie was the world.

And the world was said to be made by Aakva, the God of the Day Light.

And Aakva was said to make on the world special creatures of yellow skin and hands and feet each of three fingers. And it was said to make the creatures of one kind, that each could bear its young, or the young of another. And it was said to make the creatures make thought and give voice that the creatures could worship the Parent of All…

I spoke and watched as the words appeared on the monitor: the Myth of Aakva and the formation of the law, the world without the law, and again, a law of peace that could only last if nothing in the universe ever changed.

…the clouds over the Madah were barren, and those lands west of the Akkujah saw no water, and the ground cracked and turned to fine powder. The noon sky burned with a blinding blue, while the morning and evening skies were the reds and yellows of cooling iron. The lakes and rivers became mud and dust, and the creatures that swam within them died. The Ocean of lce became a black sea of putrid oil. The wild creatures of the land fled from the Madah to the mountains, and from there to the lands of the Diruvedah and the Kuvedah.

The proud hunters of the Mavedah could not blood their spears, and so they watched their children cry and grow thin. The hunters clawed at the land, gathering roots, insects, and the skins of the few trees that still lived. But in time even these were gone. And the hunters watched their children scream and stare. The hunters clawed at the bottoms of streams and wellbeds, chasing the precious water as it left the ground below. But the water ran more swiftly than the hunters could dig. And the hunters watched their children die…

And then one of the hunters, as the tribe ate its only child, rose to proclaim a new vision, a new law of war. The great Uhe led the Mavedah out of the scorching desert of death and crossed the Akkujah Mountains into a war that saved its people and unified the Sindie.

As I recited, I felt the tears on my cheeks, because I was back in the cave, Jerry watching me as I recited, its eyes caught between the force of the stories and the sight of a human telling them in formal Dracon.

…a Sindie shaper of iron, in Butaan to perform its duty to Aakva through labor, gave birth to a child. The shaper of iron’s name was Caduah, and Caduah named its child Shizumaat.

…Caduah was a dutiful child of Aakva, and the parent instructed its child in the ways and truths of the God of the Day Light…

There was the ever faithful Namndas, whose story always made Jerry smile.

…I had entered the Aakva Kovah the year before Shizumaat, and was placed in charge of Shizumaat’s class. I drew this duty because the servants of the temple considered me the least worthy of my own class. While my companions sat at the feet of the servants and engaged in learned discourse, I would chase dirt.

There was, as well, the book that always made Jerry cry, the third of Mistaan’s books, which begins with the trial and the execution of Shizumaat:

"You are young, Mistaan. To brave this wall of hate and warriors' iron that surrounds me shows me your youth. When you are older you shall call this youth foolishness."

By the end of three weeks, I was finished. While the computer printed our a hard copy, I stretched out on my bed and thought about what I was going to do. It might do some good. Eleven thousand years of wisdom—even alien wisdom—cannot be absorbed and not leave behind a truth or two. Then again, perhaps I was raising casting pearls before swine to new heights. In any event, it was all I had of value. I went to the computer, called up my motel bill, and paid it.

Three days later I was in Dallas standing before the little gray man who ran Lone Star Publishing, Inc. He looked up at me and frowned. "So, what do you want, Davidge? I thought you quit."

I threw a thousand-page manuscript on his desk. "This."

He poked it with a finger. "What is it?"

"The Drac bible; it’s called The Talman."

"So what?"

"So it’s the only book translated from Drac into English; so it’s the explanation for how every Drac conducts itself; so it’ll make you a bundle of credits."

He leaned forward, scanned several pages, then looked up at me. "You know, Davidge, I don’t like you worth a damn."

"I can’t tell you what a relief that is. I don’t like you either."

He returned to the manuscript. "Why now?"

"Now is when I need money."

He shrugged. "The best I can offer would be around eight or ten thousand. This is untried stuff."

"I need twenty-four thousand. You want to go for less than that, I’ll take it to someone else."

He looked at me and frowned. "What makes you think anyone else would be interested?"

"Let’s quit playing around. There are a lot of survivors of the war—both military and civilian—who would like to understand what happened." I leaned forward and tapped the manuscript. "That’s what’s in there."

"Twenty-four thousand is lot for a first manuscript."

I gathered up the pages. "I’ll find someone who has some coin to invest in a sure thing."

He placed his hand on the manuscript. "Hold on, Davidge." He frowned. "Twenty-four thousand?"

"Not a quarter-note less."

He pursed his lips, then glanced at me. "I suppose you’ll be Hell on wheels regarding final approval."

I shook my head. "All I want is the money. You can do whatever you want with the manuscript."

He leaned back in his chair, looked at the manuscript, then back at me. "The money. What’re you going to do with it?"

"None of your business."

He leaned forward, then leafed through a few more pages. His eyebrows notched up, then he looked back at me. "You aren’t picky about the contract?"

"As long as I get the money, you can turn that into Mein Kampf if you want to."

He leafed through a few more pages. "This is some pretty radical stuff."

"It sure is. And you can find the same stuff in Plato, Aristotle, Augustine, James, Freud, Szasz, Nortmyer, and the Declaration of Independence."

He leaned back in his chair. "What does this mean to you?"

"Twenty-four thousand credits."

He leafed through a few more pages, then a few more. In twelve hours I had purchased passage to Draco.

The peace accords, on paper, gave me the right to travel to Draco, but the Drac bureaucrats and their paperwork wizards had perfected the big stall long before the first human steps into space. Just to get a visa from the Drac consulate in New York involved enough calls to give my ear a cramp, not to mention wading through a cordon of angry demonstrators to pick it up. The consulate was located in a new concrete and glass thing whose windows looked as though they began somewhere above the twentieth floor, far out of the reach of flying bricks and such. When I took a moment to read the protest signs, I found that it wasn’t the Dracs they were protesting. Instead they were protesting the human diplomatic mission that signed the treaty quarantining Amadeen and ending what they called "the big war," leaving the humans on Amadeen cut off and stranded.

When I showed my pass to the human security guards on the gate, they let me in. In the lobby and the offices I got the impression that there were no Dracs at the consulate. It was a human who eventually issued me my visa. Tall, gray, and looking down her nose at everything. She reminded me of my eighth grade English teacher. As she held my passport in her hands, she said something curious. "With all the crap you had to wade through to get this visa, Mr. Davidge, you must have very important business on Draco."

"It’s important to me."

"On your application it says that your visit is for the purpose of attending a ceremony."

"That’s right."

"What kind of ceremony?"

It wasn’t any of her business, but I’d already learned rule one for working your way through the bureaucrats: unless you have a gun, a lot of money, or some compromising pictures with a goat, give the bastards whatever they want, and with respect. "The rites of adulthood."

She handed me my passport and asked, "Is it the child of a business associate ?"

As I put the booklet in my pocket, I shook my head. "No. It’s my nephew."

I left her chewing on that one while I left her office and moved on to the next level of administrative molasses.

It took threats, bribes, and long days of filling out forms, being checked and rechecked for disease, contraband, reason for visit, filling out more forms, refilling out the forms I had already filled out, more bribes, more waiting, waiting, waiting. I was wondering if Zammis was going to die of old age before I got to see it, when someone fouled up and I found myself on the ship with all my papers in order.

On the ship, I spent most of my time in my cabin, but since the Drac stewards refused to serve me, though, I went to the ship’s lounge for my meals. I sat alone, listening to the comments about me from other booths. I had figured the path of least resistance was to pretend I didn’t understand what they were saying. It is always assumed that humans do not speak Drac. One time, though, was one time too many.

"Must we eat in the same compartment with the Irkmaan slime?"

"Look at it, how its pale skin blotches—and that evil-smelling thatch on top. Feh! The smell!"

I ground my teeth a little and kept my glance riveted to my tray. Of the three Dracs at that table, only one was shooting off its mouth. The other two were trying to be polite, but looked embarrassed. The one with the mouth started up again.

"It defies The Talman that the universe’s laws could be so corrupt as to produce a creature such as that."

I turned and faced the three Dracs sitting in the booth across the aisle from mine. My eyes sought out the skinny one with the bad attitude. In Drac, I replied: "If your line’s elders had seen fit to teach the village kiz to use contraceptives, you wouldn’t even exist." I thanked Jerry for the wisecrack and returned to my food while the two embarrassed Dracs struggled to hold the third Drac down.

Later, in my quarters, I had a visitor. It was a Drac decked out in a midnight blue uniform with two light blue diagonal stripes on its sleeves. "Willis Davidge?" it asked in heavily accented English.

"That’s right."

"My name is Atu Vi. Ship’s second officer. May I enter?"

I stood away from the cabin door and held a hand out toward a built-in seat. I took the one facing it. Once the Drac and I were settled in, I asked in Drac, "Is there a problem, Atu Vi?"

The Drac’s brow rose. "The dining steward said you spoke the language well."

"I had a good teacher, a quiet classroom, and a lot of time to learn."

Second officer Atu Vi studied me for a moment. When it was done, it asked, "Did you learn The Talman, as well?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"I thought you might find some profit in reviewing the Koda Tarmeda. It was interesting meeting you." Atu Vi stood and walked from my cabin, closing the door behind it.

Koda Tarmeda, the Story of Cohneret. This was the Talman master who made a study of what it called the passions and their relationship to talma, paths of problem solving.

Passion is a creature of rules. This does not mean do not love, do not hate. It means that where your passion limits talma, you must step outside of the rules of your love and hate to allow talma to serve you.

What was the point of my outburst in the ship’s lounge, Atu Vi seemed to be asking me. How does getting into a public ass-kicking contest serve talma? And who was the Drac with the big mouth? To score on it had I driven away one who might be convinced to assist me in the achievement of my goals? Had I turned a big-mouthed bigot into an active enemy? In any event, the Drac with the mouth had complained to the captain and the captain’s second officer had dropped on by to tell me, in the most polite manner, to stick a sock in it. Good advice. As more than one Talman jetah has observed, "Knowing talma is not living talma."

As the ship was coming into Draco, I thanked Second Officer Atu Vi for its advice. The Drac studied me for a moment, then said, "Shortly after we land and the passengers disembark, a human will approach you. He is with the USE diplomatic mission and his sole purpose is to intercept you and place you on the first transportation available back to Earth. Avoid this person. There is a considerable weight of Drac authority that will support this diplomat’s efforts to send you off-planet."

I could feel my eyebrows climb. "If I could ask a question, Atu Vi. Just who was it that I insulted?"

"Masru Ahniva, retired first jetah of the Tsien Denvedah. Masru Ahniva now serves as military jetah to the Earth diplomatic mission."

"One more question, Atu Vi. Would talma be served by offering my apology to Masru Ahniva?"

The Drac smiled and answered with a question of its own: "Did Uhe need more sand?"

On Draco I avoided the fellow from the diplomatic mission, although I hated leaving him there at the spaceport knowing that he had blown it. It would be a hot time once he got back to the office. There was ground transportation, and I took a limo bus into Sindievu where I could catch another bus that went by the Jeriba estate. Both bus pilots informed me, as I came on board, that I was required to sit at the front of the bus along with the vemadah, outcasts. Most of the outcasts were vemadah because they had refused to fight in the war. There was a Vikaan and a couple of other races among the passengers, but they sat in the back with the rest of the respectable citizens.

Why the front of the bus, I asked one of the outcasts on the bus I picked up in Sindievu. The vemadah explained and it made perfect sense. The doors are located at the front, making the ride there, to a slight degree, dustier and draftier than the rear. Besides comfort, being in the rear also allows those seated there to keep an eye on the untrustworthy passengers up front. Why the back of the bus was considered second-class at one point in old American history made me wonder at the reasoning of the time. If I ever got back to Earth, I’d have to look into it.

The vemadah nodded toward the next stop, a road that left the main road and lost itself between wooded hills. It said in Drac, "You must get off here and walk that road to your destination. Stand, or the pilot will not stop for you."

I stood, and as the bus slowed I looked at the outcast. "Thank you."

It looked at me. "Do humans have vemadah?"

"Yes. Many different kinds."

"Are you vemadah on Earth?"

I thought on that for a moment, and as the bus hissed to a stop, I said, "I guess I am. You probably wouldn’t be, though."

I climbed down from the bus, the door snapped shut behind me, the vehicle dug out and was gone in a matter of seconds.

The Jeriba estate was set in a deep rugged valley of gray stone cliffs and tall trees. A high stone wall enclosed the property, and from the gate, I could see the huge stone mansion that Jerry had described to me. It was almost a castle I told the Drac guard at the gate that I wanted to see Jeriba Zammis. The guard stared at me like I had just crapped on its shirt, then it went into an alcove behind the gate. In a few moments, another Drac emerged from the mansion and walked quickly across the wide lawn to the gate. It wore an iridescent green robe that flowed like silk. The Drac nodded at the guard, then stopped and faced me. The face looking at mine was a dead ringer for Jerry.

"You are the Irkmaan that asked to see Jeriba Zammis?"

I nodded. "Zammis must have told you about me. I’m Willis Davidge."

The Drac studied me like I was some kind of freak. "I am Estone Nev, Jeriba Shigan’s sibling. My parent, Jeriba Gothig, wishes to see you." The Drac turned abruptly and walked back to the mansion. I followed, feeling heady at the thought of seeing Zammis again. I paid little attention to Estone Nev’s manner or my surroundings until I was ushered into a large room with a vaulted stone ceiling. Jerry had told me that the house was four thousand years old. I believed it. As I entered, another Drac stood and walked over to me. It was old, but I knew who it was. That face had been described to me so many times that it was more familiar to me than my own father’s.

"You are Gothig, Shigan’s parent?'

The yellow eyes studied me. "Who are you, Irkmaan?" It held out a wrinkled, three-fingered hand. "What do you know of Jeriba Zammis, and why do you speak the Drac tongue with the style and accent of my child Shigan? What are you here for?"

"I speak Drac in this manner because that is the way Jeriba Shigan taught me to speak it."

The old Drac cocked its head to one side and narrowed its yellow eyes. "You knew my child? How?"

"Didn’t the survey commission tell you?"

"It was reported to me that my child, Shigan, was killed in the battle of Fyrine IV. That was over six of our years ago. What is your game, Irkmaan?"

I turned from Gothig to Nev. The younger Drac was examining me with the same look of suspicion. I turned back to Gothig. "Shigan wasn’t killed in the battle. We were stranded together on the surface of Fyrine IV and lived there for a year. Shigan died giving birth to Jeriba Zammis. A year later the joint survey commission found us and—"

"Enough! Enough of this, Irkmaan! Are you here for money, to use my influence for trade concessions—what?"

I frowned. "Where is Zammis? I’m here to see Zammis. Where is it?"

Tears of anger came to the old Drac’s eyes. "There is no Zammis, Irkmaan! The Jeriba line ended with the death of Shigan!"

My eyes grew wide as I shook my head. "That’s not true. I know. I took care of Zammis—you heard nothing from the commission?"

"Get to the point of your scheme, Irkmaan. I haven’t all day."

I studied Gothig. The old Drac had heard nothing from the commission. The Drac authorities took Zammis, and the child had evaporated. Gothig had been told nothing. Why?

"I was with Shigan, Gothig. That is how I learned your language. When Shigan died giving birth to Zammis, I—"

"Irkmaan, if you cannot get to your scheme, I will have to ask Nev to throw you out. Shigan died in the battle of Fyrine IV. The Drac Fleet notified us only days later. That was six years ago."

I nodded. "Then, Gothig, tell me how I came to know the line of Jeriba?"

"The Jeriba line?"

"Do you wish me to recite it for you?"

Gothig snorted. "You say you know the Jeriba line?"

"Yes."

Gothig flipped a hand at me. "Begin."

I took a breath, then began, except I began with Zammis: "Before you here I stand, Zammis of the line of Jeriba, born of Shigan the fighter pilot. A flyer of courage and distinction, Shigan stood before the archives in the year 11,061 and spoke of its parent, Gothig, the teacher of music… "

By the time I had reached the hundred and seventy-third generation, Gothig had knelt on the stone floor next to Nev. The Dracs remained that way for three hours of the recital. When I concluded, Gothig bowed its head and wept. "Yes, Irkmaan, yes. You must have known Shigan. Yes." The old Drac looked up into my face, its eyes wide with hope. "And, you say Shigan continued the line—that Zammis was born?"

I nodded. "I don’t know why the commission didn’t notify you."

Gothig got to its feet and frowned. "We will find out, Irkmaan—what is your name?"

"Davidge. Willis Davidge."

"We will find out, Davidge."

Gothig arranged quarters for me in its house, which was fortunate, since I had little more than eleven hundred credits left. I’d never seen a full-blown Drac apartment before. It was like a number of orange slices laid out in a semi-circle, with the focal point being the greeting room. All doors opened onto the greeting room: a sitting room, a sleeping room, a tiny kitchen and dining area, and a meditation room. I never got a chance to stretch out. After making a host of inquiries, Gothig managed to get a lead on Zammis. Gothig sent Nev and I to the Chamber Center in Sindievu. The Jeriba line, I found, was influential, and the big stall was held down to a minimum. Still, it was a shuffle from one office to another until we were, at last, directed to the Joint Survey Commission representative, a Drac named Jozzdn Vrule. It looked up from the letter Gothig had given me and stared at me like I was wearing my pet kiz on my head. "Where did you get this, Irkmaan?"

"I believe the signature is on it."

The Drac looked at the paper, then back at me. "The Jeriba line is one of the most respected on Draco. You say that Jeriba Gothig gave you this?"

"I felt certain I said that; I could feel my lips moving—"

Nev stepped in. "You have the dates and the information concerning the Fyrine IV survey mission. We want to know what happened to Jeriba Zammis."

Jozzdn Vrule frowned and looked back at the paper. "Estone Nev, you are the founder of your line, is this not true?"

"It is true."

"Would you found your line in shame? Why do I see you with this Irkmaan?"

Nev curled its upper lip and folded its arms. "Jozzdn Vrule, if you contemplate walking this planet in the foreseeable future as a free being, it would be to your profit to stop working your mouth and to start finding Jeriba Zammis."

Jozzdn Vrule looked down and studied its fingers, then returned its glance to Nev. "Very well, Estone Nev. You threaten me if I fail to hand you the truth. I think you will find the truth the greater threat." The Drac scribbled on a piece of paper, then handed it to Nev. "You will find Jeriba Zammis at this address, and you will curse the day that I gave you this."

The address referred to a place that was three thousand miles away on another continent in a place called Vakudin. Back at the estate, Gothig took the address and gave it to one of the family retainers, named Okiri Niba, to make arrangements. We then seated ourselves in the main sitting room, a place hung with tapestries and weird chandeliers that was about as cozy as a hangar deck. Gothig and Nev talked excitedly about the confirmation of Zammis’s existence, but I could only sit quietly and devil my mind about why Zammis had not been returned to its line’s estate. Had it been injured? Shortly after, Niba returned looking very shaken.

"The address, jetah," it said to Gothig. "Vakudin. It is the Sa Ashzhab Kovah."

It was as if all breathing in the known universe suddenly ceased. Kovah means a school or institution, but ashzhab was not familiar. I was trying to piece together the meaning of the word from the words that were its parents, but before I crossed the finish line Estone Nev said to me in English, "It is the Dracon state colony for the insane."

I frowned as I faced Nev. "Poorzhab means insane. What does ashzhab mean?"

The Drac dropped its glance and placed its hand on Gothig’s shoulder. "Criminally insane, Davidge. The word means criminally insane."

It took two days for Gothig’s operatives to arrange the permissions to visit the colony, and to charter transportation. During that two days, I could not stand the pain of imagining what Zammis had gone through—was going through. The guilt was almost a physical presence. I would see Zammis in my mind, saying those very prophetic words: "Uncle, I can carry you. We shouldn’t separate."

We shouldn’t separate.

I told the kid I couldn’t make it. I told it to go and I watched as it ran across that purple plain.

Remember me, I had told Zammis.

Remember me.

I felt like running out and booking passage on the first ship off Draco, wherever it went.

Alone in the meditation chamber I would cry. Helpless, frustrated, needing to change the past and powerless to do anything about it. What if I had let Zammis carry me? Perhaps neither of us would have made it off Fyrine IV. We would have been together, though.

Deep within my darkness, Estone Nev came into my apartment and entered the meditation chamber. It waited a moment, then said to me, "Davidge, we are leaving for Sindievu to take a charter flight to Vakudin. Are you coming?"

I looked at Nev and said, "I should never have let Zammis go on without me."

"You had no alternative, Davidge."

"I did have an alternative, Nev. We could have stayed together."

"Davidge, that is a talma that would likely have achieved death for both of you." It lifted a hand and placed it on my shoulder. "Listen, human. You are assuming blame for something that was out of your control. It does not serve talma."

"What in the hell does serve talma?"

"Travel with us to the Sa Ashzhab Kovah, Davidge. That is where Zammis is. That is where a new talma, if one is possible, must begin."

It was dark through the windows of the plane as it hissed through the night across an ocean. Twice I saw lonely little lights below. Blue, cold, and all but lost within the depths of so much black. What were they? Ships? Signal lights? Was some poor lonely Drac up keeping watch in all that dark?

Those dangerous thoughts of suicide that used to tease me when I was stranded on Fyrine IV touched me again. All that Jerry and I were to each other, all that Zammis and I were to each other, gone, taken away like a leaf caught in a hurricane. How dark can it get, I asked the night.

Then the words of Namvaac in the Koda Sitarmeda drifted into my mind. It was a time of civil war and endless horrors. Between the weapons and the determination of the warring sides, all that had taken centuries to build had been swept away, leaving starving hoards picking among the rubble for enough food to last another day. In the darkness of a ruin, Namvaac had come upon one of its students, and the student was working a talma of self-death. The jetah took the student’s knife and demanded to know what was going on.

…the student said to Namvaac, "Jetah, the darkness covers all the Universe. It is such an all-powerful evil, I feel so small and helpless within it. Next to this darkness the black of death seems so bright."

Namvaac studied the hooked blade, then handed it back to the student. "Where you are now, child, Tochalla has been before you. It, too, was in darkness. It, too, had a knife. But Tochalla also had talma."

There are an infinite number of paths from the present to the desired future. Talma is both the most efficient path and the discipline for finding the path. Until the infinite number of paths have been exhausted, the Dracs look upon quitting—any kind of quitting—as a character defect.

The short version was what I used to tell Zammis: "Don’t throw dirt on it until it’s dead."

Something Grandpop used to say to wrestle down my projections about what might happen. I thought about the old guy and wished I had known him better. I only spent the one summer when I was eight with him; it took that long for my father to forgive his father for whatever it was and let me visit. The next winter, Grandpop had a stroke and died. When they read his will, Grandpop had left me an envelope. My father brought it home with him. I took the envelope to my room and opened it with trembling fingers. In it was a sheet of paper that contained only seven words: "Now you can throw dirt on it."

I laughed then and I kept the reason why I laughed a secret between me and Grandpop. I smiled at the memory and let it chase away the dark. Zammis was still alive. I was still alive. Talma was still possible.

As we met the sun, the ocean below still dark, Estone Nev sat next to me and asked in English. "Have you slept?"

"A little. How about you?"

"No sleep at all. I was thinking of Jeriba, how thrilled my sibling was when it became pregnant the first time. I used to tell it that, to hear Jeriba, one would think no one had ever been pregnant before." The Drac raised its brow and smiled. "I was an insufferable little… " Nev looked at me and held out a hand. "Gafu."

"Brat," I answered.

"Yes. I was an insufferable little brat. I was jealous, as well. Jeriba was getting so much attention. But nothing I could say or do diminished the joy my sibling was experiencing. When Jeriba miscarried, I thought my sibling would kill itself. I think that’s why it entered the flight denve and went to war. The last communication I had from Jeriba was the news that it had conceived. That was only a few days before the Battle of Fyrine IV." Estone Nev turned its head and faced me. "Did my sibling get to see Zammis before it died!"

"No," I answered in a whisper. "I had to tear Zammis from the womb."

Nev was silent for a long time. When it spoke, it said, "It must have been very hard for you, rearing a Drac child by yourself."

I thought on it for a bit, then shook my head. "No, Nev. It wasn’t hard. It was the most important part, the most fun of my whole life."

The airport was on an island that had two fishing villages and a dock. At the dock we took a sleek high-speed ferry to an even smaller island, Vakudin. The heavily forested island ringed with white sand sat like a jewel in the greenish-blue sea. We had to come much closer before we could see the powered fences, the watch towers, the guards, and the ruvaak, tireless trained guard animals that looked like a cross between a hairy alligator and a nightmare. When we reached land, a guard took us to the visitors' waiting room in the main administrative building, where we were, for all intents and purposes, forgotten. After an hour of this, Gothig’s patience evaporated. It said to Nev and me, "Come, children, it is time to cross the Akkujah."

We wandered hallways for a few minutes until, after turning a corner, we faced the records office. Gothig, with Nev and I backing it up, cornered the clerk of records. The clerk, Toccvo Leint, immediately began running off at the mouth about patient confidentiality, going through proper channels, and such, when Gothig placed its hand on the fellow’s shoulder and asked again. From the expression on the clerk’s face, I assumed it was making a choice between letting us know what we wanted or forgoing the continued use of its shoulder and arm. The clerk decided that it could help us after all.

First, Gothig wanted to know by what lights Zammis was considered insane. Second, it wanted to know by what lights Zammis was considered criminal.

Jetah Toccvo Leint called up the records, studied them, and then told us, "I remember this case. Jeriba Zammis, ever since it was rescued from Fyrine IV, professed to love humans." Toccvo Leint looked at us as though that explained all.

Receiving little but dumbfounded stares in return, the clerk continued. "For that reason, Jeriba Zammis is dangerously insane. Long before the ship that brought it to Draco had landed, Jeriba Zammis had committed several major assaults, according to witnesses, and eventually reached a point where it couldn’t even speak a coherent sentence."

Estone Nev leaned over the clerk. "Let me look at the records, insect." The clerk passed the dot file and a reader to Nev, and, after studying them, Estone Nev looked up at Toccvo Leint and said, "It is obvious that Jeriba Zammis has been, on several occasions, beaten almost to death."

The clerk began waving its arms in embarrassment. "According to the case investigators, Jeriba Zammis’s condition was due to harm it inflicted upon itself, and some injuries incidental to those it attacked defending themselves." As the records clerk said it, it didn’t look as though it believed a word.

I moved forward until I, too, towered over the clerk. "I have a question." The clerk surveyed the three of us and nodded at me.

"I will be pleased to answer it, if I can."

"When Zammis fell into your hands, why wasn’t the Jeriba line notified? Why was it kept a secret?"

The clerk looked away from me as though its answer was beyond my ability to comprehend. Instead, Toccvo Leint appealed to Gothig with its response. "It was kept from you, Jeriba Gothig, to protect you and your line from the terrible scandal. Certainly you understand."

Jerry’s parent looked at the clerk for a bone-chilling moment, and then said in an icy voice, "I do not know where the talma of justice will wind, Toccvo Leint, but depend on the wealth of my line keeping all paths open. For now, have us taken to see Jeriba Zammis."

We entered the outdoor patient pens, feeling sick. All around us, Dracs stared with vacant eyes, or screamed, or foamed at the mouth, or were curled up in a corner somewhere trembling at unseeable terrors. The rather beefy guard took the three of us to a pen on the edge of the compound where the warden-director of the Sa Ashzhab Kovah met us. The warden frowned at me and shook its head at Gothig. "Turn back now, while it is still possible, Jeriba Gothig. Beyond this gate lies nothing but pain and sorrow."

Gothig grabbed the director by the front of its wraps. "Hear me, kizlode: If Jeriba Zammis is within these fences, bring my grandchild; else, I shall bring the might of the Jeriba line down upon your pointed head!"

The director lifted its head, twitched its lips, then nodded. "Very well. Very well, you pompous Kazzmidth! We tried—to protect the Jeriba reputation. We tried! But now you shall see." The director nodded and pursed its lips. "Yes, now you shall see." The director nodded at a guard, and the over-muscled creature opened the gate to the pen and stood aside to allow us to enter.

Among trees and grass, Jeriba Zammis sat upon a stone bench, staring at the ground. Its eyes never blinked, its hands never moved. Gothig frowned at me, but I could spare nothing for Shigan’s parent. I walked to Zammis. "Zammis, do you know me?"

The Drac retrieved its thoughts from a million warrens and raised its yellow eyes to me. I saw no sign of recognition. "Who are you?"

I squatted down, placed my hands on its arms and shook them. "Dammit, Zammis, don’t you know me? I’m your uncle. Remember that? Uncle Davidge?"

The Drac weaved on the bench, then shook its head. It lifted an arm and waved to an orderly. "I want to go to my room. Please, let me go to my room."

I stood and grabbed Zammis by the front of its hospital gown. "Zammis, it’s me!"

The yellow eyes, dull and lifeless, stared back at me. The orderly placed a yellow hand upon my shoulder. "Let it go, Irkmaan."

"Zammis!" I turned to Nev and Gothig. "Say something!"

The Drac orderly pulled a sap from its pocket, then slapped it suggestively against the palm of its hand. "Let it go, Irkmaan."

Gothig stepped forward. "Explain this!"

I looked at Zammis but addressed the guard. "What have you bastards done to Zammis? A little shock? A little drug? Rot out its mind?"

The orderly sneered at me, then shook his head. "You, Irkmaan, do not understand. This one would not be happy as an Irkmaan vul—a human lover. We are making it possible for this one to function in Drac society. You think this is wrong?"

I looked at Zammis and shook my head. I remembered too well my treatment at the hands of my fellow humans. "Wrong? No. I just don’t know."

The orderly turned to Gothig. "Please understand, Jeriba Gothig. We could not subject the Jeriba line to this disgrace. Your grandchild is almost well and will soon enter a reeducation program. In no more than two years, you will have a grandchild worthy of carrying on the Jeriba line. Is this wrong?"

Gothig only shook its head. I squatted down in front of Zammis and looked up into its yellow eyes. I reached up and took its right hand in both of mine. "Zammis?"

Zammis looked down, moved its left hand over, and picked up my left hand and spread the fingers. One at a time Zammis pointed at the fingers of my hand, then it looked into my eyes, then examined the hand again. "Yes…"

Zammis pointed again. "One, two, three, four, five!" Zammis looked into my eyes. "Four, five!"

I nodded. "Yes. Yes."

Zammis pulled my hand to its cheek and held it close. "Uncle… Uncle. I told you I’d never forget you."

We brought Zammis back to the estate. Then came a revealing challenge: trying to find a mental health jetah who didn’t think Gothig and Nev were crazy for tolerating me. It took three days, but one was found. It prescribed a regimen of withdrawal from the drugs they had Zammis on at the Sa Ashzhab Kovah. It would be two days before the jetah would arrive, and I spent the entire time with Zammis in its apartment, sitting next to it on its sleeping pallet. Zammis stayed quiet, trembling, crying silent tears, and holding onto my arm with both hands. Physically Zammis was a fullgrown adult, but what I saw before me was a sick, terrified child.

I looked for monsters, people, cultures to blame, someone I could kill and make everything all right. There was nothing except my memories of Zammis’s parent and myself trying to kill each other on that cold, wet sandbar.

"Nu gejh, Irkmaan!"

You die, Earthman.

"Kiz da yuomeen, Shizumaat!"

Yeah, and Shizumaat eats it.

How did I get from there to here? I thought of the hellish winds and deadly winters on Fyrine IV and realized what brought Jerry and me together, and then left Zammis to make my life whole. It wasn’t that we were all driven together by the unforgiving planet. It was that Fyrine IV was clean. There wasn’t anyone else there. I wondered how the galaxy could be given a mental enema to make it half as clean. A problem for someone smarter than me.

I looked down at Jerry’s child and said, "Zammis. Zammis?" I placed my free hand against its cheek. "Zammis?"

"Uncle, don’t leave me," it whispered.

"I’m not going anywhere. Zammis, when were you the most happy?"

"Happy?"

I nodded. "Yes. When the nightmares begin crowding you, where do you go to hide? In your mind, where do you go to be safe?"

Zammis looked away from my face and its gaze moved over the cut stone walls of the apartment. I could see it went to its safe place and then smiled at the same time fresh tears came to its eyes. "The cave, Uncle. I hide in the cave."

I patted its cheek and nodded. "Me, too. How would you like to go back?"

"Go back?"

"To the cave, to Fyrine IV. How would you like to go back?"

Zammis sat up and smiled hopefully for a moment, then frowned at me. "Uncle, you always said you hated it there."

"I was a fool. I want to go back. Do you want to go back?"

"Together, Uncle?"

"Of course, together."

Zammis buried its face in my neck and held on to me as it hadn’t done since it was little. God, how many tears are there left to cry?

I never counted the years that passed. Mistaan had words for those who count time as though their recognition of its passing marked their place in the Universe. Mornings, the weather as clear as weather gets on Fyrine IV, I would visit my friend’s grave. Next to it, Estone Nev, Zammis, Ty and I buried Gothig. Shigan’s parent had taken the healing Zammis, liquidated the Jeriba line’s estate, then moved the whole shebang to Fyrine IV. When told the story, it was Ty who named the planet "Friendship."

One blustery day I knelt between the graves, replaced some rocks, then added a few more. I pulled my snakeskins tight against the wind, then sat down and looked out to sea. Still the rollers steamed in under the grey-black cover of clouds. Soon the ice would come. I looked at my scarred, wrinkled hands, then at the grave.

"I couldn’t stay in the colony with them, Jerry. Don’t get me wrong; it’s nice. Damned nice. But I kept looking out my window, seeing the ocean, thinking of the cave. I’m alone, in a way. But it’s good. I know what and who I am, Jerry, and that’s all there is to it, right?"

I heard a noise. I crouched over, placed my hands upon my withered knees, and pushed myself to my feet. The Drac was coming from the colony compound, a child in its arms.

I rubbed my beard. "Eh, Ty, so that is your first child?"

The Drac nodded. "I would be pleased, Uncle, if you would teach it what it must be taught: the line, The Talman; and about the life on Friendship."

I took the bundle into my arms. Chubby three-fingered arms waved at the air, then grasped my snakeskins. "Yes, Ty, this one is a Jeriba." I looked up at Ty. "And how is your parent, Zammis?"

Ty shrugged. "It is as well as can be expected. My parent wishes you well."

I nodded. "And the same to it, Ty. Zammis ought to get out of that air-conditioned capsule and come back to live in the cave. It’ll do it good."

Ty grinned and nodded its head. "I will tell my parent, Uncle."

I stabbed my thumb into my chest. "Look at me! You don’t see me sick, do you?"

"No, Uncle."

"You tell Zammis to kick that doctor out of there and to come back to the cave, hear?"

"Yes, Uncle." Ty smiled. "Is there anything you need?"

I nodded and scratched the back of my neck. "Toilet paper. Just a couple of packs. Maybe a couple of bottles of whiskey—no, forget the whiskey. I’ll wait until Haesni, here, puts in its first year. Just the toilet paper."

Ty bowed. "Yes, Uncle, and may the many mornings find you well."

I waved my hand impatiently. "They will, they will. Just don’t forget the toilet paper."

Ty bowed again. "I won’t, Uncle."

Ty turned and walked through the scrub forest back to the colony.

I lived with them for a year after Zammis regained its health and we all stood before the archives to witness Zammis recite line and book. Soft sleeping pallets, vids, tutors, health jetahs, and a chef. Too soft, too easy, too far from what Shizumaat called the universe. I moved out and went back to the cave. I gathered the wood, smoked the snake, and withstood the winter. Zammis gave me the young Ty to rear in the cave, and now Ty had handed me Haesni. I nodded at the child. "Your child will be called Gothig, and then," I looked at the sky and felt the tears drying on my face. "And then, Gothig’s child will be called Shigan." I nodded and headed for the cleft that would bring us down to the level of the cave.

THE LAST TESTAMENT

PROLOGUE

The stars are the apexes of what wonderful triangles! What distant and different beings in the various mansions of the universe are. contemplating the same one at the same moment!…Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?.

Walden

Henry David Thoreau

If Aakva is a great fire circling our universe, and if Aakva’s Children are still more fires but at great distances, is it not possible that they circle other universes? And those other universes, might they not contain their own living beings? For these answers, I would suffer much. To meet those beings, see them, touch their thoughts. I would exchange my life.

The Talman

The Story of Shizumaat. Koda Nuvida

The preflight literature of every race of which we know posits the existence of otherworld races, and describes the expectations all placed upon their first encounters with other races. The perfection of individual and society all could envision, but none could achieve, each race hoped to find in another.

The encounters happened, each race finding in the other little more than a distorted reflection of itself. Intelligence and stupidity, aggression and suffering, insight and blind allegiance-the universals of life and reality-replaced the hope with cynicism as each race fought for its own advantage by creating rules, tactics, and institutions intended to enclose and defeat the goals of those who were perceived as threats.

Against the stronger powers, the technologically and militarily inferior races formed coalitions, becoming by combination stronger powers themselves. Inside the coalitions, the members intrigued and plotted for control. Outside of the coalitions, the great military and economic powers warred and expanded.

The coalitions rapidly evolved to become the present system of federations known as the United Quadrants. In the area of the Galaxy encompassed by the Ninth Quadrant Federation, only a few of the great powers had not become members of the federation. Of these, the two strongest in numbers, wealth, and military might were the United States of Earth and the Dracon Chamber. Between them, these two powers ruled three hundred worlds.

Late in the Twenty-first Century neither Dracs nor humans speculated in giddy wonder about alien races. They were at war.

ONE

The learned student has much to contribute to the game. However, the hard truths, the ones that cannot be manipulated, will be told to us by the players.

The players have seen and felt the metal; the students have only theorized about it.

The Talman

The Story of Zineru. Koda Sinuvida

Joanne Nicole sat in the mud of Planet Catvishnu and watched through the haze and drizzle as the distant speck took form, growing to become the bat-winged blackness of a Drac assault lander. It flew low and slow over the denuded landscape like a bloated carrion-eater picking and choosing among countless dead.

She looked at the remains of her command. Soldiers. They sat in holes, leaned against rocks, unmindful of the wet chill of the air and the dark grey of the overcast. She almost smiled as she looked back at the approaching lander.

The Dracs only needed, one. The forty-odd scraps of demoralized humanity waiting in the mud for that ship could hardly fill a quarter of the craft’s capacity. Forty-odd future prisoners of war; the remainder of a defensive command of twenty thousand.

There was no way of knowing, but millions of civilians must have been slaughtered, as well. The reports that had managed to get through said that Catvishnu’s cities on all six continents were but smoking ruins.

A figure splashed to a halt next to her. "Major Nicole; they’re coming."

"What?"

"They’re coming." The figure pointed toward the lander.

"I see them."

The figure squatted until Joanne Nicole could see its face. Sergeant Zina Lottner; code clerk.

"We finished the search. There’s nothing down there the Draggers can use." She held out a silver card. There was dried blood on her fingers.

"I found this in your quarters."

Joanne Nicole took the invitation from the sergeant. The lovely little card sparkled. Amidst the mud, filth, and blood, the card looked obscenely clean, bright, happy. She opened the card and read the raised lettering inside.

The Officers and Ranks of

HEADQUARTERS COMPANY

181 ST FORCE DIVISION, III CORPS,

PLANET CATVISHNU GARRISON, USEF

Cordially Invite

MAJ. JOANNE NICOLE

to the

Sixteenth Annual Celebration

of the

Noraanka Dima

to be held at

1930 HOURS, 21 FEBRUARY 2072

(2651 HRS. 9/9 LOCAL TIME)

in the

MAIN AUDITORIUM

STORM MOUNTAIN

She closed the card. "Lottner, why did you bring me this?"

"I don’t know. I thought you might want…" Lottner stood, facing the approaching Drac lander. "I saw what was left of your gown. It must have been beautiful."

Joanne Nicole dropped the card into the mud and stepped on it with her boot. Lottner stood silently for a moment, then turned and splashed slowly down the muddy slope.

It had been a beautiful gown; a silly little puff of silver and white.

"How long have soldiers been sitting in mud?"

She turned toward the sound of the rough voice and saw a man sitting cross-legged in the reddish-brown soup. Morio Taiseido, lieutenant, former code officer, present mud soldier, future POW. His companion, infantry sergeant Amos Benbo, kept an enigmatic stare fixed upon the approaching enemy ship.

Hardly moving his lips, the sergeant answered: "How long have there been soldiers?"

The ancient infantry joke seemed oddly profound at that moment. Joanne Nicole looked at her knees, lifted her hand, and scraped some mud from them. She cupped her hand and studied the contents.

Mud. It had the color of blood mixed with excrement.

Mud. It smelled like blood mixed with excrement.

Mud. The universal military cosmetic.

When she raised her head, the Drac ship had grown larger. Does the Drac infantry, the Tsien Denvedah. sit in the mud? Do the Dracs bleed, gripe, or do anything that other soldiers do? Two hours into the battle, Intelligence Chief Colonel Nkruma hadn’t thought so.

Nkruma.

She closed her eyes, sending her memory deep into the broken mountain behind her; back to so few hours ago.

Nkruma’s round, usually impassive face was twisted as though he were in physical pain. And he was. The gleam of sweat upon his dark skin and the shaken voice telegraphed the words no intelligence officer ever wanted to hear.

"Nicole, we must code twenty the command."

Code twenty: destroy all classified documents and pieces of military equipment. Two hours into the battle and the garrison was throwing in the towel-preparing for total defeat.

Two lousy hours into the battle.

She was still wearing her gown. It was indecent. Considering the number of lives, the amount of time, the amount of money and effort invested, it seemed to be against some higher law for all of that to be written off two hours into the fight.

A major battle-the subjugation of an entire planet-should take more time.

More time.

Nkruma had looked down at his hands. two brown-black knots upon the chaos of papers covering his desk.

"I have already told General Katsuzo. He… he told me that I was lying!"

Nicole had reached out her hand and placed it upon Nkruma’s shoulder. "I’ll take care of the code twenty. Colonel."

Nkruma clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and spoke in a deathly quiet voice.

"What do the Dracs have up there? What in the hell do they have up there?"

She gently shook his shoulder. "I’ve sent the performance reports off to sector intelligence. We might catch it, but sector will come up with new tactics. The next time the Dracs hit a base-"

Nkruma shrugged her hand away and looked up at her with terror-filled eyes; he spoke with a voice choked with shame-humiliation.

"They’re sweeping the entire defense command aside as though… as though we are nothing!"

He lowered his head until his forehead rested upon his clasped hands. "Nothing!" His head rocked back-and-forth upon his hands.

"Do they read minds? Do the bloody yellow devils read minds?"

Nicole had left the office, issued the orders, then returned to her own section to begin erasing the records. Captain Ted Makai, tactical officer for the Storm Mountain complex, still in his formal whites, sat in the intelligence center, a glass of champagne in his hand. He raised his head as she entered.

"Happy days, Joanne."

"How much have you had to drink?"

"Not nearly enough."

"Aren’t you needed someplace? There’s a bit of a war going on outside."

"That explains the noise." He inhaled sharply. "No, I’m not needed anymore. All the damage I can do is already done. It’s up to the computers, now." She walked around him and began setting up the sequence to dump the memory cores. "Joanne, a century ago this would have been called a complete rout." He finished his champagne in one gulp and let his glass fall to the floor. "But there just isn’t any place to rout to."

"I’d love to sit and hold your hand, Ted, but I’m busy."

"Busy, busy, busy."

Makai stood, put his hands into his pockets, and began singing "Johnny Zero" as he walked through the door into the corridor:

"Sergeant," asked the old man,

"I've come to See my son."

"There," said the sergeant,

"There he lies across his gun."

"Across his gun, you say?

Then Johnny stood his ground?"

"He stood there like a rock

until they cut him down."

The old man left, his John

part of the battle won.

"Yes," said the sergeant,

"John was too damned dumb to run."

Chicken, chicken, chicken;

Hoorah for Johnny Zero!

He wasn't worth a shit alive;

but dead he is a hero...

The deep whine of an enemy assault craft…

Joanne Nicole opened her eyes and looked again at the approaching Drac lander. Erasing the records had been such,a waste of time. When the Dracs attacked the Storm Mountain command complex, the memory cores had been destroyed.

Everything had been destroyed.

Almost everyone had been destroyed.

She never did see Ted Makai again.

By unspoken agreement, the survivors decided to meet the Dracs above ground, and had joined the mud soldiers on the surface. Code clerks, cooks, boot-polishers, technicians, programmers, operators, staff officers, and paper wizards moved into the sarcasm of a front line the infantry was trying to establish.

At first there were fewer weapons than there were hands to fire and serve them. In an hour the numbers bad balanced. In another hour they had five times as many weapons as they needed. The line never was established.

Now that the Dracs had withdrawn, there was nothing left but the bodies, the mud, and forty-odd sets of eyes staring blankly at the approach of the enemy ship.

Eyes.

Nicole recognized those eyes from the faces of hundreds of thousands of defeated soldiers-in intelligence training, pictures of forgotten soldiers in forgotten places: Andersonville, the Ardennes, Spain, Stalingrad, Bataan, Okinawa, Bastogne, Korea, Vietnam, the Sinai, Afghanistan, Lebanon, Acadia, Capetown, Planet Dacha, Planet Baalphor, Chadduk Station…

The uniforms differed, the faces-human, Shikazu, Drac-differed. It was the eyes. The eyes were always the same: the glazed, stunned, defeated stare of a cornered, confused, exhausted animal that had lost its will to resist, its will to live.

The Drac lander hovered at the foot of the mountain for a moment, then slowly reduced its altitude until it came to a steaming halt upon the mud flats below.

She thought of the tapes she, had seen of the interrogations of the seven Dracs captured at the battle of Chadduk Station.

Their uniforms were filth-covered red; Tsien Denvedah, the Drac infantry elite. They did not look so damned elite as they slumped before the interrogation officer.

The hands had only three fingers each; the heads and faces were devoid of hair, the deep yellow skin smooth. The noses were little more than openings in upper lips. Foreheads sloped back, chins receded, yellow eyes stared blankly from beneath prominent brows.

All intelligence officers had learned the rudiments of the Drac language, and the interrogator in the tape had explained to the Drac before him how hopeless its position was. Things could be made easier if the Drac would cooperate.

A three-fingered hand rose and was placed against the Drac soldier’s breast. It clutched something hanging beneath its uniform. The human interrogator walked over, slapped the Drac’s hand away from its breast, then reached his hand inside the uniform. The human’s hand withdrew holding a small golden cube attached to a golden chain that hung around the Drac’s neck.

"What is this?"

"It is my line’s Talman."

Talman. The bible of the Talmani. The human tightened his hand around the golden cube.

"What would you do if I snapped this chain and threw this luck-charm away, maphrofag? Hey, Dragger?"

The Drac stared for a moment at the human’s fist, then it closed its eyes.

"I would have to go to the expense of buying another."

The fist drew quickly away from the Drac, breaking the chain. The human studied the Drac as though he expected the alien to tum into a gibbering column of jelly at the removal of its Talman.

The Drac opened its eyes and stared blankly at the floor. The interrogator dangled the broken chain in front of the Drac’s face.

"Here it is, you two-sexed shit! If you do not cooperate, I will throw it away."

Slowly the Drac’s gaze lifted from the floor until it was looking into the eyes of the interrogator. The Drac’s eyes filled with glitter, then its mouth formed into a grin, exposed the solid white mandibles that served as teeth.

"So, humans are as stupid as they appear. I am encouraged."

The interrogator stuffed the cube and chain into his pocket.

"Dracs are the prisoners here; not humans."

"It is not the first battle, human, but the last that decides such matters. You have just told me that the Dracon Chamber will win the last battle."

The interrogation had gone on for much longer, but Joanne Nicole’s head was filled with the conviction in the Drac’s words. That and the look in the creature’s eyes.

The will to fight, to live, had returned.

As the lower bay doors on the Drac lander opened, she wondered how she would appear to the Drac intelligence service. How she would appear to herself.

She reached into her sleeve pocket and felt for the tiny pronide capsule. Once her fingers had found it, she pulled the capsule from her pocket and studied it. Half pink, half blue, it carried the colors of innocent childhood.

Nkruma had been in the throes of a hysterical calm. He was issuing the death drops in fistfulls to everyone who would take them. As he handed a capsule to her, she shouted to him.

"Nkruma, what do you think you’re doing?"

"All of us know things that the Dracs want to know. Duty will tell you what to do."

Duty? The USE Force knew about Catvishnu falling. Before the battle was over, USEF computers would change codes, tactics, equipment, priorities, and anything else that depended upon the knowledge of any person or group of persons.

The USEF assumed that everyone would be captured alive, and that everyone would talk their heads off. Experience makes pragmatists out of us all. It also removed the need for mass suicide.

Nicole had held the capsule in front of Nkruma’s face.

"What are you, Nkruma? Some kind of Jonestown-Masada freak? Die rather than have the courage to face defeat?"

She watched in horror as he stuck the capsule into his mouth, crushed it with his teeth. and swallowed. After a weak cry, he was dead. Many of those with capsules died with him.

She watched a human in strange blue robes emerge from the lander’s bay. He paused at the foot of the ramp and looked up at the remains of the Storm Mountain Irregulars. He studied the faces for a moment, turned to speak to someone within the bay, then turned again and began slogging through the mud toward the ragged assembly.

Joanne Nicole watched him. His concentration appeared to be centered on his footing, his robe held up out of the mud’s reach.

She looked down at the capsule.

Pain.

Training had covered pain; the kind of pain made to endure until the sufferer began jabbering-saying anything-to make the pain stop. It had lent a sense of drama to an occupation that was essentially nothing more than filling out reports, sifting bits of information, solving puzzles, and using the known points of a graph to try to predict the unknown points.

Intelligence personnel were "back yard" soldiers; pain was for those filling out the front lines. Intelligence was a job like any civilian job. But there was some disagreement.

That sergeant in intelligence recruit training:

"It don’t make a damn bit of difference what your job is, Nicole. If you’re in the Force, your assbottom-line occupation is to sit in the mud behind a rifle and kill the enemy. First you’re infantry. You get to do something else only when the infantry doesn’t need you."

Puzzles.

She had always been good at puzzles. And statistical analysis and languages were nothing more than puzzles. And the peacetime Force offered puzzles with real challenges to them: alien languages, devising and breaking sophisticated codes, devising strategies to counter alien tactics.

It was supposed to be a clean-collar, predictable, desk job; that’s what it had been for nine years. Then, in 2072, the second year into the war with the Dracon Chamber, Joanne Nicole found herself sitting in the mud, behind a rifle, killing Dracs.

The training sergeant had been right.

Damn him to hell.

Sit in the mud, sight through the rain and drizzle down that weapon, and fry anything yellow. No puzzles there; just primitive survival.

The human in the blue robes came to the first of the soldiers, bent down, and talked to him. The soldier pointed listlessly back up the slope. Joanne Nicole studied the man as she held the capsule between her thumb and forefinger and licked the end of the capsule with the tip of her tongue.

The human slogged up the rise and stopped three meters away. The gold glitter of his Talman peeked from between the folds in his robe. He spoke in English.

"We are here to pick up those who surrendered." He seemed to be in his late forties-greying hair above a dark brown face lined with years.

Nicole lowered her hand and looked into the human’s eyes. "What’s it going for these days?"

He looked confused. "What’s what going for?"

"Treason."

The man laughed. His laugh was the infectious variety born from genuine mirth. Several of the whipped soldiers around him also laughed, not really knowing why. The human shook his head. "Are you the commanding officer?"

"Yes."

"Your name, please?"

"Nicole. Major Joanne Nicole."

"I am called Leonid Mitzak. Major, please ask your charges to enter the lander. Time is precious."

"What if I don’t? What if they don’t go?"

"I was led to understand that this unit has surrendered. Isn’t this true?"

"If it isn’t?"

"Does this game amuse you, Major?" Mitzak looked around at the faces, then back at Nicole. "The fight will continue, if that is what you prefer. If you have surrendered, then have your men move into the lander."

She pushed herself to her feet. "Where are the Drac guards?"

"If you have surrendered, there is no need for guards." He looked again at the soldiers, then back at her. "Is there?"

She dropped the pill into the mud and let her hand fall to her side. "No. There’s no need for guards."

She began stumbling downhill toward the lander. One-by-one the soldiers in the mud stood and followed her. There were no wounded. The wounded had all taken the death drops rather than be taken alive to face the unknown. Everyone had heard about the tortures dished out by the terrorist Drac Mavedah on the planet Amadeen. For the same reason, many of the still healthy ones took the drops.

The war had killed millions of Dracs and millions of humans; and every human knew what he would do to a Drac given the opportunity. Pain. Endless, excruciating pain. And pronide brought on the ultimate anesthetic.

Nicole paused as she came to the foot of the lander’s ramp. There was a red-uniformed Drac standing in the dark of the bay’s door. The Drac waved its hand.

"Hasu. Benga va nu! Hasu, dutshaat kizlode!" Get in. You hurry up! Get in, half-sexed excrement-head!

And the excrement referred to was kiz; an animal native to the planet Draco that was so foul that both the species and the species' waste product carried the same name.

Several obscene retorts in Drac came to Joanne Nicole’s mind, but she resisted the temptation to reply in kind. Instead, she moved up the ramp and entered the lander. When everyone had settled on the deck, the bay doors closed, leaving the compartment in deep shadows cast by the lone light above the door to the craft’s bridge.

The human, Mitzak, and the Drac went through the door to the bridge, leaving the defeated soldiers alone. There was a quiet hum and Joanne Nicole felt the lander leave the soil of Catvishnu.

TWO

The first given is existence; its fact, not its form, nor its manner of change, nor the purposes ascribed to its aspects by its creatures.

The Talman

The Story of Shizumaat. Koda Nuvida

Joanne Nicole awakened from a dreamless sleep to find her gaze fixed on the compartment’s single light: trying to find some warmth, strength, in its feeble glow. She turned her head and saw that all the prisoners were buried in sleep or thoughts of their own.

All silent.

On some vague intellectual level they knew that somewhere out there the USE Force was creaming the hell out of some Drac command. Somewhere out there, the war was still far from decided: But in the total of the universe they could see, their universe, their guts all said the same thing: whipped. Defeated.

The compartment light was picked up and reflected by another set of eyes; eyes that were no longer defeated, but, instead, burned with hate. The eyes belonged to Sergeant Benbo.

Nicole settled back and watched him her eyelids barely open.

…She had just pulled her gown over her head, her lungs aching from the dust and smoke that filled the lower levels of the complex. A dark shadow filled the doorway to her quarters.

"Are you Major Nicole?"

In between coughs, she answered. "Yes."

"Then get your titties covered up, Major. You’re in command."

"Me?"

"You’re all that’s left, lady. Everybody else is dead." Benbo had tossed an object at her, and she caught it as it rebounded from her breast. It was a rifle. "Head for the east face surface, Major. Bring that with you; I’ll find another."

The sergeant disappeared into the smoke.

When she drew her right hand away from the weapon, she saw that blood covered the rough surface of the front hand-grip…

Nicole looked away from Benbo’s frightening silence and closed her eyes as exhaustion again pulled at her. Storm Mountain gnawed at her sleep.

…Sergeant Benbo. With curses, kicks, punches, and screams he had intimidated his collection of paper wizards and electron collators into becoming infantry soldiers in what must have been history’s briefest course in basic training.

…The noise-the sizzle of enemy weapons, the soldier screaming into the hiss of his radio, the others screaming in anger, the few screaming in pain, her own voice shouting orders-sound assaulting her eardrums from both inside and out…

…She couldn’t see whether the mud-covered creature cowering at the bottom of the trench was male or female. Its eyes were wide with terror.

Benbo slapped its face again and again.

"Get up! Get up on that line, goddamn you, and fire that weapon! Get up on that line, you chicken yellow sonofabitch, or I’ll slit you open and hang you by your own bleeding guts!"

A gleaming blade leaped into the sergeant’s hand and the soldier’s hand flapped in the mud until it found a rifle. Twice the rifle fired as the soldier tried to kill Benbo. The sergeant pulled the creature to its feet and flung it against the side of the trench, facing the advancing enemy.

"That’s the way, you dumb sonofabitch! Now try shooting at the yellow fellows!"

Benbo moved off into the rain, and the soldier opened up on the enemy, aiming through tear-filled eyes. Then Nicole recognized him: Lieutenant Morio Taiseido; gentle Morio…

The night of the Noraanka Dima.

…She did her best at walking briskly from the corridor into the I-section anteroom; but one does not walk briskly in a full-length ballroom gown.

Too much air resistance. One flows.

…the Noraanka Dima; the USE Force holiday in tribute to the five soldiers who had held an entire Shikazu assault group at bay for eight days during the war of the Four Stars. After the five soldiers had been killed, a brief truce was called, allowing honor guards from both the Shikazu Infantry and the USEF to attend the burial-the first Noraanka Dima.

Joanne Nicole pressed the signal panel next to the door and looked up into the sensor in time to hear an embarrassed cough. She glanced down and realized that the overhead sensor had a good shot down the front of her gown. Se glared up at the sensor.

"Not you, too, Taiseido?"

There was a mumbled apology as the security door slid open, revealing Storm Mountain’s intelligence center. Lieutenant Morio Taiseido and six ranks were on duty. Taiseido stood as she entered, while the ranks busied themselves studying their instruments.

"Morio why does the Force have to go crazy once each year?" She held out her arms. "Just look at this insane costume."

Taiseido grinned widely. "I have seen it, thank you, Major. And it should make a splendid display at the military ball. General Dell will be pleased."

"Sit down and stick your tongue back in your mouth. Any traffic?"

Taiseido resumed his seat, turned toward a screen, and called up an index of the signals overheard and processed by his watch. "Nothing unusual, Major." He turned back. "Why don’t you go to the ball and leave the peasants to sort the signals?"

-A sorter of signals. The next time Joanne Nicole saw Morio he was a killer…

…A break in the fighting.

Toadface backing off from Storm Mountain’s unexpected pimple of resistance as the first light of a grey, rainy morning pushed sluggishly at the shadows.

One of the shadows stood up and became Sergeant Benbo. "Have to check the line. See you in a little while, Mo."

Benbo crouched, ran off, and dissolved into the remaining shadows. Nicole looked at the shadow Benbo had been talking to. It was Morio. She spoke to him. "How are you making it, Morio?"

"Okay." He was as still as the scorched rocks surrounding them. "Major, all this stuff… battle…"

"What about it?"

"I wasn’t ready for it. It turned my guts to water."

"You have a lot of company… had a lot of company."

"Major, I never had any heroes before; just never thought in those terms." His eyes looked at her out of the darkness. "Amos-Sergeant Benbo. He is one hell of a man." The eyes disappeared. "Sleep. Have to get some sleep…"

…A rough hand shook her shoulder.

"Major?"

She awakened in the bay of the Drac lander. Where every muscle before had been numb, they now ached as though she had been chain-whipped for days. She opened her eyes and saw Benbo squatting next to her.

"Sergeant?"

"In a few minutes we’re docking with the lander’s…" He issued a single, harsh laugh. "I was about to say mother ship."

She pushed herself into a sitting position and rubbed her eyes. When she lowered her hand she saw two Dracs carrying one of the human soldiers out of the compartment. "What’s going on?"

"Dead. Must’ve popped one of your bunch’s good-bye pills."

"Who?"

"Corliss." Nicole couldn’t remember any Corliss. Benbo saw the look on her face. "He was one of the mud soldiers-one of mine."

Nicole watched as the hatch closed behind the two burdened Dracs. "How did you find out that we’re about to dock?"

Benbo nodded toward the closed hatch. "I overheard toadface."

"Adze Dracon?"

"Ni Adze."

"Where did you pick up Drac?"

"Amadeen. I was there when the fun turned from practical jokes into soldier-time." He looked down at the deck. "Everybody talks a little Drac on Amadeen. Then the Mavedah gave me a little refresher course." The soldier lifted his right hand and looked at it. Even in the darkness Nicole could see the pock marks. The Mavedah, the Drac terrorists on Amadeen, liked to use needles. Electrically charged, dipped in pain-causing chemicals; sometimes just for the sake of the screams and scars that could be made.

She looked away from the hand. "How many Dracs are on board?"

"Four that I know of. And that human, Mitzak. Major?"

She turned her head and saw Benbo, hand still raised, looking back into her eyes. "Don’t try it. Don’t even think about it."

"About what?"

He lowered his hand. "Taking over this lander. Even if we could take it over, the rest of the Drac fleet out there would vaporize us in seconds. Besides, where could we go? Toadface owns Catvishnu."

"Do you want them to work on that hand again?"

"Don’t worry about it, Major. This isn’t the Mavedah. The clowns in the little red suits are Tsien Denvedah-regular troops. They aren’t into pain-just victories." Benbo placed his hand on Nicole’s shoulder. "We’ll get our chance, Major. We just have to wait for it."

The lander slowed again, rolled slightly, then braked just before the sounds of slamming locks vibrated the hull. The hatch at the front of the compartment opened, revealing one of the red-clad Dracs. It waved an impatient three-fingered hand.

"Dasu! Dasu, nue shaddsaat!"

The human, Mitzak, came from behind the Drac and spoke. "We are at the parent ship. Please prepare to disembark." The beaten soldiers struggled to their feet and began filing through the hatch. As she came to the hatch, Mitzak reached out a hand and stopped her. He looked concerned. "You and your charges will not be sent to the planet Hujiam, as is usual for war prisoners captured in this sector. All of you will be sent to Ditaar."

"Why?"

"The route to Hujiam is presently under attack by your forces-"

"Gee, that’s too bad."

"-We could not assure your safety as is required by the war accords."

Nicole studied the man’s face. "Mitzak, in your face I see a problem."

He stood motionless for an instant. "Major Nicole, the population of Hujiam is used to receiving prisoners, and the facilities to instruct prisoners are there. The population on Ditaar is not prepared to either receive or instruct prisoners. I am concerned that the Madah of Ditaar will be very harsh."

"Madah?"

He looked toward the other soldiers, then closed his eyes. "Perhaps I can find an assignment to care for you on Ditaar. I shall try."

He turned and left through the hatch. Nicole looked back at the prisoners and saw Sergeant Benbo helping Lieutenant Taiseido to his feet. Sharp fingers jabbed her shoulder, and she turned to see the Drac guard pointing toward the hatch.

"Chova, Irkmaan!"

Joanne Nicole looked into the creature’s yellow eyes.

"Ne irkmaan, kizlode. Irkwoomaan!"

THREE

"When your warriors fall upon the Irrveden, you will capture alive as many of them as you can. Their children will be sent to the Sixth Denve to become future warriors. The ones captured will be told of Aakva’s new Law of War, and of the ordeal that proved this law true. Then you will tell them that they may become a part of a new tribe, the Denvedah, and by so doing they may serve the new law…

"Should you capture those who refuse to serve Aakva’s Law of War, head them toward the Madah. Say to them that this wasteland is their new place. And that it is a fitting place for those who will fight for neither the Irrveden or the Denvedah."

The Talman

The Story of Uhe. Koda Ovida

"Humans, this choice you have." The fat Drac officer in the brown uniform stood upon a raised platform inside the bay of the ill-maintained building at the edge of the military field, V’Butaan, Planet Ditaar. "This choice to be soldiers for humans, soldiers for the Dracon Chamber, or soldiers for no one: Madah. You die, you fight, you starve. Your choice."

Leonid Mitzak remained silent until the Drac officer nodded at him and left. Mitzak looked over the small assembly. "Dracs do not hold prisoners. Station Master Harudak offers you the same that is offered to all those defeated by Drac forces. You may continue to fight for the USE Force, in which case you will be killed; at this point, a quite foolish gesture. You may enlist in the forces of the Dracon Chamber, in which case you will be put to work serving the Drac cause. Or you may be neither, in which case you will be cast into the Madah-you will become non-beings, living upon charity."

Mitzak raised a hand and indicated the building. "Because the Dracon Chamber agreed to the war accords, the traditional treatment of the defeated is amended to include these facilities. For those of you who choose the Madah, this facility is available to you for housing, clothing, and food, should you find it impossible to subsist elsewhere."

Sergeant Benbo looked around, then faced Mitzak. "You’re telling us we’re free to leave?"

"Free to leave this building; not this planet. You are also free to stay, and I would advise staying." He wrapped his robe tightly about his shoulders, and Joanne Nicole thought she detected genuine concern on the man’s face as he looked toward the room’s open doors. "Out there you will not be under the protection of the accords; instead you will be a subject to Drac custom. And the custom of the Madah is harsh. The people of this city, V’Butaan, are not accustomed to having humans in their Madah. You can expect a degree of hostility from both the citizens and those in the Madah."

Morio Taiseido spoke: "Mitzak, are there Dracs in this Madah?"

"Of course:" He paused for a moment, then continued. "There is much you should learn before making your choice. But we are not equipped here to provide you with this education. However, I will do what I can. I have been assigned as Harudak’s deputy. I can be found here when you need me." He stepped down from the platform and walked slowly from the room.

Benbo turned toward Nicole. "What now, Major?"

She turned to see the other prisoners looking back at her. Their faces were tired, confused.

"Until we understand the situation, you people stay put. Taiseido?"

Morio stepped forward. "Yes?"

She took his arm and steered him toward Benbo. When the three of them were away from the others, the sergeant began.

"You think it’s a trap, Major?"

"I don’t know. They already have us by the short and sweet if they want to pack in our meat. I can’t see what purpose is served by letting us loose. Morio?"

"Yes, Major?"

"Benbo and I are heading out to do a little recon. I want you to take charge and keep everyone together. Understand?"

"Yes. What about those other two choices?"

"We’re going to keep fighting, but if we can walk around freely out there, it’s going to make things a lot easier. Just keep everyone together until we know the score."

Sergeant Benbo tapped Taiseido on the shoulder. "And, Mo. If any of these jokers wants to join up with the Dracs, you know what to do."

The Lieutenant looked down as Benbo slipped a knife into his hand. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Tell anybody who wants to become a Drac that it’s going to require a little surgery first. And when you say it, mean it."

Morio slipped the knife inside his jacket and nodded. "You two be careful."

Nicole and Benbo turned and headed toward the open door. When they reached it, they stopped. To the right was a security fence, and high upon the fence’s catwalk was an armed Drac guard.

The fence separated the building from the military field. Was the guard posted there to guard the field; or was it there to fry anyone stepping through the door?

To the left was a graveled path leading to a paved road. The bank on the other side of the road was crowded with scrub brush and twisted trees. Nicole glanced at the guard again and poked Benbo in the ribs.

"Let’s go."

They stepped out of the door and began walking slowly toward the road. By the time they were abreast of the guard, it was facing them, leaning against the fence. Its yellow fingers toyed with a lever on its weapon.

"Eey, kiz ve Madah."

They stopped and the guard raised its weapon and pointed it at them. "Zoom! Zoom!" The guard laughed and lowered its weapon. "Yaa! Yaa!" It nodded its head toward the road. "Benga! Madah hasu, dutshaat! Madah hasu!"

Benbo smiled warmly at the guard. "Kiss my ass, you piss-colored, maphrofag."

Nicole tugged on the sergeant’s arm. "Move it or lose it, Benbo."

"Yaa. kizlode! Madah hasu! Yaa-"

"Denvedar!"

The guard whirled around and Benbo and Nicole looked through the fence. Standing there, glaring up at the guard, was a hefty-looking Drac soldier. The thin gold stripes slashed diagonally across its red sleeves marked it as a ninth officer-equivalent to a USEF staff sergeant.

The Drac noncom gave that guard a ragtime that must have been cloned from the first chew-out session the Universe’s first private ever received from the Universe’s very first sergeant. The talk was so rapid that Nicole could only follow it in parts-several mentions of hot tongs, hand-stoking nuclear reactors, broken limbs, extra duty extending to infinity-the usual.

Sergeant Benbo seemed to be enjoying the performance. And when the Drac noncom had finished, and the guard was again walking its post, Benbo waved at the Drac. "That’s telling him, sarge."

The Drac stared for a moment at Benbo, then spat out a single word. "Vemadah!" The Drac turned from the fence and marched away.

Benbo watched the soldier until it disappeared into the entrance of a small structure. Then he thrust his hands into his pockets and walked toward the road, his eyes glowering at the gravel crunching beneath his boots.

Vemadah.

The word is the name of those living in the Madah; but it also means "coward."

"Sergeant, what that Drac noncom said doesn’t bother you, does it?"

"Hell, no!" Benbo continued walking, his lips pursed as though there was more that he wanted to say. As they reached the road, he shook his head, glanced at Nicole, then turned to the right. "Let’s find out where toadface keeps the button that blows up this shitball."

After three hours of fast walking they had circuited the Drac military field. There had been frequent glances from the Dracs standing guard and those riding past them in silent, low-slung vehicles. The only comments came from the children; comments, rocks, and pieces of garbage. But no one stopped them.

After walking the field’s perimeter, they climbed a wooded hill to get some altitude. By the time they sat down to rest, they had both come to the same conclusion: the field at V’Butaan was little more than a way station staffed by less than two hundred Dracs.

On the parking ramp there were four assault landers, two of which looked as though they Were under repair. There were several small transportation flyers, and no atmospheric fighters.

Sergeant Benbo, seated on the grass with his arms wrapped around his knees, glared in the direction of the field. "Major, if we’re going to bust our buns on the barricades, this place would be a waste of time."

"And a waste of buns." Nicole stretched out on the dead leaves and looked through the trees at the blue sky. "The Drac Fleet must have a major base somewhere on the planet."

"This sure as hell isn’t it." Benbo pushed himself to his feet and walked toward the higher ground.

As the sound of Benbo’s feet moving through the underbrush faded, Nicole continued looking at the sky, watching the spade-shaped leaves of the trees moving in the gentle wind.

It disturbed her that about the last thing she wanted to spend thought on was running around Ditaar slinging bombs around military installations. She felt as though she could have been anywhere, stretched out in the woods, inhaling the freshness of warm spring breezes, the war far, far away. At that moment Catvishnu seemed like nothing more than a bad dream.

Nicole sat up and looked at the Drac landers on the distant parking ramp. There seemed to be something wrong with her sense of duty-or was it sense of revenge?

The civilians who died on Catvishnu were nothing but numbers: the soldiers who died-well, that was part of the contract one made by joining the Force. There had been none of the soldiers that had been really close to her. No one had been close to her since Mallik. And the big issues were nothing but words. Did she really care about protecting the USE’s mining operations upon Amadeen? No. Was she in the Force to avenge the Amadeen Front’s deaths at the hands of the Drac Mavedah? She shook her head. Not really. Both the Front and the Mavedah were little more than terrorists, each serving their respective bosses by attempting to out-horror the other. She closed her eyes. "What am I doing here?"

…She had been on Earth, in school, aimlessly taking up space… but before that had been Raina Ya, and Mallik.

Mallik: fisher, lover and liver of life. They were both nineteen. In the days they owned the world; in the nights they owned the Universe.

He would stand in the prow of his fishing skimmer, his dark brown eyes searching the blinding glare of the water for signs, and she would watch him. And he would call out to the pilot, "High a quarter to port! The greentails run!"

As the skimmer heeled over to the left, he would rush back to help with the scoops. And he would steal a glance at her…

…drowned. They said that the storm came up out of nowhere. Surprised everybody. His corpse was pale and puffy from the water where it hadn’t been gnawed on by the crab-worms…

…Both his family and hers offered to help with the baby once it came. But she left Baina Ya and traveled to Earth before the baby was born. She never saw it; never knew its sex or name. Even the idea of possessing this knowledge horrified her. She wanted no more risks; no more surprises; no more attachments.

She went to school and filled a chair while driving everything out of her head by filling it with numbers. One year, two, then a USEF recruiting team came on campus. And what they promised was a life of absolute predictability; no surprises. So much time in, plus so much experience, education, and training equaled such-and-such a rank and assignment. While that was being done, there are all of those neat puzzles you can have to fill your hours; to fill your mind.

And if everybody gets killed, both the killing, the killer, and the disposal of the remains will be predictable.

It’s all in the contract…

Mallik’s death had been predictable. Dozens of fishers drown every year on Raina Ya.

Rut they had been nineteen, and immortal-

"Mallik, damn you-"

"Irkmaan?"

Nicole lowered her hand from her eyes and stood as she saw a Drac’s face peering at her through the bushes. "Benbo?" She looked around for the sergeant, but he was gone.

The Drac pushed the branches aside and stepped through. Its white robe was torn and filthy. It squatted several paces away, its thin arms cradled in its lap. In Drac it asked, "You are human?"

"Yes."

"Of the Madah?" Nicole didn’t answer, and the Drac nodded its head. "The Madah. I heard the rumor of humans entering Ditaar’s Madah." It studied her for a long moment.

"Do you have any food to share?"

"No. Why are you here?"

"Searching for food."

"I mean, why are you in the Madah?"

The Drac wearily pushed itself to a standing position. "I am only looking for food; not conversation -" A frightened look came into its eyes as the sounds of someone crashing through the brush came from behind. Nicole turned just as Benbo came into view.

"You all right, Major?"

"So far." She turned back to the Drac. "Who are you?"

Its yellow eyes looked down. "I am but another face."

Sergeant Benbo walked up to the Drac. "You wouldn’t fight?"

"I would fight," it looked up at Benbo, "if fighting were talma. It is not."

"The path? Talma to what?"

"The path, human. Talma…" The Drac waved a hand. "Do you have any food to share?"

Benbo shook his head. "No."

The Drac turned and walked into the bushes. In moments the sounds of its walking died away. Benbo rubbed his chin and frowned as he turned and faced Nicole. "I wonder how many Dracs there are wandering around here." He nodded toward the crest of the hill. "Major, I found something on the other side of the hill."

"What?"

"It’ll be easier to show you than to explain it." He glanced back in the direction of the departing Drac. "We’d better watch it." He removed his hand from his chin and pointed uphill. "This way."

The other side of the hill was barren. That it had once been covered with vegetation was indicated by the remains of a few blackened stumps. At the foot of the hill began the ruins of an obliterated community.

The blackened streets and remains of walls extended for a kilometer. Parallel to their position, the damaged area looked to be six or eight kilometers long, narrow toward the right, fanning out to the left in the shape of an enormous teardrop.

Benbo squatted and pointed. "There’s only one thing I know of that makes a shape like that."

"A USEF sonic warhead. Because of the small impact area. it was probably a fighter-mounted missile."

"There’s only one impact, Major. The pilot must have been on a for-the-hell-of-it run."

Nicole shielded her eyes and examined the area beyond the blast. "I wonder what the pilot was trying to hit. That’s one hell of a miss if he was aiming for the V’Butaan field."

Benbo picked up a small stone and toyed with it. "I don’t think the pilot missed." He stood and tossed the stone down the hill. "I think that shooter hit exactly what he was aiming at." The sergeant turned and began walking back up the hill.

Was it possible? Had some USEF pilot gone against orders to wipe out an entire civilian community? Or had the orders excluding civilian targets changed? Perhaps this was only one of several destroyed populations. It had been done recently. And that might explain why the Drac Fleet had leveled Catvishnu’s cities. Tit for tat. What had that Drac in the dirty robe said? "I would fight if fighting were talma. It is not."

Nicole noticed the movement of two Dracs picking through the ruins. They were looking for food. Madah. She turned away and followed Benbo’s trail.

After an hour of walking. they came down the hill into a part of the Drac village that had not been destroyed. They squatted on a high bank overlooking the streets and structures.

The homes were large, with vast expanses of lawn and woods around them. The distances between homes almost made each home look like a tiny village in itself. One of the streets led to what appeared to be a park or village common.

Half under his breath, Benbo muttered. "This must be the high-rent district." He lifted an arm and pointed. "Look."

She looked in the direction indicated and saw alone Drac standing in one of the streets. It wore a ragged white robe and a light blue stripe that went around its neck and looped down its back almost to the ground.

"It isn’t the same one we saw on the hill."

"I guess it’s another one of our Madah buddies, Major. Why’s it standing there?" Benbo’s answer came soon enough. One of the silent Drac vehicles turned a comer and moved slowly down the street. The Drac in the blue and white rags lowered its glance and held out its hands toward the moving car. The vehicle hurried past, and the Drac lowered its hands and again stood motionless in the gutter. Nicole heard the sergeant spit on the ground. "I don’t think I’m going to fit very good in the Madah."

"Sergeant, let’s go down and talk to that Drac. It’s about time we got an accurate reading on this Madah business."

Benbo frowned as he studied the terrain. "I’d hate to be a Drac wandering into a human town right after some Dracon Fleet pilot had fried the hell out of the place." He looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

"Let’s go." She stood and began walking down the bank, Benbo’s footsteps close behind.

As they approached the Drac, it turned and looked at them. At first its expression was confused, then its face settled into an expression of dull-eyed resignation. Before they could speak, it spoke to them. "Do you have food to spare?"

Nicole stopped in front of it. "We don’t have food. What is your name?"

The Drac seemed to study upon the question for a moment. Then it looked up at the treetops. "In the Madah…" It looked at Nicole. "You may call me Shalda."

She pointed at herself and the sergeant in turn. "Joanne Nicole and Amos Benbo."

Shalda looked puzzled. "You carry your line-names into the Madah?"

"Our family names? Why not?"

"The shame of it. Dah! Something humans wouldn’t understand. You speak Dracon adequately; that should help."

Another vehicle came along and stopped next to the three. The driver stuck its yellow head out of the window, giving Benbo and Nicole only a passing glance. "Chova, vemadai! You may beg here, but do not hold conventions! Move off! Chova!"

The driver waited until all three turned and walked toward the hill. When they had walked a few paces, they heard the car hiss away. Shalda continued toward the hill.

Nicole looked at the Drac’s face.

"If it is so shameful, Shalda, why are you here?"

"I have nowhere else to go. The Madah is now my land."

Benbo walked faster and pulled up on the Drac’s other side. "We met a Drac on the hill. It said that war isn’t talma. What did it mean ?"

Shalda stopped and closed its eyes. "It is talma, human."

"The other Drac said it wasn’t. What is talma?"

They both looked at the Drac as Shalda appeared to struggle with something inside itself. "Talma." It lifted a hand and touched the thick blue stripe that looped its neck. "Did this other vemadah wear a blue mark such as this?"

Nicole shook her head. "No. Its robe was plain white."

Shalda’s hand tightened around the fold of its robe containing the blue stripe. "This, humans, is the mark of Jetah ve Talman. I am a Master of the Talman, master of paths. The one you describe must be very young, as well as very ignorant. To follow talma, one must follow the war against the United States of Earth. I have constructed the diagrams myself." Shalda released its robe and held the same hand out, first toward Benbo, then toward Nicole. "Are you males or females? Except for pictures, I have never seen humans before."

"Benbo is male; I am female."

Shalda studied them, each in turn, then shook its head. "I suppose there is a purpose in it." It held its hand out toward the hill. "I must hurry. There is food to find before the night comes."

Benbo grabbed the Drac’s arm. "If you think the war is right, why are you in the Madah?"

Shalda pulled its arm from the sergeant’s grasp. "It is none of your concern." Which answered the question. The Drac turned and walked toward the hill.

"Hoorah for Johnny Zero." Benbo turned toward Nicole. "Funny thing; I never thought of the Dracs having cowards."

She studied the sergeant’s face. The wall of anger and contempt he hid behind enabled him to function when others crouched in their holes, paralyzed with terror. That and his fear of being called a coward-thinking himself to be a coward.

There was Colonel Nkruma eating pronide capsules in the name of duty; a duty that was so much easier for him than facing humiliation. Nicole studied herself. She could keep fighting when everything in her head was screaming because on some lower level she was simply following her own rules. My precious, predictable rules. And I fear losing those regulatory reference points to reality more than I fear the Dracs.

"There are all kinds of cowards, Sergeant. It’s only the honest ones that have to carry the name."

Nicole glanced after the departing Drac, then turned to see Sergeant Benbo looking up at the sky. He pointed a finger. "Major! Major! It’s a raid! Hell, but it’s the Force!"

Nicole looked up, and after a second or two, she could make out the black spots of a USEF fighter squadron in formation-no, a full fighter-bomber wing! It seemed as though she was rooted in that street for hours-but only a second could have elapsed. Then those specks were on top of them. Benbo leaped, hit Nicole in the stomach, and sent her gasping to the ground.

In the next few moments, the world of Ditaar went up in heat and flame.

The forces of the sound explosions picked her up, shook her, and tossed her back to the ground. Slightly above the thunder of the blasts and howls of flying shrapnel, she heard Benbo screaming a curse. As repeated concussions numbed her mind and body. for an instant she saw Mallik’s face.

Then there was nothing.

FOUR

Tocchah walked toward the fires of its people, the footsteps of the enemy warriors close behind. Tocchah looked up to the night sky, praying silently: Aakva, Parent of All, strike this Uhe and its army down! Strike them down in flame and thunder!

Tocchah. receiving no response, looked back down at the path and continued walking, but spoke to the darkness that followed it: "Have you ever noticed, Uhe, that you can never find a god when you need one?"

"Yes, Tocchah. I have noticed."

The Talman

The Story of Uhe. Koda Ovida

…Her head in a vise… lungs filled with oil-soaked cotton, her ears ringing so loudly…

…At some point she realized that she was walking; stumbling down some road through the smoke and silence.

She stopped, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, and looked at the blood on her hand. It was dark red and thick; almost dried. She wiped her face again. The blood had been coming from her nose, and the flow had already stopped.

"Benbo?"

She lowered her hand and stood, weaving in the street, looking for the sergeant. He was nowhere in sight. She closed her eyes, her head shattering with pain. There was nothing but smoke, and she sank down upon her knees and sat on her ankles. Confused; sleepy. There was something she knew she should be doing, but couldn’t force herself to remember what.

She opened her eyes to tiny slits. The smoke drifted to one side, letting her see the fuzzy outline of a structure. She closed her eyes, rubbed them, and looked again.

A large building… half of a large building. The land surrounding the ruined portion was swept clean save for a few uprooted smoking trees. The bright lemon-colored patches in the other side of the building eventually resolved into images of bodies.

Mauled, broken, crushed bodies. They were Dracs… Drac children. The flames were just beginning to lick at them.

"Sergeant! Benbo, where in the hell are you?"

The pain of her shout doubled her over until her forehead almost rested upon the ground.

There was a weak cry. Almost like a treed kitten. She sat up, lowered her hands, and listened.

More cries. There were several of them. From behind her came the sounds of shouting, cursing, wreckage being moved. The cries came from in front of her. From the crushed building. Nicole pushed herself to her feet and fought against waves of nausea as she stumbled toward the horror of the half-building.

The weak cries seemed to come from there. Closer and she stepped inside the stones of the crumbled wall, realizing that the bodies that she could see weren’t the ones doing the crying. She sagged against the stones. Even a Drac needs a mouth, throat, lungs, and life-all of the above-to cry out. The scraps of flesh exposed by the destruction were all missing too many things.

Again the cries. She pushed from the wall and forced her way through the wreckage into the relatively undamaged portion of the building.

More cries. Louder.

"Where are you? Where in the hell-"

Damn. She held her head until the pain subsided. "Wake up, Nicole. Drac. Speak in Drac."

"Adze Dracon. Gis… Gis nu cha?" She screamed it as loudly as she cold: "Gis nu cha?! Tean, gis nu cha?!"

She went to her knees with the pain in her head. A thousand demons smashing their mallets on the insides of her skull. The smoke became thick and hot, and she half-heard the pop of intense heat cracking rock and exploding glass. "Echey nue cha! Echey viga!" She cursed, trying to remember what the words meant. She just couldn’t remember…

Echey viga: here look. That’s a big help. She spoke out loud: "Echey means here, and cha is to be. I am ni and we are nue."

God, it rhymed.

"Mary had a little ram, never went back to men… Stick the bleeding verb on the end, except… except…"

"Echey nue cha! Benga nu!"

There was an exception. Hurry. Always hurry.

She moved toward the dim outline of an oval window, then smashed her face on the floor. Her legs were across something soft. She reached back and felt an arm and a body. She pulled her legs off of it, knelt and faced it.

Gingerly her hands went to her left. "Be alive, kid." She felt legs, then bent over to her right. "Can you hear me? Dasu. Get up!" She placed her hands on its narrow shoulders. "Dasu. Gavey nu? Come on, kid; get the hell up, Please get up." She moved her right hand up to the child’s face to feel for its breath. But there wasn’t any breath. There wasn’t any face.

Again the voice called: "Benga! Benga nu!"

Nicole sat back upon her ankles and turned her head in the direction of the voice. "Ni benga," she whispered.

The light from the oval window dimmed slightly, then a louder, deeper voice came from the window. "Hada! Hada! Talma hame cha?"

Is there life inside?

"How quaint. Is there life inside? Well, not a whole bunch, toad face. She shook her head, mumbling "Damn… damned if I know."

"Ess? Adze nu!"

Nicole shouted at the window. "Ae! Talma cha! Teani!"

She stood up, lurched, climbed up on something shaky, until she was against the wall next to the window. "Gavey nu? Hey, sucker! Did you hear me? Talma cha! Talma cha!"

"Ae!"

She faced the window, reached deep within the opening, and felt solidly planted bars. A heavy grillwork was over the opening. She tried shaking it, but it didn’t even rattle. "Go around to the other side!"

The wall suddenly glowed with yellow light. Nicole looked behind and saw that the fire had cut off her escape route. Her gaze was drawn down by the sight of countless dismembered children. There was no time to react. The tiny voice called again: "Benga, Echey benga."

It seemed to come from beneath her feet. She looked down and saw a heavy floor grill next to a winding stairwell. Pulling some of the trash from the grill, she knelt down next to it.

"Tean! Hada, tean!"

"Echey…"

She pulled at the floor grill, and when it refused to budge, she ran at a crouch toward the stairs, climbed over the wreckage, stumbled down the steps, and soon was in a huge room, fire dripping from the ceiling.

To her right, large wooden cases filled with rolled documents-huge books, rolled and flat papers-covered the floor. Beneath where the fire had eaten through the ceiling, the paper was blazing away. To her left was a wall lined with more book-filled cases, one of them tipped over in front of a heavy door.

Nicole put her shoulder beneath the obstruction, pushed with her legs, and righted the case. She pulled open the door and two young Dracs slumped against her legs. A third leaned against the far wall of the tiny windowless room and looked at her through half-closed eyes. Its lips formed the word "Irkmaan."

Nicole held out her hand. "Child… Benga, tean. The fire… aakva; aakva…" The words just wouldn’t come. "Help. Help me."

She squatted, grabbed one of the youngsters beneath its arms, and lifted it. Keeping an unwavering gaze on her, the third child moved cautiously toward the door. When it reached the door. it stopped.

"Nue su korum, Irkmaan?"

Nicole shook her head. "No-ne. I won’t kill you. Ne korum."

The child stooped down, tried to lift the other unconscious youngster, then slumped against the wall, exhausted.

Nicole dragged the child she was holding into the big room. Half of the paper-covered floor was blazing, and she put the child down in the stairwell to go back for another load. Back at the door, she picked up the second child and helped the third to its feet.

"Let’s go: Benga."

They reached the stairwell, Nicole deposited the two children with the first, then she stumbled up the stairwell to see if they could get out that way. As soon as the flame-filled opening for the upper floor came into view, she turned and ran back down the stairs. As she reached bottom, she knelt next to the semi-conscious Drac and shook it by the shoulders. "Wake up. Loamaak, tean! Is there an outside entrance to here-echey?"

Nicole pointed at the flaming room. "Where? Is there a door? Gis istah cha? Echey?"

The child nodded and pointed toward the wall away from the flames. "Istah." It pulled at its belt and held out a heavy key and strap. Nicole took the key, grabbed the first youngster, and began moving down the wall. She passed two of those barred windows, then came to a door. Books and papers were piled up in front of it, and the flames were getting closer as she thrust the key into the lock.

"This thing better open outward."

She turned the key to the left, then the right. The lock wouldn’t budge. Hell, the little jerk gave me the wrong key!

"Queda, Irkmaan!"

She looked through the flames and saw the one who had handed her the key bending over the third child.

"Ess?"

"Queda!" It lifted an arm and made a pushing motion with its hand. "Istah queda nu!"

Nicole pushed the key hard, the door swung open onto the remains of a small sunken garden, and both she and the Drac sprawled through the opening. In the distance she could just make out a few dim figures moving nearer. Her lungs were too raw for her to call to them. She pulled the child away from the door and returned for the other two.

The room was a furnace, and as a blast washed her face, she closed her eyes against the heat, her eyes feeling as though their sockets were made out of sandpaper.

Shielding her eyes with her hand, Nicole moved down the wall until she stumbled over the two children in the stairwell. She pulled one up, threw it over her shoulder, and tried to pull the other up by its arm.

"Dasu! Benga dasu!"

Using her arm for a crutch, the child pulled itself up and began slapping her in the head.

"Aakva!"

"Are you crazy? Poorzhab?"

"Su aakva!" It kept slapping her head." Su lode aakva!"

"My head…" Her hair was burning! She grabbed both of the children, shut her eyes.

…and ran for the door, her feet kicking slowly through heavy oil, the heat taking the breath from her lungs, unseen things striking her head, the chilling wonder of a cold paving stone against which to place her face… voices… hands… an end to pain…

…Motion.

In some kind of vehicle. She could hear the hum and feel the roughness beneath the wheels. She tried to open her eyes, but she couldn’t.

She tried to lift a hand to touch her face, but her arm was bound. And numb. Her entire body was numb.

"Major Nicole? Can you hear me? Major Nicole?"

"Yes." The word came out harsh and dry. Her throat was on fire. "What’s happened?… Who are you?"

"You’ve been badly burned, and the field surgeon thinks you might also have a concussion."

"Mitzak?"

"Yes."

She swallowed, but there was nothing to swallow. "Throat dry."

She felt a tube inserted between her lips, she sucked on it, and a slightly cool, soothing liquid filled her mouth. The tube was withdrawn, and she swallowed. "Mitzak, what about the kids? The three Drac kids?"

"They are alive." He was silent for a long moment. "Three children out of a school of two hundred and sixty." He coughed. "You’re being taken to a health science kovah, Major."

They rode silently for a while, the roughness under the wheels smoothing out. "Mitzak, why are my eyes bandaged?"

"Burned. The field surgeon packed and bandaged them. I don’t know your prognosis. The surgeon never said." A sneer crept into Mitzak’s voice. "It was very busy. You know, the war and all."

"Where is… Sergeant Benbo?"

Mitzak coughed again. "They’re dead, major. Your soldiers. All of your soldiers. There were four direct hits on the V’Butaan field…"

Nicole grabbed the edges of her litter as the voice faded and the darkness of her universe swam…

FIVE

Nothingness is a tool of the mind: the useful naught of the mathematician, builder, and accounts keeper. Nothingness is not a state either of mind or of being. All that which exists will always exist; all who exist will always exist. All that changes is form and the perception, of form.

The Talman

The Story of Uhe. Koda Ovida

Time.

The perception of time ceased.

Darkness surrounded her.

The ointment on her face, neck, and hands removed sensation from them. She could feel her body, but it was as though her head were floating free of it. It was an almost pleasant feeling. She was freed from the sensory overkill of everything that had gone before. Even more, she was freed from the everyday distractions, allowing the senses she could use to sharpen, making commonplace things new and exciting.

There would be a buzz-an insect? A piece of electrical equipment? It was not important. The sound itself became a thing of substance, the peaks and valleys of the undulating waves surfaces upon which she could glide.

…The whine of compressors; the staleness of reprocessed air; dim talk:

"This is cargo I never thought would soil my ship."

Paper crackling.

"Read this. kiz for brains. and take good care of her."

An angry snort. a short silence, more paper crackling.

"Magasienna! This? This is the ward of the-"

"As I said. take good care of her…"

…She stopped her swim through blackness long enough to remember that sergeant who had explained her USEF insurance and liability retirement schedule.

So much for an arm, so much for a leg, so much for an eye…

…Her first assignment after officer’s school, shuffling electrons, keeping an eye on Drac commercial traffic. Intelligence had gotten the word from somewhere. They were preparing even then for the war; putting together the language, codes, slang, procedures, organization, power…

Dim voices in the distance… the hum of a strong electrical field…

…Analysis of the situation on Amadeen.

The humans requesting USEF units to protect them against Drac terrorists. Intercepting a message to the Dracon Fleet from the Amadeen Mavedah requesting Fleet protection against the terrorists of the Amadeen Front…

…The training officer in alien systems.

"To anticipate the moves of an opponent, you must be familiar with the rules that govern his thoughts, goals, and actions. What seems logical to you probably won’t seem logical to some frog-faced thing that never heard of Aristotle or Boole. But what seems logical to it probably won’t seem logical to you…

"…To be logical is to be consistent with a set of rules. And every race that exists in this galaxy has evolved its own set of rules; its own logic; its own unique perception of the universe and its relationship to that universe…

"…The ultimate nature of the universe is relationships, rules; what we call the laws of nature are rules common to most races. Everything else, the whole of intelligent life, is governed by rules of invention.

"Justice on the planet Aluram is a different thing than it is among humans. The criminals on Aluram, as well as the criminal’s parents, siblings, and children suffer the same punishment. If the punishment is death, all die. This is not justice through human eyes. But if you could see through the eyes of an Aluramin, it would be justice. The Aluramin decided good and bad for their race, then invented social sanctions against the bad. And whether bad behavior is a matter of environment or heredity, it makes good sense to remove those who do bad from the race’s gene pool. They have very little of what they call crime on Aluram.

"Very logical…"

Another day? Another week? Another year? The voices would fade in and out… the humming…

"…Mitzak?"

"I am here."

"Why? Why are you here?"

"It should not concern you."

"Why are you here?"

A laugh. "You have become a talma, Major. You are my path out of this war and back to the Talman Kovah."

"I don’t understand."

"There is no reason why you should…"

"…The Shikazu race of Tenuet founded its logic upon the premise that the Shikazu can never be conquered. The race flourished within this logic-this sense of the nature of the universe. Then the Shikazu were conquered, and now they are extinct…"

…She walked upon Baina Ya again, stood upon the slips beneath the chalk cliffs of Kidege, and looked out to the sea. Her hair blew in the cool salt breeze.

In the distance was Mallik’s skimmer; its silver foils in the deep blue-green water mirroring the sunlight, blinding her.

She spoke into the handset. "Mallik, how was your catch?"

"Good, Jo. A fine haul, but nothing compared to what I will catch tonight."

"Mallik!"

"My scoops will net round, soft, and warm things-"

"Mallik! You are on a radio! Do you want the world to hear?"

"Joanne, the world knows…"

"…The Timans evolved next to two other intelligent races. Physically and numerically the Timans could not contest the other races, and any kind of physical combat was an early bad to them. But the survival of their race dictated their set of goods. It is logical for a Timan to seek social control over others. And it is logical for a Timan to use such control to manipulate others toward paths of self-destruction.

"While the other races of the planet sharpened their skills at war, the Timans learned how to turn rules back upon themselves. And now, despite their still small numbers, the Timans are one of the most influential races represented in the Ninth Quadrant Federation. The two races that evolved with them are now extinct. Genocide to the Timan is logical…"

…The humming stopped. The voices were very close…

…Someone handling her arm; a low, muttered "kiz," footsteps, voices:

"Jetah Pur Sonaan, see this."

Silence. A new voice. "The skin should be healing… these cracked areas running with red and yellow fluid."

"The human’s skin reacts differently to the ointment than ours."

"This was a conclusion that even your master could reach, Vunseleh."

"Jetah, I meant no disrespect-"

"Remove the bandages and wash off the ointment-" A deep shocked silence. "Her eyes. Her eyes, you fool! Hurry…"

It seemed so easy for her to direct her mind away from the threatening, the uncomfortable.

Mind, she would say, look at Mallik. And she would see Mallik.

Move among the stars, mind. And she would see great blinding spheres race by.

She explored the bottoms of oceans, the layers of clouds surrounding gas giants, tangled tropic jungles…

…A fog of sound; her head on a dizzy high; the smell of flowers; the singsong that was Dracon:

"…Joanne Nicole, can you see this light?"

…Light? What light? Her lips felt thick and fuzzy as she tried to speak. "I can’t see anything unless I open my eyes." She tried to open her eyes.

"I don’t seem to be able to open them."

"…They are open, Joanne Nicole…"

Hours or years later, her mind allowed what she had perceived before to be explored. Blind? Was this the horror so many feared? Not to see?

She swam in drug-soaked dreams; seeing. Seeing things she had never seen with eyes.

…I should react, feel.

But she was detached from her pain, from her awareness, from her feelings. The darkness was something warm, friendly, comfortable. Long stretches of silence, sleep, and a delicious, drugged something between nonexistence and being. Thought, feeling, and reality were mundane irrelevancies as she let herself drift endlessly upon black billows…

…Bursts of light, sound, the taste of copper. The dirt and rock glowing, exploding; the blue streaks of assault landers against the night sky.

Benbo’s face floating in front of her. "We lost the foothills, Major. But toadface paid for them."

"How much did we pay to collect, Sergeant? How much did we pay to collect?"

His confused expression disappeared in a flash of white…

It seemed as though she had been treading water endlessly; but she was not tired. Numb, detached; but not tired. And Joanne Nicole took notice of voices. Sound-any sensation-was something approaching a gift. The voices became louder.

"Jetah, the human master is in the corridor. She is a female."

"Send her in, Mitzak. And be restrained. She is Akkujah vemadah and owes us no favors."

Footsteps.

"Your name-ha! Your skin! It is yellow!"

"No shit, toadface. So is yours."

"Yes, but… I didn’t mean… your name?"

"Tokyo Rose. And who is this one?"

"Leonid Mitzak, Captain."

"No guts for the Madah, eh Mitzak?" A pause. "Where’s the patient?"

Pur Sonaan’s voice. "Here, then, is the human you were told of, Tokyo Rose."

More footsteps. Nicole felt a presence over her, then a gentle hand on her face.

"What is her name?"

"Joanne Nicole."

"Very well, you scumbuckets take off while I examine her."

"…You want us to leave the room?"

Silence, then soft footsteps, as the hand moved and a finger pulled at the skin above first the left, then the right eye.

"Damn…" The hand left Nicole’s face. "Nicole? Nicole? Can you hear me?"

As she answered, her mouth felt fuzzy. "Is that you, Tokyo Rose?"

Surpressed laughter. "Captain Tegara. I’m a doctor. What in the hell did they do to you?"

Nicole heard Tegara moving some objects around on a hard surface. "Fire. I was in a fire."

Again Tegara bent over Nicole and opened her right eye. "You must be someone pretty special, Nicole. Toadface pulled me out of the Madah on Akkujah to give you a checkup. Can you see anything with your right eye?"

"No."

A click. "Now?"

"No. Tegara, what’s happening with the war?"

Her hand moved to Nicole’s left eye. "Up until my unit was snagged, everybody seemed to be losing. Can you see anything with your left eye?"

"No."

"Where did they get you?" A click. "Anything now?"

"No. I was garrisoned on Catvishnu."

"Catvishnu?" She moved away; more objects clattering. "We didn’t think anyone lived through that."

"I’m about it." Nicole felt Tegara lift her left arm; "Well? What about my eyes?"

A pause. "There’s nothing anyone can do about your eyes, Nicole. Maybe if you can get to a USE hospital. I don’t have either the skills or the equipment. It looks as though they used some of their own burn ointment on you. The surfaces of both eyes have been burned and stained black. I think the damage might be repairable, but not here. A lot depends on how long the ointment was used."

"What do my eyes… look like?"

"Wall-to-wall black." She lowered Nicole’s left arm, then walked behind her head and picked up her right arm. "You’re going to look like a boiled beet for a while, but I think the scarring on your skin will be minor." She lowered the arm. "Are you in any pain?"

"No. None at all. In fact, I can’t feel much of anything. It’s like I’ve been swimming in morphine for a hundred years."

"Catvishnu was a while back. Can you feel that?"

"Feel what?"

"How about that?"

Nicole felt something. "A pressure; scratching on my upper right arm?"

Tegara called out: "Hey, toadface!" There was the return of soft footsteps.

"Yes, Tokyo Rose?"

"Cut the amount of that d’nita anesthetic you are giving her by fifty percent. Understand?" Light scratching, then paper ripping. "Here. Do you understand what that says?"

"Yes. They are common chemicals."

"Make that up exactly as I have specified and spread it gently on the burned areas of her skin-not her eyes-every four hours… six times a day. Understand?"

"Yes. Can you do anything for her vision?"

"You don’t have the equipment; and you need a specialist-a special kind of health master, understand? I can’t do anything except to keep telling you kizlodes to stop using that burn ointment on humans."

The Jetah was silent as it absorbed the loathing in Tegara’s voice. "What equipment and what skills are necessary?"

Tegara laughed, ignoring the Jetah’s question. "Nicole, I have to go now."

"Can’t you stay?" Nicole’s hand grabbed at empty air, then fell back to the bed.

"No. I’m sorry, but the Madah on Akkujah is full of sadsacks that need me more than you do. Almost four thousand of them, and I’m the only doctor. Once you get to a USE hospital… Maybe not. Anyway, the war won’t last forever."

Her footsteps and a set of the soft footsteps left the room. One of the Dracs had remained behind. It was silent for a long time, then its footsteps left the room, stopped, and returned. "Joanne Nicole." It was the voice of the older Drac, Jetah Pur Sonaan. "Joanne Nicole."

"Yes?"

"The surgeon who treated you in V’Butaan… it had no way of knowing. Everyone has been warned now, but then… it had no way of knowing." Pur Sonaan’s footsteps faded from the room.

"Mitzak, are you here? Mitzak?"

"Yes."

"I’m not in V’Butaan?"

"No. The nearest city is Pomavu. You are on the home planet. Draco."

Draco? On the opposite side of the Drac empire from Ditaar? Why? "Why?"

"You have been made the ward of Ovjetah Tora Soam, first Master of the Talman Kovah. The Talman Kovah is here, near Pomavu."

"I… I don’t understand."

"In the fire at the V’Butaan kovah; one of the children you saved was the Ovjetah’s third child, Sin Vidak." The footsteps began leaving.

"Mitzak?"

The footsteps paused. "Yes?"

"The others that were with me in the Madah on Ditaar; Where are they?"

"Do you remember me telling you that all of your soldiers were killed?"

"Yes… I remember it. Benbo?"

"I don’t know. I left Ditaar with you."

"Mitzak, what are you doing here?"

"The Ovjetah insisted that you have some human company; I’m it."

"Are you happy in your work?"

Mitzak moved a few footsteps toward the door. "The Ovjetah is a very powerful person. And, as you know, rank has its privileges."

Mitzak’s footsteps left the room.

…That humming again…

Nicole continued smiling as dizziness lowered her into a non-caring half-sleep. The smile wasn’t an expression of anything; it was just left over from something before…

SIX

As do all creatures, we seek the comfort and the security of the safe path, its direction to be found through eternal knowns and indestructible verities. But to be creatures of choice, we must necessarily abandon the comfort and security of instinct, for all our knowns are probabilities, and all our truths are doctrines amendable when truer truths are presented.

The Talman

The Story of Shizumaat. Koda Nuvida

Blind.

With the reduced anesthetic, awareness returned. Awareness and pain.

Joanne Nicole began to have a sense of time-the eternal slowness of it-monotony. The limitations on her universe.

Blind.

It was an affliction from the previous century-harnessed dogs, bumpy paper, and red-tipped canes attempting to fill in the chasm left by the removal of sight. She would lie on her bed, her heart waiting for someone to turn on the lights; to wake her from the nightmare. But no one turned on the lights. No one awakened her from the nightmare.

Anger.

It was, first, anger; rage that would have blinded her if blindness had not already become her reality. There were other concerns. She was almost totally helpless, at the complete mercy of the Dracs. What would the Dracs do? How far did the protection of this Tora Soam extend? Who was it anyway?

Deep within her seclusion was a hard knot of rapidly rising fear. If she could only see them. The visible is so much easier to fight, to deal with. She didn’t even know what her room looked like-what she looked like. If she could only see them.

…At the Kidege ed center on Baina Ya.

She was thirteen, and that gawky, rawboned Mallik Nicole would run after her as she headed toward the Ndugu Wawili transit tube.

"Joanne! Joanne! Wait!"

"What should I wait for, Mallik Nicole? You?"

"Who else? Do you see anyone else chasing you?"

"And why do you chase me? Tell me that."

"You are beautiful, Joanne. That’s why."

"Liar."

"I never lie!"

"Do you really think I’m beautiful?"

"Haven’t you ever looked in a mirror? Of course you’re beautiful! Perhaps not very smart, but beautiful."

"I am not stupid!"

"Asking me if I think you are beautiful is a stupid question."

…That night she looked into her mirror and saw a different person-a stranger-someone who was beautiful…

…now burned; now blind. Blind…

Days would pass, but she had no way of telling when. Her sleepiness lied; her stomach lied; the pattern of the kovah’s routine lied. Empty time became an enemy more dreaded than death.

She would lie on her back, only the sound of her heart beating in her ears, exploring with her fingers the hard bed, the spongy covers, her naked body, and the empty air around her.

She was alone in the room, and if she remained still, she could just make out the sounds of fluid running rapidly through piping. From the area outside the room came only the hush of a robe brushing a wall, a whisper, footsteps.

She discovered that there is nothing in reality to compare with the horrors of the world of imagination. Given the choice between thinking and listening, Joanne Nicole listened.

The soft footsteps separated in her mind and became as recognizable as fingerprints.

Mitzak walked slowly, with regular, measured steps. The heavier tread; that was Pur Sonaan. The light, slow footsteps belonged to Vunseleh Het. It was the one who came regularly to administer medications and read the health monitors.

Food was a nameless, brisk step.

Cleaning dragged its heels and smelled like flowers.

Bedpan had a slow, heavy step and smelled like fish.

The slow measured tread.

"Mitzak?"

"Yes."

He walked to the side of the bed and sat upon some kind of platform. "It’s companionship time, Nicole. What do you want to talk about?"

"What were you, Mitzak? Before you took on the blue robe?"

There was a silence, then Mitzak cleared his throat. "Before the war my home was on Akkujah. When the war started, I offered my services to the Dracon Fleet."

"Why?"

"Is protecting one’s home too complicated to understand?"

His fingers tapped against something hard. The tapping stopped. "I was a member of the Christian Mission Council-"

"A minister?"

"Priest… Our mission was invited there by the Jetai Kovveda on Akkujah. A sharing of philosophies. We instructed the Jetai, and, in turn, we were entered into Akkujah’s Talman Kovah. I had been there three years before Amadeen flared up and the war started. By that time we had been in the kovah long enough to read and understand Talma. After studying the diagrams, most of the mission chose to serve the Dracs."

-Diagrams. In that flaming library in the kovah in V’Butaan; on the walls, complicated diagrams, logic circles, flow. charts-

"Mitzak, you gave up your religion for this?"

"A simplistic way to look at it. Yes." He was silent for a moment, then he laughed. "Can you give up yours, I wonder."

"I have no religion."

He laughed again.

…A lull in the fighting, and she had heard Taiseido talking to Sergeant Benbo: "What they say about there being no atheists in foxholes; its true."

For an instant Benbo turned away from staring down the sights of his rifle and glanced at Taiseido, his right eyebrow raised. He turned back to look for Dracs to kill. "What about foxes?"

"You don’t believe in a god?"

"I believe in this rifle, in those yellow bastards down there, and in Amos Benbo…"

Besides Mitzak, the only two that talked to her were Pur and Vunseleh; and their conversations were limited to her health. And, after a while, Pur stopped coming. Eventually her hands and face stopped hurting and began to itch.

Between the silence, the dark, and the itch, her mind felt as though it were beginning to bend.

Mitzak would speak, his voice devoid of sarcasm.

"Now is when the priest would tell you to pray for strength, or to think of those who are injured more severely than you. Perhaps he would call up the image of the crucified Christ, describe in graphic detail the saviour’s suffering, and then demand to know what in the hell you’ve got to bitch about."

"The Dracs have something better?"

"They have talma."

"What is talma?"

A bitter laugh. "talma to a human is like relativity to a cockroach. Even if you could understand it. I doubt that you could use it."

She played every mental game that she could remember a thousand times over. She searched her mind for memories and the memories she could find-Mallik’s corpse, the burning Drac children, the thundering defeat at Storm Mountain-chased her from the past.

She dropped down a bottomless well of self-pity, then shot back up again with an anger so intense that it made her vomit. In the midst of her wretched mess, she passed out…

…"What is Talma. Mitzak?"

"It took me months to understand, Nicole."

"Try."

"Nicole, you are in a place. There is a place that you want to be. Your task is to get from the first to the second."

"How?"

"You must know where you are; you must know where you want to go; you must know the limits on the paths between the two… "

After cleaning had dragged its heels out of the room, Vunseleh entered.

"Joanne Nicole, was there something wrong with the food?"

"Why?"

"Your digestive tract threw it"

"Vunseleh, why won’t the ones who clean, bring the food, and bring the bedpan talk to me?"

"Talk to you! Why… why. they are forbidden. "

"Do you think I’ll sneak bedpan secrets off to the USEF?"

Vunseleh was silent, then Nicole heard its robe rustle as its hands moved.

"I do not understand. They may speak to none of the patient here. The patients would not stand for any talk or other noise. Healing is a time for quiet-meditation."

"Meditation?"

"Joanne Nicole, most of that which we call healing is conducted and performed by the mind."

"Drac, I am just about all meditated out!" She sat up for the first time, her stomach doing flip-flops. "Me! I want talk! I want noise!" Her left hand hung onto the edge of the bed while her right hand fumbled trying to hold the spongy cover to her breasts. How much clout do I have as the ward of Tora Soam? She was in that half-way. I-don’t-give-a-damn state between desperation and prudence. "And, Vunseleh, I want to get up."

"Get up? Walk?"

"Yes; I still have legs. I want to get up and walk around. If I lie here much longer, I’ll turn into a plant."

"This is a joke… of course." Vunseleh made a nervous clicking sound with its mouth. "I can’t have you among the other patient; but I shall tell the Jetah. Pur Sonaan must give its permission."

"Then get it."

Vunseleh’s footsteps left the room.

Nicole remained seated until her stomach stopped heaving. Pulling the spongy cover from the bed, she wrapped it around her shoulders, and gingerly moved her legs to the edge of the bed. She grunted with the effort. How long have I been in bed?

She moved her legs over the edge of the bed, letting her feet touch the cool softness of the floor. The bed was very low. She leaned forward, pushed on the bed, and stood.

Her head reeled, her legs threatened to collapse, and her stomach radiated warning signals. But she was standing and could feel the coolness of the air upon the sores of her back.

Pur Sonaan’s heavy tread raced into the room. "Joanne Nicole, what are you doing?"

"I am standing."

"This you should not do. You are not well."

"If I stay on that bed like a piece of meat in a butcher shop, I will never get well; I will die."

An exasperated silence ensued. Then Pur Sonaan spoke: "Vunseleh gave me your requests. You cannot wander the corridors at will. I must think of the other patients. Also it would not be safe for you. You cannot see. And you are still a human."

"I’ll risk bumping into a few things, Pur Sonaan. I don’t bruise easily."

"But you are still a human, Joanne Nicole. We have patients and staff in this institution that would attack you for that fact alone. You are guarded here, and everyone in this area knows that you are under Tora Soam’s protection. You must stay in this room."

She felt like flopping back upon her bed, but something forced her to remain standing. "I can move about this room?"

"… Yes. But only in this room."

"And I want some noise. Anything. Can I have a…" Nicole couldn’t think of the Drac words. "I want some way to hear the news. Radio… radio pictures."

"Impossible! Patients do not have such things." Pur Sonaan moved a step closer to her. "Your demands test the boundaries of Tora Soam’s influence."

"I want to hear news-something-anything!"

"Joanne Nicole… I will see what can be done." Thoughtful silence. "A receiver is impossible, but I can have Leonid Mitzak talk to you very quietly about current events. Read to you… perhaps some other things."

Pur’s footsteps left the room and Nicole collapsed upon her bed. After a few moments of sitting, she fell over onto her left side and slept.

"…Your name?"

"Joanne Nicole."

"The name of the father?"

"Mallik Nicole."

"And where does he reside?"

"He’s dead."

"Were you married?"

"Yes,"

"Under what jurisdiction’s laws?"

"Planet Baina Ya, United States of Earth,"

"I see."

Dull eyes watching line-filled screens as fat fingers scratched with scribers at the glass. "Now let me explain the legal circumstances regarding abortion. It-"

"I’m not here for an abortion. I want the child to be born. I simply never want to see it. It is to be put up for immediate adoption."

"I see. You plan to relinquish all rights to your child?"

"Yes."

"And what would your husband think about this?"

"He’s dead."

"But if he were alive-"

"He’s dead…"

…Mitzak, reading the news out loud, interrupted himself with a fit of laughing.

"What’s so funny?"

"The Ninth Quadrant Federation’s study committee will vote soon on the question of whether or not to extend membership invitations to the Dracon Chamber and the United States of Earth-as if either would join if asked. It says here that the proposal is not expected to pass the committee. No kidding." Again he laughed.

Nicole sat up on her bed and stretched her arms. "Perhaps, Mitzak, this war could have been avoided if we were members of the Quadrant." She relaxed her arms, letting them fall to her lap.

"A big if, Nicole."

Mitzak continued reading…

…the weight had left her. It was as though a tumor had been removed, or a gangrenous limb amputated.

She sat on the grass of the campus and watched the other students. Her face looked no different from their faces. But the way they talked, what they said, the blind confidence of never having experienced any part of life, set them apart.

She risked telling one of them her story.

"Oh, I don’t think I could stand not knowing what the child was, or what it would be."

"You would be surprised what you can stand."

"Joanne, sometimes you seem so heartless…"

Heartless.

It was never a lack of heart; it was a lack of guts…

Awake, and again Nicole sat up and moved around until her feet were on the floor.

The darkness. Damn the dark. She stood up, swallowed to keep down her chow, then held out her left hand and took a timid step forward. Beneath her feet was the same cool softness; her searching fingers could find nothing. One step from the bed. Another step, and far to her left she felt a metal table.

Nicole went to it-one step, left turn, one step-and began to examine the objects on the table. There were small, capped containers; and she opened each one in turn and sniffed. The ointment used on her after Tokyo Rose’s visit and that odor of flowers were the only two that she could identify.

A turn to her right, arms extended, and she moved three steps. Her hands came into contact with the spongy, honeycombed surface of a wall. It was designed to deaden sound, at a time when her ears and mind craved stimulation.

Keeping her hands in contact with the wall, she moved to her right until the wall curved toward her, the room had no comers. Farther to the right, and she felt a row of handles recessed into the wall’s surface.

She reached in, pulled on the first handle, and the surface pulled out. It was a drawer. She felt inside and found it empty. The next two drawers were the same. With difficulty she squatted down and opened the fourth drawer.

The smell!

She recoiled at the odor-an odor that whipped all of her carefully hidden nightmares into the open. The fourth drawer contained her uniform.

She touched the familiar cloth and let the feelings rage through her as she smelled the filth from her body, the dried mud of Catvishnu, the smoke from the burning school, and that Drac bum ointment that had blinded her.

That chasm of self-pity yawned before her again, and she sat on the floor and let herself tumble in. She felt the tears run down her cheeks and splash on her lap. She touched the place where the tears had fallen and told herself that she was naked. She was naked and didn’t care.

The footsteps of Pur Sonaan and Vunseleh Het entered the room to her right. Pur Sonaan’s voice spoke sharply to Vunseleh.

"Empty head! Find her a robe to wear!"

"Yes, Jetah."

Vunseleh’s footsteps left the room. Pur Sonaan stood silently for a moment. Then it moved, and Nicole felt a cloth in a hand drying her lap, drying the tears from her face.

"Why did you keep my uniform? Why?"

"It belongs to you. We need your permission to dispose of it."

"Throw it out! Throw it out!"

Nicole pushed the drawer shut and let her hands fall to her lap. "Pur Sonaan, you are a Drac. You have to hate humans, don’t you?" She let the words hang in the air as she let her mouth form for the first time the words her mind would not allow herself to think. "Give me something."

"Something, Joanne Nicole?"

"Anything that will kill me."

She sensed the Jetah stand upright. Pur said nothing for long, strained moments; its breath coming in rapid hisses. Then it answered. "You think this to be a small favor you ask? You ask me to soil myself, Joanne Nicole! Never do so again!"

She felt its hands beneath her shoulders as it easily lifted her to her feet and led her to the bed. Nicole sat on the bed, her feet on the floor, her eyes dribbling more tears. "Pur Sonaan?"

"Yes?"

"If I am so important to this Tora Soam character, why does it never come to see me?"

Pur Sonaan snorted out a brief laugh. -"Tora Soam is Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah. The demands on its time, especially because of the war, are tremendous. But Tora Soam asks about you when it can… as does Sin Vidak, the child you saved. Did you know… that Sin Vidak has now entered training for the Tsien Denvedah?"

Nicole sat back, stunned. "The Tsien Denvedah? That little child?" Did I pull its narrow yellow ass out of the flames to provide fodder for the Drac meatgrinder? To hit the dirt in a little red suit and kill humans? "Sin Vidak has to be too young!"

"Joanne Nicole, Dracs reach adulthood in approximately a fifth of the time it takes humans."

"I know, but still…"

"Sin Vidak is an adult now." Pur Sonaan paused. "It has been a long time since you were in V’Butaan." A long time.

"How long? In my time?"

Much later, Mitzak was sent in with the information. It had been twenty months since V’Butaan. Twenty months.

How could… how could I have lost almost two years?

She felt folds of cloth placed into her hands. "Here is your robe. Do you want me to help you put it on?"

"No."

Mitzak left the room to be replaced by Pur Sonaan. Nicole used the palm of her right hand to wipe the wetness from her face.

The Drac spoke. "There is something I must say. Joanne Nicole, your life is your own property, and ending it is your right and your choice. But should you choose to end it, you must realize that the exercise of such a right is your own task. Never ask another to perform it for you."

Pur Sonaan’s heavy footsteps left the room, and Joanne Nicole placed her face upon the bed.

She damned herself for her tears. But there was a little yellow child who was earning the right to proudly wear the red of the Tsien Denvedah, and there had to be tears.

SEVEN

"Curse the mistakes, rail at them, regret them, learn from them. But do not wish for the perfection of time when mistakes will no longer be made, for that is what we call death."

The Talman

The Story of Cohneret. Koda Tarmeda

The next day on the floor, as Nicole tried to exercise, she listened to Mitzak reading the news.

"This is strange."

"What’s strange, Mitzak?"

"The Ninth Quadrant study committee voted down the invitations-"

"Just as you said they would."

"-but the vote was very close. Much closer than I expected. And Hissied 'do Timan-delegate from Timan-was the only abstention." Mitzak was silent for a long time.

"What are you thinking about?"

A pause then the sounds of Mitzak rearranging himself in his chair… I don’t understand the reason for this abstention."

"Who can figure a Timan, Mitzak? Most of them are so wrapped up wheeling and dealing I doubt if they know themselves what they’re doing half of the time. After straining herself to do another situp, Nicole flopped flat on her back. "Mitzak, is there any news on the war?"

"Always."

A silence, then he continued reading. "This day Het Kraakar, First Warmaster of the Dracon Fleet, announced through its representative that the Planet Ditaar has fallen to the forces of the United States of Earth. Figures on military and civilian casualties…"

Nicole heard him stand. "Excuse me." His footsteps left the room.

Alone, listening to footsteps. It was cleaning. Nicole sat up. "Are you allowed to speak to me now?"

"Yes. Yes I am." The voice was quiet, nervous, meek. "I would have talked much sooner-I have so many questions-but silence here is the rule."

"I understand."

"Joanne Nicole?"

"Yes-what is your name?"

"Vencha Eban. Joanne Nicole? Could you get up on the bed so that I can clean?"

"Of course."

Nicole nodded, reached to the bed, and pulled herself to her feet. She retrieved her robe from the bed and pulled it on over her head, letting the cape wrap around her left arm. Sitting on the bed, she pulled up her feet.

"Vencha Eban, where can I take a shower? Clean myself?"

"There is a place attached to this room." More footsteps, going to her right. "The door is locked. Perhaps you are not to wash until the healing of your skin is complete."

"I would still like to stop using the bedpan. I can get around sufficiently."

Nicole heard a door open. "The waste room is open for you."

"Good."

A series of bruises and barked shins had discouraged her from exploring that portion of the room very far, and all that she had found was the door that was locked.

"Jetah Pur Sonaan said it was very important that I talk to you, Joanne Nicole. Is there something is particular you wish to hear?"

"No. Anything." She thought for a moment about Mitzak’s self-righteous attitude concerning talma. "Do you know anything about The Talman?"

"Of course. Reciting it is part of the right of adulthood."

"Reciting it? The entire thing?"

"Yes. Would you like to hear a recitation?"

"Yes."

"Is there any particular part you would like to hear?"

"No, Vencha Eban. Pick whatever you want. I just want noise."

"It is not just noise."

"I know. I meant no offense. Go on."

"I will recite The Story of Shizumaat while I am cleaning. It is one of my favorites. You must remember that I speak this story as Namndas, the narrator of Shizumaat’s story."

"I understand."

As the tinny hum of cleaning continued in the room, Vencha Eban recited:

"I speak these things of Shizumaat to you; for I am Namndas, the friend of Shizumaat; the one who stood and waited at the mark.

"And this is my teacher’s story: The firstborn of Sindieah Nu was Sindieah Ay. After its parent had retired from the servants, and during Sindieah Ay’s rule of the servants of Aakva, the Temple of Uhe was completed.

"The cut-stone walls of the temple were as tall as eight Sindie and they enclosed an area of sixty by ninety paces. The roof of wooden beams and slabstone was supported by square stone columns arranged in six proportionate rectangles.

"At the center of the smallest rectangle was the great stone tomb that covered Uhe’s ashes. The eastern wall of the temple was an open row of stone columns. Northern and southern walls each had center doorways only two paces wide. The wall facing the Madah had no opening…"

Madah, Nicole thought to herself. What is the Madah? "During the day, light was provided by Aakva. the Parent of All; during the night, light was provided by the nine hundred oil lamps that were suspended from the temple’s great ceiling.

"The shelters around the temple were separated by narrow streets, and were made of both stone and wood. In one of these houses, covered by the afternoon shadow of the temple, a Sindie shaper of iron that was in Butaan to perform its duty to Aakva through labor gave birth to a child.

"The shaper of iron’s name was Caduah; and Caduah named its child Shizumaat.

"On the beginning of Shizumaat’s third year, Caduah entered its child in the temple to perform before the servants the rites of adulthood. Shizumaat recited the story of creation, the laws, and the story of Uhe; and then Shizumaat recited its family line from its parent, Caduah, to the founder of its line, the Mavedah hunter called Limish…"

Madah, again, thought Nicole. Except this time it is not vemadah; it’s Mavedah. The same name used by the Drac terrorists on Amadeen.

"And when the rites were completed, Caduah applied for Shizumaat to become a servant of Aakva.

"Ebneh was the servant who had heard the child’s recitation, and Ebneh was sufficiently impressed by the performance that it enrolled Shizumaat into the Aakva Kovah.

"The nights Shizumaat would spend in its parent’s house; the days Shizumaat would spend in the temple learning the secrets, signs, laws, wishes, and visions of the Parent of All.

"I, Namndas, had entered the Aakva Kovah the year before Shizumaat, and was placed in charge of Shizumaat’s class. I drew this duty because the servants of the temple considered me the least worthy of my own class. While my companions sat at the feet of the servants and engaged in learned discourse, I would chase dirt-"

Vencha laughed. It was not hard to see who Vencha identified with. Tail-End Charlie; the hind teat; the ten percent that never gets the word.

Nicole smiled. Namndas was a creature of the Universe, and it had lots of human company.

Vencha Eban, as Namndas, continued:

"My charges were assigned a place in the darkness next to the Madah wall of the temple, where my own class had begun the year before. On the morning of the first day of their instruction, they sat upon the smooth stone floor and listened as I spoke the rules of the temple.

"I, Namndas, am your charge-of-class. You are the lowest class in the temple, and for this reason, the care and cleaning of the temple is left to you. I tell you now that I will never find as much as a single fleck of dust in the temple while I am your charge-of-class. You will clean the filth from the air before it lands upon these stones; you will wash the dust from the feet of those who enter the temple.

"I pointed toward the soot-blackened ceiling. Every evening it is your responsibility to trim and fuel the temple’s lamps. Through all of this, you will keep clean yourselves.

"Shizumaat stood. It was tall for its age, and there was a strange brightness to its eyes. Namndas, when are we to be given our instruction? When will we learn?

"I felt my face grow hot. Such impudence! You shall be allowed to receive instruction when I inform Servant Ebneh that you are worthy. Sit and be silent! Shizumaat resumed its seat upon the floor, and I issued a glare that encompassed all nine of the students. You will not speak except in answer to a question from me or from one of the servants. You are here to learn, and the first thing you must learn is obedience.

"I narrowed my glare to Shizumaat and saw it carrying an enigmatic expression upon its face. I spoke to Shizumaat. I cannot read your face, new-charge. What does it say?

"Shizumaat remained seated upon the floor, but looked at me as it spoke. Does Aakva, then, judge its servants by how well they imitate the dumb animals and their skill at wielding a scrub rag?

"Your words court disaster.

"Namndas, when you asked your question, did you want from me lies or truth?

"This is a temple of truth. What are you called?

"I am called Shizumaat.

"Then, Shizumaat, I must tell you that I see little hope for your graduation from the Madah wall to the center of the temple.

"Shizumaat nodded and looked toward Uhe’s tomb. I think the truth serves you at last, Namndas-"

Nicole heard Pur Sonaan’s heavy footsteps enter the room, and there followed a delightful, horrified little gasp out of Vencha Eban. No words were exchanged, but Nicole’s skin virtually tingled with what she sensed to be highly meaningful glances between the Jetah and Vencha Eban.

"Do you have cleaning to do?"

"Yes, Jetah. I was just resting for a moment."

"Emmm."

The sounds of vigorous cleaning began.

Nicole spoke to the Jetah. "Is there anything new concerning my eyes?"

The Jetah sighed. "The more we learn, the closer we get; and the closer we get, the more there is to learn. The anatomy of the human eye is considerably different than ours, and human eyes for experimentation are not easy to come by."

She sat up. "What?!"

"No! No! The kovah takes them only from the dead. I assure you. And we have been getting more information from captured medical texts, and from the USEF itself through the provisions of the war accords." The Jetah paused for a moment. "I must tell you that we have an instrument that we can use on Drac patients who have been blinded. Implants are placed into the vision centers of the patient’s brain, and this enables the patient to see using gelatinous receivers that fit over the eyes."

Nicole heard Vencha Eban tum off its equipment and steal quietly out of the room.

"Can you… can you do this for me?"

"As a last resort we might try. The procedure is well-established and quite common. However, we only use it when the sensory nerves leading from the eye have been destroyed. We have no reason to believe that yours have been damaged."

"Pur Sonaan, would making those implants injure my optic nerves?"

"Probably. And the brain scans we have made have shown us that the differences-chemical, electrical, and structural-between human and Drac neural systems are considerable. Not only might not the procedure work with you, it might damage your vision centers beyond any repair. It might even kill you. We are planning nothing at present; I am just keeping you informed."

Time for a new subject. "Pur Sonaan, I heard the word Madah and Mavedah used in that story Vencha Eban was reciting."

"Yes?"

"Both Mavedah and vemadah mean of the Madah. But what is the difference between sticking the of in front or in the middle of the word?"

"It is the difference between modern usage and ancient formal usage. Vencha was reciting the Nuvida. You should begin earlier, with the Koda Sinda, The Myth of Aakva. Go straight to The Talman itself."

Nicole smiled. "How do I do that?"

"Emmmm. I have a player. If I bring you my personal player will you use it quietly? I cannot have the other patients disturbed."

"Yes. Yes, I’ll be very quiet."

Sindie was the world.

And the World was said to be made by Aakva, the God of the Day Light…

…And Aakva was said to make on the world special creatures of yellow skin and hands and feet each of three fingers. And it was said to make the creatures of one kind, that each could bear its young, or the young of another. And it was said to make the creatures stand upright, make thought, and give voice that the creatures could worship the Parent of All.

It took very little time for Nicole to realize that The Talman began with the oldest written document known to the Drac race. The Myth of Aakva and The Story of Uhe both predated the Drac ancestral planet’s year dating system. Sindie was the ancestral planet, and year dates on that planet began with the birth of Shizumaat eleven thousand eight hundred and seventy-two of Sindie’s years ago. When Nicole asked, Mitzak informed her that Shizumaat was born in 9679 BC.

The Myth was a Book of Genesis for hermaphrodites. It described the creation of the race and Aakva’s reason for the creation. In addition, it placed a priesthood firmly in control of everything.

…And the first chief of servants was named Rhada.

Rhada had the servants go among the Sindie and learn all of the signs and visions that were known. And the servants gathered this knowledge and gave it to Rhada.

For twelve days and twelve nights, the chief of the servants studied the signs and visions, and sorted the false from the true, the tribal lays from the true Laws of Aakva.

And on the thirteenth day, Rhada spoke to the servants what it had learned…

And Rhada ordered the servants to go among the Sindie and teach the Laws. And it was promised by Rhada that for just so long as the Sindie listened to Aakva’s servants and followed the laws the God of the Day Light made, there would be peace and plenty.

And the Sindie listened to the servants, learned the laws, and followed the laws. They made sacrifice to Aakva through its servants…

An old political structure: theocratic despotism. Pay your way into Heaven. But there was something about the verb tense used in The Myth of Aakva.

"And the world was said to be made by Aakva…" "It was said that Aakva called its children the Sindie…"

It was not stated as fact; it was stated as theological heresay. It was there to show beginnings. Nicole continued listening. There were many stories within the Myth: Summat, the doubter Daultha, Aakva’s curse of war upon the Sindie, Aakva’s division of the Sindie into the four great tribes.

She thought upon the universality of certain things: explanations, ideals, hopes. She picked up the tiny player, pulled herself out of bed, and began to walk the room as she listened to the Koda Ovida. The Story of Uhe.

It began with an explanation of the tabus that kept the four tribes from war. It continued with a story that began in a land… a land called the Madah.

Almost twelve thousand years ago, in a patch of hilly desert, before the world of Sindie was known to be a world, there was the Madah. It was a land of drought and famine.

The tribe of the Madah, the Mavedah, had been reduced to eating its own dead…

She heard Vunseleh’s footsteps enter the room, and moved to turn off the player. "Please, Joanne Nicole. Leave the story run. The reciter is Higa Tidanoa. Get on the bed, I shall apply your ointment, and we shall both listen."

She removed her robe and sat naked upon the bed. The story continued.

Near a fire was one of the lower servants of Aakva named Uhe. And that night Uhe sat and watched as its only child, Leuno, died of starvation. And Uhe watched as the food preparers carried Leuno’s small body toward the masters' fire.

Uhe said to the God of the Day Light:

"This, then, is your promise of plenty for keeping your Law of Peace, Aakva? Is this the mercy and reward of the Parent of All?"

Silence answered Uhe that night. And Uhe saw a child gnawing upon a piece of cured tent skin, while the child’s parent, a once proud hunter, watched with envy in its eyes. Near one of the hunters' fires, eight sat waiting for a child to make its last breath. When that breath ended, the pitifully wasted corpse would be apportioned among the hunters.

Uhe studied the faces of the hunters and saw that one of them was mouthing the curse of quick death. And the curse was for the child. And the one who cursed was the parent. And there was nothing but hunger in the parent’s eyes.

Rage drove the pain and fear from Uhe’s head. It was before that first night’s fire, the land still warm from Aakva’s touch, that Uhe stood before the tribe’s masters.

Uhe said:

"Bantumeh, great and honored ruler of the masters of the Mavedah, this night you have tasted the flesh of my child, Leuno."

And Bantumeh covered its face with its hands. "Your shame is our shame, poor Uhe."

Bantumeh uncovered a face wrinkled with age, pain, and the scars of many challenges to the rulership of the Mavedah.

"But we have all tasted either child, sibling, parent, or friend this year. There is no choice. To put our minds aside as we eat to keep the Mavedah alive is our sole hope. Your grief is understood; your reminder is out of place."

At the rebuke Uhe did not retire from the ring of masters, but instead pointed-east toward the Akkujah Mountains. "There, Bantumeh, is food for the Mavedah."

Bantumeh stood, its face crossed with anger. "You would have the Mavedah violate the tabus? Could we do such a thing, do you not think that I would already have done it?"

A master named Iyjiia who was the chief of Aakva’s servants, leaped to its feet.

"Uhe, this is a beast standing before the masters, not a servant of Aakva!" Iyjiia faced the other masters and filled its image with voice, for Iyjiia was thin and small in stature.

"The law is clear. The Mavedah is forbidden to enter the domain of the Irrveden, just as the Irrveden is forbidden to enter the Madah. It is tabu even for us to ask the Irrveden for food."

Iyjiia faced Uhe and pointed. "Even to wish this is tabu!"

Most of the masters nodded and muttered their agreement. It was a painful law to obey, but its wisdom was understood by all. To violate that law would again bring the wars to Sindie. This was the promise of Aakva, and the wars were too horrible to contemplate.

Uhe held out its arms and faced the night sky. "But I invoke a new vision from Aakva. Its old law was for a time and a place. Aakva speaks to me that the time is changed. And Aakva speaks to us all that the place is changed. It is time for a new law."

Iyjiia stood silent, for there was danger in disputing one’s claim to a vision. If the claim of the young Uhe were false, Uhe would suffer for it. But Iyjiia would pay the same price if it disputed a vision that turned out to be true law.

Iyjiia also saw that many members of the tribe had gathered around the ring of masters. Whether the law be true or not, if it promised food it might find support among that gathering crowd of armed hunters.

Iyjiia returned to its place in the ring of masters and said to Uhe, "Tell us your vision."

As was the custom, Uhe unfastened its covering of skins and stood naked before them to show the truth of its words.

"Aakva speaks to me now. It speaks of lush mountains to the east, where the darghat and the suda kneel to drink at the plentiful waters; where the trees are heavy with sweet fruits; the fields crowded with kadda melon and the white grain.

"Every evening Aakva’s hands of fire point beyond those mountains. It shows me the Diruvedah and the Kuvedah, their bellies bloated with fresh-cooked flesh; their grasslands crowded with game that leaps upon their spears; their children tall and laughing.

"Then Aakva points west of the mountains to this land of famine and the God of the Day Light says to me, 'Uhe, this is my sign that the Mavedah must leave this place. The masters of the Mavedah must go to their peoples, tell them of Aakva’s Law of War, and have them gather at the foot of the Akkujah Mountains where the cliffs of Akkujah fall to the Yellow Sea.

"From there I will lead the Mavedah across the mountains, through the land of the Irrveden, to the Dirudah. And the Mavedah will defeat the Diruvedah and will drive the Irrveden from the Great Cut and the southern Akkujah into the northern mountains."

Uhe stopped speaking, but it remained with arms outstretched. Uhe’s voice became low and grave as it continued.

"The Irrveden will try to join with the Kuvedah against us. But too fast will we attack. With the blood command of Aakva at our backs, we will strike north through the mountains, brushing the Irrveden aside. And then we will flood the lands of the Kuvedah with our victories! The Mavedah will rule all!"

Uhe lowered its arms, then stooped and retrieved its covering of skins. With its coverings replaced, Uhe faced Iyjiia. "And that is what the God of the Day Light says to me."

Bantumeh studied Uhe. "Wars? Are we to believe that the God of Day Light inflicts this ancient punishment upon us? What have we done?"

Uhe bowed. "Bantumeh, you are kind and wise. But you are too kind to meet this need of the Mavedah. It matters not what we have done. The old law will see the end of the Mavedah. Aakva’s new Law of War will see us, our children, and the Mavedah live."

Uhe talked to the masters and to the hunters crowded about the fire.

"I see there to be things worse than war. I see our glorious hunters grubbing in the dirt; I see the Mavedah eating now things too low to rank with waste; I see the Mavedah eating now things too precious and sacred to be food. And I see from this the end of the Mavedah."

Uhe faced the ruler of the Mavedah. "Bantumeh, there are things worse than war."

Iyjiia stood and waved its hands back and forth. "You cannot know this, Uhe. The oldest of us has never seen war. And this is only because we all obey the tabus."

Uhe faced Iyjiia.

"Mavedah does not fight Mavedah. Once there is nothing but Mavedah on Sindie, there can be no war. And thus the Mavedah will have both peace and plenty." Uhe let the silence of impending death fall over it.

"Iyjiia, do you dispute my vision?"

The hunters gathered around the ring of masters more closely and looked at Iyjiia. The tips of the hunters' spears glinted in the light from the fire. The night was still, save for the relentless press of the death drums.

A servant of Aakva had a privileged position. Food, skins for the back, and skins to protect against cold and the wetness of night were provided by the tribe in exchange for the servant’s studies and visions. To dispute Uhe’s vision would mean ordeal by stoning or fire. Iyjiia liked its position. Iyjiia was old. And Iyjiia answered.

"I do not dispute your vision, Uhe."

The roar of approval from the gathered hunters was cut short as Bantumeh stood and shouted.

"I dispute your vision, Uhe!" Bantumeh turned toward Iyjiia. "May Aakva clean its waste with your cowardly mouth!" The ruler of the Mavedah faced Uhe. "I would see which of us Aakva favors with the stones!"

The challenge to ordeal was ended by the hiss of a hunter’s spear sailing through the night. The pointed shaft entered Bantumeh’s chest, and Bantumeh looked at it as though surprised. Up at the hunters went Bantumeh’s eyes. "One has chosen for all."

And then Bantumeh fell.

Those who surrounded Bantumeh’s still body felt the breath of Aakva’s tabu against murder upon their necks. But no one looked to see who was missing its spear. And no one pulled the spear from Bantumeh’s body to see whose sign the spear carried, until Uhe pulled the spear from the body and held it over its head.

"See you all that Aakva has spoken." And then Uhe threw the spear into the fire. If there were. a sign upon the spear’s shaft, it went to ash before their eyes. And it was whispered among the hunters that the shaft carried Aakva’s own sign.

One hunter began the cheer, and then all the hunters cheered until their sound pushed the death drums from the night sky. All swore their obedience to Uhe and Aakva’s new Law of War. The masters left the fire to convey Aakva’s new law to their peoples, and the hunters there left to begin their preparations for the times to come.

As the beat of the death drums again filled the night air Uhe was left alone at the fire, save for a hunter named Conseh who squatted next to the flames. Conseh’s hands were clasped because it carried no spear. Conseh’s face was impassive because it hid that which should not be known.

"Uhe, I have a question."

"Ask, Conseh."

And the hunter asked: "When Aakva talks to you, do you hear it through your head, your womb, or your belly?"

Uhe studied the hunter. It seemed to the servant that Aakva’s tabus had taken ghostly forms and were dancing above the hunter’s head.

"Conseh, you are impertinent."

The hunter stood and the images vanished. "I am not. My peace demands an answer. Aakva’s new law speaks to most of us through the womb and belly."

"Do you dispute the new law, Conseh?"

The hunter waved its hands at the servant of Aakva. "I would not dispute you, for the God of the Day Light’s new law speaks to all of us, and with a voice that cannot be silenced. But it is a law that anyone of us could have made."

The servant of Aakva looked toward the fire. The shape of the murderer’s spear was indistinguishable from the fire’s sticks.

"I have no answer for you, Conseh."

Conseh looked toward the backs of its fellow hunters as they moved into the night to prepare for war.

"It is my wonder what the hunters will do once Aakva stops speaking to their wombs and bellies and begins again to speak to their heads."

The hunter left the fire. And to Uhe the hunter left both a question and a truth.

Joanne Nicole stopped the recording, and turned toward Vunseleh. It was wiping its hands. "Vunseleh, this Uhe is a savage. What is this savage doing in your Talman: your path of life?"

The Drac put away its medications, then stood silently for a long while. "Joanne Nicole, each Koda of The Talman has in it a number of truths. Through the events of the stories, those truths are revealed. It is for the student to find the truths that best serve its own talma." Vunseleh paused again. "For me, Uhe was the first one in my race’s history to stand up and say, God is wrong! Uhe did that, and then stood to bear the burden of its claim."

The footsteps walked from the room, Nicole replaced her robe, and continued listening to the story of the heartsick servant from the Madah-the poisoned land.

…As Uhe walked, it looked at the sky and addressed the light of the red clouds.

"Aakva, if you exist, and if you are God, why do you play with your creatures so?"

Uhe came among its warriors, and all cheered the demonstration of the truth of Uhe’s vision of the new Law of War…

"…why do you play with your creatures so?"

Nicole stopped the story as she felt something twist within her gut. Fear? No, it was a guilt that she could not identify.

How often have humans asked Uhe’s question? When had I asked it last?

…Mallik’s corpse on the litter; the dark brown faces of the fishers-their eyes offering sympathy, but demanding, in return, strength.

Strength for myself, and for Mallik’s unborn child…

Uhe was an ancient, alien creature. Hermaphrodite, superstition-ridden savage, and cannibal. Yet Nicole found Uhe touching something within her. She felt Uhe’s desperation, its rage, its hope, its overwhelming guilt. But was Uhe driven by the plight of the Mavedah, or grief of the death of its child, Leuno? Did it matter?

Uhe’s guilt was inflicted by an antiquated sun god. Mine? I never did learn her… or his name. Its name.

"You look unhappy, Joanne Nicole." The voice belonged to Vencha Eban.

"Vencha Eban, do you have any children?"

"No."

The Drac’s voice reflected a sorrow of staggering depths. "After the birth of my only child,' Hiurod, my reproductive organs… had to be removed. Hiurod died in the battle of Chadduk’s Station."

"I am very sorry."

Vencha Eban was silent for a moment. "Joanne Nicole, do you have any children?"

She turned on her side and closed her eyes. "I don’t want to talk anymore."

…the cannibal of the Madah.

Joanne Nicole was not aware of how many times she listened again to the Koda Ovida over the following days. But in her dreams she would see this Uhe and follow the ancient alien’s bloody steps from the Madah through the lands that would be conquered and called Sindie.

And she would see Uhe as it stared at the old masters of the Mavedah as they picked over and gnawed on Leuno’s bones-

-she would awaken; sometimes crying, sometimes screaming.

Then she would listen again to the story. While she listened, she would close her eyes and wait for her dreams to bring her, again, the sight of Uhe’s face.

…and the face was not strange to her.

EIGHT

And Maltak Di said to the student: "I have sixteen beads in my hand. If I give you six beads, how many beads will I have in my hand?"

"You will have ten, Jetah."

"Hold out your hand." And the student did so. Maltak Di then dropped six beads into the student’s hand and opened its own hand to show that it was empty.

"You lied, Jetah!"

"Yes. Your response to my question should have been Jetah, open you hand and let me, first, see the sixteen beads. Instead you answered from ignorance."

"Jetah, that is not fair!"

"Now you answer from stupidity."

The Talman

The Story of Maltak Di. Koda Nushada

Nicole awakened but remained still, continuing to think upon the things she had seen in her dream. Uhe had denied the immortality of rules, had unleashed bloody war upon the Sindie to save the Mavedah, and had succeeded only to take its own life as payment in return for its guilt.

Uhe had placed the god, Aakva, aside; had declared to itself that the god was wrong; and had placed a stamp on the Sindie that continued down through almost twelve thousand years to the present.

V’Butaan on the planet Ditaar, named after the mountain city containing Uhe’s tomb. The Tsien Denvedah, Uhe’s front fighters of the same name, casting reluctant prisoners into the Madah. The terrorists on Amadeen taking on the venerable charge of the Mavedah, as well as its name.

And Joanne Nicole spoke Uhe’s last words out loud: "Aakva, in the name of your children, become a more perfect god."

"A futile, but ancient, wish." The voice was deep, resonant, and just a touch amused.

Nicole sat up. "Who are you?"

There was a low chuckle. "Who am I? Who am I? Your question is profound, Joanne Nicole; and it would take me many hours to answer it. My name, however, is Tora Soam. I am the First Master of the Talman Kovah. It was my third child, Sin Vidak, that you saved from the fire on Ditaar."

"You have finally come, then?"

"Yes. Pur Sonaan told me that you had wondered at my absence; and for that I apologize. But you were near death for so long; and recently the demands upon my time have been heavy."

The voice was enigmatic; difficult to read. "Tora Soam, what is to become of me?"

"Ah, another profound question!" It paused for another chuckle. "But you refer to your immediate future, do you not?"

"Yes."

"The paths open to you would appear to be few. You are still vemadah, despite my protection." It paused for a moment. "There is a good argument, Joanne Nicole, that can be made supporting a claim to you being vehivida."

Vehivida? Of the sixth. And Uhe said: "Their children will be sent to the Sixth Denve…"

"I am not a child, Tora Soam."

"No, but you are infirm."

"I do not serve the Drac cause."

"Joanne Nicole, you served the cause by providing the Tsien Denvedah with another soldier."

She felt her face flush. "I saved a child; no more."

"Emmmm. You divide motive, act, and responsibility. Had you not saved my child, the child would not have become a soldier. Does not that, then, make you responsible for the existence of the soldier?"

Tora Soam’s voice; it had an edge of humor in it. Tora Soam was playing games. "I saved a child. The child chose to become Tsien Denvedah."

"I see. And if you knew that the child would grow to become Tsien Denvedah, would you have refused to save it?"

"Drac, this game is getting quite tedious."

"Answer the question, Joanne Nicole. Would you have saved it, or would you have let it burn?"

Memories of that smoke-filled horror filled her mind. All of those dead children, the heat, the smell. She wiped her eyes as she shook her head. "I… I don’t know."

"I think you do, Joanne Nicole."

Nicole smacked her hand upon her thigh. "All right! I would have saved it! But I was saving a life, not a soldier for the Dracon Chamber!"

Nicole heard the rustle of the Drac’s robes as it stood up. "I apologize to you, Joanne Nicole. I did not mean to upset you. If you insist, you are vemadah."

"I insist!"

"Pur Sonaan has told me that, except for your vision, you will be well soon. As soon as you can leave the Chirn Kovah, I will have you brought to the Tora estate. The Madah is a social state, not a tract of land. You may stay at my home for as long as you wish-at least until you are fully recovered."

Nicole laughed and held her hands to her face. "My eyes. When will they be well?"

"Pur Sonaan is working hard on the problem-"

"Tora Soam, there are a great many USEF soldiers in the Madah right now."

"And?"

"While you would put me up in security, they will still be vemadah. I would rather count on them than on the charity of a Drac."

Tora Soam was silent for a moment, then Nicole felt it bend over the bed and pick up Pur Sonaan’s player. A click, a whiz, then another click. The Drac played the player on her lap. "Learn an old lesson, Joanne Nicole."

She heard its footsteps leaving as the voice from the player filled the room. It was the narration of Namndas, Shizumaat’s senior at the Temple of Uhe.

…the days passed, and by the time two new classes were formed, and my charges occupied the south end of the Madah Wall, Ebneh stood before the class to hear their recitations of Aakva, Rhada, Daultha, and Uhe.

When all had completed their recitations, Ebneh held out its hands. "We call the Story of Uhe the Koda Ovida; and what is the first truth?"

There are, of course, many truths within the first Koda. The student’s task is to draw from the story the greatest truth. The first student stood and spoke the accepted truth of the story: "That it is Aakva’s law that the servants of Aakva will speak the true wishes of Aakva."

Ebneh nodded, pleased. "And do you all agree?"

All of the students nodded, except for Shizumaat. Shizumaat stared through the columns at Uhe’s tomb until Ebneh called out. "Shizumaat, were you listening?"

Shizumaat’s eyes turned toward Ebneh. "I was listening."

"Do you agree with this student’s interpretation of the Koda Ovida?"

"No." Shizumaat looked back toward Uhe’s tomb.

Ebneh stood next to Shizumaat. "You will stand!" Shizumaat stood and looked at Ebneh. "What truth do you see in the Koda Ovida?"

"Ebneh, I see that a rule stood between the Mavedah and survival; I see that the rule was nothing sacred, but made by Sindie; and I see that Uhe saw this and cast the rule aside to save its people. The truth I see, then, is that rules are meant to serve the Sindie; the Sindie is not meant to serve rules."

Ebneh stared at Shizumaat for a long moment; and then it asked: "Then, Shizumaat, should we, or should we not, obey the wishes of Aakva handed down by the servants?"

"If the rule is good, it should be used; if it is not good, it should be cast aside."

Ebneh’s eyes narrowed, and those who sat near Shizumaat edged away. "Shizumaat, do you say that the laws of Aakva can be false?"

I closed my eyes. Ebneh was forcing Shizumaat into blasphemy. Shizumaat was smart enough to know this; it was too stubborn, however, to bow to the pain the servants would inflict on its body upon the admission of the blasphemy.

"Shizumaat spoke: "If the laws come from the servants, then the laws come from mortal, fallible creatures, and can be false."

Ebneh stood upright. "But if the laws come from Aakva?"

"Then Aakva can be and has been wrong. This I saw in the Story of Uhe."

A terrible silence came down upon the temple. I rushed up to Shizumaat and grabbed it by the arm. "Think, Shizumaat! Think upon what you say!"

Shizumaat pulled its arm away from my grasp. "I have thought upon it, Namndas. That is why I answered as I did."

Ebneh pushed me away from the student. "Do you know what you will suffer because of your words?"

Shizumaat smiled. "Yes, Ebneh. I know the rules."

"You know them, yet you scorn them?"

"I question them; I question their source; I question their validity. I know the servants will beat me for what I have said; but I ask you this: will beating me prove the existence of Aakva and the truth of its laws?"

Ebneh did not answer.

In the morning, with the Parent of All illuminating the eastern columns of the temple, I climbed the steps and found Shizumaat kneeling between the columns, facing Aakva.

Shizumaat’s face rested against the paving stones. The the stones were stained with the deep yellow of the student’s blood. Shizumaat’s eyes were closed, its chest heaving. Behind Shizumaat were two servants holding whipping rods. Ebneh stood to Shizumaat’s side and spoke: "Look up, Shizumaat. Look up!"

Shizumaat placed its hands upon the blood-stained stones and pushed until it sat back upon its heels, the morning light of Aakva showing the grey of Shizumaat’s face.

"I am looking."

"What do you see?"

Shizumaat teetered for a moment, its eyes squinted, then it took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I see the great morning light we call Aakva."

Ebneh bent over and hissed into the student’s ear. "And is that light a god?"

"I do not know. When you say god… what do you mean?"

"God! God is god!" Ebneh grabbed Shizumaat’s shoulder with one hand and pointed at Aakva with the other. "Is that the Parent of All?"

Shizumaat’s shoulders slumped and it slowly shook its head. "I do not know."

"What does your back tell you, Shizumaat?"

"My back tells me many things, Ebneh. It tells me that you are displeased with me; it tells me that live meat whipped with sufficient enthusiasm will split and bleed; it tells me that the process is painful." Shizumaat looked up at Ebneh. "It does not tell me that Aakva is a god; it does not tell me that the laws of the servants are sacred truths."

Ebneh pointed at the two rod-carrying servants. "Lay into this one until its back does speak truth to it!"

One of the servants turned and walked into the temple. The other studied Shizumaat for a moment and then handed its rod to Ebneh. "Shizumaat’s back has learned all that a rod can teach it. Perhaps you can think of a more persuasive argument." Then the second servant turned and went into the temple.

Ebneh stared after the departing servant, then threw away the rod and looked down at Shizumaat. "Why do you defy Aakva?"

"I do not. I only tell the truth that I see. Would you prefer that I lie to you? Would that serve your truth?"

Ebneh shook its head. "You will shame your parent."

"My parent’s ignorance is not evidence of a god, Ebneh."

Shizumaat bowed its head until Ebneh turned and walked into the temple. Then Shizumaat looked up at me. "Namndas, help me to your room. I cannot make it by myself."

I pulled the student to its feet. "Do you not want me to take you to your own home?"

Shizumaat laughed. "A beating in defense of my understanding of truth is one thing, Namndas. I am not up to my parent beating me because I was beaten. That seems somehow to be taking the gesture past integrity into foolishness."

Shizumaat closed its eyes and slumped into my arms. I lifted it and carried the student from the temple to my room off the square-

Nicole turned off the player.

…taking the gesture past integrity into foolishness.

She thought to herself: Will I serve my purpose by not accepting Tora Soam’s offer? Will I shorten the war? Will I do anything more than inflict an additional burden on vemadah such as Tokyo Rose? Am I being stubborn for the sake of some abstract-

"Well?"

Nicole jumped at the sound of the voice. It was Tora Soam’s. "I thought… you had gone."

"Obviously you were in error. What is your decision?"

Nicole thought for a moment, then nodded. "I will come to stay at your estate, Tora Soam."

"Emmmm. There is a saying-no one knows the author’s name. But it observes that telling a human that his clothing is on fire takes a sharp stick, a large mirror, and a loud voice." Tora Soam paused for a moment. "It is just possible that the stick is unnecessary. Until you are well, then, Joanne Nicole."

Its footsteps left the doorway and faded down the corridor. Nicole sat silently for a moment, then punched at the player, continuing with a random portion of the Koda Nuvida.

That night, first I noticed that the temple lights had not all been raised to the proper height. Then I saw young Shizumaat, its face upraised, dancing in slow whorls upon Uhe’s Tomb!

I rushed to the center of the temple and came to a stop with my hands upon the stone cover of the vault. "Shizumaat! Shizumaat, come down! Come down or I will execute you before the servants can get at you with their rods!"

Shizumaat stopped its dance and looked down at me. "Namndas, come up here and join me. I have the most wonderful thing to show you."

"You would have me dance upon Uhe’s grave?"

"Come up here, Namndas."

Shizumaat returned to its whirling, and I grabbed the edge of the cover and pulled myself up, swearing to break Shizumaat into three hundred pieces. Once I stood, Shizumaat pointed toward the ceiling.

"Look up, Namndas."

The force in its words compelled me to look up, and what I saw was the disarray of temple lights. Their heights were arranged so that the lights were equally distant from a point just above the tomb, forming a hemisphere. And not all of the lamps were lit.

"Shizumaat, we will both be driven from the temple for this night’s work."

"Don’t you see it? Look up, Namndas! Don’t you see it?"

"See what?"

"Dance, Namndas. Dance! Turn to your right."

I turned, saw the lights whirl about me, then I stopped and faced my charge. "Shizumaat! This only makes my head swim! We must climb down from-"

"Aaah!" Shizumaat jumped from the tomb and hit the stone floor. running toward the eastern wall. I jumped and ran after.

When I reached the great stairs, Shizumaat was standing far into the dark center of the city square. I ran down the stairs, across the square, and stopped in the center as I angrily grabbed Shizumaat’s left arm. "I shall gladly take a rod and do the servants' work for them, you crazy-"

"Look up, Namndas! Curse your thick skull! Look up!"

Still holding onto its arm, I looked up. What I saw were Aakva’s children arranged in a pattern similar to the pattern of the temple’s lights, but tilted toward the blue light of The Child That Never Moves.

"You have reproduced the arrangement of the night sky."

"Yes-"

"But this will not save your skin, Shizu-"

Shizumaat pointed toward the speck of blue light.

"Turn your face toward The Child That Never Moves. Then, Namndas, turn slowly to your right."

I did so. The implications of what I saw turned my legs to water, and I sat with a thump upon the packed soil of the square. I put out my hands and touched the unyielding soil. "It cannot be!"

Shizumaat squatted next to me. "Then you have seen it, too!"

I nodded. "Yes, I have seen it."

With the morning’s light, the servants of Aakva found both of us dancing upon Uhe’s tomb…

NINE

We stood there, the mortar drying upon our hands. and Shizumaat pointed at the column of rocks we had built.

"You shall wait for me here. Namndas; at this mark. If I am correct, I shall see you again, and at this place."

I looked from the Akkujah out over the Madah, then back at Shizumaat. "And if you do not return? What then, Shizumaat?"

"Then either I am wrong about the shape of this world, or I did not have the strength to prove myself right."

"If you fail… If you fail. Shizumaat, what should I do?"

Shizumaat placed a hand upon my arm. "Poor Namndas. As always. it is your choice. You can forget me; you can forget the things we have learned; or you can attempt to prove that which I am attempting to prove."

The Talman

The Story of Shizumaat. Koda Nuvida

Joanne Nicole’s first shower. The water pierced her skin, making her feel as though she were in a high-velocity stream of needles. It hurt, but felt. so good. Vunseleh, operating the controls, cut off the water. Slightly warm air, smelling of flowers, shot up from the floor.

"Turn in the air column, Joanne Nicole, and it will dry you."

She turned in the rush of sweet-smelling air, running her fingers through her hair to fan it. "Vunseleh, what is that smell?"

"Smell? Oh, there is a fine spray of oil in the air column. It is for aesthetic purposes, and it softens the skin."

"Is it safe… for me? I remember what happened with the burn ointment."

"It is safe. It has been used on humans many times with no ill effects."

The blower stopped and her hair was still wet. She felt her skin. It was not wet, but it felt slightly moist-pleasant. She could feel no scarring from the burns. "Do you have a towel?"

"A towel?"

"Something-a cloth-to dry my hair."

A hand touched her hair, then withdrew. "Emmmm. It is not good to keep you in the dry cycle until that mess is finished." Vunseleh’s footsteps left the shower room then returned. Nicole felt a robe thrust into her hands. "Use this. I have another robe for you to wear." She threw the robe over her head and began drying her hair. "Joanne Nicole?"

"Yes, Vunseleh?"

"Is hair functional?"

Nicole paused for a moment, then continued rubbing the, robe against her hair. "I suppose not. Why?"

"We could have it removed. It would make your cleansings more efficient; and less time consuming."

She held the wet robe out until the Drac took it, then used her fingers to again fan her hair. "Thank you, Vunseleh, but I think I’ll keep it. Sentimental reasons."

It handed her another robe, and she began putting it on. "I have seen female humans with such hair before. Usually it is more… even."

Once her robe was on, Nicole felt her hair. On the right side of her head, the hair was short and ragged. "The fire, Vunseleh. My hair was burned in the fire. I could use a… I can’t think of the word. My hair should be cut to make it even."

"Emmmm." Vunseleh took her hand and led her from the shower stall. "We should be able to do that. Is anesthetic required?"

"No. It is a routine cosmetic task."

"Emmmm. I will see what can be done."

Nicole felt Vunseleh’s hands open the front of her robe, then one of its hands cupped her left breast and squeezed it. She pulled back and tightened the robe around her. "What do you think you are doing?"

"Those things-you must look your best before being presented to the Ovjetah. Those things ruin the drape of the robe."

Joanne Nicole chuckled a bit nervously. "I don’t know what you have in mind, Vunseleh, but these things stay put. Hands off, understand?"

"Perhaps they could be strapped down. They seem sufficiently malleable -"

"Forget it!"

There were many English words Joanne Nicole wished had equivalents in Dracon. "Just forget it, Vunseleh, understand?"

"If you wish."

"I wish."

Vunseleh led her back to her bed. She climbed upon it and turned to Vunseleh as she wound and draped the robe about herself.

"Is there anything else you need, Joanne Nicole?"

She thought for a moment. "Yes. Just who is Tora Soam? What is the Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah?"

There was a very long silence. Then Vunseleh spoke. "Considering your content of knowledge, I am not certain how I should answer." The Drac paused again. "How much of The Talman do you know?"

"I have listened to The Myth of Aakva, The Story of Uhe, and parts of The Story of Shizumaat."

"Emmmm. If I should tell you that Tora Soam is the most important being among the seventy-two planets of the Dracon Chamber, would you understand?"

"Tora Soam is your political or military leader?"

"No. Nothing of the sort."

"A kovah; I know what a school is. Is Tora Soam a teacher?"

"Of a sort-but more than that. Much more." Vunseleh was silent for a long time. "Joanne Nicole?"

"Yes?"

"Would you object to listening to the entire document of The Talman?"

"Why should I?"

"Your answers are there, if you have the wit to comprehend them. I shall send Vencha Eban to you with a pair of cutters. Tell Vencha what you want done with your hair."

Vunseleh’s footsteps left the room. Nicole groped around upon her bed until she found the player. She indexed to the Koda Nuvida, "The Story of Shizumaat," and stretched out to listen.

Rhada said that God is;

Uhe said that God is wrong;

Shizumaat said that god is irrelevant…

In the days that followed Joanne Nicole listened to The Talman several times. It was more than the history of a race. It was the story of the evolution and use of method: talma.

The word talma had no equivalent in English. The word seemed to apply to anything composed of system: direction, ordered events, life, equation, methods, law, procedure, path, road, science, sanity.

In the period containing late human prehistory, Shizumaat intuitively came up with what is essentially the scientific method. Through its method, the young student derived its theory of worlds: the rotation and configuration of Sindie; that Aakva and its children were fires at varying distances; that the other stars could have about them bodies such as Sindie; and the concept of Universe.

To gather evidence in support of its theory, Shizumaat traveled the equator of the planet, leaving the faithful Namndas to wait at the monument the two of them had built. Many years later, after discovering many new oceans, lands, and peoples, Shizumaat appeared in the east and came to the monument.

At the return of Shizumaat, Namndas was ecstatic; but Shizumaat’s mind was occupied with a new problem: understanding the method-talma-it had used to see what others could not.

Before Shizumaat’s execution at the hands of the Servants of Aakva, it had communicated its conclusions to Namndas, who in turn taught these things to Vehya.

Vencha Eban was snipping away at her hair. "Joanne Nicole, did you not find Shizumaat’s adventures exciting?"

Nicole thought for a moment. "Yes, but… do you see the greatness of the thing it did?"

"Which thing? Its struggle to cross the Madah? The crossing of the poisoned seas? Shizumaat outwitting the Hadyi, or its combat with Seuorka, Chief of the Omela?"

"I meant Shizumaat’s discoveries: its theory of worlds; its discovery of talma?"

"But everyone knows that, Joanne Nicole."

Nicole felt slightly exasperated. "They know it now, because Shizumaat taught it then!"

The snipping stopped.

"I do not understand why you are angry."

"Vencha Eban, can you not see that Shizumaat’s discovery of talma is more important than all of its other adventures combined?"

The snipping resumed for a moment, then stopped. "I do not fly or fight among the stars, Joanne Nicole. I clean floors."

The snipping continued.

In the Koda Ayvida, Vehya taught talma to Mistan, who used it both to improve talma, and to invent writing. Mistan’s students reproduced the stories of Aakva, Uhe, and Shizumaat; and Shizumaat’s talma spread throughout the world of the Sindie.

The Koda Schada told of the increasing oppression of the Servants of Aakva’s rule, their overthrow by Kulubansu, and almost five hundred years after Shizumaat’s birth, the story of Ioa, who founded the first Talman Kovah.

The Schada concluded with the invasion of the Sindie by the Hadyi, the destruction of the kovah and the dispersal of the Talmani, and the death of Lurrvanna under the rule of Rodaak The Barbarian. Then followed almost four hundred years of war as the different races of the planet Sindie struggled for dominance.

The Koda Itheda told of Aydan and the War of Ages. Aydan, a secret Talman Master, applied talma toward the task of waging war, then toward the task of establishing and maintaining peace. As the warring neared its end, another Talman Master, Tochalla, began the movement to reassemble the Talmani and to rebuild the Talman Kovah.

The following books of The Talman tell of the next six thousand years of progress and application of talma under many Jetai: Cohneret, Maltak, Di, Lita, Faldaam, Zineru, Dalna.

Throughout this period, talma is made the core of a unified science of existence. By 2000 BC, the Sindie had made its first probes into space.

The Story of Dalna, in the Koda Siayvida, is the last of the Sindie books of The Talman.

Pur Sonaan visited to inform Nicole that the solution to her blindness was still outside its talma. "But I am constantly working to move the limits. Joanne Nicole."

"Pur Sonaan, you are called a Jetah, but of the Chirn Kovah."

"Yes."

"But you speak of talma the same as any Talmani."

"I am Talmani. I apply talma toward the goal of health."

"When I was an intelligence officer, I saw recordings of Drac prisoners. Soldiers; Tsien Denvedah. They, too, spoke of talma. One of them called itself a Jetah."

"The soldier and the health master are in the same discipline. Joanne Nicole. They specialize according to the goals they desire and the diseases that stand in the way of those goals."

The first of the Draco books, the Koda Sishada tells first of the division of the Talmani. Almost two hundred years after the death of Dalna, it is proven that Sindie is a dying planet.

A movement begins within the Talmani to escape Sindie and find other planets upon which to live. The larger faction chooses to remain on Sindie, hoping for a solution; or as the ancient Mistan wrote in the Koda Ayvida: "Talma shows each one its path. But, as beings of choice, we can choose not to see the signs."

…Mitzak reading the news to her, and from all she could tell, the war was stalled; going badly for everyone. Military casualties were into the millions; civilian casualties were into the billions…

"Mitzak, what are you going to do after I leave here?"

"My plans are made."

"Are you going back with the Drac Fleet?"

"No. Thanks to my service to Tora Soam, I am being allowed to continue my work at the Talman Kovah. I think I have had enough of this war…"

The Koda Shishada concluded with the Story of Atavu, the Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah, who left with the armada of generation ships toward the unknown. Two hundred and forty years later, Poma writes the Koda Sitheda. Poma is one of the founders of Draco and the Ovjetah of Draco’s Talman Kovah. The stories of Eam, Namvaac, and Ditaar, the last three books of The Talman, tell of the development of Draco and the colonization of many other planets, and the beginning and end of the Thousand Year Rebellion, which saw the formation of the first Dracon Chamber more than a century before the birth of Copernicus.

Until the USE had come into conflict with the Dracon Chamber over the issue of the planet Amadeen, Dracs had seen nothing but hundreds of years of peace…

Talma.

Talma is composed of fundamental rules of situation assessment, goal definition, and goal achievement; methods for finding out where one is, where one wants to go, and how to get from the former to the latter; individually and/or collectively. It is the foundation for all activity, from individual conduct and social relationships to science, business, and law…

The Jetai, masters of the Talman, are the ones who study, invent, experiment with, and apply these fundamental rules. The Talman Kovah is their institution; as much laboratory as it is library and philosophers' hall. The Ovjetah is the First Master of the Talman Kovah. And Tora Soam was the current Ovjetah: the overseer of talma.

Tora Soam was the Drac equivalent of a chief economist political theorist, attorney-general, first military strategist, the board of the USE Academy of Sciences-and too many other things-all rolled into one person.

And if the war ever paused long enough for a truce, Tora Soam or some subsequent Ovjetah would advise the negotiations for peace. And Nicole felt that peace would have to come, or there would be no human race. The Dracs had fought an Interplanetary war for a thousand years without a moment of shaken resolve. Tokyo Rose had said that the war would not last forever. But the Dracs were prepared to fight for all of the forever that belonged to Joanne Nicole.

Then came the day she was to leave the Chirn Kovah.

On her feet were open sandals. Everyone who cared to had wished her well; and Pur Sonaan had promised to keep her informed of any progress in its research efforts. Pur had also added a cryptic sentiment:

"Joanne Nicole, if things go well in the future, you will have great cause to hate me. When that time comes, I ask you to remember this moment. The things I have done…" Pur searched for words. "This I should not say. May the many mornings find you well."

Nicole sat on the edge of her bed, feeling the softness of her new robe, slightly apprehensive about leaving the known of the room for the unknown on the other side of the walls.

There were strange footsteps. They halted and there was a moment of silence. "I am Tora Kia. I have been sent to bring you to my parent’s estate."

She stood up. "My name is Joanne Nicole."

Hard footsteps crossed the room and a rough hand grasped her left arm. "We must go now."

There was the sharp odor of happy paste. Nicole reached for the arm that was holding hers and touched the cuff of a sleeve. Drac civilians wear robes.

"Who are you?"

"I said my name is Tora Kia. I am the firstborn of Tora Soam."

"This sleeve says you are wearing a military uniform."

"I am-was-Tsien Denvedah." There was a laugh; an almost hysterical laugh. "You will find the other sleeve empty, human."

TEN

And Lurrvanna looked up from its bandaged stumps and spoke to its students:

"Talma is forbidden to us. The Talman Kovah has been destroyed. Our friends have been either murdered or frightened into hiding. Our writings earn their authors the loss of their hands. Rodaak and its soldiers would have The Talman disappear from Sindie.

"But memory is the refuge of the Talmani, and it is there where we shall hide The Talman from Rodaak. Fix the words into your minds; then take them, whisper them to others, and have those others fix into their minds The Talman.

"The eternity of truth makes a friend of time. In time, Rodaak will no longer be. In time, we shall make known again the value of talma. In time, The Talman will again be written and the walls of the new Talman Kovah will stand upon these broken stones. In time, tomorrow will come."

The Talman

The Story of Ioa and Lurrvanna. Koda Schada

As Nicole was being hurried from the Chirn Kovah into Tora Kia’s waiting vehicle, a strange thought crept into her mind: she was curious about these creatures, and what would happen to her; but, if she could have seen, she would have been terrified. Terrified of everything.

The loathing fairly radiated from Tora Kia, but it could easily have been human hate. The strangeness-the alien unknown-of everything was made almost familiar because the images from her eyes were prevented from overpowering her other senses and her ability to think.

Nicole was seated upon plush upholstery, a door slammed, and she inhaled the eternal smell of new car. More doors slamming, a weight depressed the upholstery to her left, a whine, then a gentle pressure against her back as the vehicle accelerated. The sounds of other traffic came dimly through the vehicle’s sound insulation.

Tora Kia barked out an order: "To the estate, Baadek."

"Your parent asked me to deliver these notes -"

"Then return to the city and deliver them-after you have delivered this… guest to the estate!"

Both of the other occupants of the vehicle remained silent as the sounds of traffic died and the change in pressure on Nicole’s eardrums said that they were climbing in altitude. Still there were the sounds of the road. They were moving up into some mountains.

"You are silent, human."

"I didn’t think, Tora Kia, that you would appreciate conversation coming from my direction."

"Dah!"

They rode in silence a moment longer.

"Tora Kia, your parent doesn’t seem to carry your weight of hate."

"My parent! My parent has all of its limbs. To Tora Soam, the war is… an immense puzzle to be solved; a fascinating problem. I think my parent basks in the size and complexity of the puzzle. You and I are nothing more than two factors among the trillions that comprise this puzzle."

"You seem bitter."

"And they say that you are blind." Heavy sarcasm.

They seemed to go higher, the road twisting left and right. The silence in the compartment was oppressive. The sharp smell of happy paste again assaulted her nostrils and the one called Baadek spoke. "Kia, your parent-"

"Mind the road, Baadek! When Tora Soam has carried its butcher ax against the enemy on Amadeen, then its views upon my medications will be of interest to me." The sharp smell remained in the compartment. "Ah, human. What an ugly thing you are."

"It would concern me more, Tora Kia, if I could see."

The Drac laughed, then that sharp smell grew sharper. "It is true. The war has treated us both badly, human. Was your life’s work dependent upon your eyes? That is my sincere wish."

"Why?"

"I am looking for an equality of disaster."

"I’ve seen Drac soldiers with artificial limbs before. Those soldiers seemed to function adequately."

"Emmmm. True, it takes little skill to fry a human. But I am a musician, Joanne Nicole. The machine the fleet will pay to have hammered onto this stump will find the strings of a tidna difficult to master."

The tidna: a kind of harp. "I am sorry."

"Sorrow is a cheap fee." A pause and more of that sharp smell. "Baadek! Stop here!"

"Tora Kia, your parent will have my skin for a cape if it should find out-"

"Stop here, you miserable fungus, or I will reach up there and pull off your head."

The vehicle slid to a stop and Nicole heard the door on Tora Kia’s side open as a blast of icy air entered the compartment. The Drac’s hand pulled at her left arm. "Come. Come with me, Joanne Nicole."

She slid across the seat and stepped out into ankle-deep snow. Tora Kia dragged her along until she had lost both of her sandals and stood barefoot.

"Baadek! Baadek, turn off the car!"

The whine of the car died, and on the gentle wind Nicole heard… music. Strange, haunting notes coming from below. "Down there, in the Valley, Joanne Nicole. That was my kovah."

They listened for a time to the sounds. It felt as though knives were being thrust again and again through her feet. "Tora Kia, I am cold."

"The Universe is cold." The breeze brought her that sharp smell again. "My parent. You think it feels gratitude to you for pulling Sin Vidak from the oven?"

"That is what Tora Soam-"

Torn Kia’s laugh seemed to be aimed at more than its words revealed. "Tora Soam feels nothing! The Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah would have you at the estate as an object of curiosity-experimentation. Sin Vidak-that is the excuse my parent uses to make housing you acceptable in the eyes of… aaaah!"

A strong hand slapped her face, sending her reeling into the snow. Geometric shapes flashed before her eyes as the snow covered and burned her face. As though it were far away, Nicole heard a door slam, then soft footsteps. A hand pulled at her right shoulder, lifting her face from the snow.

Nicole pushed the hand away, sat back upon her legs, and wiped the snow from her face. There were still the mournful sounds of music on the air as the one called Baadek spoke softly to her. "I ask you a favor, human. If you do it, I will always be in your debt." Baadek put its hands beneath her arms and lifted her to a standing position. Nicole’s face still burned from the snow and the force of Kia’s blow.

"What’s the debt of a Drac worth?"

"Human, Tora Kia carries the Tora line. Its behavior here would shame its parent. I ask you to be silent about what Kia did."

Nicole waved a hand in what she thought to be the direction of the car. "First, get me out of the snow; second, find my sandals; third, I will think about it." Baadek began leading her toward the car and Nicole stopped dead in the snow. "But I will tell you one thing right now, Drac: if that child of a kiz hits me again, I will take off its remaining arm and stuff it down its throat!"

"There is nothing to fear from Kia now. Kia is asleep."

"My feet hurt. The cold."

Baadek moved to her right side, placed her arm around its neck, and lifted her. As it carried her, Baadek muttered, "The war. Everything has changed since the war."

Nicole was too weary to answer. She was placed into the car, the door slammed, then a second slam, and the car whined to life and moved down the twisting road. They rode for a long while, then Nicole heard Tora Kia move.

"Unh. You. Your robe is wet. Your face is red." That sharp smell again filled the compartment.

"Don’t you remember? You hit me."

"I did?" That smell grew stronger, then the voice became very quiet. "I wish I had killed you."

And then Nicole found out something she never knew before: Dracs snore. "Baadek?"

"Yes, human?"

"My name is Nicole. Joanne Nicole."

"Yes, Joanne Nicole?"

"Why is Tora Kia hitting that drug?"

"Many of the Tsien Denvedah that fought on Amadeen have the same habit. Tora Soam disapproves."

Nicole pulled her legs up upon the seat and rubbed her feet. She felt warm air being directed upon them, and in moments they were dry. "Thank you, Baadek."

"When we get to the estate, we will stop at the gate house and I will get you a dry robe to wear."

She continued rubbing her feet. "Baadek, what is it to you if Tora Soam finds out that its child chews happy paste."

There was a long silence from the front of the car. "Nothing, I suppose. I have spent my life serving the Tora estate, probably from habit. Habit is very safe. The war soils everything, however. Perhaps I should change my habit, too."

Nicole’s weight was thrown from one side of the car to the other as her stomach evidenced a sickening skid, the whine of the car’s motor rising and falling in rapid succession. "It is only a guess, Baadek; but are you driving too fast?"

The motion of the car slowed as the whine from the motor decreased. "Yes… Thank you. And my apologies."

She leaned her head against the back of the seat. Baadek, the long-suffering family retainer coming home to its master hauling a drug-blitzed child and a backseat driver. Nicole yawned from the drying heat blowing on her legs. Perhaps I could take some of the weight from Baadek’s already overburdened shoulders. "Baadek?"

"Yes, Joanne Nicole?"

"I will say nothing to Tora Soam concerning what happened today."

"Thank you. I will remember this."

"How much longer will we be riding?"

"We are almost a third of the way to the estate."

The warm air and sleep tugged at her. She moved her shoulders into the upholstered corner between the door and seat, her face leaned against something soft to her left. Vaguely she felt the gentle rocking of the car…

…Happy paste.

There had been reports that a large percentage of USEF personnel coming back from Amadeen had the habit.

How long had it taken Ted Makai to kick it? He never did, really. He just substituted other things.

In the Storm Mountain officers club that time, Ted at the bar tossing down doubles. He was an island of dead gloom in a sea of laughter, trying to numb the nervous system that made him a rare exception among the Universe’s life forms.

He ordered another.

"Ted, aren’t you nailing those things down pretty fast?"

He never looked up; simply waited until his fresh drink came. He took the glass, tossed down its contents, and ordered another. He looked at her.

"Do your tour on Amadeen, Major Nicole, and then come back to me and preach temperance…"

"…When Tora Soam has carried its butcher ax against the enemy on Amadeen, then its views upon my medications will be of interest…"

Amadeen. So little of the war had taken place there; but so much of the war owed its existence to the planet…

…In the Chirn Kovah, searching for her reasons for fighting, a voice from nowhere reciting history…

"… The planet Amadeen was colonized in a succession of immigrations by both humans and Dracs, attracted there by Amadeen’s vast mineral resources. Numerous private companies based In both spheres of influence were involved in the colonization effort, the two largest being the human Earth IMPEX and the Dracon JACHE companies.

"Although Timan Nisak, headquartered on the Planet Timan, is the third largest capital investor in Amadeen, there have been no Timanese immigrants. Timan Nisak operates the orbiting ore-processing station used before the opening of hostilities by all the mining companies operating on Amadeen.

"…After the defeat of the Drac and human Centralist Party, extremist factions took control of the political mechanisms of both races. The Amadeen Front was the political party dominating the humans, while the Ka Mavedah rose to become the most influential political organization in the Drac-controlled areas of the planet. The Centralists of both races were effectively eliminated as political forces, and terrorist raids began…"

Terrorism on Amadeen. Its victims and witnesses never seemed to talk about it much. The horrors were beyond comprehension. Humans were found still alive, their skeletons shattered with sound waves. The bones had been gone over one at a time. Dracs were found, their bellies ripped open, still living fetuses dangling from their umbilicals-

"Joanne Nicole?"

She awakened, warm air entering the car from her side. The door was open. "Baadek?"

"Yes. Here is your dry robe, and I have dried your sandals."

She leaned forward and took the robe and sandals. "Where can I change?"

"Here in the car will do."

"Where can I be alone to change?"

"Alone?… For what reason?"

"Because I want to be alone when I change."

A puzzled silence. "I suppose you may use the gate house." Nicole felt the Drac’s hand touch her arm. "Come with me."

"What are you going to do with Kia?"

Baadek helped her from the car, her feet touching soft grass, warm sunlight washing her face. Baadek sighed.

"What to do with Kia? That is always a good question, Joanne Nicole. Always a good question. Come this way."

Nicole had been whisked up a huge outdoor staircase, then through a dizzying complex of halls and passageways. Each door seemed to have a guard on it with which Baadek would exchange hushed whispers. Then they were in a room that was bright with sunlight; she could feel it upon her skin. There were many low voices in the room, then one of the voices became recognizable; it was Tora Soam’s.

"Here you are, at last, Joanne Nicole."

She nodded, her ears straining for every sound as the Ovjetah spoke to Baadek: "And where is Kia?"

"In its apartments, Ovjetah. Kia was not feeling well."

Tora Soam’s silence spoke volumes. "Joanne Nicole, I hope your trip from the Chirn Kovah was satisfactory?"

"It was a learning experience."

"Emmmm." She heard Tora Soam tum away. "My colleagues, this is the human, Joanne Nicole." There was an uncomfortable period of coughing, paper rattling, and chair squeaking. "Baadek, come with me." Tora Soam took Nicole’s arm and led her from the room. "Joanne Nicole, I apologize for my colleagues. However, please understand that you are the very first human as flesh that they have ever seen."

"I understand."

"Tonight I will have a surprise for you; until then, Baadek will show you your apartments. There are only a few places on the estate that you are not allowed to enter, and the guards at those places will prevent your entrance. Otherwise you have the freedom of the estate. Baadek will act as your eyes for the time being, and it will call for you at the night repast. I would like to have you join us for the repast."

Nicole nodded. "I will be there."

"Excellent. And now I must return to work." She heard Tora Soam’s voice change direction. "Baadek?"

"Yes, Ovjetah?"

"When Kia is quite recovered, send my child to me. I shall be in the library all evening."

"Yes, Ovjetah."

Tora Soam’s footsteps faded away and Baadek took Nicole’s arm and led her through a maze of corridors. As they were walking, Nicole let the fingers of her left hand trail along the wall’s cut stone surface, trying to place and memorize all of the twists and turns. "Baadek?"

"Yes, Joanne Nicole?"

"Why is this building made of cut stone?"

"It must have been the desire of Tora Kia-the founder, Kia; not the one you know."

"This building is as old as the founding of Draco?"

"Yes; almost. It is a very beautiful building. The stone is of many kinds and colors."

Nicole thought for a moment as they walked down still another corridor. "Baadek, why would a race that can use metals, plastics, and freeform masonry put up a mansion of quarried stone?"

Baadek walked in silence for a moment then pulled her to a stop. "I have searched your words for a meaning beyond the apparent, Joanne Nicole, but I can find no such meaning. Do you truly find it difficult to understand?"

"Yes. The time, the expense that must have been involved hardly seems rational with the construction alternatives that must have been available."

"I repeat, Joanne Nicole: it is a very beautiful building." Baadek leaned away from her and she heard a door open. "This is the entrance to your apartments."

ELEVEN

Maltak Di drew upon the slate a circle and a square, and then it connected the two figures with two lines. Of the first student. Maltak Di asked: "Nyath, how many different paths are there from the circle to the square?"

"There are two paths, Jetah."

"Nyath, you may not stay; you cannot learn." Maltak Di faced the second student. "Oura, how many different paths are there from the circle to the square?"

"Jetah, if the two paths are repeated turn-in-turn. there can be many."

"Oura, you may stay; perhaps you can learn." Maltak Di faced the third student. "Irrisa, how many different paths are there from the circle to the square?"

"A number without finite limit, Jetah."

"Irissa, you must stay. Perhaps one day you can teach."

The Talman

The Story of Maltak Di. Koda Nushada

After taking her on a tour of the greeting, entertainment, toilet, bathing, sleeping, and meditation rooms, Baadek left Nicole to her own devices until the night repast. As it was taking its leave, Baadek again thanked her for not reporting Kia’s behavior to Tora Soam.

With some difficulty, she bathed and rested. When she reached for her robe, she found another in its place. The fabric was as light and smooth as cobwebs; and when she placed it on it felt as though a warm, gentle film caressed her body. Instead of the open sandals, there were soft, lined slipper-boots. Tora Soam’s castle might have been beautiful, but it was chilly. Joanne Nicole gathered that the Toras dressed accordingly.

While she waited for Baadek’s call to dinner, she walked the walls of her apartments, beginning the task of memorizing the floorplan and the placement of each piece of furniture.

The apartment was a circle divided up into six equal segments-each segment being a room that opened onto a central circular accessway. Each segment was shaped like an orange slice truncated on both ends. The only flat surface was the floor. The center of each room contained the article or articles that served the room’s name. The central accessway had six doors that could be opened in any combination.

There were some enigmatic Drac phrases that began to make some sense. "Greeted with all doors open" and "Greeted with all doors closed" described the degree of trust and intimacy a host extends to a visitor. The greeting room was bare, providing nothing more than a place to stand and talk. The entertainment room had deep, soft chairs and couches. The central door of the greeting room, and the door to the entertainment room being open was an invitation for a longer stay. A still longer stay was invited by the toilet room being open. Bathing, sleeping, and meditation rooms being open described more intimate invitations about which she could only speculate.

After her initial inspection, she entered the meditation room, closed the door, and settled on the cushions in the center of the room to await the call to the night repast.

She had been sitting for a few minutes, quietly trying to relax, when the room seemed to fill with a dim green light marbled with blacks and lighter greens. Her hands immediately went to her eyes, but her hands could not block out the light. The light was inside her head.

Again she relaxed and allowed the lights to move at random. There was a slightly drugged feeling, then a feeling of all-encompassing calm. One-by-one she could feel tense muscles relax, her body going limp…

…There were the happy moments with Mallik, seen through a lens that would admit no pain. She opened to it and her being was flooded with love.

And their child swelling in her abdomen.

Mallik’s head against the swelling, listening.

"You can’t hear anything yet, Mallik; it’s too soon."

His head burrowed his ear more deeply into her abdomen while his hand stole between her legs.

"If this is Mallik Nicole’s child, it will be an early riser."

She laughed as she reached down to touch his face…

…there was a moment at Storm Mountain; a moment of love, pride, fierce unshackled joy.

Death covered the slopes, but the Tsien Denvedah was falling back. Her command hadn’t a prayer of getting relief; they knew that another attack was coming that would crush them; they knew that most of them would be dead before the next two hours elapsed-

-but the Tsien Denvedah was falling back.

The hoots and catcalls started in the emplacements to her left. In seconds all of Storm Mountain was shouting insults at the retreating Dracs; her own voice joining the tumult.

The Tsien Denvedah was falling back!

It was another-a stronger-form of love than that between a man and woman. They were a blood and mud spattered brotherhood that had met the enemy and had turned them back. They had been dipped in fire and had survived to see the Drac Infantry pulling back.

Morio Taiseido collapsed beside her, his voice hoarse.

"Major, I could die content at this moment. We whipped them! Holy son of a bitch, we whipped them!"

…The lights came back and part of Joanne Nicole’s brain asked another part if this joy was the appeal to battle; to war. If it was the truth, it would be an impossible motivation to treat rationally.

The rules were out; the ultimate consequences were out; nothing was in mind except the fact that the Dracs were falling back. In that minuscule particle of time, they were victorious…

…And then, as though it were being played before her upon a stage, she remembered The Story of Lita in the Koda Ovsinda.

Lita had invented a game for the students to play. One of the students was selected by chance to begin the game, and its first move was to invent the first three rules of the game. And the game-the rules-could be anything.

The next player could proceed according to those first three rules, or could invent another rule. The rules and rule changes were never communicated except by the nature of the play. The rules and rule changes must be deduced from the actions of those who invented the rules. Even that which constituted "winning" changed from one minute to the next.

The most successful tactic was to understand all of the rules up until your turn, and then invent a rule or criterion of winning that negated the regulatory advantages invented by the previous players.

By the time the play came around to Lita there was an impossible tangle of rules, stated, implied, most of them invisible. And then Lita would win the game by stating:

"I win."

A student would always protest. "Jetah, you cannot win. The structure of rules that has been built does not allow it."

"It most certainly does allow it. The rule I have invented is that when the play comes to my turn, I win."

"But, Jetah, the first player could have done the same. Any of us could have done it."

"Yes, but I did-it first."

The green lights in her head died and became a warm, soft blackness. And there was a voice. It was Baadek’s. "Joanne Nicole, it is time for the night repast."

She sat in wonder for a moment at the things she had seen. She stood up, made her way to the meditation room door and opened it. "Baadek?"

"I am here." The voice was very close. "When you use the meditation room in the future, should you not want to be disturbed, close the outside entrance to your apartment."

"Thank you. What is in the meditation room that allowed me to see the things that I saw?"

"Only your own mind. The design of the room is an ancient one, conducive to looking at oneself."

"The lights, the green lights were so real."

"Usually the lights are blue-for Dracs."

Nicole began feeling her way toward the corridor, but Baadek’s hand stopped her. "What is the matter, Baadek?"

"Understand, Joanne Nicole, that I have no love for humans."

"Who asked you to?"

There was a brief silence. "As an individual, I feel an obligation toward you. Be very careful at the night repast. Tora Soam’s guests tonight include five Talman masters and a human. I cannot even guess at their roles, nor yours."

"Baadek, why this warning, from one who has no love for humans?"

For just a moment, the Drac seemed to laugh. "I am no student of convoluted rules and gaming, Joanne Nicole. I am a simple creature of loyalty. Because of my loyalty to the Tora estate, I look upon myself as the protector of Tora Kia. Tora Kia has my loyalty. Because of your cooperation in this protection, my loyalty is extended to you as well-to a degree."

She paused. "Baadek, I appreciate your warning, but I do not understand. What are you warning me about?"

"It is hard for me to see. But I would not want you to betray yourself-the things that you value. I think that tonight you will be in an excellent position to do just that."

After walking the many twists and turns of the corridors, Baadek and Nicole entered a series of connected chambers that were sufficiently large that their footsteps and words caused echoes. It was in one of those chambers that she heard voices and smelled rich cooking. It was there that Tora Soam met them.

"Does the night find you well, Joanne Nicole?"

"Yes, it does."

"Excellent." Tora Soam paused and Nicole heard its robes move. "And, as I promised you, here is your surprise."

More footsteps. "Hi, Major."

"Benbo?" Nicole reached out her hands. "Benbo?"

"Right here, Major." A pair of hands touched her shoulders.

Some great knotted thing inside of her dissolved, making her legs limp. Benbo quickly grabbed her arms to keep her from falling to the stone floor.

Tora Soam’s voice came very close, an edge of concern in it.

"Joanne Nicole, are you ill?" Its voice changed direction. "She is just released from the Chirn Kovah."

Benbo spoke. "I think she is well, Ovjetah. It is just that we have gone through much together, and that it has been a long time since we met last."

"How are you? Damn it, Benbo, how in the hell are you?"

"Fine, Major. Just fine."

The direction of his voice changed. "Ovjetah. she will recover in a moment. May we be alone?"

"Certainly, Amos Benbo. Please use those couches over there."

Benbo led her across the chamber and lowered her into a deep, soft couch.

She felt him sit on the couch beside her. Again Tora Soam spoke: "Joanne Nicole, the next part of your surprise waits with my other guests. He is Leonid Mitzak."

"Mitzak. It sounds like old home week."

"I… am not certain I understand; but would you like me to send him out here?"

"No, Tora Soam. I would like to be alone with Benbo for a while. Can you have Baadek call us when the repast is ready?"

"Of course. Until then. Come, Baadek."

Their footsteps left the chamber. She turned toward Benbo. "Amos, why are you here?"

Benbo laughed. "It sure beats the hell out of me. When I was snagged on Ditaar, I was busy making like a firebug. Right now, I am the special guest of Ovjetah Tora Soam, the grand poobah hisself-itself." His voice became very quiet. "Major… your eyes…"

Nicole shook her head. "I’m temporarily blind. It’s all right. What happened to you after the attack?"

"I put you in a safe place-or thought I did-then I ran back to the V’Butaan field to check up on the troops. Do you know about them?"

She nodded. "Mitzak told me."

"Major, what in hell is going on here?"

"I don’t know. I’ve been the ward of Tora Soam since V’Butaan, from all I can tell. What that means, or why it’s so, I don’t know. What about you?"

"I was picked up, brought here, and dropped by a couple of characters that it didn’t look too smart to argue with. Beyond that, I don’t know."

Baadek’s voice called from a distance. "The night repast is prepared and ready. Will you join the company?"

Nicole pushed herself up from the couch. "Thank you, Baadek. We will be there in a moment."

Benbo was standing, and Nicole pulled him close and whispered, "You wanted to know what’s going on here. I don’t know, but I’ve been warned about this dinner party. You keep your trap shut unless you are asked a direct question, and then be very careful how you answer. Tora Soam’s Drac guests are all Talman Masters-" The hint of a thought crossed Nicole’s mind. Flowers. The slight odor of flowers.

"What is it, Major?"

Nicole shook her head. "Nothing. Just remember that every word you speak gives information to them."

Nicole was seated on one part of a long circular couch; Benbo to her right. On Benbo’s other side sat Leonid Mitzak. Far to her right sat Tora Soam, and directly across from her were the five Talman Masters. In the center of the couch arrangement were the dishes of food. Tora Soam began the ritual: "This is the bitter weed we eat to remember the Madah. Never shall we return."

Nicole heard the Talman Masters take up grain from the center table, and then replace it. Tora Soam continued: "For the second repast, we eat fruit and say: This is the fruit of the Irrveden, for which the Mavedah fought."

Everyone picked up the strange bulbs and tubers that the Dracs called fruit. Benbo handed Nicole hers, and her jaws ached as her eyes watered at the acid taste of the raw plant. "For the third repast, we eat nothing, for this is the legacy of Mijii who burned its people rather than submit to the rule of the Mavedah."

She touched nothing to her tongue, but the smell of charcoal was heavy in the air. "The fourth repast-the night repast-celebrates Uhe’s victory and the unification of the Sindie. This is the night repast; let us celebrate."

And then the food flowed. Strange meats, salads, ices, and cheeses passed her lips until her stomach sent up its all-full warning. Shortly after, the sounds of eating quieted, and she could hear the table being cleared. Benbo placed a hot mug into her right hand. "Here, Major. It tastes sort of like hot rubber soaked in dirty underwear."

She sipped at the brew as Baadek performed the peculiarities of introducing the guests to the host. Of course, Tora Soam knew all of those at the table. The introductions were more for the benefit of the guests. Baadek would move behind the person being described.

"Ovjetah, this guest at the table is Jetah Zigh Caida, First Deputy of the Dracon Chamber." Baadek moved behind the next guest: "Ovjetah, this guest…"

The Drac side of the table was rank-heavy. Besides the first deputy of the Chamber, Draco’s governing body, there were: Raga Gia, Drac Fleet liaison officer to the Chamber; Xalta Lov, Nujetah, second master, of the Talman Kovah; Suinat Piva, Ovjetah of the Fangen Kovah, the school of social goal formulation; and Vikava Minose, liaison officer to the Chamber of the Denve Irkmaan-department of humans.

Baadek stood behind Mitzak. "Ovjetah, this guest at the table is Leonid Mitzak, student of the Talman Kovah." Footsteps. "Ovjetah, this guest at the table is Amos Benbo, vemadah." Baadek stood behind her. "Ovjetah, this guest at the table is Joanne Nicole, vemadah."

Tora Soam opened the talk: "Fellow masters, I see your puzzled expressions at having humans at the repast. I shall explain. As Ovjetah of the Fangen Kovah, Suinat Piva has known for some time that the facilities of the Talman Kovah have projected an armed truce with the forces of the United States of Earth."

There was excited chatter among the Dracs. A deep, old-sounding voice interrupted the chatter. "Soam, how far has the projection been substantiated?"

"It has been substantiated to the full capabilities of the kovah, Deputy Zigh."

Zigh Caida hissed. "This is of crucial importance. Why has not the Dracon Chamber been informed of this development?"

It Just has-wait." The grumbling from the Drac brass quieted down and Tora Soam continued. "There are several things upon which the occurrence and successful exploitation of this projected truce depend. The truce will follow immediately after a battle of certain configurations. This is a tactical matter, and the configurations will soon be made available to the Chamber and to the Dracon Fleet."

A voice spoke: "What has this to do with these humans Soam?"

"Vikava Minose, you direct the Denve Irkmann."

"And?"

"And have you ever talked with a human?"

A pause. "No. But what of it?"

Tora Soam paused. "The truce is a thing that can last only a moment and then lead to continued fighting; or it can lead to peace. Following the truce, Dracs and humans will gather to sort out and resolve the issues of the conflict. They will talk. The Talman Kovah has projected that you five, or your replacements, will probably be those who will represent the Dracon Chamber at the talks, provided that the battle mentioned takes place within the next eighty days."

The voice of Vikova Minose spoke: "Ovjetah, an enemy is an enemy. You were to speak to why these… humans are at your table."

Tora Soam answered, its voice slow and thoughtful. "When you face the humans. you will have in your hands the ability to bring this war to an end. You will also have the ability to throw three hundred worlds-Drac and human-back into war."

Deputy Zigh Caida spoke: "Soam, what does this have to do with your… other guests?"

"It is simple, Deputy Zigh: if there is to be peace, or if there is to be more war, sense dictates that talma is best followed if the result is a matter of studied choice rather than a matter of ignorance, anger, or accident. One does not need to take to diagrams to see the truth in this. If all of you have at least some experience with human thinking, the chances of the negotiations being conducted and settled on an intelligent basis are improved-"

"Wait!" The voice was Tora Kia’s.

"My guests, this is Tora Kia, my firstborn. Why do you interrupt. Kia?"

Footsteps entered the room. "Ah, my parent, in your game you have overlooked the two most important parties to the negotiations. Where is the Mavedah? Where is the Amadeen Front?"

Raga Gia snorted out a scornful laugh. "I refuse to have the Front at the talks." Its voice changed direction. "Does this comply with your game, Soam?" Raga’s voice turned again in Kia’s direction. "The United States of Earth will represent the interests of the Front, and the Dracon Chamber will represent the interests of the Mavedah."

Tora Kia laughed. "No, no, my parent’s most respected guest. The interests of the Dracon Chamber are not identical to those of the Mavedah."

Sergeant Benbo spoke for the first time. "Raga Gia, if the Front is no part of the negotiations, there can be no peace. If negotiations ever happen, the Amadeen Front will want its own representative. The Front only wants an end to the war under certain terms. It is the same with the Mavedah."

The direction of Tora Kia’s voice changed. "Human, how are you called?"

"Amos Benbo."

"Have you done your time upon Amadeen, Amos Benbo?"

"Yes. And you?"

"Yes."

Zigh Caida spoke: "Kia and this human speak the truth, Soam. There will be four sides at the negotiations. I propose that we enlist Tora Kia to represent the Mavedah, and Amos Benbo to represent the Amadeen Front."

Nicole heard Mitzak stand. His voice sounded deeply troubled. "Ovjetah, I do not wish to participate in this game. I am a student at the Talman Kovah. Therefore, my loyalties, as well as my method of thinking, would corrupt my performance as a human."

"You are a human, Mitzak." Tora Soam’s voice was deadly. "Whatever your views or methods of thinking, the first thing the Drac negotiators must overcome is the sight of your face." She heard Mitzak sit down. "Very well, Deputy Zigh, we now have four parties to this session. Who shall begin?"

"Ah, games such as this would best be left inside the walls of the Kovah," Zigh grumped. "Very well, each side should formulate its goals-what it hopes to achieve from the negotiations. Once we have all seen the diagrams-"

Nicole spoke: "There will be no diagrams, First Deputy. Human negotiators are not familiar with talma."

"Surely there must be a human equivalent?"

"Situation assessment, goal formulation, and path construction and evaluation are not systemized disciplines among humans."

Exasperated wheezing seemed to come from First Deputy Zigh’s direction. The wheezing paused. "Goals must be stated in some manner!"

Mitzak laughed. "Yes, they will be stated with force, bombast, and fine-sounding subjective phrases that cannot be taken literally. Their true goals must be deduced from the fog of words they will spread in front of you, and from their actions which will probably contradict what little true meaning their words might contain."

There was disturbed silence from the Drac side of the table until Ovjetah Suinat Piva of the Fangen Kovah burst out in laughter. "I see your game, Tora Soam. Very clever, and you have my compliments."

"My thanks, Piva. May we continue?"

"Of course. Let us say that since Amadeen is the root of this war, we should hear first from the Front and the Mavedah."

Nicole felt Benbo stand up. "I think I can save some time here. The positions of the Mavedah and the Front are similar. The Front won’t be satisfied until every last Drac on Amadeen is either dead or removed from the planet." He sat down.

Tora Kia spoke. "And the Mavedah will settle for nothing less than the human population on Amadeen being either dead or removed. How much room, Tora Soam, does that leave you for problem solving?"

"Apparently none, Kia. However, I think you already can see the error in depending upon the apparent for your answers. Joanne Nicole, would you state the position of the United States of Earth?"

She rubbed her temples and let the stories of The Talman race through her mind. So much of talma involved goal choices; fitting the desired within the possible. She could not separate the formulas in her mind. "I would hear, first, the position of the Dracon Chamber."

A murmur of approval came from the Dracs. Then Zigh Caida spoke. "In gross phrases, then, we would see an end to the fighting-at least a confinement of the fighting to the immediate area of Amadeen. The Drac fleet would stand armed, as would the USE forces. But there would be no fighting."

"A cease-fire?"

"Yes."

Nicole thought upon Zigh Caida’s words. "If war could continue upon Amadeen without our two sides fighting, why is there fighting now? The truce must include a truce upon Amadeen. A separation of the combatants by a policed, demilitarized zone."

Zigh Caida asked, "And, Joanne Nicole, who shall have the responsibility for policing this zone?"

"A third party we could both agree upon; or a joint Drac-human force."

"Emmmm. This is… agreeable; but it does not solve the problem upon Amadeen. Amos Benbo?"

"Yes?"

"If we could establish a truce with a demilitarized zone in the manner described by Joanne Nicole, what would the Front’s position be?"

"No change. The Front won’t put down its weapons until every last Drac on Amadeen is dead."

"What of the demilitarized zone?"

"What of it?"

Nicole shook Benbo’s arm. "Amos, quit fooling around."

She could feel the rock-hardness of Benbo’s muscles. "I am not joking. Tora Kia knows that I am not joking."

Zigh Caida’s voice changed direction. "Tora Kia?"

"The human speaks the truth. The Mavedah has many old scores to settle. The Mavedah can settle for nothing less than Amadeen free of human life."

Tora Soam spoke. "Amos Benbo, your position does not allow the machinations of talma to work. There must be at least some degree of flexibility on your part; otherwise there can be no resolution."

"Let the Mavedah be flexible."

Tora Kia laughed. "My parent, you are more blind than Joanne Nicole. Can you not see that the Front and the Mavedah are way beyond rules? Beyond talma? They are beyond ultimate objectives. They are even beyond what will ultimately serve their own best interests. The Mavedah wants the Front dead; the Front wants the Mavedah dead."

"That serves nothing, Kia."

"My parent, until you have put in your time upon Amadeen, you have no idea what such position serves. But I will tell you what such a position serves. It serves death. On Amadeen, death must be served."

Nicole heard Kia’s footsteps move from the room. Later, Benbo talked to Tora Soam, saying much the same things said by Tora Kia. But while he talked, Nicole remembered that moment upon Storm Mountain when the Tsien Denvedah was falling back.

The universe was extremely small at that moment. There were absolutely no considerations beyond the fact that the Dracs were falling back. Cooler heads would have seen that any resistance at that point was futile. But on Catvishnu, there were no cooler heads. No one was thinking about anything other than scoring against the Dracs, and to hell with other considerations.

Tora Soam spoke, and its words filtered through her growing headache. "Joanne Nicole, do you have a comment?"

She stood. "I would return to my apartments. Tora Soam?"

"Yes?"

"Your game has failed. And it is not because anyone of us wanted it to fail. It failed because it had to fail. If a truce should happen, it will die as it has to die. The war, then, will resume. Before there is any solution, much more blood must be spent." Nicole held out her hand. "Baadek. Baadek!"

A Drac hand enclosed hers. "Yes?"

"Take me to my apartments. I have had enough of this foolishness."

TWELVE

"Without a key, a door is a wall. Without a door, a key is but matter. A door with a key in the presence of mind is an opening. Without mind, neither the key, the door, nor the opening can exist."

The Talman

The Story of Lita. Koda Ovsinda

That night she awakened; the edges of some dream-sired horror still touching her; Mallik’s name still on her lips. There was a sound from the corridor-boots moving against the stone floor; then the boots moving slowly away. On her bed with all doors closed, Nicole breathed easily and allowed her thoughts to move at their own initiative. And as Eam’s thoughts spoke to it of the eventual end of life upon the planet Sindie, Nicole’s thoughts spoke to her.

There was a fierce, lonely ache in her body. When she recognized that the ache was for Mallik, she shut it off. Other things… there were other things to think about.

Tora Soam’s dinner party game. It had been a disaster. A human of similar rank, entertaining a roomful of equivalent human brass, would have been mortified. The guests would have been mortified as well. But as Baadek was leading her away, Nicole could hear the Dracs renewing the conversation in amiable, unconcerned voices.

They were discussing the game, the game, much as, in the past, Nicole had seen humans chewing over a bridge or poker hand that had been completed. That was some sort of danger signal to her, because they were not humans; and they were not playing games.

But the… alienness of those creatures is the thing that keeps escaping me. They could be human.

Baadek had left Nicole at her door to return to the corridor and drive Benbo and Mitzak to their quarters. She would have liked to have talked with them more; but when she wanted the peace of her apartments, she reached out and called for Baadek.

Why?

She sat up and rubbed her eyes. Ever since her lights had been extinguished, she had been categorizing her experiences with the Dracs into analogs with humans.

Vencha Eban, the Drac who cleaned the floors at the Chirn Kovah. It made no difference that it was a Drac and that I knew it was a Drac; I always think of Vencha as "the cleaning lady." Eban is a simple, hardworking, "Maggie the Mop."

Baadek, the long-suffering family retainer. In my mind Baadek is every bit the comedic representation of the ex-slave running down the dirt road, tears in his eyes, blubbering his welcome as massa done come home fum de wawh.

"Dammit, and what is Tora Soam?"

The darkness around her absorbed the question, letting her see the answer. Mallik’s father, Eliem Nicole. Ever since she could remember, Eliem Nicole was the fishing village of Kidege’s sole lawyer. Quiet and thoughtful, it was a rare problem of any size in the town that didn’t eventually find its resolution on Eliem Nicole’s desk.

More often than not, the problem’s resolution cost the bearer nothing. And everyone knew that Eliem was no altruist; he did it for the sake of the problem. And he had taught her his fascination with problems-with the abstract problem of problems.

Long before he was appointed to the Baina Ya bench, the people of Kidege addressed Eliem Nicole as "Judge." And Tora Soam was Judge Nicole with a strange voice; a voice that was becoming less strange as the seconds passed.

The high-ranking Dracs that had been on the other side of the table sat in her mind as any greying, overweight collection of human officials would. Zigh Caida, the First Deputy of the Chamber, even had a face fixed in her mind. She thought for a long time, and then remembered: it was the Vice-commander of Storm Mountain, General Dell’s, face. Kindly, old General Dell.

Morio used to say that the General had adopted himself as my father. In a way, it had been true.

She shook her head and moved to the edge of the sleeping platform. She felt as though she were in the center of an enormous puzzle; a game with no rules, no objectives, no purpose. Lita teasing its students with its "I win" game; caught in the web of an unknown logos. And her mind felt the need of a purpose; a need to know the rules.

"Well, Nicole, you know at least one thing: these creatures are Dracs, not humans." The knotting in her gut as she made that statement told her more: they were not friends; they were deadly enemies.

If I could just see! Damn it, if I could just see!

She touched the edge of that well of self-pity, and backed away from it. And, from the pages of the Talman, Namvaac spoke to her.

And the student said to Namvaac, "Jetah, the darkness covers all the Universe. It is such an all-powerful evil, I feel so small and helpless within it. Next to this darkness, the black of death seems so bright."

Namvaac studied the hooked blade, then handed it back to the student. "Where you are now, child, Tochalla has been before you. It, too, was in darkness. It, too, had a knife. But Tochalla also had talma."

She sat straight up and strained her ears as a slight difference in sound touched the air. She turned her head right, then left, trying fruitlessly to determine the direction from which the sound was coming. Because of the curved, sound-absorbing walls of the sleeping room, the sound appeared to come from all directions.

Nicole pushed herself up, felt her way to the sleeping room door, and opened it. The sounds became slightly louder-something between glass air chimes and a guitar.

Music. The notes appeared to follow no familiar pattern. It was an incomprehensible wandering through minor scales. Sad, lonely wandering.

She pressed the control that opened all of the doors, then felt her way to the apartment entrance. The sounds came from her left. She hesitated. She had never been down that part of the corridor.

Nicole placed her left hand against the stones of the corridor wall and began feeling her way toward the sounds. As she walked along, several times the playing stopped, then resumed with a different but equally incomprehensible tune. She followed the sounds until the acoustic response to the instrument told her that she was across the corridor from a large, high-ceilinged chamber. She entered the room, leaned against the wall, and listened.

The music took on a mournful, haunting quality; and she let herself open to it devoid of comparisons or preconceptions. Then the music spoke to her, calling up familiar but strangely combined emotions. The music stopped, but Nicole let the memory of the dying notes stroke her thoughts.

"Who is that? Speak?" The voice was Tora Kia’s.

"Can you not see me, Tora Kia?"

"No. The chamber is dark. What do you want?"

"I heard you playing. I thought you could no longer play… because of your arm."

"I can still play with the other."

There was movement, then steps coming toward her. She tensed, but Kia only took her by her arm and led her toward a couch. Nicole sat down and listened as the Drac moved away and again took up its instrument and played an odd assortment of notes. The playing stopped. "In your apartment, Joanne Nicole, I heard you cry out."

"It was nothing but a dream."

"Baadek told me that you did not speak to my parent about what happened in the car. I should thank you."

"I kept silent more for Baadek’s sake than for yours, Kia."

A quiet laugh. "Of Course. Still, I apologize for my actions and thank you for yours."

She remained silent and Kia again began playing its instrument. The sounds were alien, but the instrument was the tidna: a harp with strings made of glass. But the music was different for another, indefinable reason. She let her head fall back upon the couch and listened, allowing the peculiar musical phrases to occupy her awareness. The music changed slightly, and, the patterns became something she could identify-feel familiar with.

"Kia, what is that?"

The music stopped. "A composition of my own. I wrote it upon Amadeen. Does it speak to you?"

"It incorporates human music; human themes. I recognize them."

"Joanne Nicole, a composition birthed in the blood covering Amadeen would be false unless it carried the sentiments of the Front as well as the Mavedah. Your composer, Tchaikovsky, did much the same for his composition on war. He used the themes of both his nation and that of the enemy."

"What… what do you know of human music?"

There was a silence, then she heard the tidna being placed non too gently upon the stone floor. "That human, Mitzak, spoke to me something that seems to be truth. After my parent’s game, Mitzak asked me what the difference is between ignorance and stupidity. Mitzak answered his own question by telling me that ignorance is self-inflicted stupidity. I had the feeling that Mitzak was talking about all of us. Both humans and Dracs."

"Your parent’s game? Kia, you knew it to be a game? Your performance was a part you played?"

"Of course."

"Why? Why did you cooperate?"

"We live by talma-games. That, and Tora Soam is my parent. It needed my hate for the game."

"But you knew it to be a game."

"It is all games, Joanne Nicole. Everything that exists. Did you not absorb anything from listening to The Talma when you were in the Chirn Kovah?" Nicole heard the tidna being picked up then came a series of rapid scales, and combinations of scales. As abruptly as the playing began, it stopped. "I know of Tchaikovsky for the same reason that my parent knows of human behavior and the behaviors of other races. All have been studied in detail. My study was music. My parent studied life. Humans studied us before the war; did they not?"

"Yes."

"Our means of information processing, because of the outgrowths of talma, are considerably superior to yours." The strange song birthed in Kia’s experience upon Amadeen filled the room. "My parent commands all that can be known about humans; what the humans know, and more."

"The USEF Intelligence Corps-"

"A joke. You see parts of surfaces. We see depths and beyond depths."

"But still you cannot avoid war."

"We cannot avoid it, Joanne Nicole: we cannot avoid it." She listened as Kia’s Amadeen song continued, the notes becoming almost visible in her mind. And there were gaps; places where notes should have been-would have been except for the musician’s missing arm. "And that is how I shall leave it." The tidna was replaced on the floor. "Could you hear where the missing hand should have played?"

"Yes."

"The composition would be untrue to Amadeen if all of the notes were there. This song is crippled, as it must be."

Kia played for a moment, then paused. "It is strange, Joanne Nicole. In the dark like this, you are not… not a human. With the darkness of your eyes, do you see the same?"

"Yes. I see us as… beings?"

"I heard you cry out. I came to investigate."

"It was only a dream, Tora Kia. I am all right."

It was silent, then Nicole heard Kia stand and move toward her. "I too have dreams, Joanne Nicole." Tora Kia struggled with its thoughts and words. "I need… there are things… things I wish to talk about."

"Talk to your parent."

Tora Kia hissed a strangled laugh and she heard its boots moving toward the door. "Make your rest, Joanne Nicole."

"Wait." She sat up. "Why me? Why do you want to talk to me?"

The Drac spoke its words as though it were admitting to the greatest sin. "I cannot speak to them-not about war. Not about my war. My parent is always the gentle scholar. Baadek has never seen battle. You are a soldier."

"I am a human. "

"You are a human soldier." The boots moved in front of her, then she felt Tora Kia seat itself on the couch to her left. Do you not see that I have more in common with you than I have with my own race?"

The silence hung heavily in the room. "I will listen."

"It is perverse that you are the one I come to talk to. But this war is perverse." The sharp smell of happy paste assaulted her nostrils.

Tora Kia remained silent so long that she thought it might have fallen asleep. But then it spoke. "Joanne Nicole, I have moments… times when it seems that I am back in battle… smell, the noise, the screams-it is all so real!… And then… I am back in the security of my parent’s home. I fear for my mind."

Tora Kia laughed. "At the Chirn Kovah, the masters say that I cannot give birth because of my mind. That what I believe will not allow conception to take place. Soon I will be too old; the act of conception would kill me. This will end the Tora line." Then a sigh. "The paste loosens the words-and thoughts-as it dulls perception."

Just the fumes from the drug made her slightly giddy. She reached out a hand and placed it upon Kia’s arm, then moved it until her fingers felt Kia’s hand holding the tiny container of the sharp-smelling drug. Nicole touched a fingertip to it, then brought the fingertip to her tongue. It stung for an instant, then all sensation of the drug was replaced by a relaxed warmness-

-Flashes of light and metal splinters; blood, bone, and scraps of flesh; a face made out of pink goo; everything covered with mud-

In the dark, Tora Kia was a voice; a voice in pain; a voice that wanted her to understand; that might understand her. "I still see the war, Kia. Awake… and in my dreams." She was dizzy, and she gently leaned her head against Kia’s shoulder, the drug making her head swim. "I wish… I wish there was something… something we-"

The shoulder moved as Kia laughed. "There are times when I believe that Aakva still plays cruelly with its creatures."

…As though he-it-he were off in the distance, Kia began to talk about Amadeen; the horror of it.-but she saw the horror of Storm Mountain, and cried out. An arm went around her shoulders… and she buried her face in Mallik’s chest as his hand stroked her face. Strange hand; strange face.

"Joanne. You are safe, now, Joanne."

…she seemed to fall endless distances, then a softness engulfed her face. Boots walking rapidly away…

"Joanne Nicole? Joanne Nicole?"

She opened her eyes, sat up upon the couch, then let her eyes close. "Baadek?"

"Yes, it is Baadek. I have with me the human, Mitzak. Why do you sleep here?"

Nicole pressed her fingers against her temples as icepicks began stirring the syrup between her lobes. "What do you two want?"

"I came to bring you to the morning repast. Since I could not find you, I enlisted Mitzak’s help. The morning repast, and Tora Soam, still wait upon you."

She lowered her hands to her lap. "I am not very hungry. I would like to return to my apartments."

Mitzak spoke: "Major, the morning repast includes a beverage with much the same properties, if not the flavor, of coffee."

"You’re pretty smug today." Receiving no reply, she stood up and allowed the pair to bring her, first, to her apartments, and then to the dining hall. There she, Mitzak, and Zigh Caida were introduced to the host, Tora Soam. After she had been seated and had sipped from the bowl of hot liquid that had been placed in her hands, Tora Soam’s voice came from across the table.

"Joanne Nicole, what is the attraction of this medication Kia uses?"

The throbbing in her head diminishing only slightly, she answered: "I’m sure I don’t know."

"As I have, in the past, smelled the substance upon my child, I can now smell it upon you."

"I am not a habitual user, Tora Soam. Its use for me was to cause relaxation, to lower inhibition."

"For what purpose?" She ignored the question and returned her attention to the hot liquid in her bowl. "For what purpose, Joanne Nicole?" The direction of Tora Soam’s voice changed. "Mitzak, explain."

"There are different purposes. I cannot read her mind."

An edge crept into the Drac’s voice. "The crust beneath your feet is crumbling, human."

"Nevertheless, I cannot read her mind. Nor can I read Kia’s mind. You must find your answers from those who can supply them."

"Do you presume to recite The Talman to a Drac-to me?" There was a pause, then Tora Soam again spoke: "Mitzak, have you ever used this substance?"

"Yes. But I am only able to tell you my purpose; no one else’s."

"And that purpose is?"

"I am able to tell you my purpose; I am not willing. It is none of your concern."

There was a long silence, then Tora Soam spoke quietly. "We are all feeling the pressures of the day’s circumstances." The remainder of the repast was conducted in silence.

Later her headache having subsided, Joanne Nicole warmed in the sunlight as her sandaled feet felt the ancient stone paths of the Tora Estate. Baadek and Mitzak walked with her, each one holding one of her arms above the elbow to guide her. Although one of the hands was human, she could not tell it from the hand of the Drac.

Baadek spoke: "Mitzak, your game with Tora Soam is dangerous."

"It is no more dangerous than yours, Baadek."

"I think you know that there is a difference."

Mitzak snorted out a bitter laugh. "A difference of form, Baadek; not a difference of substance. Tora Soam is not… itself these days."

"Are you insane. human?"

Joanne Nicole stopped. and pulled her companions to a halt. "If you two are planning on continuing this cryptic conversation, either let me in on it or leave me alone."

Baadek answered. "We cannot leave you here. You could not find your way back." A pause. "We can talk of other things."

"Very well." Nicole stepped off again. "How is Tora Kia."

"Emmmm. This reminds me, I must leave you with Mitzak." Baadek’s footsteps moved quickly down the path ahead of them.

"Mitzak, what is going on?"

"It is complicated."

"I’m a quick study. Explain."

Mitzak sighed and walked in silence. After several minutes he began speaking. "Your meeting with Kia last night; It caused a certain amount of embarrassment."

"What do you mean? The happy paste?"

"No." A pause. "Nicole, what ever did you have in mind to get sexual with Tora Kia?"

She felt the red rushing to her face as she abruptly came to a halt. "I did not! Damn, Mitzak! Kia’s a hermaphrodite!"

"Nevertheless."

She pulled her arm from Mitzak’s grasp. "Damn you!"

"When you asked me, Nicole, did you want an answer or did you want an opportunity to put on a demonstration?"

"Mitzak, why don’t you go and do whatever it is that you do?"

"Do you want me to help you back to your apartments?"

"I can find my own way." Mitzak hesitated for a moment, then his rapid footsteps receded into the silence beyond. Joanne Nicole stood alone, thinking, the sunlight and gentle wind touching her skin. Sexual.

"Absurd. Besides being hermaphrodites, the parts are in the wrong places."

She turned her face away from the sunlight and felt with her feet for the edge of the path. How could a human, male or female, be sexual with a Drac? In training, the brief survey of Drac reproduction was enough to evaporate any pervert’s fantasies regarding human-Drac fun and games. Male and female organs were contained in the lower abdomen behind the lips of a belly-slit.'

In the ancient True Laws of Aakva, Rhada had said that it is law that at least one child out of three be made by joining one’s fluids with the fluids of another. The lips could extend joining a pair and allowing fertilization to occur by another: But it was not something a human could participate in without considerable surgery.

Still, she thought. Last night… she cried out. An arm went around her shoulders… and she buried her face in Mallik’s chest as his hand stroked her face. Strange hand; strange face.

"Joanne. You are safe, now, Joanne…"

As she edged her way back to her apartments, she could not shake the memory.

THIRTEEN

There will come to you at times a blinding vision that fills your eyes and mind, announcing itself as Truth. Step back and strike down this vision and beat it as though it were a brain-sucking monster.

Then, with it lying there limp, bent, and tarnished, if it still claims to be Truth, accept it with great caution, remembering that the most dangerous lies arrive in the most highly polished armor.

The Talman

Aydan and The War of Ages. Koda Itheda

After the night repast, she sat on a cushion in the music room, the tidna balanced on her lap. With untrained fingers she roughly plucked from the glass strings a version of Kia’s Amadeen tune. There were familiar footsteps, and she continued playing as she spoke. "Where have you been today. Kia?"

The footsteps paused, then there was the sound of the Drac lowering itself into the softness of the couch facing her. "Your playing is pitiful, human."

She stopped playing and placed the tidna on the floor. "Kia, last night-"

"I do not wish to discuss it."

She smiled. "Then why are you here?"

"The playing… I came to protect my instrument." There was a long silence, then came a chuckle from the Drac. "Joanne Nicole, what did last night mean to you?"

She let her hands fall to her lap. "I’m not sure. For a moment I imagined you as my husband-former husband; he’s dead. I reached out for… I don’t know. Comfort. Security. Peace."

"And you found these things?"

She slowly nodded her head. "Yes. Yes, I did. What was last night to you?"

The sharp smell of Kia’s drug filled the room. "Would you care for some?"

"No. What was last night to you?"

"Perhaps it was the same for me."

"I don’t believe that, Kia. Everyone on the Tora estate seems very upset about it. I don’t understand why. Did you tell them about last night?"

"There was no need to. Joanne Nicole, we are both trapped in the limits of a carefully engineered talma. What happened last night was not expected. It fell outside the limits and was therefore, quite obvious to those familiar with the talma."

"Will you tell me?"

"I… I cannot." Kia stood and left the room.

She leaned back on her elbows and sat in the quiet loneliness for an hour or more, when a slight difference in the air caused her to stand and listen.

The air seemed to move slightly, there was a vibration she could feel through her feet, and she could hear the gentle rattle of glass. Shock waves coming from a great distance. Nicole felt her way around the furniture until she came to an outside wall. She placed her hands against the stones and moved along the wall until she came to a window.

The vibrations became more pronounced; then there came the familiar crump of sonic warheads.

"Damn! Oh, damn!"

The USEF was attacking Draco.

She staggered away from the window and ran for the corridor, smacking into sharp edges, stumbling to the floor. After making it into the corridor, she turned left and let the fingers of her right hand glide along the wall as she ran toward her apartment. Once in the doorway, she immediately closed the door to the corridor, went through the central access into the sleeping room, and closed that door too.

As the sounds of the attack grew louder, she buried her face in the cushions and covers, much like a child trying to hide from the dark. But her dark was something that couldn’t be hidden from. Then, as abruptly as they had begun, the sounds ceased. She sat up, facing the door, clutching one of the cushions, waiting for them to come for her.

There was-not a dream-a kaleidoscope of impressions; shards of some indefinable whole…

…They were discussing the game much as, in the past, she had seen humans chewing over a bridge or poker hand…

…In the Chirn Kovah I had been placed in what amounted to a sensory deprivation environment…

No sight; no touch; reduced sound… and then The Talman handed to her for entertainment.

…The strangeness-the alien unknown-of everything was made almost familiar because the images from her eyes were prevented from overpowering her other senses…

…a strange thought is in my mind: I was curious; but, if I could have seen, I would have been terrified…

"…To Tora Soam, the war is… an immense puzzle to be solved; a fascinating problem. I think my parent basks in the size and complexity of the puzzle. You and I are nothing more than two factors among the trillions that comprise this puzzle…"

…They had been dipped in fire and had survived to see the Drac Infantry pulling back. Morio Taiseido collapsed beside her, his voice hoarse.

"Major, I could die content at this moment. We whipped them! Holy son of a bitch, we whipped them!"

…is this joy the appeal to battle; to war? If It was the truth, it would be an impossible motivation to treat rationally.

The rules were out; the ultimate consequences were out; nothing was in our minds except the fact that the Dracs were falling back. In that minuscule particle of time, we were victorious…

"…you have overlooked the two most important parties to the negotiations. Where is the Mavedah? Where is the Amadeen Front?"

Raga Gia snorted out a scornful laugh.

"I refuse, Tora Kia, to have the Front at the talks."

Its voice changed direction. "Does this comply with your game, Soam?"

Game?

Raga’s voice turned again in Kia’s direction. "The humans will represent the interests of the Front, and the Dracs will represent the interests of the Mavedah."

Tora Kia laughed. "No, no, my parent’s most respected guest. The interests of the Dracon Chamber are not identical to those of the Mavedah."

Sergeant Benbo spoke for the first time. "Raga Gia, if the Front is not part of the negotiations, there can be no peace. If negotiations ever happen, the Amadeen Front will want its own representative. The Front only wants an end to the war under certain terms. It is the same with the Mavedah."

…Zigh grumped. "Very well, each side should formulate its goals-what it hopes to achieve from the negotiations. Once we have all seen the diagrams-"

Nicole spoke: "There will be no diagrams, First Deputy. Human negotiators are not familiar with talma."

"Surely there must be a human equivalent?"

"Situation assessment, goal formulation, and path construction and evaluation are not systemized comprehensive disciplines among human negotiators."

Exasperated wheezing seemed to come from First Deputy Zigh’s direction. The wheezing paused.

"Goals must be stated in some manner!"

Mitzak laughed…

"…the facilities at the Talman Kovah have projected an armed truce with the forces of the United States of Earth."

"There are several things upon which the occurrence and successful exploitation of this projected truce depend. The truce will follow immediately after a battle of certain configurations…

"…if there is to be peace, or if there is to be more war, sense dictates that talma is best followed if the result is a matter of studied choice rather than a matter of ignorance. anger, or accident. One does not need to take to diagrams to see the truth in that…

…And then, as though it were being played before her upon a stage, she remembered The Story of Lita in the Koda Ovsinda. Lita had invented a game for the students to play.

…There was disturbed silence from the Drac side of the table until Ovjetah Suinat Piva of the Fangen Kovah burst out in laughter.

"I see your game, Tora Soam, Very clever. and you have my compliments."

Compliments?

A game?

A goddamned game…

Her breath coming in rapid gasps, she awakened on her side, still clutching the cushion. There was quiet around her. The sounds of attack had ended.

She released the cushion and pushed herself to a sitting position. The pieces of her dream blurred and faded. Her stomach told her that it was past time for the morning repast.

Why hasn’t Baadek come?

She stood up, felt her way to the door, and opened it along with the door to the greeting room. Her ears told her that the door to the corridor was closed, which answered the question to why Baadek hadn’t called. The closed outside door was the Drac equivalent of a do not disturb sign.

She opened the door, but could hear no one in the corridor. Closing the central door to the greeting room, she spent a few moments cleaning up and putting on a fresh robe. When she was finished, she left her apartment and began feeling her way down the corridor to her right. As she approached the entrance to the series of large living and entertainment chambers, she heard voices.

One of the voices belonged to Tora Kia. Nicole did not enter the chamber, but stood out of sight in the corridor, listening.

"When will you take command of your new denve, Kia? The voice was unfamiliar to her.

"It depends. I am on a special mission for our parent at the present. How long the mission will take is conjecture. What of you? How long is it before you have to report to the Denve Itheda?"

Only a few days. The wound is nothing."

A third officer. You must be the youngest one in the Denvedah. I am proud of you. Our parent is proud too Vidak"

Vidak.

Sin Vidak.

The child I supposedly saved from the fire.

A third officer?

But this one’s voice was different-too different-too old.

"There were a great many promotions after the battle of Fyrine IV, Kia." Nicole heard one of them stand and begin walking about the chamber. There was a silence, more walking, then a pause. "What is this? Kia, by my narrow ass it is a human!"

Nicole heard Kia stand, walk into the corridor, and approach her. Why, Vidak, don’t you remember? This is the woman who saved you from the fire at Ditaar."

There was an overly long pause. Then the one called Vidak spoke: "Of course… and how does the morning find you…"

"Joanne Nicole," Kia completed.

"Yes, how does the morning find you, Joanne Nicole?"

Nicole leaned heavily against the wall as the edges of truth and he swept across her darkness. There was an instant when tears and anger fought with a million blasphemies; but she remembered the student from the Aakva Kovah.

And Shizumaat told Namndas that both the truth and the lie must be tested.

"Test the truth by forcing it to lie; test the lie by forcing it to be true."

She reached out a hand. "You are Sin Vidak?"

"Yes." There was a moment of tenseness then she felt the warm fingers of the Drac’s hands enclose hers. "It is good to see you again, Joanne Nicole."

Nicole moistened her dry lips. "Perhaps you can tell me something I’ve always wanted to know?"

"If I can."

"What happened to your three classmates that I dragged from the fire along with yourself?"

"Ehhhh…" The Drac’s fingers tensed. "They are all well."

Nicole nodded. "All three of them?"

"Yes."

She released the Drac’s hand. "There were only two others."

Tora Kia interrupted. "Vidak was very young and afraid at the time, Joanne Nicole. Who can remember such things under such circumstances?"

A million talman paths raced across her mind, intersecting, finding blocks. reaching conclusions. "Vidak. I overheard Kia say that you are a third officer."

There was a moment of uncomfortable movement, then Sin Vidak spoke. "Eh… perhaps we should talk more at a later time, Joanne Nicole. You do not look well."

"When I was in the Chirn Kovah. I was told that you had entered the Tsien Denvedah."

"I am Tsien Denvedah."

"How much time did your initial training take?"

"Ehh… this is not-"

"Vidak," Kia interrupted. "perhaps you should inform our parent that Joanne Nicole-"

"How much time. Vidak?" Both of them became very quiet. Nicole reached out her right hand and wrapped her fingers around Vidak’s wrist. "I’ll tell you how long, Sin Vidak; it used to be my job to know. Tsien Denvedah initial training lasts a quarter of a year. Your advanced infantry training took half a year. And you are a third officer. The Tsien Denvedah doesn’t jump ranks in promotions, and in no case is there allowed less than half a year between grades. How long is that, Drac?"

"… Please-"

"How long?" She released Vidak’s arm. "Does six years sound about right? Six years, minimum?"

Tora Kia made a clucking sound, and Nicole heard Sin Vidak walk down the corridor. "Joanne Nicole, you were badly injured-"

"Six years, Kia? Six years! Are you going to try and make me believe that it has been six. years since I regained consciousness? Time flies when you’re having fun?"

"I do not understand-"

"I want some answers. And I want them now."

Tora Kia shouted. "Gedji! Gedji!"

Nicole heard footsteps running in the distance. The sound stopped. "Yes, Tora Kia?"

"Ask my parent to come to the green chamber."

"Tora Soam is meeting with First Deputy Zigh."

Kia chuckled. "Tell my parent that Joanne Nicole and Sin Vidak have met, and that Vidak is a little older than the human remembers."

"Ai!… at once, Tora Kia." The footsteps of the one called Gedji hit top speed and moved from the corridor.

Kia took Nicole’s arm and led her into the chamber. "Do not blame Vidak for any of this. It was not part of the game." She was led to a couch and she sat down. Nicole heard Kia take its place upon another couch. "You are angry, Joanne Nicole; but it will pass."

"I spent my tears on a child called Sin Vidak."

"I know."

Again her mind sought paths as another piece of puzzle presented itself. Nicole leaned back in the couch. "Kia, it is unfortunate that Dracs are hermaphrodites."

"Why?"

"There are some names that I would like to call you that you cannot properly appreciate with your current arrangement of organs."

"Emmmm."

There were hushed voices and rapid footsteps in the corridor outside the chamber. Then Tora Soam and Zigh Caida shouting in relays at Sin Vidak. Kia issued a sad chuckle. "Poor Vidak. This is a sorry homecoming for a hero of the Tsien Denvedah."

FOURTEEN

The unintentional chain of events we call an accident describes paths as real as any path planned, diagrammed, and executed in principle with talma. And if the accident alters the present to the more desirable future. this special kind of path has the advantage of having already been proven valid.

The Talman

The Story of Lita. Koda Ovsinda

The green chamber was silent for a long time. It was so quiet Nicole could almost hear Tora Soam’s eyeballs click as they moved from Tora Kia, to her, to Zigh Caida, and then back to Kia. Tora Soam eventually broke the silence. "Joanne Nicole, what do you know?"

"As someone once told me, that is a question that would take many hours to answer. It would be more efficient if you told me what I should know."

There was a silence, then a sigh. "This is a disaster." Tora Soam’s voice changed direction. "Zigh Caida. I am at a loss as to what to tell you."

"Soam, do I detect panic in your manner? This is not disaster, but accident." Zigh actually sounded unconcerned.

Kia laughed. "My parent, is this how the Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah approaches its problems? Was last night’s attack instructive? Has the war suddenly become more to you than an amuzing puzzle?" Such disrespect, such sarcasm even from Kia, was abnormal.

Tora Soam answered, its words dripping acid. "Kia. your mouth follows unproductive paths."

"My many, many apologies, my parent. And, now, to Joanne Nicole’s request?"

"Why did no one tell me Vidak was coming home?"

"Vidak wanted to surprise us." Again Kia laughed.

"Your amusement is out of place, Kia."

Nicole leaned forward on the couch, her elbows resting upon her knees. "I want some answers. Your family squabbles can wait. Tora Soam? Was there an attack last night; or was that a Special effects demonstration put on for my benefit?"

"That attack was… real. Too real."

"Talk to her, my parent. Talk to her."

"Yes… it is a time for answers. You are correct. Zigh Caida, it is an accident. Whether the paths its events describe are valid has yet to be proven, however."

Nicole heard one of the Dracs stand. Then Zigh Caida spoke. "Kia, I think Soam would rather perform this task alone with the human."

"But, First Deputy, I really do want to watch."

Tora Sam spoke: "I agree with the First Deputy, Kia. Joanne Nicole’s need tor answers outweighs your desire to see your parent squirm. In answer to your question, Kia; this puzzle never was amusing, as I am certain someone important to you will eventually point out."

There was a brief silence, and then she heard Kia stand. Both Kia and the First Deputy walked from the chamber. Nicole leaned back in the couch. "Well?"

"It is long in the telling, Joanne Nicole."

"Time is all I have."

"It is difficult to know where to begin. Do you have any specific questions?"

"I can think of one: how many of you motherless kizlodes participated in this charade?"

"Emmmm. I do not have an exact number. Hundreds. You are not the only human involved. Chance just happened to favor you."

"Chance?"

"Your blindness."

"My-is my blindness part of this charade? Am I blind?"

"… Yes. You have no reason to believe me; but it is the truth. "

"Have I been… did you people blind me?"

"No. No." There were sounds of movement; then footsteps crossing the floor to her right. "Joanne Nicole, explain to me the basic purpose and structure of talma."

"Kiss my sitting-end, Drac! I am not one of your students. I-"

"Joanne Nicole, you will do as I say! Otherwise, I cannot meet your request. The work of years is at stake. Now tell me the basic purpose and structure of talma."

Nicole spent a few seconds nibbling on the skin of her lower lip. "Very well. The purpose is the achievement of goals. The general structure is to know the present, to know the alterations of the present needed to make the achievement of the goal a future reality, and to discover, assess, and choose the paths that lead from the present to the desired future."

"Adequate."

"I had nothing else with which to occupy my time in the Chirn Kovah. It is no great accomplishment."

Tora Soam snorted out a laugh. "There have been students who have learned less with eyes and more time."

"So what is the point?"

"That is the point."

The footsteps moved from her right to her left. "Joanne Nicole, let me tell you something about the war that you do not know. Although it is comprised of a vast multiplicity of presents and goals, the war is still an event that should fit within the basic structure of talma. We are in a present; there is a more desirable future; all that is left is to discover and execute the paths from the first to the second."

"And?"

More footsteps, then a pause. "We appear to be out of paths. Do you recall and understand the object lesson of the night repast? The discussion between Tora Kia and Amos Benbo?"

"The object lesson was simple enough, Tora Soam. All parties involved cannot have everything that they want. The goals of the Mavedah and those of the Front are mutually exclusive."

"Emmmm. Tell me the difference between an apparent and a real goal."

"The apparent goal is the one perceived and stated; the real goal is the one that will satisfy the difference between the present and the desired future."

Nicole felt Tora Soam lower itself beside her upon the couch. "What are the apparent and the real goals of the Mavedah and the Front?"

The apparent goats were clear: each side demanded nothing less than the extermination of the other side. The real goals? The settling of old scores? Happiness? Put the entire planet’s population under therapy until each side can live with the existence of the other? "I am not certain."

"Emmmm. I will tell you this: as things now stand, both the Dracon Chamber and the United States of Earth would be inclined to hand back conquered territories and end the fighting-except for Amadeen."

"Have there already been negotiations?"

Tora Soam hissed. "Of a sort. A creature more of information and communication. rather than accomplishment." The silence in the chamber became desperate.

The Drac seemed to be waiting for Nicole to respond. She rubbed her temples and thought for a moment. "Zigh Caida and the other Dracs at the repast; they are the Drac representatives to the negotiations?"

"The… former negotiations."

…And then the past spoke to her:

Uhe told its warmasters:

"Never again shall one tribe starve because of a boundary, tabu, or law…"

The student Shizumaat spoke to the servant of Aakva:

"…I see that a rule stood between the Mavedah and survival; I see that the rule was nothing sacred, but made by Sindie; and I see that Uhe saw this and cast the rule aside to save its people: The truth I see, then, is that rules are meant to serve the Sindie; the Sindie is not meant to serve rules…"

In some manner, every crisis described in The Talman was rooted in talmai veruhune: the service of rules; ruleboundedness. Every resolution was rooted in stepping outside of the rules. And talma was the formal discipline, paths, rules for stepping outside of rules.

Maltak Di, in the Koda Nushada, told its students: "Talma is not the way; Talma is a way for seeking ways."

Ruleboundedness. And every major halt in human advancement, every major crisis in human history, was rooted in talmai veruhune. Call it religion, politics, philosophy, science-it was the blind allegiance to rules.

"Tora Soam, both the United States of Earth and the Dracon Chamber are rulebound into this war."

"Yes."

"And you find through me a way to step outside of the rules?"

"A possible way."

Too many things came together at once as sharp pains lanced through her head. She could not-would not-admit to what she knew; what Tora Soam wanted her to know; and what the Ovjetah would have her do about it.

…There was a disturbed silence from the Drac side of the table until Ovjetah Suinat Piva of the Fangen Kovah burst out in laughter.

"I see your game. Tora Soam…"

Nicole stood up. "I must go to my apartments, Tora Soam. I do not feel well. I think I too, see your game."

She heard Tora Soam stand. "And what will you do?" Nicole began feeling her way toward the corridor. "What will you do, Joanne Nicole?"

Nicole sat in her apartment’s entertainment room for a few minutes, trying to get control of herself. Then she said to hell with it and began tearing up the place. Nicole ripped open the cushions with her fingers and swung things until she heard other things smash.

"Cute! Cute. Tora Soam, you bastard-" Lights flashed in her head and she found herself sitting on the floor, a lump growing on the right side of her forehead. Cut stone walls do not smash easily.

"This is stupid."

She pulled herself up, felt her way into the bathing room, and tried to keep the swelling down by putting cold water on her forehead.

The game.

Lita’s formula for winning: "I win."

The bloody damned game.

She realized that she had been fenced with rules and fattened up with choice tidbits of information. Tora Soam and the other, Jetai Talman had found themselves rulebound. Somehow a Lita had fenced Amadeen. the USEF, and the Dracon Chamber with a structure of rules… a structure that allowed no end to the war… no end short of destroying both human and Drac civilizations. The weapons were too powerful; the tacticians too skilled.

An insight was needed: a talma that would reveal the nature of the structure, which would, in turn, reveal the talma that would allow the structure to be encircled by another structure.

And she was a part of the talma to find that insight. Paths for finding paths to find paths through which more paths…

Wheels within bloody wheels.

She stood upright. -That’s why I could never get that damned feeler stick in the Chirn Kovah to work for me! That would have allowed me to see too much! Another damned talma to find…

Pur Sonaan and its damned player… selected recitals by Vencha Eban…

…Vencha Eban gasping at being discovered not cleaning the room… "After the birth of my only child, Hiurod, my reproductive organs (poignant pause indicating deep sorrow) had to be removed. Hiurod died-"

"God damnit!"

Supporting cast: Vunseleh, Mitzak… Tegara-oh, she was good.

"Your name-ha! Your skin! It is yellow!

"No shit. toadface…"

…Tora Kia slapping me in anger… good old Baadek swearing its undying loyalty to me…

They were all good.

"Jesus H. Christ!"

And if everything fit together, Tora Soam would be standing in her open doorway, watching its convoluted talma going down the drain. Nicole turned toward the bathing room door, felt her way through the central accessway, and entered the greeting room.

"Tora Soam?"

"Yes?"

"You bastards certainly went to a lot of trouble. Why?"

"To end a war is not sufficient reason?"

"Why me?"

"You were one of many, Dracs and humans with unique sights, selected by the Talman Kovah’s computers. Your command’s unpredictable resistance at Storm Mountain placed you in the coarse selection. Your rescue of the children-"

"Was… was that attack staged, too?"

"No. But I suppose it is to be expected that you would put nothing beyond my behavior."

"That is no lie, Tora Soam."

Nicole held her hands to her head. Benbo and that smell of flowers… cleaning. Vencha Eban!

"Damn! Is Benbo? A Drac?"

Tora Soam gave an involuntary laugh. "My apologies. Your Amos Benbo is still on Ditaar."

"Who…"

"Its name is Fanda, one of our most accomplished actors."

"A Drac?"

"Yes. It was necessary for you to hear the Amadeen Front’s hate from someone you could trust. Fanda studied Benbo for many days." Tora Soam was silent for a moment. "It will harm things no further, Joanne Nicole, for me to inform you of something else. It may relieve some of your pain. Leonid Mitzak, under my instructions, lied to you about the extent of the attack on the V’Butaan Field. None of your men were killed." Nicole leaned against the wall. A thousand thoughts demanded her attention at the same time.

…On my way to Draco, drugged and dreaming, my memories of Mallik and my unborn child… Morio, Benbo, and scenes of the battle of Storm Mountain…

…At the university, I never told anyone about Mallik or the child I gave up-

…The humming… that humming!

"Those dreams I had. They… they were about things that never took place!"

"This is partly true -"

"Damnit! What haven’t you messed with?"

"You are blind, Joanne Nicole; and there is still a war, and a problem to be solved."

She heard Tora Soam’s footsteps approach her, then a hand took her arm.

"Come with me. You have rendered your apartment unfit for habitation: I will have it cleaned and the furnishings replaced." They entered the corridor and turned to the right.

"Joanne Nicole, to follow this talma it was necessary to enable you to see both as a human and as a Drac. Perhaps Sin Vidak’s unfortunate timing has destroyed this. Perhaps not. As long as it works, an accidental trigger to your thoughts serves as well as one that is planned. But all of the sides to this war are rulebound."

"That much I saw."

"Excellent. Can you see whether we are bound by our own rules, or by the rules of an outside agent?"

Nicole shook her head. "No. But the answer is on Amadeen. Of course, you knew that."

"Yes. We knew the answer is there. We also knew that we did not know what questions to ask to get that answer. Our negotiators are attempting to open again the talks with the humans. Will you go with us to Amadeen?"

"Answer me this, first: Vencha Eban at the Chirn Kovah…"

"Fanda also played that part."

Images, vocal gestures, came together in her mind. The disrespectful words; the hesitations before saying the word "parent."

"Tora Soam is not… itself these days."

"Fanda is an excellent actor, Tora Soam."

"I will pass along your compliment."

Nicole stopped and faced the Drac. "When does all of this testing end?"

"I do not understand."

"You are another actor. And this is yet another play. When does this testing end?"

The Drac was silent for a moment, then answered in a different, higher voice. "I think it already has."

FIFTEEN

"‘Choice’ is not an empty word that I use. Arlan; it is the nature of our race. To be alive is to have the ability to have goals; to be of this special life, is to have the ability to choose; and to choose anything is to choose goals…

"Without a goal you are simply taking up space-not only in this room, and this kovah, but in this Universe.

"Either find a goal, or turn the space over to one who does have a goal."

The Talman

The Story of Uhe. Koda Ovida

Joanne Nicole sat in the back of a car, Baadek driving her to what it said was the Talman Kovah-

What I assume to be the back of a car; what I assume to be driving; by a creature I assume to be Baadek-

"Driver, who are you?"

"You do not recognize me, Joanne Nicole? I am Baadek."

"Who are you?"

The Drac chuckled. "My name is Hida Mu."

"Another actor?"

"I belong to the same company as Fanda."

Nicole rubbed her eyes, the motion of the car moving her-

What I assume to be a car; what I assume to be driving-

There were Shizumaat’s words, and she remembered them: "Instead believe this: question everything, accept the wholeness of no truth nor the absolute rightness of any path."

Her hand reached out and felt for the doorlatch. When she found the recessed handle, she pushed on it, the door opened, and she began to step out of the compartment.

A curse came from the driver’s seat, the sound of hissing brakes, as Nicole’s right foot was whipped out from under her, flinging her against the open door. A strong hand grabbed her left arm as the vehicle slewed to a stop.

The driver relaxed its grip on her, and Nicole relaxed her grip on the door, sinking down upon the road’s pavement. "You are insane! Poorzhab!" A door opened and Nicole could hear boots running around the vehicle, then the Drac squatted next to her. "Are you hurt? The Ovjetah will have my feet in a fire for this-oh, look at your knee!"

"I cannot look at much of anything, Drac." She gingerly reached out and touched her right knee. "It’s only scraped. Don’t have a hemorrhage over it."

"Why? Joanne Nicole, why did you do this to me?"

"It was necessary to test the truth by trying to make it lie: Isn’t that what you kizlodes have been teaching me? Trust nothing?"

"Ahhh! You do not test the sharpness of a knife by plunging the blade into your skull, do you?" Hands reached under her armpits and lifted her back into the car. After her legs had been lifted in and her door slammed shut, Nicole half-heard a string of muttered curses as the Drac driver moved around the vehicle and slammed its own door. Nicole presumed that the subsequent rapid clicks of metal against metal were the doors being locked. "Now, I beg you, just sit until we arrive at the kovah!"

The vehicle jerked into motion. "Drac?"

After a steaming silence, the Drac answered. "What?"

"How do I test that it is the Talman Kovah, Drac?"

"That… that is not my problem, human! Not my problem!"

Nicole rested her head against the back of the seat as the evidence from her most recent experiment throbbed in her knee.

Trust in mere words was in thin supply.

She was left, seated in a couch. After the Drac driver had left, Nicole stood up and felt her way around the room. It was a relatively small greeting room; two couches, two doors on opposite ends, the walls and floor covered in smooth tiles. She returned to the couch.

There was the sound of a door opening, then soft, unfamiliar footsteps entering the room. The sounds of the footsteps ceased.

"Welcome, Joanne Nicole, to the Talman Kovah. My name is Ovjetah Tora Soam."

The voice was different-different from the one she had heard in the Chirn Kovah-different from the one she had heard at the Tora estate-always supposing that I had been at the Tora estate.

The one calling itself Tora Soam continued: "I see questions upon your face. I am inclined to answer a few. What would you ask?"

"The Tora Soam I know is different."

"Does that surprise you?"

"No… No. I am developing a high surprise threshold."

"Excellent."

"But this game… it is grotesque!"

"It is for a purpose. You would not be here unless you understood that purpose." There was a silence; then the sound of the Drac-if it was a Drac-seating itself in the opposite couch.

"Drac, at times, I think I know the purpose; at other times, I don’t know."

"Do you have questions?"

Do I have questions? Hell, yes, I have questions! Will I get a straight answer to any of them?

"Drac, the one called Tora Kia."

"Yes?"

"Is Tora Kia-the one I met-is that your first child?"

"Yes."

"Were my experiences with Tora Kia genuine?"

The new one called Tora Soam laughed. "A fine word: genuine. Yes. I suppose they were; if anything can be considered genuine. Kia was not happy with my game. Its experiences upon Amadeen clouded Kia’s sense of talma. I understand that Mitra Quim played my part with true conviction."

"Was Kia’s part staged?"

Another laugh. "Partly, but not the part that you mean. I can only speculate about the frustratedness of your, emmmm, love affair."

Nicole felt her face tum red. "How did you know about that meeting?"

"Kia told me. My child is sufficiently versed in talma to know that it might have destroyed my plans with its exercise in self pity. As it turns out, however, no damage was done. Your meeting with Sin Vidak may be another matter, however. We can only see."

"Drac-"

"My proper address is Ovjetah, or Tora Soam,"

"I’ve been told that before, Drac."

"Emmmm."

"In fact, I have no evidence that you even are a Drac. Your Fanda-if that’s its name-played a fairly convincing human."

Nicole heard motion from the other couch, then three footsteps. A hand took hers. "Count the fingers, human."

She felt the three-fingered hand with both of hers; then she stood, moving her hands up the Drac’s arm, shoulder, and throat, until her fingertips were touching the creature’s face. The smooth skin, the almost absent nose, the prominent brow… the mouth opened. "Are you satisfied, now?"

Nicole moved her hands down the Drac’s chest, then she grabbed its robe with two angry fists. "Your face might be a costume! Perhaps I ought to rip off this robe and check out your piping to be certain!"

Strong hands grabbed her wrists, pulling her hands free from the robe. "Sit down, Joanne Nicole." The hands held her wrists until she lowered herself down upon the couch. The hands released her. There were the sounds of the Drac returning to the other couch. "You are the graduate of a process. You have discovered what the process is intended to serve-which was part of your graduation. You hold a piece of the answer needed to resolve this war." The Drac stood; its footsteps moved across the floor. "In the time that it has taken me to say that, over two hundred Drac and human soldiers have either died or have been wounded." Tora Soam’s footsteps moved around for a few moments, then came to a stop. "You had a question."

"What makes me so special in this process? I was told that hundreds were involved."

"Yes." There was a silence. "But two things have happened: your graduation came early-due to the chance circumstance of Vidak’s visit; and the United States of Earth and the Dracon Chamber are close to agreeing upon the terms of a cease-fire."

"The cease-fire terms?"

"The terms are similar to those suggested by all of you who were in training, except that the Ninth Quadrant Assembly has requested and has obtained permission to have a committee from the assembly observe the negotiations."

"The Ninth Quadrant?" Nicole frowned as something buzzed in her head. "For what purpose?"

"The stated purpose, Joanne Nicole, is to observe and report back to the Quadrant Assembly."

"Do you suspect another purpose?"

"I suspect everything; don’t you?"

Nicole slowly nodded. "Tora Soam, what are the other ceasefire terms?"

"I See I am Tora Soam, now."

"For the time being."

"Emmmm. As to the terms, the human and Drac forces will halt all advancement and will establish fixed positions; a demilitarized zone will be established upon Amadeen; and the zone will be policed by a joint human-Drac force. And, as you know, neither the zone nor its police will be able to halt the fighting upon Amadeen."

Nicole heard the Drac resume its seat upon the opposite couch. "Soon a joint human-Drac commission will be established to supervise the return of captured territories, as well as the colonization of new planets. Of course, as you have pointed out, the cease-fire upon Amadeen cannot turn into a treaty unless a solution is found for Amadeen. But that cannot be done until we discover how we are rulebound."

Nicole settled back upon her couch. "Maybe I’ll help you in this. But not if you keep pulling twists on me. I have to have something I can rely upon; some reference points to reality; something to trust."

Then the Drac spoke the words of Shizumaat: "Instead, believe this: question everything, accept the wholeness of no truth, nor the absolute rightness of any path. Make this your dogma and in it you will find eventual comfort and security; for in this dogma is your right to rule the lower creatures of the Universe; for in this dogma is your right to choose your talma; for in this dogma stands your right to freedom from dogma."

"Tora Soam, that last piece of advice almost killed me."

"Joanne Nicole, talma does not assure immortality; it only improves your chances of achieving goals." Tora Soam’s voice seemed to turn away. "You are not required to either like it or approve of it, human. But you must understand it. We will be leaving for Amadeen in a few days, and it will take many more days for us to reach the negotiations before the cease-fire fails. Will you come with me to Amadeen?"

"Who else will be going?"

"Some of my advisors from the Talman Kovah. There will also be Leonid Mitzak and my firstborn Tora Kia."

"Why?"

"Both Mitzak and Kia understand your function in this enterprise. Their task is to help you."

"What function will you serve, Tora Soam?"

I will advise our negotiators."

"And what function will I serve?"

"You will advise me."

Joanne Nicole wiped her hands across her face, letting them fall upon her lap. "I don’t have your answers."

The Drac issued a brief laugh. "Events do not allow me to wait for them. The answers are upon Amadeen. Will you come?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Of course, I cannot force you to find my answers."

"You people have certainly done a fine task of trying."

Your sightlessness and I governed the kind and nature of the information you received. We did not force you. You came to your own conclusions through your own choices. Joanne Nicole, will you come to Amadeen with me?"

"I want to tell you No! Because. " because you have not dealt with me…"

"I suggest the word fairly to complete your thought. And I also suggest that you already know what that thought is worth Joanne Nicole."

…Maltak Di. Maltak Di and its damned sixteen beads…

"Jetah. that is not fair!"

"Now you answer from stupidity."

Nicole bit her lower lip and slowly nodded. Passion is a creature of rules…

"I will go with you."

The sound of Tora Soam’s footsteps receded from the room, while a new set of footsteps-familiar-entered.

"Mitzak?"

"Yes. I will be going with you to Amadeen."

"I was told. It seems, Mitzak, that Lita is playing games with us."

He laughed. "No rules?"

Nicole leaned the back of her head against the couch. "There are rules, Mitzak. There are always rules. We just don’t know what they are yet. Let’s just hope to hell we have sense enough to yell I win before everyone else does."

That evening, at the night repast back at the Tora estate, the actor, Fanda, performed a short piece from a modern play. Tora Kia sat silently, while the "brass" giggled and applauded Fanda’s performance. "The brass" belonged to the same performance company from which Fanda had come.

Nicole ate very little, and paid little attention to the merriment and conversation.

A desert of questions; only a few grains of answers.

There was a pause, and Nicole called Fanda to her side. "How may I serve you, Joanne Nicole?"

"Benbo. You must have met him, studied him."

"I did, yes."

"How is he?"

"When I left him, he was Ditaar vemadah. Since the USE captured Ditaar, I do not know."

She nodded. "Thank you."

Fanda returned to its companions and paired up with one of the "brass" named Tioct to perform a Drac love play. Nicole left the room and began feeling her way back to her apartment. In the silence of the corridor, there were footsteps following her. Nicole stopped walking; and the footsteps behind her stopped. She recognized them. "What do you want, Tora Kia? If you are Tora Kia?"

The footsteps moved to her side and stopped. "I am Tora Kia. You must believe that I was not a willing part of this game."

"I see that. What do you want?"

"Joanne Nicole, I am… confused."

"According to The Talman. that is the Drac’s natural state of affairs."

"I suppose that is one interpretation." Tora Kia’s breathing seemed uncomfortable. "There is something that… something that you should know."

"What is that?"

"That night, when I played the tidna and you came to the chamber. We sat together."

"And?"

"You touched my arm, placed your head on my shoulder-listened to my talk. I held you. It was dark."

"What are you trying to say, Kia?"

Kia’s boots moved uncomfortably on the stone floor. "It is not easily said. It is no longer dark."

"It is dark for me."

"My emotions were not in control. I… lost control."

"Control of what?"

More nervous movements. "Joanne Nicole, I… I have conceived."

"Conceived? You mean… Ha!" And then Nicole laughed so hard it hurt her ribs. It was a release of so many things.

"This humor, Joanne Nicole. I do not understand it. I have just told you that I will have a child. This is not amusing."

"Pregnant!"

"Yes!"

"I’d make… I’d make an honest Drac out of you, Kia; but… what would your parent say!?" She felt the remainder of her way into her apartment, tears of laughter running down her cheeks.

"I am honest!"

"Take no offense at my laughter, Kia. You would have to be a human to understand it… Congratulations. Congratulations, and all the-ah, hah!"

She closed the door to the corridor and collapsed upon the floor in laughter.

SIXTEEN

Passion is a creature of rules. This does not mean do not love, do not hate. It means that where your passion limits talma, you must step outside of the rules of your love and hate to allow talma to serve you.

The Talman

The Story of Cohneret. Koda Tarmeda

Enroute to Hell. Human and Drac corpses roasting over the pit that was Amadeen. Could there be a war in which no one wants peace? On Earth ancient hates still burned the Semites. The United Kingdom and Northern Ireland had long ago been absorbed by the United States of Earth. Yet the night still brought the crack of guns, screams, tears-

"Joanne Nicole, the Ovjetah would speak to you."

She softened her meditation, let the feelings of her body reach her mind and the soft hum of the Dracon Fleet Ship Cueh reach her ears. She pushed up from the cushion and turned toward the voice. "Aal Thaya, where is the Ovjetah?"

"Tora Soam is in the ship’s screen display room with Mitzak and Tora Kia."

"I am coming."

She felt her way toward the door and pondered the absolute trust in Tora Soam, Kia, and Mitzak that she had built upon her absolute mistrust in everything. Truth is always a closely held variable to be tested against the constants of rules. And the rules are always creatures of some group’s or individual’s choice; again to be tested against more rules.

Maltak Di had said it: "Truth is an elastic to be measured against elastic rules of understanding and procedure."

And faith is a form of mental blockage founded in the belief that either the truths, the measures, or both are inflexible-givens.

There was an instrument of Drac invention that could have been placed upon her back. It would have pressed dull needles against her back, letting her feel the diagrams that others could see with their eyes. She had refused it. Without her eyes, she was seeing more than she ever had seen before. Nicole could not risk something that would interfere with her vision.

She entered the screen room and sensed the others in the room with her. No one spoke. She felt her way to a couch and sat down. In a few moments a door opened and she heard Tora Soam’s familiar footsteps enter the room. Tora Soam spoke, Its voice evidencing passion by its cold lack of emotion. "I have this to tell you. The Dracon Chamber has cleared our mission to Amadeen. We are officially attached to the Amadeen negotiations. You will be appraised of the details in a few moments. But I want you to understand this: The principle Drac negotiator at Amadeen was named Heliot Vant-"

"No!" Tora Kia’s footsteps moved across the compartment. "It is not true-"

"Heliot Vant has been murdered, and the negotiations are in shambles." There was a silence, then Kia moved back to its couch and sat down. Tora Soam spoke to them all. "Your task is to find the path we need to find peace. But if you should find it within your power to discover who murdered my dear friend, Heliot Vant, you will find my gratitude to be without limit. We shall arrive at the orbiter in less than three days. Prepare yourselves."

Mitzak spoke: "Ovjetah, your desire to find this murderer-if murder is the fact-is beside the talma to resolve this war; and might contradict it."

"Perhaps, Mitzak. None of us knows. If this murderer’s reckoning serves a part of this talma, it will serve us all. If it does not, I would know the murderer’s name. I am more than qualified to construct my own talma-one that will not limit the talma of peace."

Tora Soam’s footsteps left the compartment. Mitzak stood and spoke. "In the space of a few seconds, the Ovjetah’s view has been narrowed from the universe to a single victim. Kia, you must talk to your parent."

"I can tell my parent nothing that it does not already know, Mitzak."

"Can Tora Soam see how its view cripples talma?"

Tora Kia sat silently for a few moments. "Mitzak, your records show that you used to belong to a celibate religious sect."

"And?"

"Perhaps you do not understand the ties between those who cause and make family lines. Heliot Vant and my parent joined to conceive me."

"I did not know." Nicole could hear Mitzak take a step toward the door, and turn. "However, Tora Kia, perhaps that is why I can see how this event limits the goals and paths visible to your parent If someone wanted to cripple your parent’s usefulness by manipulating its rules of passion, that someone could do worse than to kill Heliot Vant." Mitzak turned and left the compartment.

Kia let escape a breath. "Mitzak is correct. But he does not know my parent’s ability to overcome adversity." There were the sounds of Kia moving about on its couch. "Joanne Nicole, your records show that you gave birth to a child."

She could feel her face beginning to flush. "It is no concern of yours."

"How did you feel?"

"What do you mean, Kia?"

"Carrying your child, being a parent. How did you feel?"

"I spent a lot of time throwing up, a lot of time being ugly, a lot of time feeling guilty. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"No. And I do not think you tell the whole truth. When the male, Mallik, was living; what was it like then?"

"It…" Joanne Nicole felt the tears come to her eyes. "It’s none of your business."

"Joanne, I find it difficult to imagine how a man regards a woman; how a woman regards a man; how they both regard a child; how a human child regards its parents." Kia was silent for a moment. "I am to be a parent. Sin Vidak was composed completely from my parent’s own fluids. But Heliot Vant and Tora Soam mixed fluids to conceive me. It took two beings to bring me into existence."

"And?"

"My child, in a manner of speaking, will be the same. Our fluids did not mix-"

Nicole sat upright. "Just what are you saying?"

"-but if it were not for you, I would not be carrying my child. The act of conception wreaks violence upon the parent. If I were only a few years older, the act would have killed me. My child, if it lives, will owe its life to you."

Nicole snorted out a laugh. "Kia, you owe as much to the dark and to your drugs. Perhaps more. Would you make them your child’s parents, as well?"

The Drac stood and moved to Nicole’s couch. Kia took her hand in its, and held it. "Joanne Nicole, what has become of your own child? The child of Mallik and Joanne Nicole?"

"I don’t know." She pulled her hand free of Kia’s grasp. She sat, trying to swallow her tears; then she turned her face up toward the Drac. "When Mallik was alive, it was a wonderful thing. But have you ever had a close friend die? Have you?"

"Several. Upon Amadeen."

"And what did you do, Kia?"

"Do?"

"Didn’t you remove from yourself everything that reminded you of them? Even thoughts? Just to reduce the pain? Didn’t you?"

Kia was silent. Then it spoke. "It is true. But a child is different than a gift, a letter, or a memory. It has a life of its own. The pain of the parent is the price to achieve the child."

Joanne Nicole pushed herself to her feet. "I don’t even call it-think of it-as my child, Kia. That part of my life is history-dead!"

She felt her way toward the door of the compartment, but Kia’s words made her pause. "You wish that it were dead, Joanne. But it is not so. Your child lives."

Nicole moved into the corridor and felt her way to her compartment.

As the ship approached Amadeen, Joanne Nicole sat and stared with her sightless eyes at the forward wardroom’s unshielded viewport. She reached out her right hand and placed it upon Leonid Mitzak’s arm.

"Describe it to me, Mitzak."

He remained silent for a moment. "Joanne Nicole, it should not be so, but… I find it strange."

"What do you find strange?"

"At a certain distance Amadeen looks like Earth, Akkujah, Draco-deep blue oceans mantled with wisps and whorls of white clouds. Only now have the images of the land formations become distinct enough to tell the difference. We are facing the full light, and I can see most of the Dorado and Shorda continents. They are enormous, the Dorado filling most of the upper left quadrant and the Shorda filling most of the lower right. Between them, the Iron Channel is under clear skies."

"The strangeness?"

"It… it still seems familiar. Almost as though the land masses of the planets we know had been rearranged to fool us."

"Mitzak, can you make out the demilitarized zone?"

"No. But I can see large areas of both continents that look like deserts."

"Amadeen has no deserts."

"It does now."

Nicole removed her hand from Mitzak’s arm and, rubbed her eyes. "Have you noticed a change in Tora Soam since we learned of Heliot Vant’s death?"

"Yes. As you know from your work with the computer, the autopsy showed that Heliot had ingested a large quantity of poison-pronide. It is a human way of killing. And the poison is widely distributed among USEF soldiers."

Nicole lowered her hand to her chair’s armrest. "Tora Soam must realize that those facts point equally toward a human murderer or a Drac murderer’s frame."

"Tora Soam, I fear, needs to see no such thing." Mitzak paused for a moment. "The joining between Heliot Vant and Tora Soam obscures many things."

"Mitzak, I know, you know, Kia knows, and more than anyone else in the universe, Tora Soam knows." Nicole sighed. "More and more I feel that Lita is out there netting us with its rules-"

"-And Tora Soam is now in Lita’s net?"

"Exactly. Perhaps all of us. Which makes our positions-yours and mine-rather precarious. We are traitors to the humans, and are humans to the Dracs."

"Including Tora Soam, our only protection?"

Nicole nodded. "Yes-"

Familiar footsteps entered the compartment as the door hissed shut. It was Tora Soam. "I have been in communication with Indeva Bejuda, the acting Jetah of the Dracon Chamber’s mission to the negotiations. I have been appointed the mission’s representative to meet with a similar representative from the United States of Earth’s mission. Joanne Nicole?"

"Yes?"

"You will assist me. We are to discuss with the humans the particulars for opening again full negotiations. Leonid Mitzak?"

"Yes, Ovjetah?"

"I want you and Kia to meet with Fourth Officer Hajjis Da. Hajjis is the officer in charge of the Drac security unit on the orbiter. Hajjis has the information regarding Heliot’s death. I have already made the arrangements. You will all be issued Blades of Aydan to badge you as members of the Dracon Diplomatic Mission. Mitzak?"

"Our task, Ovjetah?"

"Find out what Hajjis knows about Heliot Vant’s murder. You must learn, as well, everything that can be known about the orbiter and every being that inhabits it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Ov-"

Tora Soam abruptly turned and left the wardroom. There was a silence in the compartment until Nicole heard Mitzak turning the control that governed the wardroom’s viewscreen. "We are almost ready to dock at the orbiter."

She heard Mitzak lean forward in his chair. "What is it, Mitzak?"

"I am not certain." He leaned back. "It is a feeling."

"Describe it."

"I can see the orbiter looming out there-looking like some huge, abandoned, malevolent thing. Something asleep, but with jaws. I think I am frightened."

"Of what?"

"That the stakes in this game are higher than we imagine, and that Lita has already said, I win."

SEVENTEEN

"I have stood where the Kathni have stood, and the universe is a different thing through their eyes. Long ago Lurrvanna taught us that logic is a creature of context and invention. If this was true for beings inhabiting the same planet for uncounted thousands of years: can it be less true for beings evolving from separate environments, inhabiting different planets?"

The Talman

The Story of Ditaar. Koda Sinushada

Scant hours later, Nicole sat before a table, nervously fingering the hilt of the ceremonial dagger thrust into her waist wrap, and listened as Tora Soam introduced itself and her to the two humans negotiators. When the Ovjetah had finished, one of the humans coughed. "I compliment you on your English, Ovjetah. My name is Nikos Eklissia. The man sitting next to me is my assistant, Colonel Richard Moore.

Nicole heard Tora Soam lean back in its chair. "And, Nikos Eklissia. I also compliment you upon your command of English."

Embarrassed silence followed. Eklissia coughed, then spoke. "Our purpose here, Ovjetah-"

"All of us know our collective and individual purposes, Nikos Eklissia, state your government’s position."

Again Eklissia coughed. Nicole heard Tora Soam lean forward. "Eklissia, are you diseased?"

"No."

"Then I would ask you to stop blowing wind and saliva about the compartment and to proceed with stating your position."

"Look, Drac-"

Hurried whispering came from the human side of the table then the human spoke again. "I apologize for my nervous habit. However, Tora Soam, I can see no advantage to either of us, or our governments, in exchanging insults."

"Nikos Eklissia, our races, our worlds, our universes are in the process of preparing to continue murdering each other. Your injured sensibilities compared to the billions of dead and the future billions that will die if we do not reach an accord on the negotiations, do not interest me. State your government’s position."

"Very well. My government wants the negotiations limited to discussing the signing and implementation of the treaty accords already agreed to by Ambassador Rafiki and Ovjetah Heliot."

"No."

Another cough. "No?"

"Nikos Eklissia, circumstances have changed since that document was written. Many have died, and my friend Heliot Vant has been murdered. There will be no limits upon the subject matter of the negotiations."

"That is impossible, Tora Soam."

"You do not have the power to change your position?"

I must consult With Ambassador Rafiki, and our gov-"

Nicole heard Tora Soam stand. "Then we have nothing more to discuss. My assistant will remain to arrange a meeting for when, there is something to discuss."

Tora Soam’s footsteps marched away from the table and out of the compartment. There was a long pause, then one of the humans stood. I’ll be damned if… talk to her, Colonel, and make the arrangements."

Nicole heard Nikos Eklissia’s footsteps march from the compartment; and after a long moment, Colonel Moore’s chuckle came from the other side of the table. "Your boss likes to hang tough, Nicole."

Nicole nodded and released her Blade of Aydan as she clasped her hands together. "And your boss is a wimp."

"I see we’re going to get along just fine. Out of curiosity, why are you working for the Dracs?"

"I’m not. I’m working for peace. What are you working for, Moore?"

There were the sounds of fingers drumming upon the table. The sounds stopped. "You’re blind."

"Sightless, but not blind."

"Hmmm. Well, I hope you can see this. The two negotiation teams have been hammering out the terms of this treaty for a long time. It would be signed and in effect right now, except for the Dracs breaking off everything because Heliot died. We don’t want to start over from the beginning."

"Colonel Moore, I can’t possibly explain to you the meaning of Heliot Vant’s death. However, it couldn’t have come at a worse time. I can assure you that the Dracon Chamber is both willing and able to resume the war. In addition, the Chamber and the Drac negotiating team will follow Tora Soam’s recommendations."

"When should they meet again ?"

"As soon as your team has the power to make decisions and agrees to take the limits off of the negotiations."

The sounds of fingered drumming again started; then stopped. "What’s it going for nowadays, Nicole?"

"What’s what going for?"

"Treason."

She had been waiting for the question; the same question that she had asked Mitzak a thousand years ago. Countless responses competed for the use of her tongue; but in the end she could do no more than Mitzak had done. She laughed.

Later, seated in Tora Soam’s quarters next to Kia, Joanne Nicole listened as Mitzak put his conclusions before the Ovjetah. "According to the commander of the Tsien Denvedah security complement, Fourth Officer Hajjis Da, the night before the signing ceremony Heliot Vant and Ana Rafiki met informally in Heliot’s quarters. Rafiki had brought with her a bottle of bourbon-"

"Explain."

"It is a beverage containing a form of the drug alcohol. Tests showed that Heliot’s portion of the beverage contained the poison. There were no traces of the poison either in the bottle or in ambassador Rafiki’s portion of the beverage."

"Emmmm. A question, Nicole?"

"Yes. Mitzak, who poured the drinks, and where?"

"According to Hajjis Da’s interview with Na Chanji, Heliot’s duty guard, Rafiki’s duty guard poured the drinks in the galley immediately off of Heliot’s quarters. Na Chanji observed the human guard do this. Then Na Chanji carried the drinks into Heliot’s quarters."

Nicole frowned. "The glasses-containers-who provided them?"

"The containers came from Heliot Vant’s galley."

Nicole nodded. "Go ahead."

"Hajjis Da concludes that there were only four who could have administered the poison to Heliot Vant. The first is Ambassador Rafiki."

Tora Soam grunted. "The news has just been announced that Rafiki is being recalled by her government. The next Mitzak."

"Next there is Heliot Vant’s duty guard, Na Chanji. Na Chanji is dead-a suicide that took place shortly after the security commander interviewed it."

Nicole faced Tora Soam’s direction. "That could indicate guilt, remorse -"

"-Or sorrow. Go ahead, Mitzak."

"Next is Ambassador Rafiki’s duty guard, Ivor Kroag. He was a military police private with the USE Force." Mitzak was silent for a moment. "Kroag was transferred to the USE Forces stationed on Amadeen eight days before we arrived. He was reported killed on DMZ duty three days ago."

"And the fourth?"

"The fourth, Ovjetah, is Heliot Vant, itself. A suicide."

Kia spoke: "Probability laughs at you, Mitzak."

"I agree, Tora Kia; but possibility is another matter."

No one spoke as Tora Soam stood. Its footsteps moved about the compartment for a moment, then stopped. "Mitzak does the interview with the human duty guard agree with Na Chanji’s interview?"

"I don’t know. Drac security was never allowed access to Kroag. In the same manner, the commander of the USEF military police on the orbiter was not allowed access to Na Chanji."

Tora Soam’s footsteps began again. "Each player hides its pieces of the puzzle from the other. This is of interest, since each side’s behavior presumes the possibility of its own guilt. Yes, Mitzak?"

"Ovjetah, this parallel security organization rulebounds the investigation."

"Yes. That is obvious. Emmmm, let us construct the beginnings of a talma that will allow the investigation some movement." The footsteps stopped. "Nicole?"

"Yes?"

"Has the next meeting been arranged?"

"Moore and I settled on three days from today, providing the conditions you demanded have been met."

"Good. There are two additional conditions. In return for like cooperation from the Drac security team, the USEF military police must make its investigative materials and results concerning the death of Heliot Vant available to Fourth Officer Hajjis Da."

"I understand. And the second condition?"

"The recall order concerning Ambassador Rafiki must be rescinded. Rafiki will continue to represent the United States of Earth at the talks. Is there anything more? Mitzak?"

"The lists of persons on the orbiter at the time of Heliot’s death, until the present, in addition to their records-as much of their records as Hajjis Da could assemble."

"Have you copied the information into the mission’s central computer?"

"Yes."

"And the information I requested on the orbiter?"

"Yes, Ovjetah."

"Give me the codes. I will study them at a later date. Give Nicole the codes, as well. Nicole, do you have anything to add?"

She held the tips of her fingers to her temples. "Perhaps." She faced Mitzak. "You said that the tests determined the presence of pronide in Heliot Vant’s beverage."

"Yes."

"Who did the tests?"

"Londu Peg. Heliot’s personal health master."

"And Londu Peg also did the autopsy that determined the cause of Heliot’s death?"

"Yes. Do you see a fifth possibility in Londu Peg?"

"Mitzak, we are relying upon nothing more substantial than Londu’s word both as to the cause of death and the evidence indicating how the poison was administered."

"Why would Londu misrepresent the truth?"

"What law of the Universe, Mitzak, prevents Londu from misrepresenting the truth-or from murdering Heliot? And if we doubt Londu’s word concerning the cause of death, the suspects are no longer limited to those we have discussed. We are even in doubt that there was a murder." She turned her head and faced Tora Soam. "Where is Heliot’s body?"

"At the present: it is in Sindievu on Draco. It was sent home immediately after the autopsy." The Ovjetah paused. "Emmmm… I see. I shall at once order another autopsy done at the Chin Kovah in Sindievu. And now both of you may go. Kia, I want you to stay. We must talk."

"About what, my parent?"

"It is a private matter."

Nicole stood up. "There is one more thing, Tora Soam."

"What is that?"

"We know that this war is rulebound. You told me that my task was to determine how it is rulebound. To continue this investigation into the death of your friend will necessarily take away from the time I can spend on the more important problem."

"What law of the Universe prevents knowledge of the circumstances concerning Heliot’s death from being a possible path to achieving the larger goal?"

Nicole held out her hand. "Mitzak, please help me to my quarters. I haven’t been there since we arrived, and I am tired."

She felt Tora Soam’s hand on her arm. "My view is not as narrow as you suspect, Nicole. Do not close paths simply because another wants them explored. You must have better reasons."

"Just as you must have better reasons than your friend’s death to commit all of our resources to exploring only one path."

"May the morning find you well, Joanne Nicole."

She nodded, the hand released her arm, and Leonid Mitzak led her from Tora Soam’s quarters.

After entering her guarded quarters, she quickly felt her way around the walls-noting each light fixture, each piece of cabin furniture-then she lowered herself upon the bed platform and stretched out, her arms over her head. She took two deep breaths, relaxed her muscles, and tried to clear her mind for sleep.

But there was something: uneasiness; questions hanging without answers; an overwhelming sense of dread. Her thoughts moved at random, the attempted suppression of a particularly demanding or disturbing thought only moving her mind to more demanding, more disturbing, areas.

Jetah Lita had delighted in inventing situations in which to place its students; each situation designed to remove mental blinders from the students, inflicting upon them the kind of mistrust that would allow the corner of a truth to be seen. And the mental blinders that were removed-fairness, right, honor, morality, good, evil, love, hate, duty, justice, freedom, oppression-were all malleable creatures composed of transitory rules.

Inventions.

And the student said, "Jetah, love is not a thing of rules; it is a thing of feelings."

Lita smiled. "And you do not see, Fa Ney, that feelings are creatures of rules?"

"I do not, Jetah."

"Do you love me, Fa Ney?"

"Of course, Jetah."

"Why?"

"I just do."

"And if all that I taught you were lies, if I constantly beat you, degraded you, and humiliated you, would you still love me?"

The student thought. "No."

"Then, Fa Ney, your feelings demand certain conditions they require that I be a certain way, and do certain things. Your love demands that I comply with certain rules-rules you invented."

Fa Ney began to cry. "Does this mean, Jetah, that I do not love you?"

"I comply with your rules, child. Therefore you do love me, as I love you. Did our discussion make you doubt that?"

The student nodded. "But you love me… because I comply with your rules?"

"Yes. But that does not diminish the feeling. Understand the event and the facts that govern the event Fa Ney. Understand your feelings and the rules that govern them. Place your trust In such an understanding, for this allows you to trust your feelings.

"Never place your trust in a word."

Joanne Nicole sat up, crossed her legs, and rested her face in her hands. "Peace" is a word representing the compliance with a malleable set of rules. And "war." When. the Tsien Denvedah and the USE Force fight, it is called "war." When the Amadeen Front and the Mavedah fight, it is called "terrorism," "civil conflict,"-

-or reach back in time for other words: "police action," "the troubles," "uprising,"-

-And "murder" is a word. The Drac children who died at the kovah in V’Butaan were not "murder victims." They were casualties. They died by a different set of rules than did Heliot Vant.

Nicole sighed, swing her legs to the deck, and stood up. She moved toward her compartment’s terminal and sat down before it. Lita had said: "All rules aim toward goals and all goals are rules aimed toward further goals "

"A circle-a chain."

Ditaar had said, "To understand the circle, break it and travel both directions until you meet yourself. To understand the chain, understand the closest link, then travel in both directions until you run out of links."

She sat back from the terminal. What goal was served by Heliot Vant’s death? She spoke out loud: "It prevented the signing of the Rafiki-Heliot Treaty, it renewed hostilities upon Amadeen, and it made possible different terms under the reopened negotiations." …And all goals are rules leading to further goals.

"What is served by changing the treaty terms?" She reached out her hand and felt the controls of the terminal. Finding the proper key, she pressed it and spoke: "Joanne Nicole voice-receive."

The terminal toned, and Nicole spoke again: "Play document, Amadeen orbiter treaty, initialed draft." She listened to the document.

While the USE Force and the Dracon Fleet stood only an order away from mutual destruction, and while the Amadeen Front and the Mavedah unleashed horror and suffering upon each other below, Heliot Vant and Ana Rafiki had reached an agreement.

The agreement ended the major conflict, made permanent joint USE-Drac institutions for returning captured territories, colonizing new planets, exploiting the undecided areas upon Amadeen, arbitrating war crimes and reparations, and policing in force a demilitarized zone upon Amadeen that divided human and Drac according to the territories each governed prior to the war-

Nicole stopped the terminal’s voice. The treaty did not satisfy the goals of either the Front or the Mavedah. She let her chin rest upon her chest. Tora Kia had said, the only goal to be satisfied upon Amadeen is death.

Whether the treaty were signed or not, the fighting would continue upon Amadeen. The treaty would have continued, for a time at least, the end of the major conflict between the USEF and the Dracon Fleet. Regular forces would have been withdrawn from Amadeen… but the fighting would have continued.

Neither the Front nor the Mavedah could be served by either Heliot’s death or the failure or renegotiation of the treaty. Both organizations were beyond diplomacy.

Who then? Whose goals are served by the failure of the treaty, or by the success of a different treaty? Neither the United States of Earth nor the Dracon Chamber could derive an advantage in continuing the war. The machines and sciences of both races showed them grinding each other down until…

A successful treaty would serve both Rafiki’s and Heliot’s diplomatic goals, as well as their personal career goals: Heliot Vant did not end its own life and Rafiki did not kill the Drac… unless there was something else-

What of the economic interests on Amadeen? Earth IMPEX, Dracon JACHE. Timan Nisak, and the dozen or so other companies?

Nicole shook her head. No one had made a credit out of Amadeen since the beginning of the war. Not only would the economic interests on Amadeen be served by ending the war, such service required, as well, an end to the fighting upon Amadeen. No one’s interests appeared to be served by Heliot Vant’s death.

"Perhaps Rafiki’s duty guard did it simply because he was a human and Heliot was a Drac."

Lita had said: "The first place to look for an answer is not upon the far mountain or up in the sky. First, clear the ground beneath your chin."

Ivor Kroag had been transferred to planetside duty soon after the Drac ambassador’s death…

But the human poured the drinks: the Drac, Chanji, supplied the glasses and carried them in…

"If Kroag did it, we’re talking about some improbable sleight-of-hand." And how could Kroag assure that the poisoned drink would reach its intended victim? Perhaps it didn’t matter which one died? The death of either ambassador would have interrupted the peace process.

Chanji?

In service of what? And if the Drac duty guard had done it, celebration would have been in order-not suicide. Dracs do not meet defeat, guilt, or shame with suicide. Suicide is the Drac talma to end unendurable pain.

-if it was suicide.

Kroag and Chanji in it together? How? Why?

She shook her head and deenergized the terminal. The negotiations were irrelevant to the terrorists upon Amadeen. Everyone else had a vested interest in the success of the treaty; and therefore in keeping Heliot Vant alive.

With her hand, she felt around the terminal for her compartment’s communications link.

"Damn!"

She withdrew her hand and sucked on her right forefinger, tasting blood. Carefully reaching back, her fingers felt that the plastic work surface was nicked and scratched. She found the sharp edge of the nick that had scratched her finger, felt around it, and placed her hand upon the control to the link.

She paused as an uneasy feeling swept across her mind. It was as though the last ingredient for a complicated recipe had been acquired-the final piece of an unassembled puzzle had appeared.

What recipe? What puzzle?

She pushed the feeling from her mind as she keyed the link. "Dracon Mission communications," the link answered. "How may I serve you?"

"I wish to speak with the USE Mission communications operator."

A pause. "And your name?"

"Joanne Nicole. I belong to Ovjetah Tora Soam’s party." As long as you’re going to drop a name-

"USE operator," answered a human voice.

"I would like to speak with Colonel Richard Moore. Can you tell me if he is accepting calls?"

"Wait one."

The click of a connection, a hum. then a voice. "Moore."

"Colonel, this is Joanne Nicole."

There was a brief, involuntary laugh. "What can I do for you, Major?"

Major?

"I see you’ve been doing a little research, Colonel."

"If the war should end, Major, there’ll be a wad of bad papers waiting for you. You can count on it. What can I do for you?"

"Tora Soam has instructed me to inform you that there are two additional requirements before your boss and mine can meet to discuss reopening the negotiations."

"They are?"

"First, information regarding Heliot Vanes death must be freely exchanged between Hajjis Da and the commander of USE orbiter security."

"That would be Major Haridashi. And the second requirement?"

"Ambassador Rafiki’s recall order must be rescinded."

"Hmmm. I will convey your information to Mister Eklissia. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Colonel, would it be possible for me to talk to Major Haridashi?"

"The only authorized line open between the two missions at the present is ours. What did you want to ask him."

"After Heliot’s death, why was Kroag transferred planetside?"

A pause. "I suppose I can answer that. We were advised, that keeping Kroag on the orbiter would only heighten the animosity of the Drac contingent. It was for the same reason that Ambassador Rafiki was recalled. We are trying to keep things as cool as possible up here."

Nicole sat back from the link. "Colonel, you said you were advised."

"Yes."

"By whom?" Nicole sucked the cut on her finger.

"By indirect means, the advice came from the Ninth Quadrant observation team. The advice sounded good, so we took it."

The Cut! She withdrew the finger from her mouth and imagined the webs of talman paths leading to and from the cut-a net that…

"Thank you, Colonel." Nicole keyed off the communications link, sat still for a moment, then energized her terminal, programmed it for voice response, and listened to Mitzak’s orbiter information.

The orbiter was a functional ore-receiving facility operated by a Timan crew. Neither Dracs nor humans from Amadeen had ever been there. The quarters for the negotiating teams had to be specially prepared-or had been prepared when the orbiter was originally constructed.

Nicole raced through the missions of the Dracon Chamber, USE, Amadeen Front, Mavedah, and their respective security and support units, until she reached the listing for the Ninth Quadrant Federation Observation Team.

Boatoam Ru Seagadu of planet Moag

Cherrisin He Taam, representative of planet Aluram

Darlass Ita, representative of planet Aus

Hissied 'do Timan, representative of planet Timan

Jerriyat-a-do’Timan of planet Timan, assistant to Hissied 'do

She halted the recording. Timan. The ore receiving orbiter belonged to Timan Nisak. And the "specially prepared quarters" were old, used.

-Mitzak in the Chirn Kovah on Draco.

"This is strange."

"What’s strange, Mitzak?"

The Ninth Quadrant study committee voted down the invitations-"

"Just as you said they would."

"-but the vote was very close. Much closer than I expected. And Hissied 'do Timan-delegate from Timan-was the only abstention." Mitzak was silent for a long time.

"What are you thinking about?"

A pause, then the sounds of Mitzak rearranging himself in his chair. "I don’t understand the reason for this abstention."

"Who can figure a Timan, Mitzak? Most of them are so wrapped up in wheeling and dealing…"

…They were one of three intelligent races that had evolved upon the planet Timan. They were called Timans because the other two races-although more numerous and physically more powerful-had been eliminated…

…completely disproportionate to their numbers, the Timans were an economic and political power in the Ninth Quadrant Assembly…

The Timans were completely non-violent; however, the Timans knew how to use rules…

Rules.

Nicole reached out her hand and felt the work surface around her terminal. It was nicked, scratched, old. Before the negotiations, neither humans nor Dracs had reason to be housed in the orbiter. Only the Timan crew had quarters there. But the compartment was constructed and appointed in the Drac manner. The compartment had been waiting for her for a long time.

She looked up at the darkness surrounding her.

Are we that predictable?

She rubbed her eyes. The compartment had been waiting for a long time, but a Drac should be staying there, not a human. She smiled. And not a human who had been groomed to think like neither human nor Drac. It was a fine net of cause and effect; but Tora Soam had ripped it by bringing a human instead of a Drac.

But there was another rip in the net. Somehow Heliot’s death was a mistake-perhaps an accident.

What advantage does the Ninth Quadrant have in making a failure of the peace negotiations? War is similar to a contagious disease. And no one in the Ninth Quadrant wants to catch it. The entire purpose of the Ninth Quadrant, and of the United Quadrants, is peace.

"But peace is a word, and never trust a word." The Ninth Quadrant would like to have peace. But more important, the Ninth Quadrant would like to have the United States of Earth and the Dracon Chamber as members…

But when it had come to a vote, the study committee had voted down the membership invitations. Hissied 'do Timan had abstained. And now Hissied 'do Timan was a member of the Ninth Quadrant observation team. And there was another Timan member: Jerriyat-a-do’Timan. Two out of five committee members…

Nicole sat back as the dark outlines of an all-encircling talma formed in her mind.

The size of it; its cruel sense of purpose; the meaninglessness of so much death and destruction; the horror-

Nicole rejected the thought. It was too bizarre; the tortured, terror-driven shrieks from the mental snake pits of a paranoia ward-And from its perspective of almost ninety-five hundred years, the secret Talman Master, Ayden of the War of Ages, spoke to her mind:

"If talma points toward an answer, the horror of which causes you to reject the answer, then blindness is both your tool and your goal. Greatness of any kind-be it theory, plan, or horror-is not comprehensible to the mind of limits. To understand all, one must be able to accept all."

Nicole touched the hilt of her Blade of Aydan and thought of the ancient Talman Master who had made war into science. She keyed the communications link and placed a call to Tora Soam. Aal Thaya, Tora Soam’s servant, answered. "The Ovjetah is in meditation, Joanne Nicole."

"Well, blast it out. Thaya. I think I have some of the answers the Ovjetah has been looking for."

"Wait please."

The link hummed for a moment, then Tora Soam’s voice answered. "Joanne Nicole?"

"Yes. Ovjetah. There are some arrangements you must make. First, is the Cueh still docked with the orbiter?"

"Yes."

"Then you must arrange for Ambassador Rafiki, Jetah Indeva, Tora Kia, Mitzak, and yourself to meet with me upon the Cueh."

"It would be easier to gather this assembly here in the orbiter-upon neutral ground."

"Ovjetah, there is no neutral ground."

"No neutral ground?"

"None. And, Ovjetah, you must have the central commercial and historical computers in the Talman Kovah tied into the screen room. The human equivalent to this information must also be tied in."

"I am certain Rafiki will resist. However, I will see what I can arrange. Do you know the factors governing Heliot Vanes death?"

"I have theories. Now they must be tested."

There was a pause. "I see… May the many mornings find you well, Joanne Nicole."

It knows. Tora Soam knows.

"Ovjetah, that too is a theory to be tested." She keyed off the communications link, reached out, and deenergized the terminal. She sat silent for a moment, thinking. Audio surveillance is undetectable. Therefore, anything said in the compartment, anything that went through the terminal or the communications link is known.

But visual surveillance still requires a lens. The Drac Mission’s security sweep team would have detected the equipment for visual surveillance.

Nicole stood up, moved to the nearest wall, and began feeling her way along its surface. Her hands touched the warmness of a lightbar, and she gasped and wrenched it from its receptacle. Gently placing the lightbar upon the floor, she moved on to the next.

After she had removed all of the compartment’s lightbars; satisfying herself that the room was dark, she placed the sleeping platform between herself and the compartment’s door. She bunched up the covers on the platform and felt the form of herself that she had made.

Crouching down behind the platform, she unsheathed her Blade of Aydan and tested its point and edges with her fingers.

"Be prepared to accept all. But test the truth by forcing it to lie; test the lie by forcing it to be true."

The sounds of talking came from outside the compartment, then her communications link crackled to life. "Joanne Nicole, this is Ninth Officer Eaatna, your duty guard."

Nicole reached back and keyed the link. "What is it?"

"I have been ordered to report to the commander of the watch. There are other guards in the corridor, your door is secured, and I should be back soon."

Nicole moistened her lips. "Very well."

As the guard’s footsteps moved away from the door, Nicole keyed off the link, squatted down behind her bed platform, and waited.

Hearing, smell, touch, memory.

Joanne Nicole tasted the degree of her powers as the hours passed in the dark compartment. If you can hear the fold of a single layer of cloth; if you can smell the difference between an empty room and one containing another being; if you have placed in your mind the position of everything with more accuracy than one who can see those things with light, who has the superior power in a dark room?

There was a sound in the compartment, and Joanne Nicole knew the answer. Her ears flooded her mind with data as her right hand grasped the hilt of her blade. She heard a hand brush the wall and try twice to make the wall switch illuminate the compartment. Then cloth-clad footsteps walked the compartment’s deck.

Cloth-clad footsteps. An atmospheric suit. There was no sound of the door opening!

There was a hiss, a sizzle, the smell of ozone filling the compartment, a wash of heat speeding over her head. The footsteps moved toward the sleeping platform as the smells of burned cloth filled the air.

"Ehhh?"

There were more sounds of hands moving through the scorched and ashed bedclothes.

Nicole moved silently to her left, around the bed platform, until she sensed the near presence of another being. She gently placed her left hand around the being’s suited right leg and, with her right hand, placed the point of her blade against the leg’s covering.

"Put down your weapon, or I will open you to the atmosphere."

There was a frozen moment, then Nicole felt the heat of molten steel lace through her right shoulder. As her mind dimmed from the pain, she shoved the blade with her right hand into the creature’s leg.

There was a scream, a blade of energy moving through her shoulder, a whiff of ammonia. then blackness.

EIGHTEEN

"What are the goals? What are the intended goals? Whose goals are served by the event? Whose goals are intended to be served by the event?

"The more of the truths you acquire that you need to satisfy these questions, the closer you will be toward understanding the situations that arise between creatures. And understanding the event is but a particle away from controlling its nature and effects."

The Talman

The Story of Ditaar. Koda Sinushada

The upper right quadrant of her body was numb. Her mind was filled with the scarlet vision of blood as bright heat washed her face.

Tora Soam spoke over her. "Natueh, the lights. The heat left her face "Tora Soam?"

"Yes."

"Who was it? The one who tried to kill me?

"Emmmm." An uncomfortable silence. "We do not know. As soon as I understood what you were going to do. I had your duty guard removed and another squad of guards prepared to apprehend whoever tried to enter your quarters. They saw no one entering or leaving."

Nicole frowned. "It was wearing an atmospheric suit. I punctured it. Whoever it was should have been dead in my quarters."

"There was no one."

Nicole let her memories pick at the problem. "Entrance was not made through the corridor. There is at least one other entrance. The body must have been removed in the same manner." She reached out a hand and grabbed at the air until she felt Tora Soam’s arm. "Ovjetah, when I punctured the suit, I smelled ammonia."

"Emmmm." Tora Soam remained silent for a moment. "Nicole, only one of the members of the Ninth Quadrant observation team would use an atmosphere containing a significant amount of ammonia. Darlass Ita of the planet Aus."

Nicole shook her head. "No. That makes no sense. Timan Nisak designed and built the orbiter. It had to be a Timan."

"Joanne Nicole, everyone on the orbiter knows that you are sightless. The one who tried to kill you could have been either Timan, human, or Drac, wearing a suit, attempting to convince you that the person was from Aus. Perhaps your assailant did not intend to kill you. The purpose of the visit might have been to cast suspicion on the Timans."

"Or a Timan trying to make it look as though someone else was trying to frame the Timans." Nicole shook her head. "Tora Soam, who else is in this compartment?"

Another voice spoke. "I am Natueh Gi, Chirn Jetah of the ship Cueh."

She turned toward Tora Soam. "Where are Ambassador Rafiki and Jetah Indeva?"

"At first they were both difficult about appearing here without assistants. However, both of them should be aboard by now with their guards."

Nicole nodded. "We must all meet in the screen room." She turned her head toward Natueh Gi. "Can I get up?"

"No. You should rest. Your body has suffered greatly."

She frowned at the Chirn Jetah, then felt with her left hand. Her right arm and shoulder were covered with a smooth plastic cast.

"I think I have saved the limb."

Nicole let her head fall back to the bed. "Natueh Gi, I must be moved to the screen room."

"You should rest."

The Ovjetah grunted. "Move her. She knows what must be done."

She spoke as the bed-table began moving. "Ovjetah?"

"Yes, Joanne Nicole?"

"Is the screen room tied into the Talman Kovah’s computers, and the USE’s commercial computers?"

"The information from the Talman Kovah is available, but Ambassador Rafiki will not allow the connection to the USE central system."

Nicole nodded once and remained impassive as the bedtable moved down the corridor.

Hurry. Natueh Gi. There is a nightmare to discuss.

Her mind swam, and an image came to her of Storm Mountain and Ted Makai, months before the attack, in the officer’s club…

"Talk to me about Amadeen, Ted."

"Are you one of those who are attracted by the grotesque?"

"I want to understand." Ted Makai moved in his chair, finished his drink, then ordered another. He remained silent.

"Ted, Carver doesn’t talk about Amadeen. Neither do Speidel or Ghadi. No one who served there does."

"Joanne, have you ever had a deathly frightening dream?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever tried to put such a dream into words to tell to another?"

"Yes, I have."

"And has anyone who heard those words ever understood the terror of your dream?"

Nightmares… l would wake in the dark, the end of a scream still on my lips; shaking, the perspiration soaking my hair and bedclothes. As a child. my mother would hug me and smile as I tried to tell her about my experience; years later. Mallik would half-listen to my hysterical tumble of words, then laugh…

"No. They couldn’t understand… they were not there in the same dream."

Makai had nodded. "Now, buy me another drink…"

The moving table turned a corner and Nicole sensed herself enter a larger compartment; the ship’s screen room. The table stopped, and the Chirn Jetah pressed a button, raising the upper end, allowing Nicole to face the others in the room.

And now I have to tell them the nightmare that I saw.

She released Tora Soam’s arm. "No one can be in here except you, Rafiki, Indeva, and myself."

Nicole heard the Chirn Jetah, Natueh Gi, leave the room. Then the Ovjetah spoke to Ambassador Rafiki and Jetah Indeva. "My distinguished guests, it is necessary that all of your guards wait outside," Tora Soam changed the direction of its voice and addressed one of the several Dracs operating the screen room’s consoles. "My apologies, but you and the members of your watch must wait outside."

The Drac operator paused. "Should we shut down the facility before we leave?"

"No. We will need it. Have your watch put the things they are working on now on temporary hold."

"Yes Ovjetah."

As the operators put their stations on hold and left the compartment, the Drac and USEF guard contingents began moving out in almost identical clouds of low muttered curses. When all had gone, the compartment door hissed shut. Ambassador Rafiki walked across the deck, stopping at the foot of Nicole’s bed-table.

"You must be the traitor Moore told me about."

"I am no traitor. As Tora Soam can confirm. I am vemadah. Do you understand the meaning of the term?"

Rafiki answered. "I’ve read The Talman. I’m not sure what difference it makes what label it is one uses to commit treason. Nicole, why am I here?"

"To witness a nightmare, Ambassador. This nightmare will tell you why this war happened and what binds everyone to this war. But to do this, Tora Soam must have access to USE commercial and historical information."

"Impossible."

"Ambassador Rafiki, none of the information we need is classified."

Jetah Indeva walked up and stood next to Tora Soam. "Ovjetah, is the Talman Kovah tied into this complex?"

"Yes."

"And our information will be put on display for this woman?"

"As much of it as is needed."

Indeva noised a grump. "I cannot allow this."

"You have no choice in the matter, Jetah Indeva. I am the Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah. Not even the Dracon Chamber may dictate to me to what use I put information."

Ambassador Rafiki spoke. "Tora Soam, you cannot force me to allow the tie-in."

Nicole interrupted. "No. But there is enough information from the kovah to begin, and in beginning, perhaps, Ambassador Rafiki will see enough to want to learn more." Nicole listened as the Ovjetah took its position before one of the compartment’s screen consoles. She spoke. "Represent upon the screen that portion of space governed by the USE and the Dracon Chamber."

After a few moments, Tora Soam spoke. "This view is from the planet Draco."

Nicole shook her head. "Give us a three-dimensional view centered between Earth and Draco, and make the point of view far enough away from that center that all of the territory can be represented."

"And now?"

"Highlight the planets Earth and Draco."

"It is done."

Nicole pointed toward the screen with her left hand. "This is how things stood almost twenty-one hundred Earth years ago. Humans were still planet-bound, and the Sindie under Poma had just refounded their race upon the planet Draco. Now, Tora Soam, by accelerated time progression, show: the colonizations by both races until the Earth year 2050. Nicole imagined the halo of dots surrounding Draco, then a similar halo surrounding Earth.

After a few moments, Ambassador Rafiki spoke. "And this is in illustration of what?"

"This shows the patterns of colonization prior to the formal establishment of the Ninth Quadrant Federation." She turned toward Tora Soam. "Now continue at a slower progression, bringing us to the present." Nicole spoke as her mind described the dots appearing on the screen. Beginning with the year 2050, the colonization patterns changed. Observe how each pattern seems to reach toward the other." Her mind showed her the patterns aiming at each other, coming to sharp points near the planet called Amadeen.

Tora Soam spoke. "And now?"

"And now, Ovjetah, one of those planets has been colonized by both races. Amadeen. And all seems well until, without warning, the Front and the Mavedah are formed. Before anyone knows what is happening, three hundred worlds are at war. And the war is such that neither side can win; and the problem of the war is such that neither side can quit. The only remaining path seems to be one of mutual destruction. The interplanetary fighting will end when there is nothing to fight with and no one left to do the fighting."

Ambassador Rafiki sighed impatiently. "I see no purpose in history lessons. And there is another path: the treaty worked out by Heliot Vant and myself."

"If that treaty is implemented, Ambassador, the fighting on Amadeen will continue. No police force can hold down a population determined to make war upon itself. The Dracon Chamber has a commitment to support and defend the Mavedah; The United Stales of Earth has a commitment to support and defend the Amadeen Front. And every soldier that fights upon Amadeen brings the infection of war away from the planet to its home."

Tora Soam’s voice turned toward Ambassador Rafiki. "This is true. Until the problem of Amadeen is satisfied, both forces will remain ready, poised to strike. And more-and-more the soldiers behind those triggers will have the horrors of Amadeen in their sights. By accident or by intent, renewed interplanetary war would only be a matter of time." Tora Soam waited for the human to speak, then continued. "Nicole, we see that we are rulebound. Do you see how?"

"Find the major commercial interests involved in planetary colonizations after 2050."

There was a moment, then the Ovjetah spoke. "Nicole, there are hundreds of companies… labor guilds, and immigration organizations."

"The companies provide the incentives for the labor and immigration organizations, Ovjetah. Find the link between the companies."

As Tora Soam worked the console, Jetah Indeva walked to Nicole’s bed-table. Indeva stopped and looked down at her. "Why don’t you simply say what you have to say?"

Nicole smiled thinly, the anesthetic in her shoulder beginning to wear off. "Jetah, Shizumaat did not tell Namndas that Sindie was a sphere; Shizumaat showed Namndas."

"Dah!" Indeva thumped at its chest with the tips of its fingers. "I am not some callow whelp sitting before my master at the kovah, Nicole. I must have answers; not stage productions!"

Tora Soam spoke from its place at the console. "If this is truth you speak, Indeva Bejuda, then you will have no objection to receiving evidence and making your conclusions after the manner of an adult." Before Indeva could answer Tora Soam’s rebuke, the Ovjetah continued. "Nicole, there is no clear pattern. However, almost seventy percent of the capital investment in the colonizations is controlled by a tangle of eleven holding companies. All of these companies are charted out of different planets-none of them members of the Dracon Chamber. We don’t have commercial information on them."

Nicole nodded once. "But all of those planets are members of the Ninth Quadrant Federation."

A pause as the Ovjetah requested and received the information. "You are correct."

Nicole turned toward Ambassador Rafiki. "Will you allow the tie-in?"

Rafiki turned her head toward, the screen. "Nicole, do you have any idea of the size of the horror you are building up to?"

"Then you see it, too, Ambassador?"

Rafiki paused for a moment, then walked across the deck until she stood next to Tora Soam. "Get me the USE mission operator."

After the USE ambassador had authorized the tie-in, Tora Soam worked over the new information. Once the information had been processed, the Ovjetah walked from the console and stood next to Nicole’s bed-table. "Nicole, eighty percent of the capital investment in the USE post-2050 colonizations is divided between fourteen holding companies, none of them chartered out of USE planets."

"But all of them chartered out of Ninth Quadrant planets?"

"Yes."

The direction of Tora Soam’s voice changed. "There is an entity out there… an entity that led the Dracon Chamber into conflict with the United States of Earth?"

"Yes."

"But it would take… quadrillions… an unimaginable command of capital and resource-" Tora Soam turned until its voice was aimed at Ambassador Rafiki. "All this points toward the Ninth Quadrant Federation itself."

Jetah Indeva barked a disgusted curse. "The human mind is haunted by conspiracies, Tora Soam. This is insane! Have this Nicole’s ghosts invaded your skull, as well?" Indeva’s voice aimed at Nicole. "Human, what advantage is there to the members of the federation in having half the quadrant aflame with war?"

"None."

"Exactly! And how could a conspiracy between hundreds of governments-on such a scale-be kept secret for the decades your theory requires?"

"It could not."

Indeva remained silent for a moment. "Then, Nicole… I do not see what you see."

"In formulating the treaty terms, were there suggestions from the Ninth Quadrant observation team?"

"Yes."

Nicole nodded: "And, Jetah Indeva, the suggestions had to do with establishing the policed demilitarized zone on Amadeen?"

Indeva breathed heavily. "That is the core problem of the war. Before anything else, the problem of Amadeen must be put to rest."

"No, Jetah Indeva: You are wrong-twice." Nicole struggled until she sat upright upon the bed-table. "The conspiracy you say that haunts my mind, Jetah, exists. However, it is a conspiracy of fragments-a multitude of smaller plans that together mean our destruction. Earth IMPEX operates by rules. And If IMPEX received what it thought to be reliable inside information that would benefit the company, and if one or more large investors received the same information and urged IMPEX to explore the advantage, would it be difficult to cause IMPEX to explore and then exploit a particular planet?"

You talk of only one planet."

"Yes. But continue to feed out information on other planets, and each time the information proves both reliable and profitable, the ones issuing the information gain considerable credibility-particularly if they also command large amounts of investment capital. The companies that see where Dracon JACHE and Earth IMPEX invest their resources know from experience that their own interests will be served by following suit-" Nicole shook her head. "It was so easy. It was so damned easy to lead the Dracon Chamber and the United States of Earth into war. Our rules were gathered, and then we were led by our noses into mutual destruction. And the manipulator of these things was Hissied 'do Timan, the most influential member of the Ninth Quadrant Assembly."

Rafiki sighed, and then spoke. "Too many things point to the Ninth Quadrant. Hissied 'do Timan even made himself conspicuous by his performance as a member of the federation’s membership invitation committee. If this Timan is so clever, he should have been better at covering his tracks."

"Hissied 'do Timan has gone to a great deal of trouble, Ambassador Rafiki, to make certain that both he and the Ninth Quadrant Federation are identified as the culprits." Nicole turned her head. "Tora Soam, what is Hissied 'do Timan’s goal? What has he been trying to accomplish?"

"The plan is simple. At our present numbers, Hissied 'do Timan would keep us out of the Ninth Quadrant Federation. With our present populations, the USE and the Dracon Chamber have the potential to cast Timan influence in the federation into a shadow. For the Timans to allow us membership, we must, first, reduce our numbers. At our present populations, we represent a considerable voting force." The Ovjetah’s footsteps moved around the compartment. "And there is more. We cannot breathe a word of what we know, If we talk, this war will become known by both humans and Dracs as caused by the Ninth Quadrant. Whether we attack the federation as a result, or not, the result will be the same. Neither power will become members of the Ninth Chamber. Nicole."

"Yes, Ovjetah?"

"This is what Hissied 'do Timan wants; to keep us from membership?"

"Yes. To their minds, we threaten Timan power."

Rafiki sighed. "If this is true, I think I see what you mean by being rulebound, Tora Soam. If the truth is known, the outrage of both Dracs and humans will either cause us to attack the federation, or remain aloof from it."

Tora Soam spoke. "Either one will serve Hissied 'do Timan as well. Even if we joined forces, we could not win a war against the combined forces of the federation. And if we are not members, that is just what the Timan wants."

"But what about the war? We cannot continue with it, yet we cannot stop it, if all that has been said is true. Tora Soam?"

"You state the situation accurately, Ambassador. Do you have a question, Jetah Indeva?"

"Yes." Indeva’s voice aimed at Nicole. "If all this is true, why can we not bring Hissied 'do Timan in front of the federation’s own interplanetary court? Expose him and his vile plan to the scorn of the Universe?"

Nicole smiled. "And announce this to Earth and Draco? You will find no evidence to link Hissied 'do Timan to this plan. I think that an examination of his finances will show him living off of his stipend as a member of the assembly. I doubt if any of the company investments can be traced directly to him. He planted advice and suggestions rather than money. Even when it came to a vote in his committee; Hissied 'do Timan abstained-the very essence of fairness. The Timans are experts at covering real tracks and planting false trails. And covering his trail was not difficult. You see, Hissied 'do Timan was never in this for monetary gain. He was and is in this for what he thinks is his race’s survival. Hissied 'do Timan is a patriot. Ambassador Rafiki?"

"Yes, Nicole?"

"All that I am speaking to you is the truth. Take whatever steps you must to confirm it, but you must say nothing about it. If Hissied 'do Timan’s plan escapes to the news media, that knowledge will do as much damage as the plan itself."

"Who do you think tried to kill you, Nicole?"

"It’s not important. The universe is full of well-meaning beings who would take on such a task if they thought they were serving some brand of justice."

"What about the treaty?"

Joanne Nicole settled back upon her bed-table. "Ambassador Rafiki, Jetah Indeva; as soon as you two can arrange negotiations between only the two of you-Tora Soam, Hissied 'do Timan, and myself observing-things will be made clear. There can be no guards, deputies, or assistants, and the compartment must be made secure from listening and recording devices. Before coming to the meeting, both of you must have plenipotentiary powers to act for your governments, and you must be in direct command of your respective military forces."

Tora Soam spoke. "I bring such powers with me from the Dracon Chamber. Ambassador Rafiki?"

"I will have to discuss this with my government. Nicole, why do I need such powers?"

"You will need the power and freedom to act to resolve the problem."

She held out her hand. "Tora Soam, my anesthetic is wearing off. Have quarters been arranged for me on board this ship?"

"Of course."

"Then bring me back to Natueh Gi."

She felt the bed-table begin to move, then Tora Soam’s words whispered into her ear. "Hissied 'do Timan. Is he responsible for Heliot’s death?"

Nicole weakly shook her head. "No. Heliot Vant’s death is the thing that endangers Hissied 'do Timan’s plan. Heliot’s death caused the negotiations to be reopened."

The bed-table stopped moving. "Then who?"

Nicole held out her hand. "Ambassador Rafiki, can you wait for a moment?"

"Yes."

Nicole’s hand touched Tora Soam’s arm. "Send for your child. Between them. Ana Rafiki and Tora Kia know."

Minutes later, freshly medicated and in her bed, Nicole listened as Tora Soam, Kia, and Ambassador Rafiki arranged themselves on couches and chairs. Jetah Indeva stood beside the compartment’s door. Tora Soam spoke. "Very well, Nicole. Begin."

Nicole nodded slightly. "Ambassador Rafiki?"

"Yes?"

"Explain your relationship with Heliot Vant."

"Explain?"

"What was it like? How did you feel?"

Ambassador Rafiki was silent for a long moment. "At first we could not communicate. There were too many hostilities and false issues. But as we fought over these issues, the hostility, I think, was replaced by a degree of mutual respect. I… I admired Heliot very much."

"And describe what happened the night Heliot died."

"I have given that information to Major Haridashi; and I have authorized the information exchange you requested through Colonel Moore."

"Please describe it. I am more interested in the feelings than in the events."

"Very well. It had been a long, hard struggle working out the terms of the treaty. At one point in the negotiations, Heliot suggested that the two of us meet informally to allow us to discuss and settle upon several points without our respective negotiating teams screaming charges and counter-charges at each other. The meeting was very productive."

"There were more meetings, Ambassador?"

"Yes. We managed to get more done that way."

"And your affection for Heliot grew?"

"I wouldn’t call it affection… Admiration. Respect"

A haunted tone came into the ambassador’s voice. "Perhaps it was affection. I think the feeling was mutual. Just before Heliot died, it told me that it respected me. Heliot was so proud-not only of what had been accomplished, but that we had accomplished it. A Drac and a human. Heliot… was proud of us."

Nicole heard Tora Soam stand and walk toward the ambassador. "You cry. You cry for Heliot Vant?"

"Is that so odd?"

"Yes, that is odd."

Nicole turned her head toward Tora Kia. "Kia, explain to them what happened."

"How should I know?"

"You know."

There was an embarrassed silence, then Kia spoke. "Yes… I suppose I do. Ambassador Rafiki?"

"Yes?"

"Just before it died, Heliot Vant became very emotional."

"Perhaps. As I said, Heliot was very proud of what we had done." She uttered a sad little laugh. "Heliot .. Heliot even blushed."

The direction of Kia’s voice changed. "My parent, it is possible to feel love… sexual toward a human."

Jetah Indeva snorted. "Preposterous!"

"But possible just the same, Jetah."

Tora Soam spoke. "Continue, Kia."

"Heliot Vant loved her, but did not think in such terms. After all, Ambassador Rafiki is a human. There was no reason for Heliot to think that there was cause for guarding its emotions."

"Kia, do you mean that Heliot’s feelings for this woman caused it to… conceive?"

"Yes."

"How can such a thing be possible? And at Heliot’s age it…"

"At Heliot’s age, the act of conception would result in Heliot’s death. And the empathy, love, sexual feelings… a Drac can have for a human."

"How do you know?"

"It… has happened before."

"How do you know, my child?"

"It has happened to me."

"Kia…" The Ovjetah seemed stunned. "Nicole? You and Nicole?"

"It was a strange moment, my parent. It was dark… and I had no reason to guard my feelings. My mind was burdened by my nightmares, and this creature in the dark offered to listen-to allow me to unburden myself. Later, she… thought of me as her mate, seeking her own comfort."

"But you conceived?"

"Yes. The Tora line continues."

Ambassador Rafiki stood. "Nicole, you are saying that I killed Heliot?"

"No, Ambassador. Circumstance, misunderstanding, age… love killed Heliot Vant."

Tora Soam spoke. "Nicole, what of the poison?"

"Ovjetah, Heliot Vant’s death was an accident. An accident that threw an enormous random factor into Hissied 'do Timan’s carefully, balanced equation. The poison, I think, was a desperate attempt to salvage the equation. Perhaps Londu Peg is a Timan agent. More likely, the poison was introduced later. There are enough secret corridors on the orbiter to enable the Timans to contaminate the evidence at will. The new autopsy, you ordered should confirm what Kia said."

Ambassador Rafiki stood next to Nicole’s bed. "The treaty Heliot and I worked out; why does it play into the hands of Hissied 'do Timan?"

"The treaty locks all sides into the problem of Amadeen. And the treaty does not resolve the problem of Amadeen. Therefore it assures the resumption of the war and that both sides will regard future treaty negotiations as closed paths-unproductive. A continued full-scale war between the USE and the Dracon Chamber is vital to Hissied 'do Timan’s plan."

Ambassador Rafiki stood silently for a long moment, then she spoke to Tora Soam. "There are many things I do not understand. However, I will go now to obtain the powers Nicole thinks are necessary." The direction of the ambassador’s voice changed. "Jetah Indeva, I will keep you informed."

Nicole heard the ambassador leave the compartment. Jetah Indeva grunted and followed the human."

Tora Soam spoke. "Nicole, I feel that I should say something."

"About what?"

"So many things… For one, you and Kia…"

Kia’s voice. "Yes, my parent. It is true."

"Then, my child… then you must be transported back to Draco. There is too much risk here, if what Nicole says is true. The line-"

"If there is risk, my parent, it is not to me but to Joanne Nicole. I think it is clear now that the Timan understands her function here. I will remain here to lessen that risk."

"Do you… love the human?"

Tora Kia was silent for a long time. "No. Things are different in the light. But I-we-owe her the Tora line. To you and I she should be more than just a talma to solve a problem."

Nicole listened as Tora Kia walked from the compartment. Tora Soam stood silently for a moment, then spoke. "Joanne Nicole?"

"Yes, Ovjetah?"

"This thing Kia says. How… how can a human and a Drac…

"Love?"

"Yes. Even for a moment."

"Ovjetah, Cohneret in the Koda Talmeda once asked which is the stronger: love of form, or love of being."

"You lecture the Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah?"

"Remember, Ovjetah, that what your mind says is true, and what your feelings confirm as truth, are different creatures."

"Emmmm."

She closed her eyes and settled into her bed. "And now I lay me down to sleep, a pit of vipers at my feet. And if I die before I wake-"

"Joanne Nicole."

"Yes, Ovjetah?"

"I do not have your insight. But I see this much. Knowledge of the Timan’s plan will serve the plan. How do we buy the silence of Hissied 'do Timan?" Tora Soam paused, then continued in a grave voice. "And there is more. If the Timan has planned as thoroughly as you think, then the orbiter is a bomb. Any solution that is devised can be countered by the simple expedient of blowing the orbiter and everyone in it to pieces and blaming the event on either the Mavedah, the Front, the USE Force, the Dracon Fleet, or the Ninth Quadrant."

"That would appear to be the situation, Ovjetah. We can only hope that Hissied 'do Timan views the situation in the same manner." Nicole pulled her cover up to her neck.

"And now I must sleep. May the many mornings find you well, Tora Soam."

There was an uncomfortable silence. "And you, Joanne Nicole."

She listened as the Ovjetah walked slowly from the compartment. After the door had hissed shut, Nicole whispered to the empty room:

"And God bless us every one."

NINETEEN

"Aydan." spoke Niagat. "I would serve Heraak; I would see an end to war; I would be one of your warmasters."

"Would you kill to achieve this. Niagat?"

"I would kill."

"Would you kill Heraak to achieve this?"

"Kill Heraak, my master?" Niagat paused and considered the question. "If I cannot have both I would see Heraak dead to see an end to war."

"That is not what I asked."

"And, Aydan. I would do the killing."

"And, now, would you die to achieve this?"

"I would risk death as does any warrior."

"Again, Niagat, that is not my question. If an end to war can only be purchased at the certain cost of your own life, would you die by your own hand to achieve peace?"

Niagat studied upon the thing that Aydan asked. "I am willing to take the gamble of battle. In this gamble there is the chance of seeing my goal. But my certain death, and by my own hand-there would be no chance of seeing my goal. No, I would not take my own life for this. That would be foolish. Have I passed your test?"

"You have failed. Niagat. Your goal is not peace; your goal is to live in peace. Return when your goal is peace alone and you hold a willing knife at your own throat to achieve it. That is the price of a warmaster’s blade."

The Talman

Aydan and the War of Ages. Koda Itheda

The next few days saw Nicole’s theory concerning Heliot Vant’s death confirmed. Heliot had died by conceiving. During the autopsy in Sindievu, traces of the poison were found, but it had not invaded the body tissues. The poison had been added later. Londu Peg was questioned and cleared.

Outside the orbiter a USE military police detail found a dead suited Timan, an employee of Timan Nisak. Cause of death: a rip in the right leg of the protective suit, exposing the Timan to space’s vacuum. Timan Nisak did not ask for an investigation.

On Amadeen’s surface, Hita Zhan declared endless horror upon the Front as it replaced the recently murdered Akaam Jaada as First Warmaster of the Mavedah. At the same time, Charlotte Raza was leading units of the Amadeen Front in a massive assault upon the eastern Shorda continent. On the orbiter, a new conference was called.

Hissied 'do Timan studied the screen. The image showed a small compartment in the orbiter occupied only by a rectangular table and four chairs. A chair was at either end of the table, and the remaining two chairs were on the opposite side of the table from his point of view. The Timan turned from the screen. The being standing against the bulkhead wore a protective suit.

"You are a strange person, Leonid Mitzak."

"What seems strange to you, Hissied 'do Timan?"

The Timan turned back to the screen. "A human, in the employ of the Dracon Chamber, now my personal informant. How many ends are there to play against the middle?"

"Strange sentiments from a Timan. My information has been accurate, hasn’t it?"

"Yes, but you have not answered my question. Why are you here-with me-Leonid Mitzak?"

"I follow my interests."

"I pay you nothing. If you believe what you have said, then you must believe that aiding me will take the race that you admire and the race that birthed you to destruction. What other interest do you follow?"

"I think it should be obvious to a Timan."

"Explain it to me."

"Hissied 'do Timan, are you familiar with the human game of chess?"

"Of course. It is quite popular among the younger children of my planet. You would use this to illustrate something?"

"Imagine a chess board set up between us. Now the human who plays is an expert on a set of rules and strategies based on that set. However, the Drac who plays the human will win, because the Drac is an expert on standing outside fixed sets of rules. The Drac’s first move would be to sweep its opponents pieces off the board."

"And, Mitzak; the Timan player? What would his first move be?"

"The Timan’s first move would be to switch games."

Hissied 'do Timan looked up at Mitzak. "And?"

"My interests are served by throwing in my lot with winners."

The Timan looked back at the screen and nodded thoughtfully until the screen’s image showed beings entering the compartment. The screen showed Ambassador Rafiki taking her seat at the right end of the table, Jetah Indeva taking its seat at the left end of the table, and the blind human. Nicole, seating herself in one of the center chairs, facing Hissied 'do Timan’s point of view. Her shoulder was encased in a white cast. In a few moments, Tora Soam entered and lowered itself into the seat to Nicole’s left.

Hissied 'do Timan leaned back in his couch. "Mitzak, they have left no room at the table for the Front or the Mavedah. You said that they understood that they are bound to the problem of Amadeen."

"I also said that they understood that Amadeen is not a problem open to solution. They know they are rulebound, and how.

The screen showed Tora Soam standing. The Ovjetah bent over, touched the table’s communications link, and then spoke.

"Hissied 'do Timan?"

The Timan keyed his own link. "Yes."

The Ovjetah’s image straightened up. "We shall begin."

"Tora Soam, why am I the only Ninth Quadrant observer at this meeting?"

"It is a special meeting; and you are the only official of the Ninth Quadrant who has an interest." Tora Soam reached out a hand and touched Nicole’s shoulder. The blind woman stood as Tora Soam resumed its seat. The blind woman spoke:

"An agreement between the Dracon Chamber and the United States of Earth has been reached. We are here to sign an amended version of the Heliot Vant-Ana Rafiki Treaty."

Hissied 'do Timan nodded. "Excellent, excellent.-But what does the amendment involve?"

"All Drac and USE regular forces will be withdrawn from Amadeen. There will be no more demilitarized zone. Amadeen will be quarantined and left to settle its own problems." Nicole smiled. "We are no longer locked into the fight on Amadeen."

The Timan examined the face of the USE ambassador. "Ambassador Rafiki, the United States of Earth has sworn to defend the humans upon Amadeen. There are promises."

Rafiki nodded, then looked into the camera. "The promises have been broken."

"Broken?" The Timan looked at another face. "Jetah Indevah!" The Timan sat forward. "What of the pledges made by the Dracon Fleet to the Mavedah?"

The Drac shook its head as it continued to look at the tabletop. "The pledges have been withdrawn. Amadeen is on its own."

"I find this… hard to understand-" Hissied 'do Timan studied the blind woman for a moment. "Nicole, everything appears to be decided already. What is this meeting’s purpose?"

"To inform you, Hissied 'do Timan."

"Jetah Indeva, Ambassador Rafiki… you both must be aware that this treaty-abandoning your peoples upon Amadeen-will outrage both of your races."

Ambassador Rafiki answered. "Both Jetah Indeva and I have been granted plenipotentiary powers regarding Amadeen. Most of our peoples will go along with the treaty, because most people will go along with anything. Our governments will go along with it for two reasons: they are bound to our decision by law; and violating the treaty resumes the war. The treaty won’t be popular, but it is preferable to the alternative."

"You must both know that you can never defend your actions."

Indeva faced the camera. "We know that not keeping silent would serve your plan, Timan, but talma must be observed. It will ruin me, but it will end the war. A small price."

"Your respective governments cannot afford to allow this treaty to go into effect. Both the Dracon Chamber and the United States of Earth subsist upon popular favor. Ambassador Rafiki?"

"Your words are true. Our decision may even cause our governments to be brought down. But that too is a small price. You see, both of our governments find it easier to break agreements with friends than with enemies. The price of breaking this treaty is too horrible for either government to contemplate-whatever the domestic political costs."

Joanne Nicole spoke. "Hissied 'do Timan, no matter how unpopular this treaty will be, it is still a treaty-a formal agreement between governments. Both governments will observe its terms, because failure to do so would violate laws, honor, pride, integrity, trust -" Nicole laughed. "You see, Timan, we are rulebound into this treaty. And you understand that, don’t you?"

The Timan glanced at Mitzak, then looked back at the screen. "Nicole, do you not comprehend that my plan is served just as well if it becomes known?" He again turned toward Mitzak. "And the plan is also served if all of us die within the next moment. I can cause this to happen before your Mitzak can take a step across the deck." Hissied 'do Timan faced the screen. "Do you think that I am afraid to die for my race?"

"We count on it." Nicole shook her head. "You are a patriot, Hissied 'do Timan. I believe you would happily die that your race might survive."

"Then… what is all this? You have been outplayed at each turn. Your treaty changes nothing."

"At this moment, Hissied 'do Timan, units of the Dracon Fleet and the USE Force are moving toward Timan under orders to turn your planet into a cinder and your race into a memory. This force is under the direct joint command of Jetah Indeva and Ambassador Rafiki, and it will carry out its orders unless new orders are received. If you kill us all, those new orders cannot be sent. And we would buy your silence at the same price."

Mitzak walked across the deck, stopped next to the Timan, and held out his gloved hand. In the hand was a pink and blue capsule. Hissied 'do Timan looked up at the human as he took the capsule. "Throwing in your lot with the winners, yes, Mitzak?"

"Yes. Please wait while I call in your guards."

Hissied 'do Timan studied the capsule as Mitzak left the compartment, then he looked at the screen. "Timan is a Ninth Quadrant planet. If you attack it, Nicole, your war will be with the entire quadrant instead of with each other."

"Nevertheless, Timan would be ashes."

"Nicole, what if there are others; confederates who know the plan?"

"They will remain silent, Hissied 'do Timan. If they do not, they will look like fools. There is no evidence to connect you, the Ninth Quadrant, or Timan to the plan; in fact, there is no evidence of any plan. All of the commercial records have been… adjusted."

"And if I communicated your plans to your respective governments; do you not think they would strip you of your powers and call back the forces you two have sent to Timan?"

Rafiki rubbed her eyes and faced the screen. "Hissied 'do Timan, the attack group will have reached and cinderized Timan long before orders countermanding the attack can reach them." The Ambassador leaned back in her chair. "As a matter of fact, our orders countermanding the attack won’t reach the force in time, unless they are issued quickly."

Hissied 'do Timan sat back in his couch as two Timan guards entered the compartment. One of the guards spoke. "The one called Mitzak said you wanted us to witness something, Excellency."

"Yes. Stand there and be silent." Hissied 'do Timan reached out a hand. "You… you will be traitors to your own peoples. Traitors!"

When no one in the compartment answered, he cut off the screen and communications link. Still looking at the blank screen, he spoke to the two guards. "You will report what you see to the missions of the Dracon Chamber and the United States of Earth."

"Yes, Excellency."

"And tell the human named Joanne Nicole that the game is not yet over. Do you understand?"

"Yes. Excellency."

He examined the capsule, then placed it in his mouth and crushed it between his mandibles. There is a lot of silence to keep, thought Hissied 'do Timan as the light faded.

Do they have the will to keep it, I wonder…

To the

THREE HUNDRED AND ELEVENTH

JETAI DIEA

of the

TALMAN KOVAH

Pomavu, Planet Draco

I am able to come before the Jetai Diea to tell you this story because the silence was kept until the secret could no longer cause harm. But the silence carried Aydan’s price. The Timan spoke the truth when he said that the game was not over.

Upon returning to Draco, Jetah Indeva Bejuda was censured and expelled from the Dracon Chamber. Indeva returned to its estate in disgrace and died from its own hand a year later.

The Jetai of this Talman Kovah demanded Tora Soam’s resignation as Ovjetah. Tora Soam, and its child, Tora Kia, returned to the Tora estate to rear Kia’s child, Tora Voe. Three years later, Tora Soam was murdered by a supporter of the Amadeen Mavedah.

Tora Kia took its child to the planet Lita and assumed a new identity. Kia entered its child in the Talman Kovah on Lita and gave lessons on the tidna. Tora Kia died four years after its child graduated from the kovah. Tora Voe is now the Jetah of this Talman Kovah here in Pomavu known to you as Hadsis Jiia. With this announcement, Tora Voe resumes its rightful name.

Ana Rafiki returned to Earth and was dismissed from the United States of Earth’s diplomatic service. She lived for a year on Earth, but after the second attempt on her life by supporters of the Amadeen Front, she left her home planet and dropped from sight.

Joanne Nicole returned to Earth, stood court-martial for aiding the enemy, was found guilty, and was dismissed from the USE Force and sentenced to fifteen years imprisonment. After three years, her sentence was commuted for compassionate reasons and she was released. She then began a search for the child she had abandoned. While this search was in progress, Joanne Nicole founded Earth’s Talman Kovah.

Leonid Mitzak, replacing with faith the talma he had helped to devise, eventually went to Amadeen in an attempt at achieving peace between the Front and the Mavedah. He was executed two days later. That was almost thirty years ago, and they still fight upon Amadeen.

Twenty years after Mitzak’s death, the Dracon Chamber entered the Ninth Quadrant Federation. A year later the United States of Earth came to the end of its rebellion against entry and the USE planets became members of the Ninth Quadrant.

It was then, shortly before her death, that Joanne Nicole told me the story that I have placed before you. I offer this story to the Talman Kovah as the Koda Nusinda, the eighteenth book of The Talman. I do so as Ovjetah of Earth’s Talman Kovah, Tessia Lewis, daughter of Mallik and Joanne Nicole.

Truth of nature and import of meaning are not matters determinable by a consensus. If only one being understands the meaning, the meaning is understood. If only one being sees the truth, the truth is seen.

The Talman

The Story of Atavu. Koda Sishada

THE LAST ENEMY

ONE

Miati Ki hides in the rubble above us at the lip of the dry stream bed. I see only its right boot and the top of its energy pack. The sun is hot and the heat radiating from the desert sand and boulders flails my face and steals my breath. Only the dense humidity remembers that this was once a jungle. There are no birds, no flowers, no trees. Everything beautiful and gentle that once flew or grew here left this part of the Shorda countless lives ago. Still, the stinging greenflies have survived. They will outlive us all.

Pina is eating the last of its share of the rations we captured. As it took its share of the rations, Pina made a joke, holding it to its lips. "This is the fruit of the Irrveden, for which the Mavedah fought, that we eat at the second repast"

I laughed with the others at the words of the repast ceremony, from times when there were formal repasts, tables, and food. Rick before any of us were born. When I was very young, before my parent’s death, Yazi Avo would recite the ceremony at meals, when there were meals. I laughed, but Pina’s joke made me want to cry.

I hold to my ear the little receiver I keep in my pocket. Its screen is broken, but it still produces audio. The Mavedah station at Mijii Heights still sends, which means the eastern flank of the Front’s invasion of the Shorda is still stalled. The music is that rapid effervescent confusion of human and Drac folk sounds we call zidydrac and the humans call mancho. The recording was made before the war. I scan for the Amadeen Front’s mobile station, or one of the others. Sometimes I can get the Black October station, but not today. Nothing new supporting the rumors of another attempt at a truce. Even if a truce should take place it would be only a matter of days before The Rose, Black October, or some other uncontrollable faction of the Front violates it, throwing us all back into war. Still, there would be a day, possibly more, without death.

Ki’s hand makes signs to us. First the fist, one finger pointed down, then all three fingers together followed by a fist. Chaki Anta is back.

There had been an explosion at the bunker. We all heard it, saw the smoke and dust carried by the wind over the lake. Qat Juniki told us about it before it died. A human had come out of the bunker, his hands above his head, and Chaki Anta took the man’s surrender. The human’s hands were held as fists. "I saw the wire," said Juniki. "I told the man to open his hands before he came any closer. I told him in English. I told him again. When he opened them, the world vanished."

A walking bomb with a dead-man’s switch. Such a human way of killing. Juniki thought Chaki Anta had been killed, but now Anta is back. As I turn off the receiver I am relieved. Anta is an old fighter, a survivor of many raids and battles. It helps me to know that not all of us must die in this war. My relief is mixed with dread, for when Anta comes back, the killing and dying resume. Anta walks with death. Perhaps that is how it has acquired immunity.

We will soon move into a fight. No one says any of this but it is in everyone’s eyes. We swallow the last of our ration bars. I see Pina take a touch of happy paste with its tongue. Its eyes close as the drug spins Pina away on a transitory cloud of peace, safety, and joy. I look at my ration bar and wonder why food is so scarce but happy paste is everywhere. In the end we will probably die of malnutrition within the mist of a spittle dream.

We looted the ration bars from the humans, but they are good to eat. They are viyapi rations the humans looted from us. Some of the human rations are good, too. I like the containers of fruit and the candy bars, but they are rare. There is something in plastic envelopes called scrambled eggs and ham that even the humans refuse to eat. For that reason, of course, scrambled eggs and ham are all that they have left. Their rations, like ours, are left over from the war.

Chaki Anta slides and stumbles down the dust of the stream bank, followed by Ki. Anta’s face is deep ochre, an old scar along the left side of its forehead. Although our commander smiles with its mouth, its deep yellow eyes betray all of the dead they have seen. Anta nods as it points toward the east with its battered energy knife. "Only a few left in that bunker at the foot of the bluff. I heard firing coming from inside. They were not shooting at me or at anything outside the bunker." Its brow climbs in an expression of hopeful possibility. "I think they were fighting among themselves." His cold smile becomes a cold grin. "We will get Taaka Liok a present and end them this time." Chaki Anta’s eyes narrow. "We are the Twelve."

"The Front Twelve," we mutter back more out of habit than pride. Our eagerness drowned in oceans of blood years ago, buying presents for Taaka Liok with our blood. My whole life in the Mavedah has been spent serving at the pleasure of this mysterious warmaster, who in turn serves at the pleasure of the Denvedah Diea.

I glance down at the helmet in my hands. It carries on its once sand-red surface the scars of thirty years of death. Only five of those years are mine. The sensors and readout still work, but the voice link is scratchy. I can do without the voice link. Hand signals are silent, instant, clear, and do not send out electro-magnetic pulses for eager probes to pick up. Besides, I prefer to dedicate my hearing to my immediate surroundings. That is where the threats to my life lie.

The helmet is military issue, of the Tsien Denvedah back in the war. The names of seven Mavedah soldiers are scratched in the surface exposing the dull brown fiber beneath.

Ritan Vey

Ada Nitoh

Lioseh Akiva

Ivat Mikotath

Sed Tura

Riwis Achavneh

Enot Fal.

We all know the stories of the great hero Ritan Vey, once second warmaster of the Tsien Denve of the Ninth Shordan, conqueror of New Aetheria. Only a few of us remember Enot Fal. Fal’s first day after training saw it crushed beneath the treads of an Amadeen Front tank in the attack on Stokes Crossing in the Southern Shorda. I had no helmet of my own, so I claimed Fal’s.

I wonder who will get the helmet after I am gone. It is irrational of me, but I am afraid to scratch my own name into this pathetic monument. Besides, the seven names already there are burden enough to carry.

We are the Front Twelve, Anta had told us long ago. Tsien Siay. The pride of the Okori Sikov. There are only five of us left now. Ragged, tired, and thin from meager rations. We were twelve at the beginning of the battle six days ago. When the last of us falls, perhaps there will be another twelve to replace us. Children, ancients, and fools. Onward marches the grand Mavedah. I slip my shoulders into the straps of my energy pack and adjust the piece of plastic foam between the pack and the small of my back to ease the chafing. Something I learned from a dead human.

I glance sideways to see if my few remaining comrades somehow detect the treason that echoes in my thoughts. Anta is positioning its energy knife in the harsh sunlight to absorb that last bit of energy before we go. Miati Ki is strapping on its equipment, most of which was salvaged from dead Amadeen Front soldiers.

How can we be so different from the humans, yet so alike? We can use the same weapons, wear the same rags, eat the same food, scratch at the same rashes and slap at the same parasites. After decades of close horror, we even speak each other’s language. But, breathing the same air―that is something that demands death.

Varo Pina and Skis Adoveyna are waiting for the order, their eyes tired and yellow, staring at the top of the bank. I can see that Pina already sees its own death. I want to touch its hand, to tell Pina that we will survive, but my friend would reject my words. My friend Varo Pina knows it must die. It has talked about nothing else for days. I think it wants to get done with the experience. "I am calm about death," Pina once said to me. "Waiting for death is the strain."

Once, in the dust of memory, Pina and I loved. Neither of us conceived. The humans have us there. If a Drac is certain it will be dead or otherwise unable to care for its young, it cannot conceive. To humans, though, the prospect of death and deprivation seems to drive them into a rutting frenzy. We are told that it is a primitive survival mechanism to preserve the species. They also live longer than Dracs, barring traumatic intervention.

I no longer have those feelings for Pina, and Pina has no feelings left for me. I wonder if any of us have any feelings left for anything.

Without speaking, Chaki Anta puts on its helmet and signals Miati Ki and me to take the front. I do not hesitate. Instead I take my energy knife, climb the bank, reach the lip, and begin crawling through the rubble, checking automatically for remote sensors and probes. It has been a long time since any of us saw a working remote or probe, but we stay cautious. Assuming they are all down or destroyed seems to jinx them into existence. There are still scanners and missiles. Humans also have eyes and those big ears.

I note the position of the sun. By the time we reach the bunker it will be behind us, burning our hacks but glaring into the eyes of the humans.

I can see the bunker by peering through a crack in the ruin of a stone wall. The heat radiating from the wall washes my face. The fortification is to my front, the bluff farther on and more to my left. To my far left is a low hill. To my right stretches the lake named Sharing in both Drac and human languages. The lake was named a long time ago, before the war, back in a fantasy time when Dracs and humans were supposed to have lived and worked together.

"Yazi Ro," the voice link scratches into my ear membrane. "Keep moving."

My head is filled with so many minds, but my body follows Anta’s orders as though it has its own will. I crawl from behind the broken wall, around a pile of still smoking wreckage, until I reach the body of one of the Twelve’s fallen. A primitive projectile caught the Drac beneath its left eye. The back of its head is missing, exposing an ochre goo that was once a brain.

What do you leave behind, comrade?

A parent?

A child?

Did you have someone who loved you?

Does anyone care how you died? that you died? for what you died?

What did you die for, my nameless comrade? If I meet my own death this moment, I am at a loss to say for what I died. I am an automation; a creature that responds to orders. Perhaps I die for glorious habit.

There must be a grander way than that to record me in my line’s archives, if they still exist. The language Dracon, however, is suited more to facts than fantasy. There are few ways to express an event except with truth. To spin dreams the language English was designed. Here lies Yazi Ro, dead because it couldn’t go no mo'. Pooped, perhaps, from a penchant for proclivity.

Yazi Avo, my parent, taught me my English. Avo once said that if there is ever to be peace, we must first talk. I laugh at this now. All either species knows how to do with words is to wound. My parent had a crippled foot, mangled in an Amadeen Front raid when it was not even half a year old.

I look at the body of my comrade. The young one, barely an adult, was given to the Twelve just before the battle to fill out our number. Young, but a good soldier, nevertheless. I saw its knife take down at least three humans before the bullet found its mark. Dead bodies: a strange way to measure occupational proficiency.

Two paces beyond the nameless Drac is a nameless human who must have been dead for quite awhile. I cannot tell if it is male or female. Its skin is swollen and black, the eyes crusted with thirsty greenflies, their swollen iridescent bodies like so many droplets of jade.

Human dead turn black when they lie in the sun for a few days. The odor is beyond description. I make a wide path around it. To the human’s side I see the white flash of an anksnake beneath the body, out of the direct sun, feeding on the corpse’s guts. They only go for decaying flesh, so I am in no danger from the snake. But it might have startled me. Had I cried out, or raised up, or used my weapon, that would have been the end for all of us. But I do not draw attention to myself and must pay attention to the instant.

Again I face the bunker. It is an ugly fire-blackened shelter of poured stone. It has rounded corners, gun ports, and a huge hole blasted into its left front. To the right of the hole a deep red rose is painted, the sign of the Amadeen Front. The three remaining weapon ports are spaced evenly to the right of the hole. Between the bunker and my position is a field of rubble. I see a dark shape just for an instant. It runs from in front of the bunker to a position among some rocks part way up the bluff. I am not certain, but more than one human seems to be there.

I glance to my left and wait until I catch a glimpse of Ki forty paces away. Ki turns its head toward me for a moment and I raise my hand and point. Ki looks forward, sees the rocks, and nods. It begins bearing toward the left and the rocks, while I continue toward the bunker.

So many times have I faced death to do more death. And after the effort and sacrifice there are still more humans to kill, more comrades to watch die, more fire to burn, more things to destroy. The bunker ahead of me is part of a village that exchanged hands four times this year alone. How many hundreds or thousands of lives has this ruined heap of debris cost? I cannot even guess. And for what reason? It sits astride a road crossing with surfaces impossible to traverse by wheeled and tracked vehicles that no longer function.

My knee strikes a small rock which clatters into a larger rock. I freeze. Motionless, no breathing, willing my heart to quit its pounding. I am almost afraid to move my eyes for the notice their motion might draw. Still my gaze quickly searches the ground between me and the bunker. Broken walls, rubble, twisted towers of metal. I can see nothing threatening.

The pebble had not made a loud noise, but if the humans have a listening post out or a sensor buried nearby, the noise would be loud enough. Without looking at it, my right hand steals down the length of my weapon one finger’s breadth at a time. It reaches the power switch and I energize my knife. Neither the switch nor the weapon powering up make a sound, but I can feel the power pulse. I am grateful I took advantage of the time in the sun waiting for Anta’s return to add to the charge. The touch gauge shows seventy-three percent.

My voice link crackles in my ear, startling me. It is Miati Ki reporting to Chaki Anta. "Anta," Ki whispers to the old fighter. "There are four of them in those rocks behind and to the left of the bunker. Their field of fire covers almost all of the ground in front of Yazi Ro." The words, once I allow myself to understand them, make my skin writhe.

Another crackle, then Chaki Anta’s voice. "Ki, have they seen you?"

"No, but they see Yazi Ro. They are staring at Ro this moment, weapons trained. I think they wait to see the rest of us before they open fire."

"What weapons?" asks Anta.

"Two rifles and a captured energy knife. I cannot see what the fourth has."

"Stay in place, Ki," answers Anta. "I’m coming up on your left with Pina and Adoveyna."

By the breath of a kiz, I am fisher’s bait! I fight down the urge to bolt and run. It seems insane. As the battle started there were hundreds in this sector. Now it has come down to four humans and five Dracs? Is this when I die, when it is all but over?

"Stay in place, Ro," comes Anta’s voice. "Give no sign that you are aware of the humans in the rocks."

"As you order, Anta." Fine words from my leader and a terribly brave response, but I have already given a sign by signaling Ki. How do I take that back? Perhaps no human saw it. Or if one of them did, perhaps that one mistook my gesture for something else. "Look, the Drac is saying hello."

A mind in fear takes comfort where it may.

I swallow against the moisture in my mouth. Human mouths grow dry with fear. Dracs fairly drool. I occupy my mind trying to figure out which is worse. To drool or not to drool, that is the question.

My grip on my weapon has my fingers aching, but I cannot relax them in fear of the movement. I need to void. I know it is only the fear and I force the feeling away. Only the urge to void goes. The fear remains.

There is no more communication on the voice link. With patience that threatens to tear my neck muscles, I turn my head so very slowly to my left, my eyes straining to see around the left frame of my visor. It takes forever, but once more I can see where Ki had been concealed. Instead of Ki, however, there is Pina. It is crawling very rapidly toward the rocks. Anta must have already passed. Adoveyna follows Pina without a pause. Will they take down the humans before the humans become impatient waiting for me to make my move? It is said that some humans pray to gods. I feel the lack.

My view of Adoveyna is just as it crawls behind some rubble. I slowly turn my head to face the bunker but I stop as I see something above and far behind where I lost sight of Skis Adoveyna. The small hill is little more than a support for shattered stumps and the remains of a few smashed dwellings, a thin smoky mist rendering everything in shades of gray. Earlier in the day the rise had been roasted and pulverized. Still, there was something that shouldn’t be. A fifth human? More? Had I seen a piece of wire or cloth waving in the slight breeze? A stray beam of light reflected from―

"Anta," I whisper into the voice link. "Anta, to your far left, up on that hill, I saw movement."

"Where?" it asks, but before I can answer, the kow-kow sounds of a human rifle shatters the silence. The sounds are soon joined by Pina screaming into the link and the humans in the rocks opening up with the energy knife, the broad swath of its blade coming right toward me. Someone screams, "Kill them!"

Quickly I roll until a large block of cut stone is between me and the knife, still giving the humans on the hill a view of me. Two of Anta’s remaining knives fire at the rocks beneath the bluff while the third fires irregularly at the hill. I turn, place my back against the stone block, aim my own blade toward the hill, and press the trigger. I feel the tremendous energy pulses as they warm my hands. When I am certain the humans are at least down, I jump up and turn to run toward the bunker. A deafening explosion erupts in front of me, blinding me for a moment, filling my lungs with choking dust and gasses.

Before I open my eyes or check to see if I have all of my limbs, I realize that the fourth human in the rocks has a missile launcher. My eyes open and the sky above is gray with dust and smoke, cut with the green glowing blades of energy knives and the white streaks of pulse weapons. As the deadly silence ends, returning my hearing to me, the feeling comes back to my body. The first of it is a skull-cracking pain in my head, a stinging tingle all across my skin. I cautiously lift my hands to feel my head, grateful to find that it is still covered by my helmet. I sit up, then kneel as I pick up my weapon. It is still charged and operative.

Without thinking, I climb to my feet and spring forward, the breath coming hard in my lungs as I braid my way among the broken stones and twisted metal. A loud kang sound from a piece of metal near my head catches me by surprise and I recoil from it, roll to my left, and come up aiming my blade at the bunker. There are two, no five flashes from the dark opening. The ground around me erupts with geysers of stone dust as shattered bits of metal buzz around me. An energy flash from behind comes close enough to sear the flesh on my left shoulder. There is at least one more human with a knife. I throw myself into a slight depression, whirl about, and fire my knife at the hill once more. Twice, three times, and I see my blade catch an energy pack. There is a blinding blue light, then nothing but a steaming hole in the ground.

There doesn’t seem to be anyone left firing from the rocks or the hill and I roll to my right, jump up, and wash the bunker opening with my knife. After I release the trigger, I squat behind some wreckage and check the hill as I touch the knife’s charge indicator. Still nothing on the hill and my weapon is at forty-nine percent. I glance a little more to the right, and look at the rocks. They are black where before they were reddish tan. I see no movement. "Anta?" I call into my voice link. There is nothing but static.

"Anta? Ki? Pina? Adoveyna?" I get to my feet and try again.

"Tsien Siay, report!"

They cannot all be dead. We have been at this far too long, endured too many things. If the human demons that spawned this hell have any sense of justice, all of the Twelve cannot be dead.

With my chin I switch the sensor in my helmet to read thermal input. Looking at my visor I see a bright orange place on the hill where I laid on my blade causing the human’s energy pack to go up. There is another bright orange place among the rocks where the second knife was. When it went up, the four humans went with it. Below the rocks there is a dimming orange dot, the cooling body of a dead human. In the rubble field below, where my comrades were hiding, there are another four orange dots, dimming, as the heat leaves their bodies. Before feelings crush me, I remind myself that the lack of an exploded energy pack sign means that in all probability, their knives still work. I must disable them before I leave.

I am alone.

For a moment I am confused about what to do. Should I rage and throw myself into the monster’s mouth to avenge my dead comrades? Do I cower in terror, hoping that no one will notice me? Do I surrender and trust to the good intentions of the Amadeen Front? Do I simply abandon this place, go backto Lurack and say, "Mission accomplished, Ovjetah. Everything is dead."

—I hear a sound from the bunker and I whirl around, my knife at the ready. The heat sensor shows two beings dead in the ragged opening. Farther inside are at least six older dead and deep inside are two hot live ones, very close together. I realize I am standing in full view of the bunker, and I squat down, amazed that I am alive.

Perhaps the two humans who are alive are wounded. For some reason they didn’t take me out when they could. I want to call Anta’s name again, see the bodies of my comrades with my own eyes. I rebel at relying on a mere instrument to tell me my comrades are dead. But what would be the purpose? Then, what was ever the purpose of any of it? How can a being tremble in fear of losing its life one moment and care not a dot the next?

I stand in full view of the bunker, my weapon held at my side, and walk toward the opening, hardly curious at the form my death will take. At the opening I step over the lip of the hole torn in the wall and walk in. I pause inside and look around.

It is still. After six days of battle, there is something obscene about so much silence. It allows too many things to be felt. They stand before me in a row: fear, sadness, outrage, emptiness, and hate. Indifference and a terrible tiredness. How I long to rest my head upon my parent’s lap and beg Yazi Avo to quiet the buzzing in my brain.

I take a breath; exhale. Another. It is not the moment before; that moment when I had living friends and living enemies. It is not the moment to come, when whatever it is that I must do has already been done. It is this moment. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember something comforting—something perhaps even useful—from The Talman.

How little of the book I know. My parent tried to teach me, but it was killed by the Front long before I completed my first year. I keep the golden cube of my parent’s Talman suspended from a chain around my neck, but I rarely read it. After all, it was the masters of the Talman Kovah who proved that this war cannot end. No adulthood rites, no presentation before the family archives, not for Yazi Ro. Not for any of us condemned to Amadeen. Our talma was to be sealed for eternity into hell.

Two humans are dead on the dusty cement floor at my feet. The older of the two caught the slice of my energy knife through the upper right quadrant of his head. The younger one is almost a child the way humans reckon such things. She was cut in two through the chest.

Bodies.

Nothing.

Two more corpses upon a mountain of dead.

There is a golden pendant on a golden chain around the neck of the young one. I expect it to be a cross, that sign of the human prince of peace. I see, instead, the cube of a Talman taken from some dead or captured Drac.

My rage paints everything in reds and blinding whites. Instinctively I touch the trigger on my knife and watch as her head rolls free from her torso. I take the chain from the stump of her neck and look at the cube. It carries a line sign, but I do not know it.

I look around inside the concrete and steel structure. Nothing but the mounts remain of the crew-served weapons that had been bolted to the floor. There are scraps of cloth hanging over the weapon ports. Human curtains. They are made from the tan, white, and red camouflage cloth the humans use. There are chairs very similar to Drac chairs, and a table very similar to the one I ate from before my parent, my siblings, and my home were destroyed so very long ago. The inside is blackened and chipped from weapons firing.

I am numb from fatigue and from the pains in my head. I wonder how many human homes and lives I have destroyed. Some things are beyond counting.

Something strange about the scene makes me pause. The chipping took place after the fire. The blackening is from burning, probably ignited by an energy knife. The chipping is caused by bullets. The Twelve had no rifles. The rifle fire had to have come from inside. Anta had said the humans might be fighting among themselves. Perhaps that is why so many of them were not in the bunker when we attacked.

I take another deep breath, and as I do so I vaguely remember the sensor. I look at it again and the orange dots are now larger, the walls of the bunker reflecting warm from the sun and the energy weapons. Two of the humans are still alive, and the only thing to be served on Amadeen is death.

Against the back of the firing gallery is a room. In it are six of the human beds, raised on legs, and draped with cloths. Three of the beds have bodies tossed across them. Three more bodies are crumpled on the floor near them. The ones on the beds carry knife wounds, the slashes and dismemberment unmistakable. The ones on the floor carry bullet wounds.

Another room to the left off the gallery is for food preparation. Nothing alive in there. The ones alive are hiding beneath the bed on the far right.

I place my weapon between my knees and hold it while I remove my helmet. The room smells foul, the human blood sickeningly sweet. Cement dust is in the air causing light filtering through cracks in the bunker to make dustbeams. The place is filled with greenflies, already feasting upon the pools of red human blood. Strange how the insects have an equal affinity for yellow Drac blood.

The Talman says that only form changes, nothing ever dies. It looks like a lot of death to me.

I look at the bed beneath which the two humans are hiding. There is a rifle on the tattered sheets, the stock shattered. The readout on my sensor shows one of the humans to be too small to be an adult. Of course, there are also very small humans called dwarfs and midgets who are just as deadly. Still, one of them might be a child.

Prisoners? By the bloody book, why burden myself with prisoners? It is so much less complicated if they simply die. Would they take me prisoner, or would they render me into muck and thank their bloody gods?

Perhaps they will, instead, kill me. It is time to ride the monster.

I hook my helmet onto my weapons belt. Holding my knife in my right hand, I place my left beneath the end of the bed. "Now is when you must kill me," I whisper.

I flip the bed over and bring my knife up to bear. All I can see is a single form. A human female from what I can see of her back. She is curled into a lump. She is not armed. "Get up," I order in English. "Get up and face me."

She doesn’t comply. Instead she shakes her head back and forth, a human sign of resistance. "Get up," I repeat.

I reach down to grab her shoulder, my knife pointing at her head. Just before I touch her, I hear a baby cry.

So easy to have a soft heart.

So easy to say, here is a parent and child. Take pity, Ro. What has a mere baby done to you? Have mercy.

How many Dracs have had their wombs ripped open, their barely formed children dangled by their umbilicals before the still-living eyes of their parents? How many humans have smashed the heads of how many Drac children upon rocks and exchanged money bets upon how far the blood splashes?

With all of my strength I grab her shoulder and throw her onto her back, her baby still clutched in her arms. I lift my knife to cut them both in two, then I see the baby. It is a Drac baby only a few days old.

The woman’s eyes stare at my face. Tears make her eyes glitter in the half dark. She knows she is about to die. She knows the baby is about to die. "Please," she whimpers. "Please."

What about the dead, I want to ask her. What about all of the dead? And how did you acquire a Drac infant, woman? Whose womb did you slit? Filthy, hairy, foul-smelling thing, what right do you have to ask pity from me?

I say none of it. I gesture toward the infant with my knife and say something very stupid. "It is not human."

She shakes her head. "No," she answers. "It’s mine."

Mine.

It’s mine.

I lower myself until I am sitting cross-legged on the floor, my knife across my knees. A howl begins from inside me, from deep beneath the core of my soul. It expands until it fills every crack and crevice of my being. When the pressure is more than mere will can contain, it explodes from my mouth. A bellow, a scream, a cry.

I cry for them, the human female and the abandoned Drac infant. I cry for the Twelve, for my parent and siblings. I cry for Planet Amadeen, and for one of its many weary soldiers, Yazi Ro.

TWO

"Its name is Suritok Nan. Its parent told me just before it died. Fourth in its line, but its parent told me none of the line names. No one will be able to piece them together now."

We sit outside the bunker on the rubble, the woman cleaning the face of the Drac child on her lap. I sit watching her, my mind far from a decision about her continued existence.

Her skin is smooth and the color of mud, the hair on her head short, black, and curled. She too has ear flaps and that bulb of a human nose, all of those fingers. The Drac child’s skin is the color of sunlight, its face smooth, hairless, and puffed with birth fat. I can see, though, that the woman only sees a child; that the child only sees a parent. It is something I cannot even imagine existing, but there it is. I look away. The woman and the child are not the only things that have been left undone. I must find the bodies of my comrades, take their Talmans, destroy their weapons.

"Nan’s parent," continued the woman, "it didn’t even have time to tell me its own name before it died. The Talman it carried was gone." She moves her shoulders and lets her gaze fall. "Stolen, probably," she continues. "You can get over a hundred tags for a Talman and chain back on the Dorado."

A hundred tags. Tags are script money issued by the Front. According to captured humans, a hundred tags is enough to buy a melon. So much for eleven thousand years of wisdom. I look at the Talman and chain I had taken from the girl I beheaded. They are still in my hand, a bit of human blood on it. Perhaps this was the one taken from Nan’s parent. Probably not. I look again at the woman’s face.

Why should a human be so concerned about the heritage of a Drac infant? Perhaps her show is for my benefit. She thinks I might let her go. Her and her Drac child. After all, I let her live. So far. Perhaps she will do whatever she thinks will induce my compassion. Humans lie, and sneak, and trick: all skills we have learned from them along with butchery, cruelty, and horror.

I notice the power switch on my knife is still energized. The weapon’s charge is down to fourteen percent. Stupid. Suddenly I am very tired. I want to find a safe, dark place, curl into a ball, wipe my memory, and sleep for a thousand years. I turn off the switch.

"What are you going to do with us?"

A decision seems to make itself. I stand, take a step, and stop next to the pair. Extending my hand, I hold out the Talman and chain to her.

"It probably belongs to another line, but the words are the same." Tears, another thing we have in common with the humans, blur my vision. "The line died with the soldier who carried this."

She takes it, nods her thanks, and places the chain around the child’s neck. I do not ask her if she can read Drac.

I stay behind at the crossroads and watch the woman’s back as she walks toward the north stepping over the rubble and around the holes, the baby still in her arms. The sun is almost gone, the sky red as the desert dust. I face the west and wonder what I should do.

I should make my way back to the Sikov commander and report. They are all dead, Ghah Jov: Anta split from its crotch to its right shoulder by an energy knife; Ki, its pieces splattered across the ground where a rocket’s blast carried them; Pina riddled with bullets, the tracks in the sand showing how it dragged itself across the ground before it died; and Adoveyna stretched out on the ground without a mark on its body as though it were sleeping. When I lift Adoveyna I feel the blood on my fingers.

Ah, yes.

I must report the village of Riehm Vo liberated. I should report as well the woman whom I let return to her own people, in addition to the baby Drac I allowed her to take with her.

I can imagine Joy’s brow rising as it waits for the soldier before it to explain several counts of treason. Should I tell it the woman herself killed two humans who were determined to kill the Drac child? That was the firing Anta had heard when it scouted the position. Should I tell Joy that if I had, instead, brought her with me back to the Sikov, the woman would be executed and the baby thrown into a holding center for children with no lines to await training as future killers for the Mavedah? Joy could not see what was wrong with that. A few days ago I would not be able to see it either. But now I see Nan sleeping in love’s arms, a rest so complete all I can do is quench my envy by letting them stay together.

I cannot go back to the Sikov or the Mavedah. Let them believe all of us died. I turn and look at the woman in the distance. I believe she can protect the baby from her commanders in the Front, but she could not protect me. I would be killed, or forced to commit treason and then killed.

She stops, turns, and faces me. Lifting a hand, she waves it. A human gesture. I raise a hand and hold it as she faces north again and continues walking, the baby still in her arms. I should take my knife and cut her down this instant. It would redeem me, place my footsteps back on the known path. The road turns behind some ruins and she is gone. I lower my hand and look down at the energy knife in my other hand. I should have gotten the name of the woman. Those who change the entire course of a life need to be named.

I glance up at the sky and see the sun reflected from one of the several orbiting quarantine stations that ring Amadeen. It hangs in the sky like an evening star. In it sit the humans and Dracs who monitor the instruments that detect and destroy ships that attempt to rise from the surface or attempt to land on the surface from space. Far beyond that belt of death is where I must find my answers. There are none left on Amadeen.

I will not see Joy to report the liberation of all this rubble. I must avoid the Mavedah. Instead, there is a traitor I must see.

I pull the control block from the knife, crush it beneath my boot, and throw the knife far from the edge of the road. I turn to the west and walk, leaving my helmet and armor in the dust.

THREE

Zenak Abi’s name is a curse leveled at those who would betray species and line to follow a fantasy. Yet I betray all to which I have sworn to find something my pain tells me must be there.

I cross the Mavedah lines in the dark, the sounds of battle coming from the north. There is no challenge. The humans are far away from these posts and moments to sleep too precious. Later, at an unfamiliar settlement where no one recognizes me, I offer a Madah outcast some rations in exchange for information. The vemadah gives me the information I need and fades into the shadows. I gave it the Talmans of my dead comrades and the vemadah will see that their deaths are recorded for the benefit of anyone who might care. Anta’s sibling, Trahn, may be still alive. The rest of them, though, came from the holding center for the lineless. The Twelve was their line.

In the village of Namdas, nestled in the foothills of the Silver Mountains, I see the market where farmers and merchants buy and sell things as though there is no fire in the sky. Namdas has only been hit twice during the past few years, both times by accident; shortfalls of missiles intended for the Mavedah headquarters farther to the east. I think to buy some of the sweet grain cakes there on sale, but I have no money and only my boot knife to trade. I keep my knife, drink at a well, and take the road into the mountains.

As the hot dawn fills the sky, I see the house. It is in the woods above Namdas, high on the slope of Mt.Atahdd. The smell of trees fills the air. The house is little more than a rouga, what the humans call a hutch or shack. In the dust outside the shack two Drac children play at killing.

"Nu geph, Irkmaan!" growls the older child as it brandishes a wooden energy knife made from a drying board. The other child, holding a stick as though it is a rifle, sullenly falls down feigning a welcome death, its release from having to take the role of the human. When it resurrects and demands the exchange of weapons and roles, the older child refuses. A protest, another demand, the name kizlode is hurled followed shortly by a swift kick and the pair grappling in the dust.

I am rooted to the spot by a memory of two years past. There was one of many truces in effect. Standing guard on eleven humans, holding them in case the negotiations for the proposed prisoner exchange actually succeed. The humans talk among themselves, one saying that he cannot see how the war can ever end. He tells his companion the wounds are too many, too old, and too deep. He describes how his children and the children of his friends play. For fun they play at killing Dracs the way these children before Neleh Ve’s shack play at killing humans.

There was no prisoner exchange that time. Tuva Culik, the compound warden, came running from its office, its skin reddish with rage. Culik had heard that the humans had begun executing their prisoners. From Culik’s belt the warden pulled a pulse weapon and fired into the humans. The humans roared and charged the fence. I cut into them with an energy knife. Two other guards joined in and the four of us fired into the eleven unarmed humans until there was nothing left but a lumpy puddle of steaming muck. Afterward, silence. Then another message.

It was a false rumor. The humans still honored the agreement. Tuva Culik had been wrong. We had murdered the eleven humans. When the Front heard about what we had done to their comrades, the rumor was righted. The humans executed forty-four soldiers of the Mavedah and the truce was ended. Culik had been proven right after all.

"Tuka nue!" commands an adult voice weary with scolding.

The children halt their war and face a Drac adult who is holding a bundle of hand-washed clothes in its arms. It carries no weapons.

"Neleh Ve?" I ask.

Its eyes, the lids narrowed, study me for a moment. Without removing its gaze from my eyes, the Drac gestures with its head toward the house and says to the children, "Tean, benga." With the children in the shack, the Drac shifts the washing, resting it on a hip, leaving its right arm free. "I am Neleh Ve."

"Yazi Ro," I answer. "It is good to see children again."

"The battle cry of the childless," says Neleh Ve without changing expression. "Is there something you want?"

"I look for the JetahTalman, Zenak Abi. I was told you could instruct me where to go."

Amusement touches Ve’s lips. "What use has a soldier of the Mavedah with a master of paths?"

"Perhaps the path of the Mavedah no longer serves me." I frown at Ve and invite a wound with my question. "I have no weapons, no armor. How do you know I was Mavedah?"

"Your eyes, Yazi Ro. They belong to a killer."

I take the wound and add it to my collection. "Zenak Abi," I repeat. "Where may I find the Jetah?"

Ve gestures with its head toward the mountain. "Up there somewhere."

I look up at the mountain, its peaks capped with snow. "It is a big mountain. Is there a particular trail I should follow?"

"Go, and if Abi wants to talk with you, it will find you. Be warned, though, that the Jetah can defend itself."

"I mean the Jetah no harm. I only seek information."

"So said many who sought to slay the traitor." Neleh Ve turns and begins spreading its wash on the drying boards. I am dismissed.

Neleh Ve has no reason to believe differently about me. There is no reason why I should concern myself about what it thinks. I feel the need, though. I feel the need to tell Ve that I am no longer one of them. My only proof, though, is that I have killed no one today. I aim my steps up the mountain as the children in the shack resume their pretend killing.

I still hear their voices as I turn on my receiver and listen to a little zidydrac before the music is interrupted to inform us that the village of Riehm Vo has been retaken by the Front. I think about the dead woman I beheaded and know that I have added luster to some Amadeen Front soldier’s resolve to exterminate every Drac from the face of the planet. As the music returns, I place the receiver on a rock and leave it there, the music fading as I climb.

There are trees on the mountain, great towering things with craggy black skin and reddish-green leaves as wide as my hand is long. Among the rocks and grasses are flowers, berry hushes, and blossoming vines that reach high into the trees. The air is cooler and there is a breeze. I can hear the sounds of battle, but they are distant, not as loud as the dark-brown furred shade nit at my feet. Its sound is a chip-chip and it sits within a thicket on its hind legs, its thin black tail wrapped around its legs, making its sound, warning me not to approach.

I search my pockets. The creature defends its territory. It is not begging me for ancient battle rations. Still, I find an end of ration bar, pinch off a piece, and toss it to the nit. It springs back, increases its cry in volume, and paws at the air with its front legs. I back away a step and, after a moment, the creature quiets, leans forward and sniffs at the piece of food. Darting out to pick it up, the nit rushes back to the safety of the deep thicket. As it eats I turn and look around me.

Something inside me is outraged at this corner of Amadeen that has missed the warring. Where is the justice that claimed the lives of Anta, Ki, Pina, and Adoveyna, yet lets a bloody shade nit live? I cross my legs and sit where I am.

I have no argument with justice. I lost my belief in such things long before my parent died. My argument is with reality. My comrades should not be dead. Instead we should all be here on the side of this mountain, cooling ourselves in the shade, tossing bits of food to the nits. There is a pain in me so intense that I cannot afford to let it claim me.

Suddenly I feel something dig into my back. "I see I have a visitor," says a voice from behind me. "Let me see your hands, child, and do not clutter them with weapons, I beg you."

I sit up and hold my hands out to my sides as I condemn myself as a fool. "Zenak Abi?" I ask.

With steps as silent as the mist, it moves slowly around me until I can see it. The Drac is old but looks to be strong. It wears pieces of camouflage uniforms, human trousers, a Drac jacket and boots, a soft human brimmed hat. All that remains of a Talman master’s robe, the blue stripe at the hem, it wears draped around its neck. In its hands it holds a long walking stick. "I am Abi. Who might you be?"

I lower my hands to my sides and climb to my feet. "I am Yazi Ro." I think for a moment and then add, "I used to serve in the Mavedah. The Okori Sikov of the Ninth Shordan."

The old one’s brow rises in amusement. "Eh, a proud band, the Okori Sikov." Abi lowers the end of its staff to the ground. Grasping it with both hands, the Jetah rests its weight on it. "And what is a hero of the Okori Sikov doing so far from the fighting?"

I feel the heat coming to my face. "Your mockery is out of place, old one. I come here for answers, not to provide you with entertainment."

It grins at me, the broken edge of its upper mandible quite visible. "Perhaps I cannot remember the answers, Yazi Ro, unless I am entertained."

I turn, see the trunk of a fallen tree, and go to it. I sit down, cross my arms, and rest my elbows on my knees. I do this to avoid slitting open the old fool with the knife hidden in my boot. I feel twice the fool for coming here. Perhaps my questions have no answers.

Abi squats down before me, leans the stick between its neck and shoulder, and studies me. The longer the Jetah stares at me, the more foolish I feel. Just as I am about to rise and flee from the mountain, Abi says, "What is your question, soldier? Ask it honestly and I will provide you with an answer as honest as your question."

I remain quiet as my anger wrestles with my thoughts, leaving nothing clear. My question? Who knows what my question is? Why is there a war? Why is peace impossible? Why was I born into the center of this holocaust? Why are my comrades dead? Why is my parent dead? Why is life and the world excrement?

I can feel the tears dribble down my face. My question. What is my question? My mind is blanked by the futility of it all. "Very well, old fool. Why do you wear human trousers?"

Zenak Abi’s face becomes very serious. It nods once, then levels its gaze at me. "The purpose, child," Abi says in English, "is to cover my ass."

I am stunned, then I laugh. Through this crack in my grief all of the laughter I had confined for years explodes. When I can see again, Zenak Abi, too, is laughing.

FOUR

Abi leads me high up the mountain, deep into the frozen cleft between two peaks where the boulders stand on the ground like so many frost giants. The snow is fresh and ankle deep. I am not used to the cold and I feel my muscles growing numb, my thoughts coming slow and thick. It is the beginning of dark by the time we reach the entrance to Abi’s cave.

Before I enter I look down from the mountain toward the east. There the gentle hills of the Shorda spread to the horizon. Dull glows of red and orange beneath the haze show the death machines have not yet run out of fuel. They make me feel the fool yet again. So much blood, so much pain, so many years. If the fighting could have been stopped others would have stopped it long ago. Who is Yazi Ro to stop a war? Ro who still has bloody hands. I turn and enter the cave, pulling the cover cloth down behind me.

Inside it is much warmer. We sit on boxes and other containers salvaged from some ruin. One side of my container is cut, allowing me to sit on a springy seat of leafy branches and rest my back against the side opposite. Abi cooks cakes on the griddle it has made, filling the chamber with the smells of wood smoke and sweet spice.

"Have you heard anything about the new truce?" I ask. "There have been rumors. Nothing from the broadcast stations. Some say a rumor is all it is."

Abi slides two of the cakes onto a large leaf and hands them to me. "Before the truce could be signed, the Tean Sindie attacked the negotiation site, took everyone hostage, executed all of the humans, and admonished the Mavedah negotiators never again to negotiate with the monsters of the Front. Some tea?"

The Tean Sindie; children of the racehome world; the "pure Mavedah" whom no one seems able to control. They could have let the truce happen for a few days. Just a few.

I eat my cakes hot, allowing the warmth to radiate from my center to my limbs. It is quiet in the cave. Safe. I do not feel that I have to stand guard every second. Next to life on the dirt, the security I feel within that frozen mountain is strangely obscene.

With my belly full and my muscles relaxed for the first time since the founding, I put the Tean Sindie, truces, and Amadeen out of my mind and let sleep overtake me. At first l awaken, see Abi sitting on its crate, then drowse as images of love and war flit through the edges of my perception. A last look at Abi reading a book, then I give in, too weary to resist my dreams,

"The Selector," hisses a voice.

Choi Leh stands there above the children, paying no attention to the sounds of firing outside. Leh is massive, a horrible burn scar on the left side of its face, its left arm limp and dead at its side. Choi Leh’s leather clothes and boots are worn, its armor and weapon scarred. Ravin Nis, the Jetah of the lineless children, watches Choi Leh, eager to please, terrified not to. We all want to please the Selector, but our reasons are different. If we are chosen to fill the ranks of the Mavedah, we will eat.

Leh steps down from the dais and begins to walk among us, its stride long, and determined. The word passes among the children in whispers: "Mavedah. Mavedah."

"This one," says Leh nodding toward Vulrih Apisa, the largest of us. Hateful Apisa is cruel and a bully, but now its face is proud. "See here," says its expression. "I was the first chosen. I do matter. I am something." Ravin Nis takes Apisa by the arm and points toward the dais.

"This one," says Choi Leh, pointing at another, Nis following with whispered instructions to go to the dais. Choi Leh picks four more, then pauses before Bikudih Ri. Ri is small but eager to please. Leh lifts its good arm and smacks Ri’s head, sending the child to the floor. Choi Leh waits a moment watching Ri cry then moves on.

At last Choi Leh stands in front of me. I know I am very young, not as large as most, and the Mavedah Selector must doubt me. There will be a test. It looks down at me, its burns more horrible now that they are close. "My face," it growls. "Do you see something in it?"

"It is burned," I answer, still looking into its eyes. They are dark, more brown than yellow.

"Do you find it beautiful?" Leh asks.

"I find it ugly."

Choi Leh takes a swing at my head, I squat, and as the arm flashes above my head, I drive my head into Leh’s middle, right where I think its belly slit is. Leh cries out as it falls to the floor on its backside. Leh holds its middle, gasps, springs to its feet, and gives me another look.

"This one," Leh tells Ravin Nis, then the Selector moves on…

I awaken, sit up and look all around for threats. There is no one but the Jetah Talman, Zenak Abi. It is still reading, but it speaks. "It is time, Yazi Ro, to ask me your question. The one that is not about my trousers."

I lean forward, rub my face, and take a breath. Letting the breath escape, I lean back in the chair. Question. Do I even have a question? "I am not certain what to ask, Jetah."

Abi marks the book with a strip of blue cloth, closes it, and places it on his lap. Its eyes search me out. "What do you know of me?"

"You are insane and a traitor."

The Jetah’s brow mounts a puzzled frown. "I would think, Ro, that I cannot be both."

I look down and clasp my hands together. It is not important, I think. They are only words: the most traitorous things of all. "Jetah, it is said that before there was a war, you lived with the humans."

"True. Many of us did. The university they had in Hulon on the Dorado continent was Amadeen’s largest center of learning before the war. I taught there and had many human friends, teachers, and students. Does that make me a traitor?"

"No." I lean forward and point with my hands at the air. "I cannot imagine such a time."

Abi holds a hand to its chin and purses its lips. "You carry your years like a chain. How many? Ten, eleven?"

"I am seven, Jetah."

"Seven," repeats Abi, shaking its head after the manner of a human. "When I was your age I had already graduated from the Talman Kovah in Sendievu."

"On Draco?" I ask in surprise. Everyone I had ever known had been born on Amadeen.

"Of course. I came to Amadeen at the age of nine. That was eleven years before the war." Abi grins at me. "You look astonished, Yazi Ro."

I frown as I do my addition. "You must be over fifty years old!"

"Fifty-three on Draco. A little older in Amadeen years. My age doesn’t set any records."

I stand and pace before Abi. "Almost everyone I know is under ten. My parent was killed when it was only four. There are a few Mavedah warmasters in their twenties. One warmaster I met, Olta Cius, was twenty-nine at the time. It was the oldest Drac I ever met, until now."

Zenak Abi wipes a hand over the top of its head, sighs, and says, "We have established, Yazi Ro, that I am insane, traitorous, and terribly ancient, However, at this pace we will both be too old to retain a coherent thought by the time you get to your point."

I halt my pacing and look down at the Jetah. "Then, here it is. I have heard two things in the camps. First, it is said that when Zenak Abi studied the paths it did not see all paths locking Amadeen into this war. It is said you found a talma to peace."

Abi rubbed its chin and held up a single finger. "Half true. All paths do not prove this war necessary. I proved no path to peace, however."

"There must be a way! There must be an end to this."

"I would like to think so, young one," Abi says in a mocking tone. "Still, there is nothing that raises your fervent must to the level of scientific possibility."

I see Abi’s amused face and ask myself: is the world nothing but bloody games played with pain-filled living pieces? My frustration overcomes any pretense at old-fashioned courtesy. "You and your blue stripe have had thirty-two years, you old wheeze! What have you been doing all this time?" I find our faces only a handlength apart and feel something poking me in my middle. I look down and Abi is holding one of the human projectile hand guns. It is pointed at me. I stand and take a step back.

"Sit down in the chair, Yazi Ro. You will find it much more comfortable." I do not move, "Very well, I will find it more comfortable. Sit!" commands the Jetah, brandishing the pistol. I sit in the chair, my gaze on Abi’s eyes. The Jetah smiles, aims the gun at his own head, and pulls the trigger. A click, and nothing. "Out of ammunition," it says in apology. "To answer your question, what I have been doing for the past thirty-two years is trying to keep myself and a few friends alive. We’ve spent the decades one step ahead of the agents of the Mavedah, the Amadeen Front, and their unruly siblings hiding in places such as this."

"I found you easily enough."

Abi smiles and says, "If you will invoke your vast powers of memory, Yazi Ro, you will, I think, recall that it was I who found you."

Abi gestures with its gun at the walls of the cave. "As for my work, Yazi Ro, where do I hang my charts? Where are my screens, my computers, my colleagues and assistants, my subspace link to the Talman Kovah? All of this time, young one, you had a better chance at achieving peace than did I."

"Peace?" I ask, even more confused.

Abi nods as it tucks the useless weapon within its jacket. "You could have put down your weapon and stopped killing. That would have decreased the number of dead bodies you have been generating. I couldn’t even do that because I wasn’t killing anyone. What is the second thing you heard?"

The rumors my comrades would pass among one another as we would sit talking around a faltering glow disk at night. Are they all only words? Audio blips with which we fill time until the next mission? Is this the monster, the thief of victory, of our discussions? "I heard, Zenak Abi, that you know a way through the blockade. You know how I can get off Amadeen."

Finally I get the old fool’s attention. It clasps its hands and crosses its legs after the manner of a human. "If I could perform such a miracle, Yazi Ro, where might you go? What would you do? A vacation? Go on rides at a theme park? Perhaps some shopping in Sendievu?"

The answer came to me as I spoke the words. "I would go to Draco, stand before the Jetai Diea at the Talman Kovah, and demand they find an end to war for this sorry world."

"Ah, peace is it? And would you kill to achieve this, little Niagat?"

Again I feel the heat coming to my face. "I am not here to trade myths from The Talman, you old…one. What I will do to achieve peace is my concern alone."

Again Zenak Abi mocks me with its smile. "There are many who would be clean of Amadeen, Yazi Ro. Parents, both human and Drac, who want their children safe. There are the wounded who cannot get the treatment they need. There are all of those who are starving, multitudes who no longer want to wallow in death. Supposing that I can perform this miracle, why should I ignore their pleas in favor of yours?"

"Zenak Abi, the danger, the wounding, the starvation will all end come the peace."

"Come the peace." Abi stands and walks until it is standing over me, its face no longer mocking. "And you, young killer, the blood of humans still on your hands, are you the one to convince the Ovjetah and the gentle masters of the Talman Kovah that they are mistaken? That their years of study, training, and experience are for nothing? That they simply overlooked a path that you in your youthful ignorance and brash pride have found? The Talman Kovah advises the political, business, military, scientific, and philosophical institutions of hundreds of worlds, and here comes a ragged Mavedah killer, barely an adult but bereft of adulthood, to demand that they accomplish that which they already know to be impossible. Tell me, Yazi Ro, why they would even allow you within sight of the front entrance?"

I turn my face away from the Jetah and look into a deep shadow. A thousand times I am the fool. In the center of my being there is this conviction that the horror on Amadeen is so wrong, in itself that should force a path into existence, a talma along which Amadeen can achieve peace.

A thousand times a fool.

On the edge of my lips is the word "unfair." This war, the horrors, the impossibility of peace, unfair, unfair. I do not say this aloud, for doing so would invite another little homily from The Talman. I do not remember the story or from which koda it comes. Something about one of Maltak Di’s little games. One of the lessons of the story, though, is that a belief in fairness is evidence of either brain damage or stupidity.

Tears again. Perhaps there is no end to this. My parent, my friends, my comrades are dead, in a parade of corpses with many regiments yet to follow. Do I rejoin the parade or hide like Zenak Abi on some mountaintop? Can I live knowing so many are dead, so many are dying?

My ghosts would sing too loudly in a place as peaceful as this cave. It is from the humans we learned about ghosts. No kovah, steeped in scientific path detection, would accept a fancy such as ghosts. Yet I have heard them. I see them now. I care for no one’s opinions on what I know until that one has carried its own blade on Amadeen.

Abi places its hand upon my head, and it is warm. "Lean back," he commands. "Lean back and relax. I’ll introduce you to a little something I picked up from a human."

I lean away from the Jetah’s hand and frown at its smiling face. "What are you going to do?"

"There is a problem with you. Perhaps I can help."

"A disease?" I ask.

Abi laughs, thinks for a moment, then says, "Perhaps something worse, Ro. First, I am going to relax you. Next I may find a way for you to achieve your greatest wish. Somewhere along this path I will probably get you killed. Now lie back and relax."

Peace or death. Either one is more attractive than the present. I lean back, close my eyes, and allow the soft strokes of the Jetah’s hand to lull me toward a strange sleep. Long before I get there I hear a strange noise: a motion of leather across paving stones. I try to move, to place myself at the ready, but I cannot move. I am helpless before my own thoughts.

FIVE

There is a gray light that becomes a mist swirling around the trunks of trees, reaching upward toward me. It surrounds me and the features of everything fade into oblivion. I try to call out, but there is no sound. There is a smudge of yellow deep within the mist. I stare at it and watch it grow until a horizon appears, the outlines of humble dwellings etched against the clouds.

I am back in Gitoh, watching as the blades of green light reach to burn another human gunship from the sky. The grating sounds of the alarm blocks seem to vibrate my bones. "Ro! Ni tean! Ro!" My parent rushes into the room and jerks me away from the window. In the center of our home, Yazi Avo cries and speaks angrily to me. It pulls me to its chest, squeezes me tightly, and nuzzles my neck. "I am sorry, Ro. I was so frightened. Please listen. When the alarm blocks sound, you must stay away from the windows and doors."

I tell Avo that I am all right and nothing will happen to me. The fighting was far off. I will not get hurt in my own home. Later I learn that my friend Idoh watched almost the entire battle from its window before a stray pulse from the gunship turned Idoh into pulp.

There are moments with my parent, reading and reading again our few books, an embrace, sleeping safe in the arms of Yazi Avo. On the edge of the new spring comes the Battle of Gitoh, so many Amadeen Front soldiers cutting through us because only a few Mavedah were there to serve the air defense weapons. The smoke, screams, and flames. The silence. Pushing Avo’s lifeless body off my own. Only a charred corner from one of Avo’s books remains.

I cry my cries and I cannot understand how anyone, Drac or human, can listen and not take pity on the children. Long after my cries end, a soldier of the Mavedah comes and takes me to a track wagon. There are other children in it. All of us are alone. When the track begins moving, taking us out of Gitoh, no one says anything to us. A few of us huddle together and cry. Most of us, though, sit watching, waiting for the next horror, hoping the next time to be better prepared.

The kovah for lineless children, the Selector before us. The terrors of training, the endless battles, fights, attacks, ambushes, maimed and dead comrades, the few I know and the multitude I do not. I carry my own knife into the cries of human children. I see them, their large dark eyes filled with tears, their faces twisted with grief. They cry their cries and they cannot understand how anyone, human or Drac, can listen and not take pity on the children. There is nothing to be served by trying to explain to them. Those who live will have to learn for themselves.

There is a broken doll in the dust before the burning fortifications at Butaan Ji. A little girl a step away, her dead eyes staring up at the sun. A man sitting next to her, singing strange words in a cracked voice. The pain in the song’s words need no translator. He turns his head and looks at me, his eyes wet, pleading, his voice forcing out the song. He is not wounded and he has a weapon. The weapon remains on his lap. I lift my knife and give him a splash through his chest. He falls to the ground dead and I wonder why he did not try to save himself. In my mind I still hear the song he sang.

The night mission to attack Steel Town on the Dorado, looking down from the exit bay of the ancient combat flyer. The surface below is covered with clouds. The clouds illuminate here, there, and here again as explosions below make the clouds glow with whites, oranges, and reds. In the distance there are other glows, and still more. Wherever I look down upon Amadeen it is exploding or burning, and we are to go into that. As we begin our dive, Pina reaches out and holds my hand. The nameless commander of another unit sees us and looks away, something guilty in its eyes.

The woman at the bunker and her Drac infant. A field of death and destruction, a killer of the Mavedah who can no longer kill for a continuation of this madness. The infant’s name is Suritok Nan. The woman did not tell me her name. I let her go, no longer able to see what I had to see to kill. What will her little Drac infant become? Perhaps it will be the key to a future peace between the Dracs and humans. Perhaps it will invent a potion that renders all species into the same family. More than likely it and its human mother were killed within moments of leaving me.

In my center I see things of mine. Love is a small thing. Pity smaller still. Hate is larger. It is a mountain, its crest black against a sky of fire. Towering above it, though, is this thing that makes me sick, the thing that makes me stupid, less than an adult. It is a lumbering, clumsy, raging monster bellowing, "Look at the suffering, the waste! Things should not be this way! It is unfair!"

This is what makes Yazi Ro a fool. If I get to Draco and stand before the Talman Kovah, putting this planet’s pain on display for the masters, is there anything I can achieve other than laughter or impatience? I will only howl at reality and thrash myself bloody upon its disinterested plane.

What can there be left, then, for Amadeen?

The mist clears, returning me to Zenak Abi’s cave. There is an ache in my eyes, the taste of dust in my mouth. There is a man before me. He is short and very serious-looking. He stands next to the Jetah, both of them warming themselves at the fire. They are discussing me, yet their words come from very far away.

A feeling fills my throat. The human. There is something very wrong with Zenak Abi talking with a human as if they are old comrades. The Jetah holds a small package. The human holds a smaller package.

I sit up as the wrongness of what I see becomes clear. The human is standing there without guilt. He is not cowed, apologetic, filled with remorse, wary, nothing to suggest the weight of the crimes he carries or the awful debt he owes to the Dracs in the chamber.

A part of my intellect knows that it is possible that this particular human might be innocent of any crimes. This particle of reason, though, cannot weigh against the universe of my hate. And still they talk. The sense of their words has to do with sending Yazi Ro―me―to Draco. There must be a confusion, but they repeat it: Yazi Ro to go to Draco.

"Why?" I try to ask, but my word is slurred, sounding like the whimper of one of the dogs the humans brought to Amadeen. Abi faces me,

"Eh, you are back on Amadeen, are you? Take a few deep breaths, Ro. Work your muscles. You’ve had a sedative."

"Sed―?" I push myself up from the chair, my arms and legs strangely heavy and slow to respond to my commands. "What sedative?" I grasp the back of the chair as the chamber seems to whirl. The feeling passes and soon my head clears.

"This should be plenty," says the man holding the smaller package, a thick envelope. "The price has been going down as the demand falls off."

"Yazi Ro," says Abi, "this is Thomas. He is going to arrange for you to go to Draco."

The world takes on another spin and I drop back into the chair. "Draco?" The things that went through my mind are still with me. "Why?" I gesture with suddenly numb fingers toward my head. "This thing that happened, the dream, it showed me what a useless gesture going to Draco is." I look around feeling that perhaps my head is none too clear. "What happened to me?" I point at the brown thing with the serious expression. "Why this human? What is he doing here?"

"In answer to one of your questions," says the human, "it’s called mind fusion. In an electro-chemical sense Zenak Abi’s brain and yours became one for a moment." He removes a small silver disk from his jacket pocket and shows it to me. "This is the gadget. It’s a neural field amplifier." Replacing the disk in his pocket, he says, "The sedative should wear off in a couple of minutes."

"I took nothing. No sedative."

Abi holds up its hand. "I applied it when I stroked your head."

I should feel outraged but I am too tired, too confused. The Jetah of peace carries a gun and drugs those who seek its help. When I want to go to Draco, I cannot. Now that there is no purpose, I can. Perhaps this is a test; some sort of examination to see if I am worthy to join their cult. If I pass the test I get to join some secret society of the fungus-brained.

Abi and the human shake hands and upon the completion of the human ritual, Thomas leaves the chamber. The Jetah adds some wood to the small fire and speaks to me. "I apologize, Yazi Ro, for administering the sedative without your permission. It was necessary for me to see as you see. I needed to know if I can trust you."

"Trust me? For what? A voyage to Draco? There is no reason to go to Draco." I hold my hands to my head. "Is that not the lesson in this dream you and the human thrust into my brain?"

Abi turns from the fire and studies me for moment. As the Jetah thinks, it walks to its chair and sits. Abi clasps its hands together and leans forward, resting its elbows on its lap. "We put nothing into your head, Ro. The process does allow you to have singularly instructive dreams, however. What the amplifier allowed me to do was to take your neural event field and place it within mine. It enabled me to remember, see, and feel as do you. As to your question, it is pointless for you to go before the Talman Kovah and threaten to throw a tantrum if they don’t discover a path to peace. That is what your own brain told itself, and I agree."

"Then what?" I ask, gesturing with my hand toward the entrance through which the human withdrew. "Why would you and this friend of yours have me go to Draco?"

Abi looks at the package in its hands. "There is a chance, Ro. I do not have the means to ascertain how slim a chance it is, but there is a chance for this peace you want. Before the quarantine cut me off from communication with the Talman Kovah, my work showed that there are event chains that are not proven to end in war."

I shake my head. "I don’t know enough about anything to see any light in that."

The Jetah mentally pushes aside a mountain of explanation with a wave of its hand. "There is a chance for this peace. Bring my work to the kovah and suggest they consider it in the light of the new book of the Talman accepted by the Three Hundred and Eleventh Jetai Diea. There is a chance."

"The Talman? A new book?" I almost wanted to laugh. I waved my golden cube at the Jetah. "Here you are excited over one more myth being tossed on the pile. I thought I was a fool until I met you, you old wind."

Zenak Abi leans back in its chair and studies me for a moment. "This myth just might interest you, young one. It was written about us―those on Amadeen―and it was written by a human."

I look down at the golden cube of pages that I wear because of a weakness: a vague attachment to my parent. The Talman, book of paths, the stories of Dracs from the advent of a god of fire eleven thousand years ago to what? The Jetai Diea, the most brilliant Talman scholars and scientists that exist, have added a new story to The Talman. A story written by a human. On proper Drac worlds, where rites of adulthood still are conducted, the young have to memorize it and be able to recite this new koda as part of the rites of adulthood. What does a human have to say that is worth memorizing by countless future generations of Dracs?

"Zenak Abi, what is the name of this new koda? It would be the Koda Nusinda, correct?"

"Yes. The book has been entered by the Jetai Diea as the Koda Nusinda, The Eyes of Joanne Nicole."

"Do your mysterious sources say what is so special about this particular human’s eyes?"

The Jetah puts on that mocking smile once more. "I am told she was blind and, therefore, could see better than the Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah."

"Blind." I stare at the Jetah while my mind envisions my presentation before the Jetai Diea. Here is what I have for you today, my masters: the work of a demented old traitor with outdated files and no equipment, inspired by a blind human, and brought to you by a Mavedah killer who never stood the rites yet who knows that the effort is wasted before it begins.

Too often my bitterness does my thinking for me. "What was so special about her eyes, Zenak Abi?"

"She saw the path to end the war between the Dracon Chamber and the United States of Earth."

"Leaving just one minor loose end," I added. "Amadeen."

Zenak Abi looked into the flames of his fire for a moment and says, "Her name was Joanne Nicole. This woman took a quadrant-wide war that was killing billions and left one that was killing thousands. She entered with hundreds of worlds at war and departed with one world at war with itself. For this she was branded an enemy by the Dracs, a traitor by the humans, and imprisoned. Your sneers will be of more meaning when you, Yazi Ro, have done as much."

I close my eyes and wonder at the currents and eddies of the universe, swirling and tossing fragments of life this way and that, toward ends that are forever unknowable. Am I tied to this new book of The Talman and to the humans? How is that combination tied to peace on Amadeen, if it is? Or is it all a wish, something of vapor that will vanish with the first breeze? I sigh and let my hands rest upon my lap. "What would you have me do, Abi ?"

Abi holds up its package. It is not much larger than a book and wrapped in waterproofed colthi skin. "Bring my work to the Talman Kovah. When you return to Amadeen, bring me a copy of the Koda Nusinda, The Eyes of Joanne Nicole."

"Return? Bring it back to Amadeen?" I ask, my brows climbing my forehead. "If I should make it to Draco what makes you think the dirt of this planet would ever again see my shadow?"

The Jetah turns its head and looks once more into the flames. "You’ll come back, Yazi Ro. There is nothing more certain."

SIX

At night another human called Rick MacFarland and a young Drac named Dulo Rin guide me along frozen, wind-carved trails until we cross the mountain. Toward the dying stars the rest of the Silver Mountain range reaches to the horizon, each pair of glistening peaks enclosing a tiny sanctuary where a few beings, Drac and human, subsist in relative peace. Here and there on the mountain sides and in the patches of valley green, are the scars left by bombs, knife slashes, and fires. I see many scars in various stages of healing, though, the feathery pillow trees and lace vines softening the sharp broken edges of destruction. In time Amadeen can heal itself, if the beings upon it somehow end the horror.

After a few hours of climbing down, we are again in trees. At a place an hour below the treeline, I see a small settlement, shacks and hutches hidden by brush among the trees, Dracs and humans living together, their children playing. The children are still playing at war, but there are both Dracs and humans on each side of the battle; progress of a sort. These are the friends Zenak Abi talked about trying to keep alive.

Deep in the woods I see eyes watching us. There are armed guards throughout the forest. Dracs and humans. Could it be possible that Dracs and humans used to live and work together? Would it be possible for them to do so again? Dracs and humans work together crewing the quarantine stations that orbit Amadeen. Perhaps. They have not bathed in Amadeen’s special waters, though.

Does peace require that I erase from my mind all of the horrors I have witnessed? Can Black October put aside the assassination of Amadeen Front Chairman Gordon Rose? And the slaughter of Rose’s mate? And his three little girls? Can the Mavedah or Tean Sindie forgive the gutting of the Amadeen Chamber deputies? The Ft. Lewis Massacre? The death of Yazi Avo?

There is a small voice in the back of my brain. It asks me, "Are you worthy, Yazi Ro?"

I know the voice. It is Dekiban Lo, Jetah of the Nokbuk Kovah, the Mavedah training academy where the Selector sent the lineless children it chose. One would gasp with exertion, and Lo would be in the poor kiz’s ear with, "Are you worthy, Mikla Namik?" Another would cry in pain, and Lo would shout, "Nias Toh, are you worthy?" One would drop from exhaustion and Lo would whisper, "Are you worthy, Yazi Ro?"

There is a mission before me, one more in an endless line of missions. I have time, however, to judge this one before I perform it. Is this a serious effort to bring peace to Amadeen or is it just to risk my life in a meaningless attempt to achieve a fantasy? If it is the latter, then it is no more than what I have already done countless times. If it is the former, there is still that question without an answer: Are you worthy, Yazi Ro?

There is the whine of an assault lander. As it falls slowly from the night sky, it shows no lights. I reach out and tap Dulo Rin’s shoulder. It turns, Rin’s features barely visible in the starlight. I point toward the sound and the Drac turns back and continues down the trail. "That is your ride," it says. "We must hurry. They won’t wait forever."

As we approach the small lander, there is a question in my heart. Who are the corrupt ones from the quarantine force who will take me off Amadeen? Will they be human or Drac? I have seen humans trade and barter among themselves and with the Mavedah soldiers who guarded them. Humans are corrupt and corruptible by nature. They shamelessly offer bribes to anyone who might serve their wants. I cannot imagine that kind of corruption in a Drac.

As we approach the open ramp of the lander’s entrance I can see three beings at the bottom of the ramp. There are no lights showing. Rick hands the thick envelope to one of them, then fades into the shadows. I look around for his Drac companion but Dulo Rin is gone. Two of the lander’s crew turn, walk up the ramp, and enter.

"Are you the passenger?" asks the one with the envelope.

"Yes," I answer.

The one with the envelope holds out a hand toward the ramp and I begin climbing toward the darkness of the lander’s interior, satisfied somehow because the extended hand was human. Inside the craft’s interior I see the remaining two members of the crew greet me with impenetrable expressions and impatient gestures. They are Dracs. I am to hide in a compartment beneath the floor plates in the small cargo bay. There is a plastic foam mattress and a blanket at the bottom of the compartment. There is a plastic container for water and another for waste.

"These are our bargain no-frills accommodations," says one of the Dracs.

The other picks up a floor plate from where it was leaning against the bulkhead and says in English, "Hop in and I’ll check with the captain about the in-flight movie." I do not understand their jokes and I do not join them in their laughter. I would not laugh in any event. They are Dracs, corrupt, and I am filled with shame.

As I sit on the foam mattress, the two Dracs and one of the humans slip the plates into the deck and bolt them down, the noise hurting my head. When the silence comes it is dark and I am left alone with my fears.

Will these corrupt humans and Dracs simply dump me in space, divide their dishonest gains and never be discovered in their murder?

Will I be captured by the quarantine force and be punished?

If there is trouble with the flight, will anyone have the time to remove the deck bolts and set me free?

If I make it to Draco, will I be ignored, my pleas to address the Talman Kovah disregarded? Or will I be scorned and cast out as one who never stood the rites before its line’s archives?

I feel a vibration through the mattress, and soon a sharp whine assaults my hearing. My hands cover the sides of my head, but the whine seems to come from everywhere. A sudden jolt followed by a brain-numbing roar, and I feel myself being pushed into the plastic foam. Soon I cannot hold up my head and my arms feel as though they are made of stone. Still the pressure increases until I cry out from the pain. With all my strength I push myself until I fall over on my side. I fall on the foam but with such force my head feels like a split melon. I am paralyzed for an eternity, my breaths ragged and shallow, the air growing deadly cold, the blanket out of reach.

Am I worthy? This is no longer my question. I have never been in space before and I think I am going to die.

SEVEN

At the orbiter the two Dracs drag me, feeling more dead than alive, out of the hidden compartment, dress me in a brown one-piece uniform, and smuggle me out of the lander as part of the lander crew. Without speaking they hurry me through passageways, down stairs, across hangar decks, and through more passageways. In moments I am in a pale green uniform disguised as a member of the orbiter crew. A Drac and a human I do not recognize take me through more passageways until we reach a gigantic hangar deck housing a sleek black swept-wing craft five times longer than the lander. The human pulls me into an alcove and holds out a black and gray uniform while the Drac takes turns at preparing some kind of identity badge and keeping watch.

"Do you have any skills?" asks the Drac. "We need to place you in the crew."

I think for a moment and say, "I know how to kill and stay alive."

The Drac smuggler gives me a cold look and the human interrupts by asking, "You can do maintenance on all kinds of Drac sidearms, can’t you?"

"Yes, as well as a considerable variety of human weapons."

Another cold look, this time from the human. The Drac enters a number of codes into my badge, tests them with a small light set into a stick, and nods at the human. The human faces me and says, "My friend here has diddled with the data and entered you as a member of the crew of the Tora Soam."

The Tora Soam. The ship is named for the most destructive Drac traitor who ever carried Aydan’s Blade. What insanity could cause such a bizarre misapplication of honor?

"Do you understand ?" urges the human.

"Yes. Where is this ship?" I ask.

"Off station." Seeing my look of confusion, he points toward one of the view ports. "Out there, in orbit with the station about a hundred klicks away. Gavey klicks?"

"I understand."

He nods his head toward the ship that fills the hangar deck. Several dignitaries and their attendants are standing together, talking and waiting. "This is one of the Soam’s shuttles. When the crew starts to board, we’ll attach you to a friend of ours who’ll get you on board and settled in. Our friend has found you an open slot to fill. In case anyone asks, tell them your real name and that you are in Maintenance Six, Ordnance. This is a diplomatic ship to Draco―only couriers and paper wizards―so nobody should need your services. You’ll have your own quarters and rations, so stay out of sight, keep your mouth shut, and you’ll do fine."

The smugglers' friend is Binas Pahvi, one of the Tora Soam’s fourth officers. The money Zenak Abi paid for my passage does not exchange hands. Instead the human hands Pahvi a heavy container of Amadeen’s sole export: happy paste. I can imagine a trail of spittle dreams from Amadeen across the galaxy to Draco. Pahvi has what the humans call devil eyes. I am kept out of sight as much as possible, but I think nearly everyone on the crew knows what is going on. Perhaps they all receive a share of Zenak Abi’s payment. Perhaps they don’t care. It is an attitude I do not understand. Those who have the grit of Amadeen in their pores learn that death trails uncaring steps. It is the first of many reminders that war makes its own race of children, aliens to those who have not had the same parent. Those crewing the orbiter and the Tora Soam are not warriors with missions. Instead they are laborers and technicians putting in time in exchange for pay.

The ship’s armory is a small compartment opening onto the weapons bay and onto the armorer’s quarters. It consists of a workbench and lockers filled with test equipment, tools, and supplies. The tools have no wear on them, the supplies have never been opened, and most of the ship’s complement of weapons is still in sealed shipping bags. The weapons that are unpacked and assembled are either filthy, out of power, or both. This obscene lack of preparedness is nothing to me. I have no stake in the mission of the Tora Soam.

I stay in my tiny quarters and while away the time with human and Drac theatricals on my monitor. When I can no longer stand the shows, I play the games offered on the monitor until I feel my brain turning into excrement. In desperation I begin unpacking, cleaning, and powering up the ship’s sidearms. It is good work and I find more meaning in it than in my mission to the Talman Kovah.

There are both humans and Dracs among the Drac diplomatic mission and among the crew. All of them are young, humans and Dracs both. Too young to have fought on Amadeen before the quarantine, too young to carry the scars of the USE-Dracon War. They serve the Dracon Chamber’s diplomatic corps keeping the fighting on Amadeen out of sight and the blood off the boots and sandals of the politicians.

There is one member of the crew who did serve on Amadeen before the quarantine. It is the captain and pilot of the Tora Soam, Aureah Vak. Vak is almost as old as Zenak Abi. It has been thirty years since it fought on Amadeen, but I see its eyes every time I look into a mirror. Too old to fly combat now, the pilot ferries passengers from Draco to the Amadeen orbiter and from the orbiter to Draco. Yet the war Vak fought is still alive to its ghosts.

Before first watch every cycle Aureah Vak comes to the armory to clean, oil, and test its sidearm and the small pistol it keeps in a hidden boot holster. Both weapons are human projectile pieces. Vak will not let me touch its weapons although the cleaning and repair of such things is supposed to be my work. As one weapon is disassembled for cleaning and inspection, the other is loaded, cocked and on the workbench close to Aureah Vak’s hand.

Vak’s gaze never leaves the weapon it is cleaning, but I am certain the captain knows exactly where I am and what I am doing. On the captain’s fifth visit, it speaks beyond its usual curt greeting. "There is something familiar about you, Yazi Ro. Do you remember meeting me prior to this flight?"

"No, captain," I answer.

"Strange. You are too young, but it is almost as if you were one of my comrades in the Tsien Denvedah as we died on Amadeen." I say nothing as its gaze moves until it stops on me. "Were you in the fight against the pirates around the Aakava System four years ago?" Without waiting for a response, the captain looks back at the cleaning bench and finishes assembling its weapon as it says, "There are stories about members of the quarantine patrol and command smuggling certain humans and Dracs off Amadeen. The smugglers do not care about the species, as long as the price is paid."

Vak loads the weapon, cocks it, and places it next to its small pistol. Reaching over to the small pistol, Vak takes the pressure off the hammer, removes the clip, and ejects the round from the chamber. In a moment the gun is so many pieces undergoing cleaning and inspection. I am certain that the captain knows the truth about me, and there is no purpose to be served in running or killing the captain, supposing that could be done. Still, I say nothing. It is Vak’s game and I let it make the moves.

"What you want, Yazi Ro?"

"Want, Captain?"

The pilot’s eyes glare at me. "You are not stupid, denmavedah." Now I know it knows. "Answer me my question, Ro. More than anything else in the universe, for what does your heart crave?"

It matters not if I reveal myself to this one. Vak knows about me. What it does not know is how the endless fire of Amadeen has left me. The word is strange in my mouth. "Peace. More than anything else my heart craves peace."

The captain’s aged brow ascends as Vak looks at me with surprise on its face. "Not vengeance? Have you lost no friends? No family? Was there no one you loved?"

I stare at the deck as waves of images assault my mind. My parent, so many comrades, the last of the Twelve. And someone―another one―I loved.

Night patrol near Douglasville on Dorado’s southern coast. Lota Min crawling ahead, I following. Japu wanted us to probe the enemy position and search for a weakness. In the dirt, knees and elbows raw. Then it happens. One of us makes a noise or crawls too close to a Front listening post. Perhaps a remote probe. The humans, sometimes they begin firing to keep us awake or on the off chance that someone might be near their positions. Very wasteful of ammunition, but this time they catch us.

The sky fills with blinding white fire crossed with the bright green streaks of human tracers, the deafening crunch of sonic warheads. Dazed, half blinded by the flares, I see Min crawling into a crater using only its arms. A roar fills my hearing as I see the destruction of a beam disrupter racing toward me. A huge hand comes from above and flattens me into the dirt. In panic I crawl toward the crater, the beam disrupter sizzling the air above the back of my neck. At the lip of the crater a sonic warhead exploding drives my mind into darkness.

There are worlds to move before I can open my eyes. Dirt from my face, something heavy across my legs. I can feel something sharp digging into my back. My arms and hands are numb but I manage to clear the dirt from my eyes. My helmet is gone. I open my eyes and see the stars looking back at me. There are no flares, no firing, nothing but a slight breeze from the distant shore and the rasp of Min’s breaths. There is the twisted barrel of a weapon blotting out some of the stars, its cooling vanes crumpled like so much foil. I turn my head and see that its tracked undercarriage shares the crater with us. I turn to look at the weight on my legs.

Lota Min’s body is lying across me. Min’s head is back, its eyes closed. I struggle until I get my arms to push me up until I am sitting. I whisper Min’s name but I hear nothing but the breaths, raw and rapid. I gently hold Min’s head as I move my legs from beneath it. As I move I pray to the universe to keep Min from crying out. The universe answers and Min seems to take no notice of the movement. My legs free, I lower its head to the ground, crawl to the side of the crater, and crouch to see the surrounding terrain.

Slowly I move my gaze around, peering into shadows, watching for lights, movement, differences in the night’s weave. I move to the other side of the artillery piece and look again.

"Ro."

Min’s voice is weak, my name on its lips a blade into my heart. "Ro?"

I look around once more then crawl to Min’s side. "Be still. We are not safe."

I look over Min’s body. Below its waist, centered on its groin, there is a hole as large as my head. It is as though a great hand had scooped out Min’s reproductive organs and the tops of its thighs. The light from the stars reflects from the surface of the blood pooling there. There are tears on my face as I raise a hand and stupidly hold it in the air, not knowing what to do.

"Yazi Ro. I have so much pain. Am I hurt badly?"

"Oh, Min." I have no proper bandages. Nothing but the filthy scarf I wear around my neck. I pull it loose and stuff it into the wound.

"The truth." Min grabs my arm and squeezes it gently. "The truth, Ro."

Badly? My eyes fog with the tears. This one time the entities who dispense fairness and injustice must soften and change this absurd result. But what did that human say about the negotiations: If nothing changes, nothing changes.

"You are hurt, Min. You―" I cannot say it. I have said the words so many times to strangers, comrades, friends, lovers, even to a few humans.

Min whispers, "I am dying"

"Yes."

"Where is happy paste when you need it?" it gasps. I place my hand over Min’s as I see its other hand steal to the Talman hanging from its neck. "Not now," Min pleads. "There are too many things unsaid, undone. Not now."

All I can do is hold its hand, perhaps say one of the unsaid. "You take my love and my heart with you, Min."

"Do not leave me, Ro."

Before I can answer, there is a noise. Nothing subtle, no slight change on the wind this. It is a note followed by another, the music soft, haunting. The notes move across the battlefield, into the shadows and depressions, each sound drenched in tears and blood. I am immersed in sadness, yet I push it aside to let my fear stretch its wings. It is, after all, a human playing the sad wooden pipe.

Min opens its mouth to ask about the sound, but I touch my finger to its lips and whisper, "Silence. The humans are very close."

The song on the pipe is beautiful in its suffering. The musician’s tears caress each note as it steals out over the broken land. The human has lost someone and I find myself aching for the creature’s pain.

The notes grow louder and Min grasps my harness at the throat and pulls me down until its lips are close to my ear. "You have my love, Ro." Min brushes my ear with its lips. "Go now. Hide."

Min releases my harness, I brush its face with my lips, and begin to crawl toward the savaged artillery piece, picking up my helmet as I move.

Perhaps the musician, absorbed in the sad song, will pass us by. Beneath the carriage of the destroyed weapon I put on my helmet, adjust the sensor, and watch the rim of the crater. Soon a head appears, the body beneath it propelling it tangent to the crater. Closer and in my sensor I see the human from the waist up. It is a male in full combat armor. The armor is scarred and painted black with streaks, dots, and broken lines in orange, brown, and turquoise. Around the man’s neck is a small beaded bag with a primitive design of a bird on it. The human has a Drac energy knife slung on his back. Both of his hands play the wooden pipe into which he blows. There is a leather cord leading from the pipe to his neck.

If I only had a weapon, I whisper to the universe. My weapon and Min’s, though, are both somewhere outside the crater, damaged probably beyond all repair. I hold my breath hoping that Min will stay quiet. Perhaps the human’s helmet sensor does not work, or his sensor is not energized, or in his grief he is not paying attention to it. He might pass us by.

The sad song suddenly stops. More quickly than I can see, the human drops the pipe, allowing it to dangle by its cord, and the energy knife swings down and seems to leap into the human’s hands.

He sees Min. I hold my breath and my skin tingles as I look around me for a weapon. I cry in frustration for I cannot find even a rock.

A shielded light illuminates Min’s shattered form. I glimpse between the carrier slides of the carriage and see the human holding a thinlite. The human slings the knife and speaks, his words not English. He speaks to Min, then raises his hands and speaks to the stars. Finished with the stars, he reaches down, takes his musical instrument, and plays a strange tune as he does a bizarre little dance.

My fear eases slightly as I decide that the man is some sort of witch or healer trying to help my comrade and lover. Just as I allow myself a breath, however, the song and dance stop, the knife is in the human’s hands, and he uses it to sever Min’s right foot from its ankle. Min screams and the human sings once more at the stars. The song continues as he moves the razor-thin beam through Min’s left ankle. Then Min’s wrists, then fist-sized pieces of leg and arm until Min is raving from the pain. Soon though Min falls unconscious, but the human does not stop cutting until there is nothing left but a pool of bloody lumps at the bottom of the crater.

Done with his task, the human leaves, and the flute once more sends its haunting notes over the battlefield. I stumble from my hiding place, my eyes red from rage. To Min I swear that the humans I kill from now on I will render into liquid one pain-wracked cell at a time.

Revenge. Blood-soaked, shattering, screaming vengeance.

Yes, I have served at the feet of that deity. I tortured to death enough humans to crew my nightmares for eternity.

"Captain," I say to Aureah, "I am choked with revenge. It eats at me until there is nothing. You ask me, though, what I want most. More than anything else, captain, I want an end to the horror. I want to see the last of it. I want peace. It has to be. It has to be."

I feel tears on my cheeks and I am confused at their appearance. Vak’s glance drops as it assembles its weapon, loads it, and places it in its holster. The captain stands, glances at me and says, "Yazi Ro, I have inspected the weapons bay and I have seen the weapons you cleaned and repaired. Would you consider remaining a member of this crew? You could make a home here. It wouldn’t be much of a home, but if you had better you wouldn’t be here."

There is a strange ache in my chest. In the locker next to my cot there is Zenak Abi’s package to the Jetai Diea of the Talman Kovah. What obligates me to deliver it? My word? The illusion of peace? I can toss the package into the waste, forget about it, and become a space traveler. With credentials from serving on the Tora Soam, I could finish the cruise and then sign on with another ship traveling to mysterious, exotic worlds. The war will become an unpleasant remembrance. And what is Zenak Abi’s work but another illusion? If the greatest scientists who study and plan the paths of circumstance cannot find how to accomplish peace on Amadeen, how could a renegade, traitorous, pistol-packing Jetah master with no equipment find the answer? One more spittle dream in a universe of illusion.

"Consider it, Ro," says the captain as it turns and leaves the compartment.

Before I can answer or give my thanks, it is gone. I feel myself uttering a very human-sounding sigh. There is nothing to consider. Perhaps once I make my delivery to the Jetai Diea I can consider a berth on a ship and a new life. Until then I am still owned by Amadeen. After all, I did give my word.

EIGHT

The customs officials in Sendievu examine my badge coding and pick through my belongings, eventually passing me through after Binas Pahvi passes one of the officials a small package. I no longer care how far the corruption extends. Once through, I ask directions, shoulder my bag, and begin walking the streets of Sendievu, this fabled city of silver and glass. I do not allow myself to see or hear because I am afraid of my feelings. The envy and outrage I must feel at seeing a city prosperous and safe in peace are more than I can carry. I walk, as directed, and walk some more, my gaze fixed on the paving stones. I glance at a street marker and realize that I am there. My courage evaporates as I look up.

The Talman Kovah is a squat structure of tans, browns, and pale blues with a huge white dome rising from its center. Its entrance is busy with Dracs, humans, and members of other species entering and leaving, each individual seemingly fixed on his, her, or its self importance. I stand, watching from a beautiful park that extends toward the south down a gentle slope to a wide river lined with flowering trees. Along other streets are establishments selling food, clothing, gifts, furniture, books, appliances, toys, and land. Many of the establishments are either human or offering human goods. There are posters showing humans and Dracs embracing in friendship and at least one theater showing Drac translations of human plays. Peace, plenty, prosperity, and fellowship purchased by cutting Amadeen off from the universe. I cannot get out of my mind how much destruction I could cause on this street had I my energy knife. I lean against a smooth-barked tree:, lavender fronds spreading out over my head, shading me from Draco’s sun.

There is a human in the park. He is very dark, very old, and very crippled, his head hair long and gray. He sits in his wheeled chair staring at the kovah. Thrust into a holder welded to the metal chair is a sign that carries a single word: Remember. Three Drac children run by the human, laughing, taunting him, calling him names. The human does not react. The children have been there before.

How long has the human been sitting there? Since the quarantine? Is he all that is left of a larger demonstration three decades ago? Is he just another drool, his brain crisped on happy paste? I do not know why he angers me.

I look away and see two lovers walking a path among the blue flowering trees and furry green thickets, the sticky secretions on the splays glittering in the sunlight like so many faceted gems. There is a strangely beautiful scent on the breeze. Two Dracs walk from the kovah’s entrance, cross the street into the park, and sit on the edge of a fountain. They laugh at something, take things from a pouch, and begin eating. One glances over its shoulder at the human, turns back, and again they laugh. The human does nothing but stare at the entrance to the kovah.

My gaze falls to the wrapped package in my hands, Zenak Abi’s claim to being a functioning Jetah master. It is a waste, a mist chasing a shadow. In a moment I will be thrown out of the kovah, Zenak Abi’s decades of pointless work will be in a rubbish bin, the blood will continue to flow on Amadeen, and the nameless human sitting in his wheeled chair will still be staring at the Talman Kovah, waiting for the mist to catch the shadow.

No, I think, I am not angry at the human. I am angry at what makes his existence inevitable. I push myself away from the tree and aim my steps at the Kovah.

In the reception kiosk is Hidik lbisoh, a clerk receptionist wearing the robes of a student. The cloth of the robe shimmers and falls like cloudy water. The hall surrounding the kiosk is tall, very wide, made of polished goldstone, and illuminated by skylights. Although the sounds ought to echo from every side, the hall is curiously quiet, even the sounds of my footsteps muted. The clerk examines me and my clothes once more, then returns its gaze to Zenak Abi’s package. With one hand entering items into its data absorption mechanism, lbisoh touches the package with the tips of two fingers as though the bundle had been dipped in excrement.

"To what does the work of this unknown Jetah master apply?" asks lbisoh without looking at me.

I put aside several comments and answer. "War,"

"War, indeed." The clerk’s eyebrows rise as it glances at me, "What is it that you do, Yazi Ro?" it asks, condescension dripping from every syllable.

"Someday very soon I would like to show you."

"Indeed," the clerk says as it glances at me with a frown. In a moment the wall of arrogance repairs itself. "And the reason the Jetai Diea might possibly find this work on war of interest?"

I want to take that clerk’s superior demeanor and grind it off with the treads of an Amadeen Front tank. I look away, wrestle my wrath down to mere hostility, and return my gaze to lbisoh. "I imagine the only interest any of you will find in Zenak Abi’s work is in how much energy the recycled remains of this pack of papers possesses. Give me a receipt to show I delivered it."

I see a touch of fear in the clerk’s eyes rapidly replaced by contempt. lbisoh fingers some panel that flashes different colored plates and produces a small sheet of transparent film. The clerk picks up the film and hands it to me. I look at it and there is an almost invisible dot in its center. "What is this?"

"Your receipt." That smug look appears again. "You can read it with any modern computer or compatible reader."

I point to the inkstone and scriber on Ibisoh’s desk. "Write me something on a piece of paper. The one who must read this has no modern computers or compatible readers."

The clerk looks at the scriber and laughs out loud. "Yazi Ro, honored visitor to this hall, this stone and scriber are antiques. I have them here only for decoration."

I no longer attempt to keep the impatience from my voice. "Then write with something else, Hidik lbisoh, if handwriting is numbered among your vast array of skills."

"Perhaps I can help," says a gentle voice from behind me. I turn and see a tall Drac wearing a dark blue robe edged with silver. On one of its fingers it wears a ring after the fashion of the humans. The Drac’s expression is one of detachment yet helpfulness. Behind it are four more Dracs, two of them carrying a small gray case each, the remaining two carrying weapons.

Hidik Ibisoh jumps to its feet, snaps out an abrupt bow, and says, "My many apologies, Ovjetah. Honored as I am to see you, this…person requires a handwritten receipt and I have nothing here with which to produce such a document."

Ovjetah. There is only one creature in the universe allowed to carry that title: master of masters, presiding Jetah of the Jetai Diea, First Jetah of the Talman Kovah. One of its predecessors, Tora Soam, helped seal the fate of Amadeen thirty years ago. The two Dracs with the weapons concentrate their attention on me. The Ovjetah reaches out a hand and one of its assistants places a modern scriber into it. The powerful Drac in the dark blue robe hands the writing instrument to Hidik Ibisoh, who takes it with trembling fingers. "Do you need paper, as well?"

"Yes, Ovjetah. I would appreciate some paper. My thanks." lbisoh looks close to death from embarrassment. One of the Ovjetah’s assistants hands the clerk a pad of paper and informs Ibisoh that it may keep both the paper and the scriber.

Ibisoh bows again, sits, and begins writing out my receipt, its face darker still from embarrassment.

The Ovjetah faces me, bows slightly, and says, "I am Jeriba Shigan. As my Uncle Willy would say, welcome to my store."

I frown at the word "uncle," the human name for a parent’s brother. Still, I bow in response to the greeting. "Yazi Ro, Ovjetah."

"The greeting comes hard to you, Yazi Ro."

I stand and nod to Shigan, "Bowing is not the custom on Amadeen."

It is as though an electric current passes through the beings at Hidik Ibisoh’s kiosk. The two guards advance their weapons in my direction, and although they are not aimed directly at me, it would take only a slight degree of movement for me to split their sights. Jeriba Shigan shifts its gaze to the clerk and Hidik Ibisoh lifts Zenak’s package. "Yazi Ro came to present the work of Jetah Zenak Abi to the Jetai Diea. Its work concerns war," Ibisoh concludes lamely.

The Ovjetah studies me a moment longer, steps toward the kiosk, and holds out its hand. The clerk places the package in it, and Shigan turns the package, looking at it. "Zenak Abi is alive?"

"When I left Amadeen, Abi lived. The Jetah’s current state of health I do not know. It is not a certain thing on Amadeen."

"Amadeen’s uncertainty is the universe’s, Yazi Ro." Jeriba Shigan opens the package and fingers through a deck of narrow papers, each sheet crowded with tiny rows of handwriting. "Hand slips," says the Ovjetah. "I haven’t seen these since I was a child in my uncle’s cave. No electricity," Shigan explains. Looking up at me, the Ovjetah asks, "Where are you staying?"

"I am not staying. My obligations are limited to delivering that pile of papers and seeing that a copy of the Koda Nusinda gets back to Zenak Abi."

This time the Ovjetah’s brows climb in surprise. "I wasn’t aware that the existence of the Nusinda was known, nor that commerce between Amadeen and the rest of the galaxy is quite that free."

"Zenak Abi knows about the new book, and so do I. As for anyone else, I cannot say. As for communications with Amadeen, money speaks."

"The eagle squawks and money talks," says the Ovjetah. It smiles as it leafs through the handslips. "My Uncle Willy, again." Handing the papers to an assistant, Jeriba Shigan says, "Yazi Ro, despite your protests, you will be staying for a few days. If for no other reason, it will be to obtain the copy of the Koda Nusinda for your Jetah. As of this moment there are no print copies available, and I imagine Abi will need a print copy."

"Yes." I turn from Shigan, take the scriber from Hidik Ibisoh, and write on a piece of paper from my own pocket. "I am writing the name of an officer of the Tora Soam on this paper: Binas Pahvi. The ship is in for the next few days. Send the copy to Amadeen in this person’s care and it will get to Zenak Abi." I hand the paper to Jeriba Shigan. "If you give him enough money."

"Money?"

"There is a considerable amount of corruption involved in keeping the quarantine, Ovjetah. Did that not appear in the diagrams when the Talman Kovah sealed our ancestors and the humans into the hell of Amadeen ?"

Jeriba Shigan’s gaze fixes itself to my eyes. "You will remain on-planet at least until this work has been evaluated, Yazi Ro. Inform Hidik Ibisoh of your whereabouts in case you are needed. That is my order." Jeriba Shigan turns abruptly and marches into one of the several corridors that open onto the hall.

I look at the clerk. Can the Ovjetah order that?"

"Yazi Ro, Yazi Ro," says Ibisoh, shaking its head, "Jeriba Shigan is the Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah. If it decides to eat you, it is the function of the kovah, the diea, and the people of this planet to see that you appear properly cooked, garnished, and displayed on a platter at the appropriate repast." Finished tittering at its own joke, Ibisoh says, "Understand that we can find you if we need to."

I turn and leave the kovah, somehow grateful that the human with his "remember" sign is still there. I cross the street into the park and stop when I am within a pace of the human. In English I say to him, "I have just dropped off one fool’s plan for peace on Amadeen. While they chew on it they want me to stay in this city. You look like someone who can tell me where someone on a fool’s errand might find a bed for the night."

The human stares at me for a moment, then bursts into laughter. He laughs as though for the first time in many years. "You hit that nail on the head, friend." He places his hands on the turning wheels and twists the chair until it faces west. "C’mon. I know just the place."

The place is on the outskirts of Sendievu on the banks of a waste canal servicing a number of industrial plants. The traffic from the city’s spaceport and from its two airports scream overhead regularly. The shelters on the banks of the canal are small, decaying, and in many cases thrown together from pieces of discarded rubbish. It is Amadeen without the fighting.

In this section of the city are a few beggars, a number of humans, and many Drac vemadah, those who would not fight. The vemadah are not all old, for their children willingly carry on the exile, hoping that in some future their parents' stand will be vindicated. The old human’s name is Matope. Once a professional soldier and sergeant in the USE Force Assault Infantry, he lost his legs on Amadeen. He thinks it curious that the humans treat their wounded veterans the same as the Dracs treat their traitors, for they are both discarded along with society’s waste. He allows me a corner of the room he shares with a childless Drac named Koboc. There are cushions there and a clean blanket.

Koboc was a seventh officer in the Tsien Denvedah, by reputation the elite shock troops of the Drac military. Koboc is blind and wears its red uniform jacket, now faded and threadbare. Before the war, Koboc studied in the Talman Kovah to become a Jetah master. Its studies not completed, Koboc was offered the military and chose to serve rather than carry the brand of the vemadah. In time Koboc served with the Tsien Denvedah on Amadeen. It was shortly after earning the rank of seventh officer that it determined that the war did not serve talma and resigned to the vemadah. It was while cast into the Madah on Draco that an angry citizen attacked Koboc, throwing acid into its eyes. It was later found that the one who assaulted Koboc had lost its parent and a sibling on Amadeen. Koboc pressed no charges. Koboc recites poetry of its own about peace outside theaters in the hopes of enlightenment and the occasional contribution. Zenak Abi is one of Koboc’s heroes and the vemadah refuses to rest until I tell it everything I know about Abi. In doing so I tell my own tale as well.

I have my crew pay from the ship and I contribute by purchasing some food. We talk that night about Amadeen, the dead, the maimed, and the hopes of a few of those who still live. Koboc asks me who taught me my English. I tell them about my parent, about its treasure of books, all of them in English. To read them, as a child my parent learned English from Front prisoners.

When Koboc and Matope sleep and visit their individual shadow hells, I look out of the window toward the Talman Kovah. I cannot see it, but the spires and domes of Sendievu form a glittering backdrop to the ponderous dark industrial buildings near the canal. Millions of beings out there, working, playing, learning, eating, loving and moving on with their lives free from thoughts of Amadeen or the dust left over from an old war. When I sleep that night I dream of Douglasville and the human with the flute.

NINE

Late in the morning I open my eyes and see that Koboc and Matope are gone. The Drac tapping its way to the theater district, the human wheeling himself to his vigil in front of the Talman Kovah. I eat some of the grain cakes from the night before, gather up my things, and leave the canal district, uncertain about where to go. My papers from the Tora Soam can get me a berth on another ship, but not if there is some kind of security alert against me. There is a part of me that feels guilty about not carrying Abi’s copy of the Koda Nusinda back to Amadeen, but returning to the nightmare seems more like insanity with each passing day.

I walk the streets of the city, see the people, look at the homes and businesses. At one moment I want to become a part of this world at peace. At the next I want to hurt them, destroy them, for their lack of pain. Near noon I am in the park across from the Talman Kovah, Again Matope is in his chair, his "remember" sign above his head. I want to tell him that he is just one more fool in an army of fools, but I cannot even convince myself of that.

I remember the captain of the Tora Soam asking me what I wanted. "More than anything else in the universe, for what does your heart crave?"

I told Aureah Vak "peace." I ask myself if it is truly peace that I want. Is it peace, or as the Talman story showed, something else? I reach up and work the catch of my Talman, dropping the tiny golden book into my palm. With the paging pin I look at the titles then turn to the Koda Itheda, Aydan and the War of Ages, the dialog with Niagat.

"Aydan," spoke Niagat, "I would serve Heraak; I would see an end to war; I would be one of your warmasters."

"Would you kill to achieve this, Niagat?"

"I would kill."

"Would you kill Heraak to achieve this?"

"Kill Heraak, my master?" Niagat paused and considered the question. "If I cannot have both, I would see Heraak dead to see an end to war."

"That is not what I asked."

"And, Aydan, I would do the killing."

"And now, Niagat, would you die to achieve this?"

"I would risk death as does any warrior."

"Again, Niagat, that is not my question. If an end to war can only be purchased at the certain cost of your own life, would you die by your own hand to achieve peace?"

Niagat studied upon the thing that had been asked. "I am willing to take the gamble of battle. In this gamble there is the chance of seeing my goal. But my certain death, and by my own hand―there would be no chance of seeing my goal. No, I would not take my own life for this. That would be foolish. Have I passed your test?"

"You have failed, Niagat. Your goal is not peace; your goal is to live in peace. Return when your goal is peace alone and you hold a willing knife at your own throat to achieve it. That is the price of a warmaster’s blade."

I look up from the tiny book and see Matope sitting beneath his sign, his unblinking gaze on the entrance to the Talman Kovah. His commitment to peace makes a slit throat a whim by comparison. Aydan, the ancient Jetah master who made war into a science, would have granted Matope a warmaster’s blade. Blind Koboc the poet would rate a blade, as well. But are you worthy, Yazi Ro? You who want to shake the dust of Amadeen from your feet? You who dream of painted houses, full food bowls, and children who sleep without nightmares? You who would take a ship to strange worlds and live a life of adventure, joy, and profit? Are you worthy, Yazi Ro? What do you want: peace or to live in peace?

Zenak Abi looked into my mind and saw me delivering its work to the Jetai Diea and saw me returning to Amadeen, its copy of the Koda Nusinda in hand. Somehow I feel that all of the questions I have are already asked and answered,

"I have the sharp edge at my throat, Aydan," I whisper as I walk toward the entrance to the kovah. "Where is my blade?"

TEN

As I enter the kovah, the hall is a nest of harried students, administrative and security personnel, as well as Jetah masters rushing this way and that, some shouting, some not, all with worried faces. One of the masters stops in mid-frenzy, stares at me for a moment, and asks, "Apologies, stranger. Are you called Yazi Ro?'

I manage to get out a single nod and the Jetah grabs my arm and pulls me toward a hall. "This way! This way! The Ovjetah has been waiting!"

I pull my arm free but continue to follow. "Your name?" I ask.

"Vidoz Ru," says the Jetah. "Please hurry."

We reach the end of the hall and I follow the Jetah into a car where we continue to stand as the doors close and the vehicle accelerates and shoots deep beneath the street level of the city. Jetah Ru looks at me and demands, "Where have you been? The locator has been out since before midnight."

"I stayed with friends. The clerk who was in the kiosk yesterday assured me that no one would have any trouble finding me."

"I am certain, Yazi Ro, that you were not registered by your host."

I shrugged, knowing as I did so that I had picked up the habit from the humans I had known. I do not regret it. Often a shrug is all the answer there is. "I did not know that it is a requirement, Jetah Ru, and I doubt that anyone even registers themselves, much less an overnight guest, in the canal district."

The Jetah looks at me in horror as it silently mouths the words: "Canal district!" With less silence it continues. "Thieves, killers, traitors, humans, addicts twisted on happy paste―you could have been killed!"

Before I can point out my obvious health, the car slows, stops, and the doors open revealing the gleaming white interior of a security corridor. Four armed guards watch as we stand in a blue light before the doors. Ru states its name and I follow with my name.

"There is a knife in this one’s boot, Jetah."

"And your point is?" prompts Vidoz Ru impatiently.

The light dims and the guard closest to the entrance gestures with its weapon toward the doors. As we approach the doors, they slide open allowing me to see blue-robed student technicians serving banks of computer instruments beneath ranks of towering screens projecting the mysterious scribbles, numbers, and diagrams dear to Talman masters.

As we enter it I see that the chamber is huge and hewn out of the bedrock of the planet itself. In the center of the activity is a raised dais surrounded by touch panels. Seated there is Ovjetah Jeriba Shigan, its face clouded with concern. Vidoz Ru stands before the Ovjetah and mumbles something to it. Shigan stands and looks around the Jetah at me. Its look carries both relief and regret.

"Yazi Ro, come. There is not much time." Jeriba Shigan nods its thanks to Vidoz Ru, leaves the dais, and walks rapidly toward a door, automatically followed by its two assistants and two guards. I follow and as I do so I notice everyone in the chamber looking at me. I pause long enough to return the stares. Several of them look away in embarrassment. Most do not. Somehow I feel my ghosts being stirred. I turn, see one of Shigan’s assistants motioning at me to follow the Ovjetah’s party through the door. Again I shrug and do as I am told.

The Ovjetah’s personal office is stark, unadorned, reminding me more of Zenak Abi’s cave than the setting for such a powerful being. There is a work table, a computer terminal, and a few chairs. The uncolored bedrock of Draco’s Irrveh continent forms the chamber’s walls. Jeriba Shigan seats itself and looks at me, its hands clasped together. In its eyes is either fatigue or a terrible sadness. "We have been processing Zenak Abi’s work all night. Most of today we have been performing the verifications, collating the peripheral effects and assessing the possible effect limits."

I feel my brow climbing. "Ovjetah, is it important to what you wish to accomplish with me that I understand you?"

Jeriba Shigan gestures with its hand, dismissing all. "The material you brought to us allows us to see a possible talma to peace on Amadeen."

The Ovjetah’s assistants and guards remain standing, hence I do the same. Even so, there is a question gnawing at me. "A possible course to peace was something Zenak Abi saw from its cave on Mt. Atahd."

Shigan leans back in its chair and places its hands upon the desk. "We cannot do better here despite our facilities and the wisdom of the Jetah Diea. It is because of the nature of the problem." Shigan thinks for a moment and looks up into my eyes. "Yazi Ro, there are countless paths from the present to any desired future. To find the path or paths that will actually result in the changes necessary to produce the desired result depend on many things: logical possibility, practicality, and the decisions of the goal-choosing entities involved. Understand that paths involving logical possibility can be proven as effective or not."

"A path is either possible or it is not," I respond.

"Yes." Shigan crosses its legs after the manner of a human. "Paths involving practicality―the current state of applied knowledge―can also be proven as effective or not for any given point in time." The Ovjetah raises its eyebrows toward me.

"Either something is technologically possible," I say, "or it is not."

Shigan nods and looks at one of his assistants. "Muta, Yazi Ro exhibits a better understanding of the subject than some students we have been teaching."

"Most discouraging," responds the assistant.

Shigan shifts its gaze to me and motions toward one of the chairs, indicating that I should be seated. After I lower myself into the chair, somewhat surprised to find that it is constructed to human proportions, the Ovjetah continues. "The third consideration is paths involving desires, obsessions, and choices―attempting to predict what certain beings will or will not do. Such questions trade in probabilities rather than certitude. In the aggregate, behavior can be predicted with a high degree of accuracy. The accuracy decreases as there is an increase in the importance of individuals whose decisions influence or control the decisions of masses."

"The Amadeen problem," I conclude.

The Ovjetah nods once and says, "We cannot prove that certain paths are closed, given our present understanding of the facts. We cannot, however, prove any of them effective. All we can do is take the paths exhibiting the highest probability of effectiveness and try them." The Ovjetah smiles slightly as its eyes focus elsewhere for a moment. "Give it our best shot." Shigan again fixes me with its gaze. "I ask that you go on a mission for the Jetah Diea."

"A mission? Me?"

"The most probable trunk path, the one with the greatest number of possibly effective branch paths, involves you, Yazi Ro, taking a package to a human named Willis E. Davidge. He resides on an independent colony world in the Fyrine system."

"I deliver the package and then?" I prompt.

"And then we see what happens." Shigan stares at me, waiting for my answer.

I hold my hands out, "That is all?"

Shigan shrugs just like a human. "That is your only obligation, but no, that is not all. However, too much information from me may corrupt the path. Your source of further information will be Mr. Davidge and others."

"I deliver this package and I am free to go wherever I choose?"

"Yes."

I lean forward and hold out a hand toward the Ovjetah. "After making the delivery I won’t be stranded there or forced to do anything else?"

Shigan clasps its hands over its belly. It takes a deep breath and says, "You will have an account that will compensate you for your services, and will take you wherever you may want to go if you leave Friendship. The only things you will do will be done by your own choice." The Ovjetah smiles and looks toward the assistant called Muta. "Perhaps this kid is sharper than a pound of wet leather."

After completing this bizarre observation, Jeriba Shigan stands and steps away from its desk. "Yazi Ro, in fairness I will tell you that Zenak Abi’s work includes the results of the mind fusion Abi did on you. The reason you are here is because you are the proper piece of an enormously complex puzzle. It is likely that there are pieces similar to yourself on Amadeen, but you are the only one Zenak Abi found. This is why Abi sent you to Draco and to the Jetai Diea."

I stare at Jeriba Shigan as I reconsider my commitment to peace, the edge of Aydan’s blade scratching at my throat. It is as though I am being moved through events by an unseen hand. I do not know what Abi saw when it took my mind, but it is as though I am a lock to which everyone but me possesses a key. "Am I truly free, Ovjetah? Am I free to make choices or have these choices already been made?"

Jeriba Shigan’s gaze falls to the floor, then climbs slowly until it looks into my eyes. "Your question has occupied Talman masters for thousands of years. My own teacher had a way of cutting through the layers of convoluted philosophical discourse―what he called mental meat-beating―to get to the core of a matter. To your question he might say that, just for spite, you can choose to prove everyone who thinks they know how you are going to choose wrong by doing the exact opposite." Shigan frowned a moment and added, "Actually, he’d probably tell you not to worry about it."

"He?" I ask.

The Ovjetah nods. "My Uncle Willy. That is to whom you are to deliver the package: Willis E. Davidge."

"A human."

"More so than most." The Ovjetah frowns for a moment, rubs its chin, and looks at me. "If you accept this mission, Yazi Ro, I should warn you: he really hates being called Uncle Willy."

Before I make the choice, I already know that I will go. My fear, though, is to spend my life for nothing. To achieve peace I think I could take Aydan’s test and feel complete as the blade drops from my hand. But what if my efforts―my life and death―amount to nothing more than Matope’s pointless demonstration outside the kovah in the belief that it might somehow contribute to the coming peace? Late that day I tell Jeriba Shigan my fear. It answers:

"I have seen Matope every day that I have attended the Kovah, as student, master, Jetah, and Ovjetah for over twenty-five years. Without him and those who used to be with him keeping the problem of Amadeen a festering sore in my side, I do not know how open I would have been to considering the reluctant mission of a rude illegal visitor from Amadeen, and the work of the traitor who sent the visitor to me. Matope has helped keep the problem of Amadeen present in my mind."

Before I get in the car that will take me and my package to a planet called Friendship, I stop by the park and tell Matope about the possible path to peace, my mission, and what the Ovjetah told me. The human’s eyes grow moist, but he does not leave. "Show me peace, Yazi Ro, and I’ll go home." I shake hands with him and get into the car.

ELEVEN

The ship is the Venture, a new commercial freighter owned by JACHE. An English name on a Drac ship. Although designed to carry freight, there are several passengers, three humans and eleven Dracs. I do not have to work my way on the ship to Fyrine IV. Instead I have an individual compartment lined with endless luxuries and little to do. There is an information terminal in the ship’s passenger lounge, and I code for Fyrine IV.

The view from space at the planet’s closest point in its orbit around Fyrine shows a planet shrouded in an almost permanent cloud cover. With the cloud cover removed, I see ice caps, and in between, land masses separated by gray oceans. The closer aerial view of the planet shows that there is vegetation, brownish-green forests, vast plains covered with reddish-blue plants, everything constantly whipped by the planet’s ceaseless winds.

At the planet’s most distant point from the sun, the entire world is covered in ice and snow. I ask and the Planet Friendship is in the midst of its winter.

I had seen snow before, in the northern Dorado when the Mavedah attempted to invade the continent from an unexpected direction. We lost many when the force was trapped by an unexpected storm. Fyrine IV’s winter covers the planet and lasts throughout most of its year, which is almost two standard years long.

Both JACHE and Earth IMPEX attempted to seed the planet and make it productive, but the effort was abandoned both times because of the expense and because of the war. Despite its hostile environment, after the war it was settled by both Dracs and humans. The article ends with population, government, and economic notes that I skim through. A little under three million in population, every species I ever heard of and several I do not know exist live there. There is no coercive governmental body; such things as protection, disputes, criminal reparations, and insurance are handled by private commercial and voluntary organizations. For more information I am directed, among other places, to the article on Willis E. Davidge. The article on the Ovjetah’s Uncle Willy only states that he is a former USEF fighter pilot, he wrote the first English translation of The Talman, and that he currently resides on Friendship.

In the passenger lounge is a wide observation port through which the ship’s passage between the stars can be seen, their crisp brightness dulled slightly from the drive distortion. Few passengers seem to use the facility, and I kill the main illumination in the lounge and stand before the port, my reflection dim and ghostly red from the safety guide beacons mounted near the deck. Beyond the red ghost is the universe. As the parade of stars marches steadily by, deeply hidden thoughts steal into my awareness.

Were the woman and her Drac baby placed in my way to move me onto a particular path headed toward a certain goal? Am I free to change my direction, or does the path anticipate my question and my illusion of freedom? Was my meeting with this Davidge forged along with the creation of the universe? On its face it seems improbable. But I am far past the face of things. My guts tell me that something out there has already made my choices for me.

An image of Pina climbs in front of my eyes and is soon joined by Min and the Front killer with the flute outside Douglasville.

My parent.

As Yazi Avo’s image fills my sight, it blurs from my tears. A war between grief and rage fills my feelings and I find myself sobbing out loud. The compartment suddenly becomes very bright. I turn and see a human with his hand on the light panel. The human is smooth-headed, very pale, and wearing an expensive suit. "I apologize," he says in excellent Drac. "My name is Michael Hill. I heard what sounded like crying."

I turn away, dry my face with my palms, and say "I am Yazi Ro. Memories play with me. Nothing more."

A long silence, then the human says, "If you’ve never been in space before, Ro, staring at the stars from a dark compartment can be quite disturbing. It has a tendency to call out the shadows you least want to see. Have you been out before?"

"Once." I glance at the human and feel myself smiling. "I had no access to an observation port, though."

The human walks across the deck until he is next to me, both of us looking through the port. In the bright lights of the lounge our reflections mute the stars. "I find a star field humbling," says Hill. "What are the passions of an individual, a nation, or a single world against all of that? I represent the largest, most powerful industrial power in the quadrant."

"Earth IMPEX," I interrupt.

Michael Hill nods. "IMPEX has employed entire populations and transformed worlds across the galaxy. Billions of beings owe their fortunes and even their existence to IMPEX, yet I often wonder if there is anything that can be done by an individual, a corporation, or even an entire species, that would be noticeable next to that." Michael Hill nods toward the stars, faces me, and grins. "If you want to hear God laugh, make a plan." He nods at me, turns, and leaves the lounge.

After eating with the other passengers, I sit in my compartment thinking about the universe, war, and stopping a war. Does anything I, the Ovjetah, or this Willis E. Davidge do make any difference in a universe where countless stars are born and die every moment? Yet there is the ghost of that man I killed at Butaan Ji, the father of that dead little girl. He wasn’t awed by the infinite reaches of space. The universe was already done for him. The entire cosmos would have been saved had only one life been spared, yet the life was gone and the universe was dead.

From my couch my gaze finds the locker in which I placed Jeriba Shigan’s package to its teacher on Friendship. A piece to a puzzle, the solution to which might keep the universe alive for some parent. Perhaps for a child.

I open the package to the human. It is a manuscript made of paper hastily bound with flash film. Its title is the Koda Nusinda, The Eyes of Joanne Nicole. I start to read and I find myself pulled into an alien mind. It is the story of a human soldier, her command shattered by a superior enemy, taken prisoner, and made vemadah. Blinded in a raid where she saves some Drac children, her darkness is manipulated by Tora Soam until she sees neither as human or Drac but can see how the United States of Earth and the Dracon Chamber are rulebound into the war.

I see it before me, The Timans have an instinct which is to manipulate more powerful species into destroying themselves. They led the humans and the Dracs to Amadeen where a war was started that would be impossible to end short of the elimination of one race or the other. Yet this human soldier found how to step outside the rules and end the war by detaching the combatants from the problem of Amadeen, and from the influence of the Timans.

The principle is to determine the rules governing a situation and then devise new rules, a talma, that encompass and nullify the old set of rules. I wonder how to step outside the horror of Amadeen’s rules and encompass them with a set that would bring peace. Joanne Nicole, with her special sight, could not see a way to peace on Amadeen. What can this Davidge find?

Too much of it, though, is burdened by my own sight. Joanne Nicole abandoned her child, yet it was this child who wrote the Nusinda and brought it before the Jetai Diea as the first Ovjetah of Earth’s infant Talman Kovah. Joanne Nicole was a very lonely woman, and I feel as alone. Is it the fate of all soldiers, I wonder, to be lonely?

The warbling sound that signals the ship converting to normal speed tears me from my reflections. The signal halts and a voice informs us that the ship’s destination is now within visible range. I go to the passenger lounge and look through the observation port at the tiny white disk of the Planet Friendship, my head mired in thoughts of freedom, war, and significance.

TWELVE

As the Venture descends through the atmosphere toward the port of First Colony, I can feel the powerful winter winds buffeting the hull being met by the slightly delayed reactions of the steering jets. Eventually the buffeting ceases and the roar of the landing jets grows for a moment, then the ship is motionless and silent. We are down.

I see Michael Hill as we disembark. He is talking to another human and three Dracs on the apron of the underground landing bay. He sees me, nods, and returns to his conversation. I shoulder my bag and look at the underground port.

There are three other ships in the brightly illuminated enclosure and spaces for eight others, each space separated by transparent walls. I look around and everything is expensive, new, clean. The ground crew servicing the Venture wears crisp orange uniforms. Another crew wearing green moves lifts into place to unload the ship’s cargo containers. I see several species on both crews.

The passengers not pausing to talk move toward an open blast door. Next to the door is a Drac in a pale blue suit and robe combination. When I reach the hatch, the tall Drac smiles, bows, and says to me, "Yazi Ro?"

I stop. "I am Yazi Ro."

The smile grows wider. "I am Undev Orin, retainer to the Jeriba estate. Through this door into the terminal area Jeriba Zammis, child of Shigan, awaits you. I will notify Zammis that you have arrived and guide you there."

I nod my thanks. "Where are the customs officials?"

"We have no customs prohibitions or duties on Friendship, hence," Orin holds out its hands apologetically, "no officials."

The terminal waiting area is a mix of strange rhythmic music and banks of flowers and potted trees. The open area is filled with comfortable couches, each couch complete with computer, entertainment, communication, and refreshment facilities. Orin leads me toward a private enclosure located behind opaque dividers near the center of the waiting area. Inside the enclosure Jeriba Zammis stands with its back toward us watching a transparent column of opaque red plastic blobs flow and change shapes as they ascend the column through a translucent yellow medium. Zammis is tall and clad in a strange combination of clothes: trousers and soft leather boots after the fashion of the humans, yet an abbreviated Jetah robe for an upper garment.

Undev Orin bows and says, "Apologies for interrupting your meditation, Jetah, but Yazi Ro is here."

"Meditation?" Jeriba Shigan’s firstborn turns, its brow touched by a momentary confusion. The brow ascends as the confusion terminates. "You mean this," Zammis says as it gestures toward the column of blobs. "Hypnotism, perhaps, Orin, but not meditation. It’s something new from Earth added by the port administration. I may acquire one for the estate. Look into it."

"At the first opportunity," responds Orin as it holds out its hand toward me.

Jeriba Zammis’s gaze snaps from Undev Orin to my face as it issues an almost imperceptible bow. In return, I do not bow at all, a gesture Zammis ignores as though it expected the attitude. Although partially hidden by its strange attire, I can see that Zammis is a physically powerful individual. "My parent has charged me with bringing you to see Willis Davidge, The Ovjetah neglected to inform me as to the nature of your visit, but it did mention the planet from which you originate."

Taking a step toward me, Zammis’s face assumes a threatening expression, its voice hushed and charged with menace. "Please understand that everyone on Friendship considers Willis Davidge to be possibly the most valuable being in the universe. If anything should happen to him―anything―we would not understand."

I reach out my hand and poke Jeriba Zammis in the chest, causing it to stagger back a step. "I have carried death in every pocket since I was born, Jeriba Zammis. Threats do not frighten me. Still, should you make another such threat, my response will not be quite so measured."

Undev Orin, attempting to insert itself between us, says hastily, "Yazi Ro, I believe the Jetah simply wanted to remind you that you are not on Amadeen now."

My heart forces the words from my mouth: "I am always on Amadeen,"

I turn and face the column of red blobs, ease my breathing, and think what I would do if circumstances required me to take a loved one and throw it into company with an insane killer. Slowly I take my bag from my shoulder, remove the copy of the Koda Nusinda, and face the Jetah. "My mission, as you call it, is to deliver this copy to your Uncle Willy. The next move will be his."

Jeriba Zammis studies me for a moment, looks at the manuscript, then raises its gaze and asks, "Did my parent warn you about calling Davidge Uncle Willy?"

"Yes."

Zammis looks at a time readout above a blank entertainment screen in the corner of the area opposite the column of blobs. "We were supposed to pick up a relative as well, but Falna was not on the ship from Earth."

"Estone Falna," adds Orin with obvious pride, "Graduated Jetah from the Talman Kovah, 'do Timan from the Ri Mou Tavii on Timan, magna cum laude from the University of Nations College of Medicine, deputy of the Jetai Diea. It will someday follow Jeriba Shigan as Ovjetah."

"Possibly," says Zammis as it faced me. "Orin’s enthusiasm often obscures its view of reality. If Falna wanted to become Ovjetah, it should have remained at the Talman Kovah. Instead it hops from planet to planet collecting degrees. As Orin mentioned, among Falna’s many accomplishments is graduating from the University of Nations College of Medicine. I suppose we’ll have to address Falna as ‘doctor’ now." Jeriba Zammis frowns and glances toward the passenger concourse. "I can’t understand why it wasn’t on the ship from Earth."

"It didn’t say it was going to be on that ship, Jetah. There is another ship today from Draco," offered Orin. "Perhaps it will be on that."

"Falna is coming from Earth," replied Zammis. "Why would it be on a ship from Draco?"

"The Talman Kovah is there. The Jetai Diea. Its mentor, Jeriba Shigan," pointed out the retainer. "In any event, Falna did say it wasn’t certain when it would arrive and it would make its own way out to the estate."

"Nonsense," states Zammis. "If we have to meet every ship from everywhere for eternity, there will be a familiar face here to greet Estone Falna." Zammis nods toward my garments. "Are those the warmest clothes you have."

I frown at the question. "Yes."

"Very well." Zammis turns to Orin and says in English, "Let’s get it in the air, Flash. Do we have enough time to hit Binswanger’s, bring Yazi Ro to the estate, and still have Alri Gan make it back to the port to meet the ship from Draco? Should we send another car?"

"I’m sure we have enough time, jetah."

Zammis nods. "Excellent. Tell Gan to make for Binswanger’s." Turning to me, it says, "You need something warmer."

"I am warm enough."

Orin and Zammis both laugh, and after a pause, Orin glances at Zammis. "Binswanger’s?"

Zammis nods. "Binswanger’s."

Orin bows and leads us out of the waiting area to a set of thermal doors made of glass. Outside the doors is a brilliantly illuminated tunnel, different kinds of vehicles passing by the doors. Innocent-looking clouds of ice dust hang in the air as they move by the glass. A sleek, gleaming red vehicle is parked in the tunnel, waiting, and inside the doors another retainer, Alri Gan, waits. Gan wears a hooded coat with two additional coats draped over its arm. Orin takes a coat, helps Zammis on with it, then puts on its own coat. They are thick, covered in some kind of leather with hoods and gloves attached. I think that I would suffocate from the heat in one of those, then Gan signals the doors to open.

Before I take a step, I am stunned by the cold. My breath steams and I feel the surface of my exposed skin burning. Each breath inhaled is a fiery draft from hell. The areas of my body that are covered feel as though they are being pierced with knives of ice. I can feel my skin and muscles contracting in the cold.

Gan hurries us into the vehicle, and I sit in the warmth, my eyes tightly shut, allowing the soft upholstery to cuddle me as I hug myself. I hear the doors close and the whine of the engine, then feel a gentle pressure as the vehicle accelerates and grows even warmer. I risk opening my eyes and see that Gan and Orin are seated in front and I am in the rear with Zammis seated on my right. I look through the window next to me and we are out of the tunnel flying far above the frozen, wind-punished cityscape of First Colony. There are buildings the tops of which poke through the otherwise unbroken blanket of snow and ice. A shudder rattles my body and I turn to see Jeriba Zammis examining me.

"Binswanger’s ?" it asks.

I nod in defeat. "Binswanger’s," I answer.

Alri Gan lands the craft in a tunnel at the base of a huge structure that looks like an enormous glittering ball sitting on the ice. In one last blast of cold, we leave the craft and enter the place where we are met by the owner, a thin, balding human named Abraham J. Binswanger, who escorts us and waits upon us personally.

Binswanger’s is a many-leveled wonderland of riches, each level connected to the others through a complicated web of moving walks and sliding stairs. To me it seems like the land of the Irrvedan must have seemed to Uhe and the starving ancient Mavedah, like the Promised Land must seem to the humans. Coats, hats, boots, shirts, sleeping clothes, undergarments, child clothes, baby clothes all of it new. Scents, jewels, furniture, pictures, machines for transportation, entertainment, work and business, tools, farming implements and supplies, flowers, equipment and uniforms for sports, and towers and towers of books, none of them ever having been opened.

I touch the books and ache to fill my mind with the contents of them all. Before entering Binswanger’s establishment I never saw a new book. Here I think I feel something of what the ancients must have felt when they discovered the universe.

There are copies of the English translation of The Talman. I turn a copy over and on the back is a picture of the human, Willis E. Davidge. His hair is dark turning to gray, great streaks of gray in his beard at the corners of his mouth. In the picture his mouth is open in laughter. Next to those books are maps and brochures advertising tours of the cave where, during the war, USEF fighter pilot Willis E. Davidge and Drac fighter pilot Jeriba Shigan made their home and Shigan’s child Zammis was delivered by the human. I point at the brochure and turn to Jeriba Zammis. "Is this Zammis your nameparent?"

Zammis looks at the brochure and grimaces. "It’s terrible how they’ve commercialized the area. Yes, this was my nameparent." It looks at me, eyebrows raised in resignation. "That’s why Uncle found another cave far from here, and why we moved the Jeriba estate closer to it."

"Another cave? The human still lives in a cave?"

Zammis smiles and nods as its eyes focus on treasured memory. "Yes," it answers. "The human still lives in a cave."

I look back at the leaflet and see that part of the tour includes the original gravesite of Jeriba Shigan and Shigan’s parent, Gothig. This fighter pilot, then, was the nameparent of the Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah.

"We have all of these on reader buttons, as well," offers Abraham Binswanger. I look at him, confused. Undev Orin reaches into a pocket and withdraws a small flat plastic box. Orin opens it and inside are several multicolored discs, each one the size of a fingertip, as well as a player mounted with a screen.

"You can get a reader and quite a few buttons for what a book costs," offers Jeriba Zammis’s retainer.

"I want the book," I answer.

Jeriba Zammis faces Abraham Binswanger and says, "He wants the book."

While Undev Orin arranges for the purchase of the book, Zammis, Binswanger and I move on to the department for clothes. In the end I am clad in completely new garments from the skin out and have outerwear that seems capable of withstanding a bath in liquid nitrogen. Mentally preparing to high-grade the purchases, keeping only what I absolutely need and can afford, I ask Binswanger the price of it all. He holds out his hands, smiles, and says, "It has all been taken care of."

Back in the craft, Jeriba Zammis says that it will take into midafternoon before we reach the Jeriba estate and there are business matters that need tending. In moments Zammis is talking with a business colleague, working through a computer index, and writing notes all at the same time. By overhearing conversations I manage to learn how Jeriba Zammis earned its blue stripe. Zammis is a financier, Jetah of Colony Reserve. When there is a lull in the activity, I turn to Zammis.

"My apologies for interrupting, Jetah."

It looks up from its work and faces me. "Yes?"

"Do you do any business with Earth IMPEX?"

Zammis’s eyebrows rise. "Of course. It’s the largest mineral exploration and development corporation in the quadrant. Why do you ask?"

I think of the stars, and my tears. "I met someone on the ship. A human named Michael Hill. Do you know him?"

The brows come down. "I know him very well. He represents IMPEX on Friendship. I’ve done business with IMPEX through him for ten years or more. He is very well respected among those who do interplanetary trade in First Colony. Is there a difficulty?"

"No." I return to looking through the window, remembering Hill’s comment about making plans and hearing God laugh. The vehicle streaks away from the city, far from the flashing lights of visual directional beacons. Soon the other traffic is left behind, as well. In moments we are over a steel-gray ocean, its angry waters whipped into frothy caps by an incredible storm that the craft’s computers neutralize into a calm passage. In moments I close my eyes and sleep.

THIRTEEN

Considering the power, wealth, and influence of the Jeriba line, the estate is quite modest. Perched on a high cliff overlooking the ocean, it reminds me of a miniature castle. It has only eight or ten attendants and retainers and cannot maintain much more than twenty or thirty guests in luxurious splendor at one time. The room I am given and the repast both are magnificent. The welcome, however, is restrained.

In addition to Zammis, in residence are Jeriba Ty, Zammis’s adult child and estate manager, and Jeriba Haesni, Ty’s child. Estone Nev, the fighter pilot Shigan’s aged sibling, is in residence, as well. Nev, almost sixty years old, is far from frail and is the retired Ovjetah of Friendship’s Talman Kovah.

They all look upon me and my mission with mistrust. After stiff introductions are passed, Zammis excuses itself to do some work, Estone Nev retires to do its meditation, and Haesni puts on its outerwear to run down to the cave to tell Uncle that he has a visitor. Ty remains.

"Yazi Ro, I apologize if we seem protective of Willis Davidge, but the value we place upon his life is incalculable. If it weren’t for him, the Jeriba line would be ended and this world would be a much different place. As I came to adulthood under Uncle’s care, the line of my parents back six generations lived in a cave, grew and learned line, life, and Talman from Willis E. Davidge. My child, Haesni does the same now."

I hold out my hands. "I am here at the wishes of Jeriba Shigan to deliver a manuscript. That is all."

"You are a piece of a puzzle, Yazi Ro. I think you know that."

"Yes."

Ty walks to a large window overlooking a distant point of land, its cliffs extending into the boiling waters of the sea. I walk until I am next to Ty. I see Haesni, growing smaller with each step, running across the snow and ice toward the point. "Davidge is another puzzle piece, as is the manuscript you carry, Yazi Ro. A talma is being gathered, put in motion." Ty looks over at me. "May I be told the object?"

"Peace," I answer. "Peace on Amadeen."

"You look as though you stand between beliefs."

"Jeriba Ty, your parent’s parent is the Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah. It has all of the science of the Diea at its disposal. Jeriba Shigan believes there is a possibility for peace."

"But you have doubts," Ty insists.

"Even Shigan has doubts." I feel my shoulders shrug. "Jeriba Ty, I have waded through the blood of Amadeen ever since my birth. The knives there make cuts that cannot heal. If there is a path along which peace can be achieved on Amadeen, either I cannot see it or the Ovjetah’s meaning for the word ‘peace’ is considerably different from my own. I have no scientific skills. I have yet to stand the rites of adulthood, I do not know why I am here."

Ty studies me for a long time then glances toward the point. "There are the truths of Zineru, Yazi Ro. That is why you are here." It places a hand on my shoulder and says, "I will take you to see Davidge."

As I follow Ty to the robing chamber, I feel the shame fill my face. I unclearly recall a Zineru in The Talman, but I cannot remember who it was, what it did, or what its truths have to do with me. I am too ashamed to ask Ty what it means.

As we walk the path to the point, the wind blows ice crystals around us in whorls and clouds. Somewhere from the past I remember my parent telling me the story of the teacher, Maltak Di, who asked its students about paths. It would draw two shapes and connect them with two lines. It would ask the first student how many paths there are between the two shapes. In a peculiar warp of mind, the years fade and I am in Avo’s arms as it reads from the tiny cube that hangs from a golden chain around its neck.

"…how many paths are there from the circle to the square?"

"There are two paths, Jetah."

"Nyath, you may not stay; you cannot learn."

There were only two lines and poor Nyath could only see two paths. The next student could see several paths if the two drawn paths were repeated turn-in-turn. Maltak Di allowed the second student to stay because it might be able to learn. The third student was told it must stay because it might be able to teach. The third student had said that between the two shapes there was a number of paths without finite limit.

From the estate to the cave there is an infinite number of paths. Down into the ocean, under the ground, through the air, into space, by way of Draco, by way of Amadeen. We walk the paths we see, however, because they are the ones we see. When a better path is discovered, perhaps the Jeriba line will walk it. First it needs to be found.

Zenak Abi thinks it might have found a path from war to peace on Amadeen. Jeriba Shigan thinks it sees it, too. What does it have to do with an old human, a Mavedah killer, and the story of a woman called Joanne Nicole?

Almost to the point, Ty leads us down a natural set of stairs opening onto a narrow ledge high above the rocks and breakers below, the wind pressing us against the cliff. The heights make me strain back from the edges as I hold my breath. Around one turn and another, and the ledge widens a bit. I lean out a bit and look down from the edge of the sheer wall to the rocks far below. A false step here and Yazi Ro would be no mo'. I become dizzy again and press my body against the wall.

"This is the entrance," says Ty. I turn from the deadly drop and face the wind- and ice-carved opening in the rock wall. Ty leads us into it. When we reach the back of the opening, Ty opens a door made of sticks and strips of leather and enters. Beyond the door is a passage. I feel the warmth from the cave beyond and suddenly am afraid.

I think for a moment and find that my fear is that my life will be forever changed by entering this cave. Before taking any kind of path, I want to see its destination. The Ovjetah said, though, that knowledge of the path might close it. Is that because if I knew where the path leads I would refuse to go?

"Hey!" calls an unfamiliar voice. I see a human walk around a turn in the passage. He is clad in rigged skins and has a cap made of the same skins on his head. His hair is long as is his beard. I recognize him from his likeness on the book. It is Willis E. Davidge. He looks at me and points toward the entrance. "Were you born in a goddamned barn?"

"What?"

"Close the door!" He shakes his head, turns and disappears down the passage. I close the door and follow, my path set.

FOURTEEN

We are in crudely made chairs sitting around the large hearth fire, which provides the chamber’s heat and only illumination. The smoke from the fire is drawn through a crack in the chamber’s ceiling, but the smell of smoke is strong in the air. Wood for the fire is stacked along the wall behind me and there are chests and large wooden boxes next to the beds behind the human’s chair. The beds are made of skins thrown over piles of branches. Webbed nets, leather sacks, and other objects hang from wooden pegs hammered into cracks in the walls. Nearly everything appears to be handmade of wood, leather, bone, or plant fiber.

Davidge sits in his leather and stick throne like some sort of primitive tribal chief. He looks over the tops of his reading glasses at me, then shifts his gaze to Ty and Haesni, returning it to the manuscript, the reading surface cocked toward the flames.

"So, Yazi Ro, you taking this book to me is supposed to stop a war." The tone sounds mocking and I remain silent. Davidge glances up at me. "I don’t suppose Shiggy told you how we’re supposed to do it."

"Shiggy?"

"Shigan. The Ovjetah? The guy who sent you here? Work with me, Ro; life is too short, especially for Dracs."

I feel the anger rising. "No. It did not tell me how."

The human wrinkles up his forehead and holds up his hands. "If we don’t know how, what are we supposed to do?"

Ty leans forward in its chair. "Uncle, perhaps you are supposed to figure it out for yourself."

"Damned silly. I mean, if Shiggy knows a way, why doesn’t it just tell me?"

"The Ovjetah," I interrupt, "told me that knowledge of the path might close it."

The human flips through a few pages and shakes his head. "Shiggy always was a little smart aleck." Davidge’s eyes suddenly look up at me. "It was well?"

I fold my arms as I accept two truths: Davidge does not like me and I do not like Davidge. "I am not a healing Jetah. The Ovjetah’s fitness is not within my area of expertise."

The human sits back in his chair, both of his hands resting upon the closed manuscript on his lap. "Did Shigan seem well?"

"I detected no bleeding wounds or consequential diseases, Uncle Willy."

Davidge’s head goes back a degree as he stares at me with very blue eyes. He nods once, opens the manuscript to the first page, and begins reading. As he turns the page he says, "That’s a big stick you have up your ass, Yazi Ro. Try not to scratch the chair."

Ty, its jaw clamped shut against its laughter, stands, grabs its coat, and walks to the entrance, barely nodding at me along the way. Haesni, less successful at suppressing its laughter, makes a snorting sound and hurries to the back of the chamber where the child vanishes into another passage. I feel a cold draft against my legs as Ty opens the door. It stops as the door is closed. I hear muffled laughter coming from outside the cave.

I sit fixed in the chair, glaring at the human, until I think I must look as big a fool as I feel. I stand, close my coat and put up my hood as I storm toward the cave’s opening. When I go through the entrance into the cold, I look at my hand holding the door as a debate rages within me: Should I close it or leave it open?

Leaving it open would be childish. It would, however, feel quite good. Perhaps to end a war I must work with this human, and warring with him over a silly door might close Zenak Abi’s path to peace before it opens. It would, however, feel thoroughly good. Involuntarily I emit a growl and slam the door shut. As I turn away I hear Davidge’s voice call, "Thank you."

In the harsh wind at the top of the cliff, my gaze on the tortured waters below, the questions stand before me. Is this human the great teacher of the Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah? Is this the mentor of the Jeriba line? Is that creature one of the founders of this planet, refuge of 'harmony between the peoples of the quadrant? I see something all too mortal.

I know myself. I am no mountain of wisdom. Now I have seen enough of the human. No matter what Zenak Abi and Jeriba Shigan think they see, we are not the ones who will find peace for Amadeen.

"You are disappointed."

I hear Ty’s voice coming from behind me. Without turning I answer. "I have seen the size of war, Jeriba Ty. I have felt its breath on my face. I know its power, its complexity, its pain, its fear." I turn and face the firstborn of Jeriba Zammis. "In a moment of intense anguish I went to an old fool to find peace. That old fool sent me to another old fool who sent me here to yet another old fool."

"I don’t think you always thought of them as fools."

I look back at the sea. "After I met Zenak Abi, the traitor on Amadeen, I did not believe in its possibilities for peace, It was old, foolish-looking, and ran with a pack of renegade Dracs and humans. I took on its mission because it was my only way off Amadeen."

"You believed the Ovjetah, though," interrupted Ty.

"Yes. I believed Jeriba Shigan. The Ovjetah did not look foolish and it had all of the wisdom of the Jetah Diea honoring it. A part of me believed that the Ovjetah might know a way to peace." I raise my hand and wave it toward the sea with a certain degree of violence. "Yazi Ro, take a copy of the Koda Nusinda to this great teacher, this giant of wisdom, on Fyrine IV. Put this manuscript together with this great mind and that act will take thirty years of blood and horror and bring it to an end." I look back at Jeriba Ty. "I believed that. That’s how big a fool I am."

Ty smiles sympathetically. "Poor Ro. You came to Friendship looking for a god and Willis E. Davidge turns out to be only a man."

"And such an ordinary man," I add. "Is this what the machinations of the Ovjetah’s talma would have me find!"

Ty places its gloved hand on my arm and bursts out with a laugh. "I certainly hope so, my friend. Uncle gave you his very best I’m just plain folks routine." It looks at me, laughs again, and cocks its head toward the estate. "Come along. It’s almost time for the repast. Uncle will be occupied for hours and Haesni will be eating smoked snake in the cave. It will be good to have more company at the house. Falna should be there by now. The ship from Draco eventually came in and Falna was on it."

Falna, the child of Estone Nev’s namechild, is at the table for the repast. It is tall, beautiful, and so brilliant I keep silent for fear of sounding like the fool I feel. Although Falna is so far above my aspirations it might as well be back on Earth, I listen, captivated by its words, its laugh, the devil look to its eyes. Once Falna’s gaze meets mine and I see it smile as I turn away, my face hot with embarrassment. Also at the table are Jeriba Zammis, Ty, and Estone Nev. As the most senior, Nev stands at its place and leads the ceremony of the repasts, something I had not seen since my parent’s death.

"This is the bitter weed we eat to remember the Madah at the first repast. Never shall we return." Estone Nev holds a small sheaf of grain to its lips and replaces it on the table. We all take similar sheaves from our places and touch them to our lips, returning them to the table.

"This is the fruit of the Irrveden, for which the Mavedah fought, that we eat at the second repast." Nev touches a purple-gray fruit to its lips, replaces it on the table, and we do the same.

"For the third repast we eat nothing, for this is the legacy of Mijii who burned its people rather than submit to the rule of the Mavedah." Nev ignites a small brazier filled with aromatic woods. It burns for a moment, touches the air with scent, and dies.

"The night repast celebrates Uhe’s victory and the unification of the Sindie. This is the night repast; let us celebrate."

The servants bring out the foods, and I find a familiar human dish among them: spaghetti. Captured human rations had something similar-looking in an envelope. The difference is that the Jeriba estate’s version is edible. More than that, it is delicious, as are the more traditional foods. Even though I am far from starving, the hungry parentless war thing within moves me to eat more than I need.

After the foods, while I attempt to digest all that I have consumed, Nev, Zammis, Falna, and Ty sip at sweet tea. With transparent pride Nev asks the child of its namechild about its studies. Falna amuses us all with stories of its recent time on Earth, the friends it had made, and the important persons it met. Ty laughs and says, "And Uncle feared that you might never even manage to commit your line to memory."

Falna laughs as well. It notices my confusion and says, "I played a trick on Uncle when I was under his charge at the cave. I pretended to be very slow, clumsy, and unable to learn. Then I stood the rites of adulthood before the Estone archives, recited line and book, all without his knowledge. When he came to my parent to express his concern about my dimness, my parent explained to Uncle that Falna had already stood the rites and had earned its robe. The look on Uncle’s face was worth a thousand academic degrees."

When the laughter dies down, Ty announces to all that Yazi Ro is less than awed after its first meeting with Uncle Willy. Embarrassed by this declaration, I remain silent. There are no frowns or condemnations, though. Instead, Estone Nev smiles and both Zammis and Falna burst out in laughter. Nev puts down its cup and says, "Yazi Ro, you have some idea of the high regard in which we hold Uncle."

"Yes."

Leaning back in its chair, Estone Nev’s gaze turns inward. "When my sibling was stranded on this planet during the war, it was Davidge who delivered and reared Zammis’s nameparent, teaching it the Jeriba line and The Talman, eventually standing with Zammis before the family archives, seeing his charge take on the robes of adulthood. Ever since, it has been the fate of every child on this estate to be subjected by its elders to this glow of adulation for Willis Davidge. As a result, by the time a child is old enough to be placed in Uncle’s care, it is thoroughly encrusted with wonderment regarding this illustrious savant with whom it is to learn its line and Talman, and prepare for the rites." Zammis grins. "As his very first task, Uncle has taken it upon himself to blast off his new student every last crumb of this wonderment. We call it the bath."

They then regale me with stories of the baths taken by various members of the Jeriba and Estone lines, as well as the lines of several of the Jeriba estate’s servants. In all, the human had reared and prepared for adulthood forty-one children. Jeriba Haesni, currently in the cave eating its smoked snake, is his forty-second.

After a while, the conversation turns to other things. Estone Falna, now having completed its post-doctorate studies and residency, is now qualified to administer to humans, the human in the cave being of particular focus. Falna smiles at me as it explains, "Although Friendship’s population contains many species, humans are only a small minority; perhaps eleven percent."

"Medical care for humans," interrupts Ty, "is therefore less than it could be. We have always worried about Uncle falling ill, the only help available being inadequate. Falna wanted to improve the odds."

"Uncle is sixty-three standard years old," continues Falna. "Earth’s medical wisdom suggests that the human should slow down."

"Falna, have you brought the new skis Uncle asked for?" asks Ty,

"I brought them. So much for slowing down."

"Skis?" I ask.

Zammis explains that it is a winter sport he tried first when on Earth fifteen years ago. It involves clipping slippery boards onto one’s feet and sliding down the side of a steep, snow-covered mountain. Zammis brought the sport, an instructor, and the equipment back to Friendship, and Uncle fell instantly in love. After some searching, Zammis and Uncle Willy found in the mountains above the estate a valley protected from the winds where they had a towing arrangement rigged that would pull them to the top of one of the mountains. The sport grew from there until there are now eight ski areas on the planet and a ninth planned.

While I ponder this improbable recreation, Zammis asks Ty about the estate’s agricultural preparations for Friendship’s short growing season, and the conversation fades into seeds, fertilizers, composts, cultivation and a fog of other things I do not understand.

As they talk I think again about Ty’s words to me earlier, that I am here because of the truths of Zineru. It still embarrasses me to admit my ignorance of Zineru’s story in the midst of this assemblage of Talman scholars. I leave the table, go to my rooms, and settle into a very comfortable couch to read my Talman,

I work the catch, drop the cube from its cover, and pull the paging pin. Turning to the Koda Sinuvida, I squint as I attempt to read The Story of Zineru. The writing is very small, and I could struggle my way through it if I needed. Such is unnecessary. I have Davidge’s English translation in big, paper book type. I clip my Talman back into its holder and retrieve my copy of the translation and settle back in the couch.

In the translator’s notes I read that the Koda Sinuvida was the last of the books of The Talman written on Planet Simile. The next hook was written in space on the generation ships that eventually settled Draco. Zineru wrote its book in a much earlier era, a time of sea-going ships and military denve armed with swords, spears, clubs, and arrows. There were also athletic competitions between different denve, different cities, and different schools.

As Maltak Di used to use puzzles and illusions to teach its students, Zineru used games, athletic events. Zineru’s passion was the multiplicity of truth: the many meanings of truth and truth’s many kinds and forms. Its favorite lesson was to have its students take a game and study it, applying all of the lessons of talma, to devise a means of winning through superior theory.

The students would study, interpret, and explore the reduced extremes of all of the rules, the plays, even the conditions of the land and weather where the contest was to be held. They would study the physical form and determine how best to utilize players in running, throwing. and so on. They would work out their new plays, devise their strategies, assign the best of themselves to the various positions, and then they would inform Zineru that they were ready to play.

The Jetah would then employ the least successful team of nonprofessional kovah players it could find and set this team against its students. Without fail Zineru’s students would be annihilated, and the Jetah would tell its battered theorists the lesson: "The learned student has much to contribute to the game. However, the hard truths, the ones that cannot be manipulated, will be told to us by the players. The players have seen and felt the metal; the students have only theorized about it."

Zineru’s truths.

The work of the Talman masters has much to contribute to the peace of Amadeen, but the hard truths, the ones that cannot be manipulated, will be supplied by the Mavedah killer, Yazi Ro. The masters have only theorized about war. Yazi Ro has walked in the blood.

I think of the offer made by the captain of the Tora Seam. My account has enough to get me back to Draco and from there it is only a matter of waiting for the ship. It would be work. Could I stand circling around Amadeen, though, while the ship is at the orbiter? Could I stand it if in my head there is the slightest doubt about the futility of the peace talma? Could I do that knowing in the dust and blood of Amadeen there is a child looking up at my reflection, cursing me for not taking the chance to end the horror?

I get up from the couch and walk to the transparent wall of the room that looks out upon Friendship’s night. There are shielded lights below me, illuminating the house with a faint golden glow. Beyond the lights the wind-torn landscape is dark, the silhouette of the point standing out indistinctly against the whiteness of the ocean’s foam.

I wonder what would happen if the pieces of a picture puzzle found out that the picture they are supposed to make is different than the one they intended to bring into being. Would the pieces go ahead and make the new picture, not knowing for certain how it will look, or would they rebel and make no picture at all?

I decide to talk to this puzzle’s other piece in the cave. I go down to the main hall and find that the others have retired. A servant, Mizy Untav, helps me on with my coat and boots. It insists, as well, that I wear eye and face coverings to protect me from the increasing winds. Once I agree, it asks "Will you be wanting a guide, Yazi Ro?"

"No. I know the way."

"A hand light, perhaps? The footing in the dark can be treacherous."

I nod. "A light would be sensible. Thank you."

With the light attached to the back of my left glove, my hood up and my coat sealed, I step out into the night winds of Fyrine IV. As I lean against the wind and begin my trek toward the cave, I realize that the retainer who clothed me with such concern about my welfare is the child of Mizy Kinasu, the student of Davidge’s the others mentioned who traveled across the quadrant to become a monk in a strange, demanding religion on a strange and frightening planet: Earth.

FIFTEEN

Davidge sits at the fire, staring into the flames, the manuscript in his lap. I turn off the glove light, remove my coat and face protector, throw them over an empty chair, and sit in another, wondering why Davidge wasn’t at the repast as part of Estone Falna’s homecoming. As the flames warm me, I again look at the interior of the cave. On one of the beds of branches, Haesni is sound asleep, a leather quilt pulled over it.

I think of the Koda Nusinda and wonder where in the manuscript Davidge is. One part that gave me pause was the lesson of the repast. As the actors played their parts, the blind human Nicole, not knowing they were actors, was having presented to her the problem of Amadeen. The Mavedah’s goal was the death or removal of all humans on Amadeen. The Front’s goal was the death or removal of all Dracs on Amadeen. The Dracon Chamber’s commitment to the Mavedah and the United States of Earth’s commitment to the Front, and the mutually exclusive goals of the Front and the Mavedah, made the workings of talma impossible. Nicole ended the big war by severing the larger powers' commitments to the warring factions on Amadeen.

The core of the problem, though, still remains, although the removal of the opposing side by something other than death must have fallen in priority. The Mavedah’s goal now is the death of all humans. The Front’s goal is the death of all Dracs. Where is there room for talma? Every time the Front and the Mavedah form a truce in an attempt to settle things through negotiations, an unruly faction from one side or the other always demolishes the truce by performing an atrocity on the other side. How can the Mavedah punish one of its own groups for killing humans, after all that the Front has done to them? Of course, how can the Front punish one of its own groups for killing Dracs, after all that the Mavedah has done to them?

"Yazi Ro," Davidge says, "have you read this?" He holds up the manuscript.

I pull my mind back from the past and look at him. The human’s gaze is on my face. "Yes. I read it on the voyage here."

"Were you supposed to read it?"

Again the shrug. "I do not know."

He looks at the manuscript and raises his eyebrows. "What if you reading this screws up the talma?"

I settle back in the chair, stretch my legs out toward the fire, and clasp my hands over my middle. At that point I answer. "Then the talma is screwed up. On the other side, though, what if my not reading it would mangle the path? What if my reading it or not reading it makes no difference at all?"

Davidge smiles and says in formal Dracon, "Aakva, why do you play with your creatures so?" He looks at me, sees my expression, and says, "From The Story of Uhe. The Koda Ovida?" He looks at me as though I have three heads. In English he asks, "Yazi Ro, is it possible that you do not know your Talman?"

My Amadeen English responds. "It is not only possible, Uncle Willy, you can bet your wrinkled old ass on it."

An unusual squeaking comes from the back of the chamber and Davidge turns from me and looks toward the child’s supposedly sleeping form. "If you are finished sleeping, Haesni, there is some sewing you can do."

"Oh, I’m sleeping, Uncle," gasps Ty’s child. "I am sleeping. I think I’m just having a bad dream." This last followed by more poorly stifled squeaking. At last, unable to contain itself any longer, Haesni laughs out loud, throws its covers aside, and runs into one of the back chambers. Davidge smiles and closes the manuscript.

My elbows on the chair’s armrests, I cover my eyes as I feel an edge of shame. It is not my mission in life to humiliate this teacher in the eyes of his student, even if the teacher is a human. When the echoes of Haesni’s laughter die, I say to the human, "I apologize, Davidge, for referring to you as Uncle Willy. Once we settle this matter," I gesture toward the manuscript in his lap, "I will be gone. It is not your fault I am here now and there is no point in seeing how much more difficult I can make things before I leave."

The human nods and looks down at the manuscript. "I wouldn’t make any plans on leaving soon, Ro. The Ovjetah is smarter than anyone I know. If Jeriba Shigan thinks there’s a good chance of achieving peace on Amadeen, I’ll give it a look. So, we’ll do what we need to do together until we both agree that the job is hopeless. Okay?"

"I agree."

"Good." The human stands, places his hands at the small of his back, and stretches. Finished, he looks at me. "Confidences are sacred, Yazi Ro. What you tell me in confidence I will never repeat without your permission. What I tell you in confidence you will never repeat without my permission. Agreed?"

"Yes."

He takes a step and squats next to the fire. Adding a stick to the flames, he looks toward the back of the chamber, then faces me. Speaking in almost a whisper, he says, "The name Uncle Willy really doesn’t bother me."

I feel my brow rise in astonishment. "Nearly every member of the Jeriba line that I have met has warned me that you hate the name."

He holds out his hands, looks up at the smoke hole, and grimaces as he looks for words. "Kids need an easy way to score against adults." He looks down at me. "Know what I mean?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Is your parent living?"

The question pounces on my awareness like an emotional predator. I feel my breath growing short. "No. Yazi Avo died before my first year." In a very quiet voice, I tell him my shame. "I never learned my line."

Davidge nods as questions in his face resolve. "I see." He stands, goes to his chair, and lowers himself into it. Staring into the fire, he gathers his thoughts. After a long moment, he frowns and looks at me. "What were we talking about?"

"Uncle Willy."

"Right." He nods, sits forward, and says, "To generations of the Jeriba line, from Zammis’s nameparent to Haesni, as well Estone Nev’s descendants and the children of the line’s retainers, I have been playmate, friend, teacher, and warden. Kids, mostly wanting to do what they want to do, reverse the order. To them I am the warden, the one who stands in the way of their adventures, like trying to fly by jumping off the cliff."

I point toward the ocean. "That cliff?"

"That’s the one. Shiggy even had a set of wings it had designed and built. The only way I could discourage the experiment was to let Shiggy try it, although I got the kid to use a small hill for its first flight rather than the cliff." He smiles in remembrance, then brings himself back to the moment.

"Warden first. Later they regard me as teacher, friend, and playmate. Usually. Still there’s this piece of each kid that remembers, and resents, the guy who spoiled all the fun, who was mostly right when they were mostly wrong."

I nod as I understand. "Letting them call you Uncle Willy and believing that it makes you grind your teeth is an easy, and harmless, way of letting them wreak vengeance on the warden."

"Yes."

"Was it the same sort of thing with Estone Falna ?"

Davidge’s eyebrows go up. "Heard that story, did you?" He grins and shakes his head. "Falna was different. It wasn’t satisfied with mere vengeance. Falna wouldn’t settle for anything less than total annihilation. Strong-minded and smart as a whip. Its parent died on Earth. Did you hear about that?"

"No."

"Estone Oyneh was a part of the Dracon Chamber’s diplomatic delegation. There was a racial incident, a crowd thing that got out of control, and Oyneh was dead. Falna saw it all. It was less than a year old."

I feel the cold fingers of reality clutching my heart. "I too lost my parent before I reached my first year. I saw it die."

Davidge looks at me and I see the compassion in his face. "It is a hard way to grow." He looks at the fire. "Estone Nev had Falna brought here and I took it into the cave. It took five months for its nightmares to stop. I’m awfully proud of Falna. I hated to miss it doing the rites, though." He nods, picks up the manuscript, and opens it. "There’s stuff to eat next to the fire and back in the cave where Haesni went. I better get going on this." He finishes a page and turns to another.

I feel a strange longing: a glaring emptiness against a painful jealousy of the Drac children who learned line and Talman before this man. It is a bottomless well of anguish that always begins with: things should have been different. Haesni, wiping its face with its hand from having eaten something, sneaks into its bed after waving a hand at me. Before I can respond, the child is under its leather quilt, its head covered. The favored child sleeping in the heart of its uncle’s love.

I rest my head against the back of my chair and study the human as he reads. I have seen humans before. In battle, as my prisoners, before my knife, torturing my friend to death, and at least one holding a little Drac baby. I see no human woman in Davidge’s cave; not even another man. There is a lot to mistrust in a man who forsakes all that there is in being a man to live in a cave and bring up Drac children. As the sleep tugs at me, I ask myself, why are you here, Willis E. Davidge? Before I can ask my question aloud, Davidge lowers the manuscript and faces me.

"Ro, tomorrow morning I want you to ask Ty to show you how the subspace link at the house works. It’s about time you learned your line. Before you can learn it, you must assemble the information." Without waiting for an answer, he returns to reading.

I see the warden, feel the irritation at being told what to do without being asked or even told why. I smile as I acknowledge the human’s wisdom in providing a talma along which childish retribution may be exacted. I close my eyes, settle into the chair before the fire wrapped in my warm cloak, and say, "Sleep in peace, Uncle Willy."

SIXTEEN

The next morning, after a peculiar breakfast of root cakes and roast snake in the cave, Davidge returns to the manuscript, Haesni washes the shells and griddle, and I make my way to the estate, the day warm enough that I can walk the path without fear of my eyeballs shattering. From the ice-sheathed trees and rocks, I can see meltwater dripping.

Later, in Ty’s office, I sit facing the screen of the link. Jeriba Ty establishes contact with the Talman Kovah on Draco, runs the line probe, explains the controls, and says to call when I have completed entering what I can. Ty leaves and I enter the information for which the line probe asks.

My own name is Yazi Ro. My parent’s name was Yazi Avo. I know from what my parent told me of its parent that its name was Yazi Tahl. Tahl’s parent was named Itas, although I am uncertain of the spelling. If I ever knew the name of my nameparent’s child, it has left my memory. I have no choice but to leave the five-name sequence incomplete.

The line location, what I know of it, is on Amadeen, Northern Shorda, City of Gitoh. The occupations of myself and my forebears, those that I know of: Yazi Ro, Mavedah soldier; Yazi Avo, with its crippled foot, did whatever it could find to provide food and shelter for its infant child. Mostly it taught battlefield English to Mavedah soldiers; Yazi Tahl, another Mavedah soldier; Yazi Itas, I do not know, and there it ends. I call for Jeriba Ty and in moments it is there reviewing the information.

After reading it, Ty looks down at me and places a hand on my shoulder. It must have been very difficult growing up without the knowledge of your line."

I am confused by my host’s pity. "I do not know, Jeriba Ty. I have nothing with which to compare it." I point at the screen. "Is that enough information ?"

"It is all we have," Ty answers as it reaches forward and touches the screen which changes immediately to the main catalog.

"How long will it take?"

Ty opens its mouth to answer, but before a word escapes, the results of the line probe appear. I nod my thanks to Jeriba Ty and sit back to discover part of myself.

The data links from Amadeen were cut off when the quarantine isolated Amadeen from the quadrant. There is, nevertheless, only one line on Amadeen whose names fit the sequence I entered. The full sequence is: Ro, Tomas, Itah, Tahl, Avo. There is a message to note the difference in the spelling of the center sequence name. The original line archives were registered in Gitoh.

I find that I had a nameparent, and my nameparent had a nameparent. Yazi Ro, third child of Stiyima Bahn of Aakva Benabi on Draco, left its home to found its new line on Amadeen years before the war. The founder was an explorer and entrepreneur who became partners in a business venture with a human named Tomas Muñoz. The Drac and the human began providing food and other supplies to the prospectors in the mountains above Gitoh. The business was prosperous, and the pair expanded their activities into various other retail enterprises.

When Yazi Ro had its first child, the founder named its child for its partner, Tomas. In turn, Tomas Muñoz named his new son Ro. The two children grew together until Tomas was no longer a child. Yazi Tomas maintained a close friendship with Ro Muñoz, though, until the war started on Amadeen. No one seems to know why it started, or how. Something about land and an unjust decision made by some court. The only thing certain was that members of the other species were responsible. The Yazi-Muñoz business venture struggled along for another year, but it eventually was consumed by the widening war. The partnership ended along with the friendship when Ro Muñoz was slain by an angry mob of Drac miners and Tomas Muñoz returned to Earth.

Yazi Tomas attempted to keep a much smaller foodstuff supply business going by itself, but war respects no contracts and soon Tomas was pressed into service by the newly organized Shorda Continental Defense Force, which later changed its name to the Mavedah. Tomas’s only child, Itah, went directly into the Mavedah, as did its child, Tahl. As my parent’s nameparent was born, the quarantine was placed on Amadeen, and there the information ends, The cycle of names is there, though, and the probe fills in the missing names. I am the eleventh of my line. If I should ever conceive, my child would carry this human’s name: Tomas.

"Ro, did your parent ever tell you about this Tomas Muñoz, and about their business?"

I glance at Ty, only part of my mind on its question. "I do not remember. I was so young when Avo was killed. I may have been told, but I do not remember."

"You have an information notice aid. May I see what it is?"

I look and there is a spot on the screen blinking between white and blue. I get up from the link and go to the office’s window wall as Jeriba Ty sits before the link and gives the probe some new instructions. The window looks out upon a distant chain of mountains, the tops black with cliffs too steep to hold ice or snow. My eyes see the mountains but my mind is on Amadeen and a time when a Drac and a human could become business partners and name their children after each other. How did we move from such a place to Douglasville where that man, that human, took its captured energy knife and cut poor Lota Min into screaming pieces?

The wounds on Amadeen are so many, so deep, so ghastly, how can there be an end to it? How can we live in a world where we cannot kill humans, where there is nothing left to do but feel the pain of our many losses while staring at the shattered remains of so many futures?

"Yazi Ro, do you know a human named Michael Hill?"

My thoughts touch the passenger lounge of the Venture and the man who told me about the danger of looking at the stars alone. "I met him on the ship." I turn to face Ty. "He is a representative for Earth IMPEX."

Jeriba Ty is frowning as it looks at the screen. "It seems that Michael Hill is very interested in anyone carrying the line name of Yazi." Ty shakes a finger at the screen and says, "More specifically, he’s interested in anyone who has an interest in a Yazi line name. Hill has entered an automatic call request that his message station be notified of the names of everyone who does a probe on any of the Yazi lines."

I turn from the window and face Ty. "I don’t understand."

"What it amounts to is that this man wants to know if anyone, most likely you, did a probe on the Yazi line name."

"Is there some way to hide my inquiry?"

Ty shakes its head. "No. All of this―the line histories, the names of those who file requests―is public information. Michael Hill has already been notified that you did a probe on your line. Might he be a danger?"

I lower myself into a chair facing Ty. "Your parent said that it has done business with Michael Hill for years. Zammis said that Hill is well respected."

"Perhaps it’s just curiosity concerning a chance encounter on board a ship."

I think back and recall that face in my mind. For a human it is a handsome, pleasant face. Honest, hiding nothing. Perhaps it is just curiosity. Those who travel far from home may need things with which to occupy their time. Still, the man might be the descendant of someone in the Amadeen Front or the USE Force who thinks he has a debt to collect against Dracs of the Yazi line. He was on Draco at the same time I was. Perhaps Michael Hill has some interest in the Jetai Diea’s charge that sent me on my mission to Friendship.

"Does Hill know where I am staying? Is that information public, as well?"

"It’s not public information, Ro, but having Jeriba Zammis pick you up at the port effectively announced to the entire population of First Colony where you are staying. With your permission, I will have my parent look into the matter of Michael Hill." Ty looks up at me and smiles as it hands me a copy of my line probe. "If Uncle had you learn your line, the next thing he’ll want is for you to memorize it. Then The Talman. Before he’s finished he will have you in front of your line’s archives reciting line and book."

In my rooms I look at the copy of my line. Eleven names is all. If I had been born into the Jeriba line I would have had to memorize over two hundred histories, as well as The Talman. What a fantasy it is: Yazi Ro, filled with knowledge, reciting line and book in front of the Yazi Archives, my human Jetah standing with me as I receive the belated robes of adulthood.

My line is missing a few histories, though; the Yazi archives are smashed and in Front-controlled territory on Amadeen, while my Jetah, Uncle Willy, is safe in his cave beneath Friendship’s protective clouds. Still it is a nice fantasy. I take the paper and read from it, my tongue wrestling around the ancient, unfamiliar sounds of formal Dracon.

Before you here I stand, Ro of the line of Yazi, born of Avo, the teacher of English…

I stop as I realize the hopelessness of it all. I do not know if Avo itself stood the rites, and if so, when. There is so much missing. A great weariness fills me and I lie on the bed, close my eyes, and, just before I search my usual nightmares, I see Estone Falna as it was at the repast, strong, witty, smart, full of fun. A longing begins in me that I extinguish as soon as I know what it is, because it can never be.

…I hear a dog. The night is cold, Amadeen’s moon huge and bright in the sky. The dog is whimpering, begging for an end to its pain. Except for the dog, it is quiet, the fighting and bombing at an end for now. Inside the bombed-out structure, Avo is sitting in a shadow looking across the street, its eyes wet with tears.

"Avo?" I call from its side where I have been trying to sleep. "Avo, what is wrong? Are they coming again?"

"No, child. They are gone for now."

I reach up and touch my parent’s cheek. "Why do you cry?"

Avo nods at the ruins across the street. "Do you remember the building that once stood there?"

"No."

"You were just born, I suppose, when it was last used. The Mavedah stored supplies there until the building was destroyed completely by a Front bombing. Before that, when I was a child, it was a hospital." Avo looks down at me. "My parent once told me that very long ago, before the war, your nameparent’s nameparent had a business there where it sold food and many other things."

My parent returns its gaze to the ruin. "Yazi Tahl told me that Dracs and humans both shopped there, and that your nameparent’s nameparent even worked with a human in the business." Its head lowers until Avo’s chin rests on its chest. "I don’t know if I believe that," it says, "though I always thought of this building with a special warmth, until it was destroyed. Now it makes me sad."

I do not know why Avo cries. It is, after all, just a pile of rubble. I wrap my arms around my parent and urge it to stop crying. Avo places an arm around me and continues to look at the ruin. It still looks as I close my eyes. The dog is silent and I sleep.

SEVENTEEN

I awaken with an acrid smell of smoke in my nostrils. At the moment I realize the smell is no dream I sit up and open my eyes. Davidge is sitting in a chair in front of the window wall, looking at the view. The smoky smell comes from his clothes. I stand and walk toward him. As I do I see the sight that holds the human’s attention. Great streams of black smoke come from the point, blown back toward the mountains by the winds.

"Davidge?"

He turns his head and faces me. His skin is smudged with soot, soot rings his nostrils, and his eyes are very red. "You’re awake,"

"Obviously." I point toward the smoke. "What happened?"

The human looks back toward the point, his eyes on the past. "Someone came into the cave last night and set fire to the place. I was in the back getting something to eat." He seems to nibble at the insides of his lips as tension makes his jaw muscles pulse. "When I came back to the main chamber, I saw him. A fire was already started in the woodpile and he was tinkering at some sort of device. I picked up a piece of wood and came up on him from behind. He turned just before I struck and I caught his head and an arm. Whatever kind of bomb he set fully ignited then and filled the cave with smoke and intense heat. The man got away from me and all I could think of was making sure that Haesni was safe."

"Is Haesni safe?"

"Yes. A sore throat from the smoke, scared, but other than that, okay." Davidge stands and faces me. "Haesni was in the back chamber. We had to cover our eyes and feel our way through the main chamber, the smoke was so thick. Once we made it out of the mouth of the cave we came to the house." He looks around at the room and says more to himself than to me, "After all these years, they’re finally going to get me to sleep in the house."

"Was there any sign of the intruder?"

Davidge nodded. "Ty had the retainers arm themselves and search for the fire bug. They were at it for the rest of the night. At first light Alri Gan found the bastard at the bottom of the cliff below the cave entrance. Looks like he didn’t quite make that first turn."

Davidge narrows his eyes and studies me. "Ty, Zammis, and I climbed down to the base of the cliff to look. Jeriba Zammis knows the dead man. Before he splashed on the rocks, he called himself Michael Hill."

I feel my eyes widening at the name. "The man I met on the ship? The IMPEX representative?"

"Yes. Ty told me about your experience; also about Hill’s interest in your line probe. You have any idea why he might want to kill me or Haesni?"

I remember the stars, that face, the compassion in his voice. That strange joke: If you want to hear God laugh, make a plan. I think back and remember the cliff, the height of it, the broken boulders at its foot. Michael Hill had a long opportunity of understanding before he reached those water-washed boulders.

I have seen my enemies come at me many ways, everything from shooting to begging. Compassion is an unexpected stratagem.

"Davidge, on the ship from the Amadeen orbiter it was not a closely held secret that I was smuggled off Amadeen. On Draco, almost the entire Jetai Diea knew I was Mavedah, as well as an unknown number of clerks, masters, and others." I look down as I think about the man in the wheelchair. Matope. Something mean and bitter crawls into my heart. "Perhaps still others."

Davidge nods. "So he learns you’re coming here."

"He might be someone with a hatred. Perhaps an ancestor or loved one might have died on Amadeen,"

"That explains why he might want to kill you. Why me or Haesni?"

I look to see if he is joking. "To such a person, Davidge, a Drac is a Drac," I nod toward the human. "And a Dragger suck is a Dragger suck."

The human’s eyes grow wide and he laughs. "Ro, Dragger suck is old-fashioned, obsolete. According to Falna, the modern term is symp."

"Symp?"

"Short for sympathizer, I think. Maybe it’s short for simpleton." He shakes his head and turns back to the window. "It just doesn’t wash, Ro. Zammis has known Hill for years; worked with him, introduced him to others. Michael Hill has been working with Dracs for an awfully long time. Is it possible that you’re the first Drac Amadeen veteran he’s ever run across?"

I think of Aureah Vak, pilot of the Tora Soam. As well there is Koboc, the Tsien Denvedah veteran who lives with Matope. There are millions of Dracs who fought on Amadeen, old but still alive. "No, Davidge, it is not likely that I am Michael Hill’s first."

I reach out my hand and place it on the human’s shoulder as a theme from the Koda Nusinda teases the back of my head. "Davidge, the Ovjetah considers you and me to be pieces to a very important puzzle. Perhaps the puzzle cannot be solved if either of us is removed."

The human’s face wrinkles in confusion. "What does IMPEX have to gain in keeping the war going? Do you have any idea of the investment―" As Davidge curs himself off, his confusion fades. "The Koda Nusinda. The Eyes of Joanne Nicole."

"Yes. The Timans. Do you think the Timan species is still attempting to manipulate events?"

"If it’s true, they’re taking the possibility for peace on Amadeen whole lot more seriously than we do."

I rub my eyes and look at the smoke from the cave hanging in the air as the winds shift. "I thought Timan tampering in USE-Dracon relations ended with the death of the war’s secret architect, Hissied 'do Timan."

"So did the author of the Koda Nusinda. I don’t know why it would, though. If I read that manuscript right, manipulating other species toward self destruction wasn’t just Hissied 'do Timan’s hobby. It’s a survival mechanism―instinct with the Timans―the entire species." The human scratches his beard.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Yazi Ro, maybe the key to stopping the war on Amadeen is in somebody’s ammonia-soaked hand on Planet Timan." His eyebrows rise. "You don’t suppose that’s where the Ovjetah’s talma is supposed to go?"

"As I understand this most recent book of The Talman, Davidge, if the Timans are involved, they are operating their own talma. I do not know which talma we would be serving by going to Timan. Perhaps the Timan path encloses the Ovjetah’s."

Davidge folds his arms and frowns at the thinning smoke. "I need to get on the link and talk to Shiggy about this. If we go to Timan and it’s a wrong turn, it’ll be a helluva big one."

"Why?"

"If I remember right, it’s going to take us around half a year just to get there. Once there, I don’t have a clue who to see, where to go, or anything. On top of everything else, the atmosphere on Timan is not exactly kind to oxygen breathers. Environmental suits, perhaps protected shelters, food, water―we’re talking about a major expedition." The frown grows deeper. "Which means major money." He suddenly turns his head and fixes me with his gaze. "Did the Ovjetah give you a blank check to go with that manuscript?"

"Blank check?"

"Unlimited funds."

I shake my head. "No. My account has a few thousand credits. Enough to get me back to Draco."

"Talma!" the human snorts angrily as it faces the window. There is the gentle ting of a musical note followed by the greeting room door opening. Undev Orin stands in the door and bows. "My apologies. Willis Davidge, the investigator still waits for you to bring Yazi Ro."

The human turns from the window and smacks himself gently against the side of his head. "Dammit, that’s why I came up here. Orin, tell the investigator we’ll be right down."

Undev Orin bows and closes the door, leaving Davidge and I alone. The human laughs at himself and says, "I came up here to get you, but I got sidetracked by the view. I seem to be forgetting a lot of things lately." He points toward the smoke, now almost at an end. "It’s been a lot of years since anyone tried to kill me. The last one was the Ovjetah’s nameparent."

I feel cornered. No one yet seems particularly concerned that I was smuggled off Amadeen, but an investigator might. If no one at all cares, there wouldn’t be a quarantine. "I cannot see this investigator."

"Why? You haven’t been here long enough to get in trouble."

"I was smuggled through the Amadeen quarantine―"

"Don’t worry about it," interrupts Davidge. "That’s not a crime on Friendship, and the investigator isn’t a cop—a police officer. This one’s been hired simply to establish what happened last night and who was responsible."

"Hired?"

Davidge nods as he takes my arm and leads me toward the door. "We don’t have police officers acting for the government here." He shrugs and holds out his hands. "No government."

EIGHTEEN

There is a path, steep and icy, from the ledge at the level of the cave to the base far below. We are met at the top of the path. There are two investigators, a Drac and a human, both of whom are employed by Aakva Lua, which means Blue Light. They have with them a Drac operative dressed in a deep blue Aakva Lua uniform beneath its black hooded coat. A second uniformed operative, also a Drac, is at the bottom of the cliff with the corpse. With the investigator are Zammis and Estone Falna.

The Drac investigator’s name is Mirili Sanda, which the human investigator, for some reason, insists on pronouncing santa. Sanda is quite short and plump for a Drac, its eyes so dark they are almost black, making its gaze quite fierce. Its hooded coat is bright blue, as is the flyer in which it and the human investigator arrived. We follow them down the path.

To Zammis, Falna, and Davidge the path down the cliff is just another trail. I, however, can feel unseen forces drawing me to the edges of sheer drops. Only my shame at my fear of heights forces me along. At the bottom we have to climb over and around the slippery boulders to get to Hill’s body. Sanda struggles at the physical challenge where Davidge, Falna, and Zammis appear to have no difficulty. The human investigator is amazing.

The human’s name is Kita Yamagata. Although small for a woman, she jumps from boulder to boulder with the same fearless bearing and disregard of heights with which she climbed down the treacherous path to the base of the cliff. The hood on her blue coat is back displaying her glossy black hair, which she keeps short. Her eyes, too, are very dark, giving her a strange kinship to Sanda. By the time we reach the location, Yamagata is already examining the corpse, her hands covered in special blue gloves.

Between the warmer air and the action of the sea, there is almost no ice on the ocean’s rocky shore. The spray from the breakers washes everything, which is why there is very little visible blood on the corpse, Sanda explains as Falna leans in to examine the body more closely. What blood there is seems to repulse Sanda. It does not bother Yamagata or Falna. I have seen so much of it, I am surprised it bothers me.

Michael Hill landed first on his legs, bounced and came to rest on his back, according to Yamagata.. Falna remarks that it would he surprised if there where any bones not broken. Hill’s clothes, boots, and hooded coat are white, with a few smudges of red. With the snow for a background last night, he would have been almost invisible. Against the green and black sea-washed boulders at the base of the cliff, he stands out like a target. Jeriba Zammis, its head uncovered in the wind, stares at the body as the investigators take their readings and fill their little containers. When Sanda and Yamagata determine that they have done all that they can do with the corpse in its present position, they have their operatives turn it over.

The back of Michael Hill’s white camouflage coat is scorched. Yamagata makes a comment about being half a step ahead of the volcano. A search of the corpse’s pockets produces an expensive leather identification case with Hill’s credentials and permits from Earth IMPEX, Draco, and other governmental authorities. It contains, as well, a company travel pass, pictures of beings of several species, and over sixteen hundred credits in currency. There is the key to his rented flyer, a key to his room at Colony House, an exclusive hotel in First Colony. There is a smashed pocket computer, and Yamagata bags all of it to bring back to the Aakva Lua laboratory. There is nothing I see that connects Michael Hill to the Timans.

Later, up at the mouth of the cave, I stand outside with the others as Kita Yamagata, wearing a protective suit and respirator, enters alone. Sanda explains that Yamagata has experience as an arson investigator, arson being mostly a human way of killing. Falna remarks that Yamagata seems to be a rather competent medical investigator, as well.

While we wait, Sanda goes over the terms of the agreement once more with Jeriba Zammis. Aakva Lua is free to release information to any other investigative company or police authority that may wish to pursue the matter, even if such action is opposed to the legal interests of Jeriba Zammis or other members, employees, or agents of the Jeriba line or Jeriba estate. Aakva Lua may also seek and accept employment from parties other than Jeriba Zammis, using such information, and so on and so forth, la la la. Zammis agrees to it all.

Sanda asks Davidge and me questions regarding Hill’s possible motives. I relate my experience with the IMPEX representative on the ship, and Davidge and I share with the investigator conjectures concerning old vengeance and recent insanity. Davidge does not share our thoughts about the talma and the possible Timan interference. I keep silent on this matter as well.

While Sanda returns to the bottom of the cliff and supervises its operatives in loading the body into an Aakva Lua flyer, I notice once more Zammis’s troubled manner. It is looking at the entrance to the cave, the leather-and-stick door open.

Jeriba Zammis notices me and says, "In doing business I have been to Draco, Earth, and many of the planets colonized by both powers. So many times I have seen populations living as though in the midst of a war zone. The inhabitants divide themselves into tribes, arm themselves, put bars on windows, and live in fear. The wealthy turn their estates into forts and their retainers into armies." It motions toward the cave with its hand. "Thieves, killers, terrorists insane on religion or politics. Gangs of criminals prowling the streets. I believed that Planet Friendship was exempt."

"How can any place be exempt?" I ask.

Zammis looks upon me as though I am mad. "We have no tribes here. The lesson of Friendship is that money, race, and belief are nothing next to fellowship. We are not awash in poverty, crime, or repression!"

Davidge is looking out over the sea. He glances toward Zammis, and says, "Sharks don’t kill because they’re poor, criminal, insane, or repressed, Zammis. Sharks kill because they’re sharks."

"Michael Hill?" demands Zammis. "Michael Hill was a shark? He was a fine, intelligent, imaginative man of business. I know his family. He has taken the repasts here at the estate. Michael Hill was no shark, Uncle."

Davidge looks at me and nods as a tiny smile pulls back the left corner of his mouth. I watch as he picks up a rock and hands it to Jeriba Zammis. "Is this a shark?" asks the human.

Zammis takes the rock and studies it for a moment. Keeping the rock, Ty’s parent looks at Davidge, frowns, and asks, "Who?" I am confused, not knowing what a shark is nor the meaning of the rock.

Zammis opens its mouth to ask again and Davidge cuts off its former student with a wave of his finger as Kita Yamagata lumbers into view, the helmet of her protective suit back, the respirator hanging from a strap around her neck. In her gloved hands are the remains of a metal case, its top and two sides melted away. She stops in front of us and holds out her treasure. "One thing we know for sure is that Brother Hill didn’t know drool about setting fires. At least, not with one of these things."

"What is that?" I ask.

Yamagata looks at Davidge. He shrugs and shakes his head. "What we have here, folks," says the woman, "is a mining tool called a thermal drill. It uses a special plastic explosive called Thermex. Under various brand names, Thermex is used by most large mining operations in the quadrant." She wiggles a finger at a tangle of wires and molten metal next to a lump of black goo in the bottom of the case.

"This case was filled with the stuff. It burns hot enough to turn rock to ashes with almost no smoke. Lots of steam, though, if there’s water in the drilling medium." She pokes a wad of wires and melted circuit boards. "With this gadget you can program the size and shape of the burn. Miners use it for tunneling, removing obstructions, drilling holes―wherever they want to get rid of some rock." Yamagata holds up a gloved hand and points at the black lump in the bottom of the case. "This stuff used to be an initiator. When it is triggered, it vaporizes, combines with an igniter, the combination achieving a high enough temperature to ignite the Thermex. If it doesn’t go in exactly that sequence, the Thermex won’t ignite. Instead it will melt or vaporize. It’s a safety thing. This initiator was never triggered."

Davidge moves a step closer and looks down into the box. "It looks like there was a fire to me."

She looks up at him and grins. "Oh, there was a fire, all right. The igniter was set off out of sequence. That was what caused the fire. Because it couldn’t combine with the trigger vapor, though, it couldn’t ignite the Thermex." Yamagata turns and holds her hand toward the entrance to the cave.

"If this thing had been set off in the proper sequence, Mr. Davidge, that cave would be one big hole in the ground. As it is, it’s just a smoked-out mess. The Thermex vapor condensed on the wood and smothered the fire started by the igniter. That’s the glossy black stuff that covers everything in there." She turns back and looks at us one at a time.

"Now, what I don’t understand is this: a man like Mr. Hill, running around the quadrant for Earth IMPEX, probably knows more about mining methods and equipment than just about anybody." Her gaze rests on Jeriba Zammis.

Zammis nods. "Of course. IMPEX has been using thermal drills since before the war. You can’t sell the customer unless you can show him how the gadget works. Michael Hill was well qualified to represent IMPEX’s interests, and he certainly knew how to use a thermal drill."

Davidge points at the partially melted case and says to Kita Yamagata, "I thought you said Hill didn’t know drool about setting off one of these."

The woman grins. "I’ll bet my next two paychecks that this drill isn’t one of the IMPEX models. IMPEX and JACHE," she explains, "have licenses to produce the stuff from Nisak, who made it available to both outfits before the war. Each company produces its own range of models."

Nisak. I look at Davidge, but he is looking at the investigator. "Timan Nisak?" he asks.

"That’s right. Timan Nisak invented Thermex and the thermal drill. In any event, it appears that Michael Hill wasn’t thoroughly familiar with this particular model, and ichi-bu hachi ken." She sees our confused expressions and says, "One-tenth of an inch, forty-eight feet."

While Zammis and I remain confused, Davidge smiles slightly and says, "Small errors can result in big mistakes."

She smiles widely, obviously pleased that Davidge understood her enigmatic reference, and says to us all, "I’ll bet that this is either a JACHE drill or one from Timan Nisak."

Davidge keeps looking at the melted case in Yamagata’s hands and says, "Yazi Ro, what do you want to wager that this drill is from Dracon JACHE?"

I slowly shake my head. "Not even air."

There is a whining sound coming from the edge of the cliff and soon we see the Aakva Lua flyer move out across the water, make a steep climbing turn to the right, and set course for First Colony, Michael Hill’s body in its cargo bay. The others begin walking the path to the house. I begin following but pause when I see Mirili Sanda struggling its way up the path to the ledge. Keeping against the wall, I go down a few steps and lend the overweight investigator a hand getting up the last few steps. At the top, Sanda wheezes its thanks and sits on an outcropping to catch its breath. "That Zammis is twice as old as I am and it runs up and down this trail like it was three. The company has an employees' gym. I think I’ll drop in and see what I can do to get in better physical shape."

As Sanda rests, its gaze wanders along the edge of the ledge, then to the door, back to the ledge, and then to the rocks below. "Yazi Ro, if you were going to plant a bomb in this cave, could you forget this cliff outside the entrance, no matter how dark it was, no matter how big a panic was driving your feet?"

I look down at the rocks and shake my head. "No, Mirili Sanda, I could not forget. I, though, pay particular attention to heights."

"Over a certain altitude, Yazi Ro, everyone does."

NINETEEN

The slightly warmer temperatures of the early morning drop suddenly, foreshadowing a new storm. In the house, Davidge isolates himself with the subspace link and doesn’t emerge for the second or night repasts. After the night repast, in the main gathering salon, Jeriba Zammis tells us that the investigators will return to ask more questions. They have some lab results and they have located the flyer Michael Hill rented. They will be here in a few moments. As Zammis, Ty, Estone Falna, and I sit and speculate about what the investigators have found, Davidge at last emerges from Ty’s office, the expression on his face somewhere between confusion and fatigue. He drops into a chair, becoming part of our circle.

"What is it, Uncle?" asks Falna.

"The Ovjetah informs me," he announces, "that if the talma leads to Planet Timan then the talma leads to Planet Timan."

"That took you from before the second repast?"

"Basically. The rest was taken up with a little talk about relatives, and a lot of talk about why Shigan can’t talk about what I want it to talk about. If Timan has nothing to do with this damned talma, why can’t Shiggy just say so? It’s as stubborn as a damned mule."

Falna assumes a serious expression and says, "I can’t imagine where the Ovjetah would acquire a trait such as that."

"Such a human quality," adds Ty. Zammis’s child grins as Davidge glares at both of them and raises his eyebrows.

"There is a difference, my children, between conviction and stubbornness. The former is based on knowledge or sincere belief. The latter is rooted in stupidity brought on by the need to be regarded as right."

"My parent," says Ty to Zammis, "it is a shame how stupid your parent is. I have always said so."

"True, true," responds Zammis, shaking its head sadly and turning to Davidge. "What can one do, Uncle? Ever since Shigan took on its master’s robe and then earned the position of Ovjetah of the Talman Kovah, it has been impossible to convince my parent of its stupidity."

Falna laughs out loud at this. Davidge drums his fingers on the armrests of the chair for a moment, then says with half a smile, "You clowns ought to take your act on the road."

Our laughter is interrupted by Mizy Untav. The doorkeeper enters, bows, and announces the investigators from Aakva Lua. Mirili Sanda and Kita Yamagata enter. Sanda is wearing the same tan short robe, trousers, and boots from this morning. Yamagata is dressed in an all-white, high-collared jumpsuit with soft white boots laced up to just below her knees. A red flower is in her hair and her eyes almost glitter. I turn my head and look at Davidge sitting uncomfortably in his old snakeskin leathers scratching his beard. His gaze is fixed on the center of the floor.

It is impossible for me to fathom these human hormonal reactions. Kita Yamagata, who regards Davidge as an overage murder suspect, primps herself and preens in front of him like a vacci bird before a prospective mate. Willis E. Davidge, dedicated to teaching The Talman and line to an endless succession of Drac children, isolated from human companionship and celibate for the past three decades, now a murder suspect, is squirming in his chair because he wishes he looks more presentable before the woman who might charge him with murder.

Of course, I am no master on the subject of love. My own encounters were hurried, almost chance events between horrors, leaving me without love or loving. There is a barren loneliness eating at me, and between that and Davidge’s comical look, I would too become a clown. I envy him his discomfort as I take a furtive look at Estone Falna.

Falna is watching Sanda with both eyes as the Drac investigator folds its arms across its chest. "Earth IMPEX and Michael Hill’s family both want to continue with the investigation, although they are doing so through investigative companies other than Aakva Lua. JACHE is also interested in continuing the investigation, but unlike IMPEX, it is using Aakva Lua."

"Are you at liberty to reveal JACHE’s interest?" asks Zammis. "And what of Timan Nisak?"

"Nisak has been informed, but has not responded. As to JACHE’s interest, they have placed no restrictions on us, and it seems that Hill’s actions have the potential to affect business, and JACHE is in business." Sanda looks at Davidge. "The laboratory and autopsy reports are in and everything appears to be consistent with events as related to us by Willis Davidge and Jeriba Haesni this morning. Our pathologist reports that Michael Hill’s death was caused by massive trauma to his internal organs, as a result of his fall down the cliff." Sanda nods toward Yamagata. She nods back and looks at each of us, one at a time.

"As I surmised, the thermal drill is not an IMPEX model. There are no chemical markers in the explosive, and both IMPEX and JACHE are required by their laws to have markers in all of their explosives. That means that the explosive is from Timan Nisak. The case itself has markings that our translation service has identified as Timan."

Davidge frowns and says, "So, what’s an IMPEX sales representative doing in my cave with a Timan explosive?"

"Trying to kill both you and Haesni, I have no doubt," says Yamagata. "Understand that Thermex burns with such an intense heat that there would be no evidence left at all had Hill programmed and set off the thing correctly. Either he was not familiar with the Nisak model, he was nervous, or something else impaired his performance."

"It was something else," declares Jeriba Zammis. "Michael Hill was no killer. Everything you have said confirms that. Some threat, some incredible pressure must have been brought to bear. What of the supplier of this explosive? What of Timan Nisak ?"

"All talmas lead to Timan," Davidge remarks, his gaze still fixed to the floor.

Falna sits forward, looks from Sanda to Yamagata, and says, "We were told that this meeting had to do with some further questioning."

Yamagata nods and looks at me. "Perhaps I am in error, Yazi Ro, but when I was talking with you and Willis Davidge this morning I got the distinct impression that both of you were certain that the drill was Timan."

I glance at Davidge and he shrugs followed by a nod. I look back at the woman. "Davidge and I are implementing a talma devised by a Talman master on Amadeen and assigned to us by the Jetai Diea through Ovjetah Jeriba Shigan. The intended result of the talma is peace on Amadeen."

Her dark eyes aim at Davidge but her face is still turned toward me. "And Timan Nisak?"

"There is a new book of The Talman," I answer. "It will probably be published to all worlds in the near future. It describes how, under the direction of a quadrant diplomat, Hissied 'do Timan, Timan Nisak was used to begin Amadeen’s war."

Her eyebrows go up. "The USE-Draco War?"

"Yes."

Mirili Sanda’s mouth hangs open in astonishment. Equally astonished are Jeriba Zammis and Ty. Estone Falna sits studying the female investigator. Davidge leans forward and raises his gaze to the woman’s face. "Since their prehistory the Timans have survived and achieved superiority by manipulating stronger species into destroying themselves. The Koda Nusinda is called The Eyes of Joanne Nicole. It has been withheld from publication for all this time because ten or twenty years ago what is in the work would have probably initiated a war of Dracs and humans against Timan and the entire quadrant. At the very least, the bad feelings would have shattered quadrant interplanetary economic and defense agreements."

"What about its publication now?" asks Zammis.

"Enough time has passed so that its interest for most persons now is mostly historical." Davidge looks at Yamagata. "The Timans, though, might find the widespread publication of the Nusinda very embarrassing, and perhaps threatening. It outlines very effectively how some Timans function in regard to other species as well as how far some Timans are willing to carry it."

Kita Yamagata narrows her eyes as she says, "If the talma based on this book fails, perhaps the book will be rejected by the Jetai Diea."

Her partner frowns. "Even if it is published," adds Sanda, "it will be discredited. How better to make it fail than by removing those who are necessary to its success?" The investigator looks around at the persons in the chamber, and says, "This investigation, like your talma, seems to lead to Timan."

After a long silence, Yamagata says, "This is going to be expensive."

Sanda waves its hand back and forth. "J ACHE has placed a substantial line of credit at our disposal. I’m sure they will increase it when I include this new information." It looks at Davidge. "May I have a copy of the Koda Nusinda?"

"Yes," answers Davidge. "The Ovjetah asked me if I thought I should supply copies to you. I answered that I thought I should. Then perhaps it is talma, it said."

"What about the talma?" I ask Davidge. "JACHE might fund Aakva Lua’s investigation on Timan, but what about ours?"

Davidge, unaware that he is doing so, scratches his beard. "I don’t know. You have the funds from the Jetai Diea. I must have some money on the reprints of my translation." He looks at Zammis and both Zammis and Ty appear stunned. Zammis looks at the investigators. "May we have a moment alone?"

"Of course," says Sanda. It bows and both it and Yamagata leave the room. I begin to follow, but Davidge restrains me with a hand upon my shoulder.

"Uncle," Zammis begins, "you may go anywhere you wish and mount virtually any size and type of expedition you have in mind short of an armed invasion of the quadrant."

"This might take hundreds of thousands," warns Davidge.

Jeriba Zammis leans forward in its chair and assumes the expression of one attempting to explain something to a retarded child. "Uncle, it is this frustrating attitude of yours regarding money. Every time any of us attempt to talk to you about it, you make jokes or grow impatient and cut us short. I have tried to explain this to you before―"

Davidge holds up a hand. "Can we have the short version?"

"See?" says Zammis. It shakes its head and lets out a breath it seems to have been holding for all of its sixteen years. "The short version, Uncle, is that there are sufficient assets in your name to purchase a small planet."

Now it is Davidge who looks stunned. "I know the translation went into its sixteenth printing, but―"

Ty reaches out a hand and places it on Davidge’s arm. "Jeriba Gothig, your friend Jerry’s parent, when it moved the line to Friendship to settle here, put a quarter of every new Jeriba enterprise in your name, a practice that all of us have continued. The port in First Colony, hotels, stores, hospitals, apartment complexes, ski resorts, toll roads, farms, airlines, spacelines, shipping, flyers, investments in more things than I could possibly recall. The businesses, investments, and properties have been managed, and you spend very little."

"Here," interrupts Zammis holding up its pocket computer. "Uncle, your assets right now amount to just under two hundred million credits. Your only liabilities involve bills for almost ninety-five credits in overdue lift tickets and ski tuneups that you haven’t paid." Zammis lowers its little computer and looks at the human.

Davidge scratches his head, looks around the chamber, and shrugs. "Yazi Ro, I guess we’re going to Timan." He looks at Jeriba Zammis, a guilty note in his voice. "I’ll take care of those skiing bills." He purses his lips, thinks a moment, and we watch as his eyes glisten. "I remember Gothig saying something about taking care of me before it died. I wonder how far into the future Gothig could see." He glances at me, frowns, then faces Zammis. "Am I invested in Timan Nisak?"

Zammis nods as it picks at its pocket computer. "Forty-nine percent of the stock is open for investors other than Timan citizens, and you hold half a percent of that. Almost forty million." Zammis raises his brows and looks over its computer at Davidge. "Between your holdings and those of the Jeriba estate’s, we are the largest single alien investor in Nisak."

"Why such a high percentage of all his holdings?" I ask.

Zammis raises an eyebrow and swings its gaze in my direction. "A steady twenty-two percent annual dividend."

Davidge stares at the floor for a moment, then turns to Zammis’s child. "Ty, I need somebody who knows about money. Zammis can’t be spared from its business interests, and it’s getting a little long in the tooth anyway. Would you come with us to Timan?"

Ty sits silently for a moment, then nods. "I will come, Uncle. Thank you for inviting me to be a part of your talma."

"I would come, as well," says Falna as it moves to stand at my side.

Davidge frowns and looks at Estone Falna. "Do you want to go?"

"I do, Uncle."

"Why?"

The young Drac’s eyebrows rise and then lower. "Uncle, I have gone to considerable trouble and expense to acquire the skills to treat humans. My primary motive for this was and is your continued good health."

"I’m fine."

"Yes, and I insist on keeping you that way."

"Uncle," Ty interjects, "besides its medical knowledge, remember that Falna has been to Timan, when it attended the Ri Mou Tavii."

Zammis nods in agreement and says, "As a deputy of the Jetai Diea, Falna’s presence can add a lot of clout to your investigation. It would cut the paper wizards down to size."

"Please include me," begs Falna. "Give me the chance to make up for what a terrible child I was in the cave."

Davidge laughs, holds up his hands, and grins at Falna. "I’d be pleased to have you. Pack your bags. And you were not such a terrible child, Falna. I was, and am, very proud of you."

Falna grins, places a hand on my shoulder, and squeezes it. "Thank you, Uncle."

Davidge nods toward the door and looks at me. "Ask the two investigators to come in." After I call them in, Davidge faces Yamagata and Sanda in turn. "It, appears that I have sufficient funds to go to Timan. I think we are after different ends of the same rope. Will you combine your investigation with our expedition?"

Sanda raises its head and says, "I’ll have to clear this with Aakva Lua and with JACHE, but I can see no objection. I think it is an excellent thought."

Davidge gets to his feet and faces Jeriba Ty. "I want to get cleaned up and get something to eat. Then we’ll get together and start getting this trip to Timan on the road." He stops in front of Kita Yamagata, still self-conscious about his appearance. "Do you ski?" he asks.

She smiles and nods. "I see you every now and then at Hidden Valley."

He says, then she says, they laugh, and he says some more and I leave, a strange touch of jealousy filling me. I am confused by it. I am not one of those who couples with humans, male or female, and I have no secret desire to try. Even if I did have such an inclination, it wouldn’t be with an ultra-hairy sixty-three-year-old male with a sour disposition who lives in a cave on an ice planet. Neither would it be with a tiny woman who jumps around on rocks like she cared nothing about her life. The feeling, though, is jealousy.

In my rooms I think on it and find my jealousy standing before me as clear as the desert sun. I am jealous of Davidge and Yamagata. They can desire, they can, perhaps, even love. Give love, accept it, risk it, trust it, perhaps even act on it. They possess emotional parts I am missing. They are complete beings and I am only part alive.

The few I desired, the fewer I loved, all dead. Over the years I turned my desire and love into staying alive, killing, and hardening my heart against everyone. Never before have I seen this as I do now: cowardice. Yazi Ro will not be hurt. All I can do now is look at someone like Falna and ache. I place my hand on the shoulder Falna touched and fight to recall the feeling.

My armor is only a shell and never before did it seem so thin, so empty.

"My apologies, Yazi Ro, but your doors were open." I look and Estone Falna is standing just inside my greeting room door. My heart beats so hard I fear it might tear itself to pieces.

"What is it, Falna?"

"Could you come to Haesni’s rooms? I believe the child is frightened. I tried to help, but Uncle is with Haesni and he suggested you might help."

"I?" I feel my heart slowing, disappointment settling in.

"I believe, Yazi Ro, that he said you are something of a fear expert. Haesni urged me to ask you."

I nod my assent and follow Falna out of my rooms, trying to ascertain whether I have been insulted or complimented. Compliment or insult, it is suddenly very threatening to me. To observe either Davidge must see past my emotional armor, which means the armor is worthless. Soon those thoughts subside as I notice the grace with which Falna walks. There is a piece of my mind that would dare to imagine us making love, while the rest of me laughs at the thought of this brilliant deputy of the Jetai Diea degrading itself to rut with a piece of Amadeen trash. At the north wing of the guest floor, Falna pauses before an open greeting room door and guides me in. At the sleeping room door, it pauses and waits.

The sleeping room door is open. I enter and Haesni is in its bed, a man seated in a chair beside it. The human is in cloth clothing, tan trousers and a dark green jacket. He has no facial hair and his other hair is well trimmed. The only way I recognize Davidge is that his feet are still in those same old snakeskin boots. Saying nothing, Davidge stands, nods his thanks to me, and leaves. I walk over to the bed. Ty’s child is frowning, its gaze focused on some point past its feet. I glance at the door. Falna smiles at me, bows it head, and leaves me alone with the child. I face Haesni.

"Falna said you wanted to speak to me."

The child’s jaws almost grind, its arms ridged at its sides, the hands flexing beneath the covers. "Yazi Ro, have you ever been frightened?"

Frightened?

I lower myself into the chair vacated by the human and land like a bag of sand. I sit there stupidly as emotions safely locked away for years bubble forth leaving me torn between laughter and tears. "Yazi Ro?" I turn my head and Haesni is looking up at me, its eyes wide. "Ro?"

I take a deep breath, blink my eyes, and sit forward, my elbows resting on my lap. "Child. Have I ever been frightened?" The tears win over the laughter. I feel them streaking down my cheeks. I wipe them away with my hands and nod. "Yes, Jeriba Haesni, I have been frightened." I look at the child. "Many times."

Ty’s child looks away, its face softer. "What do you do with the fear?"

What do I do with fear? "Often I do nothing with it. Fear does what it wants with me. I have nightmares. Sometimes, during waking hours, I use the fear to make me watchful. In sleep, though, I have nightmares."

"Do the nightmares ever end?"

"I don’t know."

Haesni’s hand steals out from beneath the covers and holds mine. "Tell me something that scared you, Ro―that scares you still."

I think of a hundred battles, Butaan Ji and the man who wanted me to end his pain; Douglasville and the man with the flute; Stokes Crossing; Gitoh; Riehm Vo; so many. The horrors, the pain, the endless terror of it all. It aids nothing, though, to give the child a heavier burden of nightmares. There are other fears, and I pick one.

"The cliff in front of the cave, Haesni. Its height. It frightens me. It took all I could find to climb down to the bottom. I hate standing on that ledge."

Haesni looks at me, its eyes wide in disbelief. "You are afraid of heights? Heights don’t frighten me."

I shrug and smile at the child. "A little bit of smoke doesn’t frighten me."

The child looks at me for an instant, and laughs. I laugh with Haesni. I stay that night next to Ty’s child, sharing warmth, bad dreams, and the night storm’s wrath.

TWENTY

Early the next morning, the sky still dark, we take the first repast, Estone Nev, Haesni, Zammis, Ty, Falna and Davidge at the table. Afterward, Zammis and its driver streak me toward First Colony to an environmental suit outfitter near the port. From there we proceed to the port and Zammis and I meet with a Vikaan, Rotek I Hye, the representative of the chartering service Zammis hired, The purpose of the visit is to inspect a ship for the voyage. Mirili Sanda arrives after us and joins us in the charter service’s office,

Rotek I Hye is the first Vikaan I have ever seen. Tall, thin, and fragile-looking, her smooth face is set with huge greenish eyes. As with everyone else on Friendship, she dresses as though in the midst of an ice age. Nonetheless, her words of greeting are crowded with sentiments of the allegedly approaching spring.

After she conducts her search on the link, there is only one ship and crew on register and in port that is ready to depart at a moment’s notice equipped for an indeterminate stay on Timan. This seems to simplify the selection process for me. The coincidence of there being only one ship at the port, available, and fitted out for Timan bothers both Sanda and Zammis. As Zammis, Rotek, and I leave to inspect the ship, Sanda remains behind to check out the histories of ship, crew, and owner.

The ship is the Aeolus, a fifteen-year-old refitted USEF attack transport serving as a small passenger and cargo vessel. It carries up to ten passengers and a crew of four: pilot, co-pilot, engineer, and a cargo master who also serves as the ship’s steward. Although old, the ship appears new and well cared for, its hull sleek and gloss black.

The pilot, Eli Moss, is a human and I think approaching forty years, although it is hard to tell with humans. He is dark with a cap of short black hair above unblinking brown eyes set in a serious face. No taller than Davidge, he seems unusually muscular. He conducts the tour of his ship with the distaste of one allowing peculiarly endowed aliens to fondle its underthings.

The tour through the ship is thorough and quick, from the cockpit and crew’s quarters, to the cargo bay, suspension pod bay, and passenger cabins, arranged in single rooms according to human custom. The only two places we are not taken is the engine room and the captain’s quarters because, as Eli Moss puts it, "None of you have any business in either."

The suspension pods look like elongated silver teardrops gathered into two circles, the points aiming toward the centers where are located the life-support monitoring banks and connections. There is room in the compartment for six other such circles, but they have been removed and the space given over to exercise equipment and more cargo space. It is going to be a six-month trip to Timan, and as the captain points out, in the space between takeoff and landing, life on the Aeolus is much like doing time in prison. Upon relating that bit of information, he smiles his only smile.

"Captain Moss is making it sound worse than it really is," assures Rotek I Hye after we return to First Colony Charters. "You’ll be in suspension for most of the trip, with probably one or two interruptions for health checks and maintenance. While you are in suspension you can go blank, as they say, leaving your trip with only a total of perhaps five or six days in real time, or you can use the time either to entertain or educate yourself."

Zammis makes a joke about being on a trip to Earth once and stuck in the middle of a work called Moby Dick for twenty-eight days until it was rescued by a maintenance and exercise break. "Damn your eyes!" shouts Jeriba Zammis, "what’s that pump stopping for?' Roared Radney, pretending not to have heard the sailors' talk, Thunder away at it!

"Aye, aye, sir, said Steelkilt, merry as a cricket."

And so on. In a more serious vein, Zammis points out that, if I want to, I can have The Talman programmed for the voyage. "It would give you a solid foundation for memorizing the work, for when you stand the rites."

The charterer apologizes and says that in another six days there will be a second ship available for charter, and in a month a third. Moving a charter from a larger port on another planet would effectively triple the price and would take at least forty days.

Sanda joins us at the charter office and Rotek I Hye excuses herself and leaves as the investigator reports using its pocket computer to refresh its memory. "The ship is registered on Rhana and is one of three such ships owned by Moss Transportation, which is wholly owned by Eli Moss, captain of the Aeolus. Although he has never actually been charged with violating any laws, he has a bit of a reputation as a smuggler."

I ask, "Was Moss in the military?"

Sanda nods as it pages to a particular reference. "He was an attack pilot in the USEF, seeing action only in the Buldahk Insurrection eleven years ago. Shortly afterward he was dismissed under dishonorable conditions for disobeying orders and striking three superior officers. After his dismissal, he flew as a mercenary for several quadrant powers, principally for the Dracon Chamber. Five years ago he took his savings and began his cargo line."

"Did he ever serve the Timans?" asks Zammis.

"No. The only connection with Timan I can find is that he does regular runs there, bringing in the few human and Drac passengers who need to travel there on business, and to bring in specialized instruments and equipment available only outside Timan."

"For Timan Nisak?" I ask.

"Yes. Among others."

I point at Sanda’s computer. "What of the crew?"

"The co-pilot is a female named Yora Beneres. When Moss was cashiered from the USEF she resigned her own commission. She’s been with Moss ever since. The engineer is a male named Ghazi Mrabet. He’s been with Moss for the past three years, and appears to be something of a magician with machinery." Sanda raises a disapproving eyebrow. "Prior to his employment with Moss, Mrabet’s principal notoriety was based on his well-publicized sexual liaisons with some rather well-known Dracs, most notably the artist Xian Ti."

"He knows Xian Ti, the sculptor?" blurts out Jeriba Zammis, thoroughly starstruck and quite missing Sanda’s point.

"Yes. Quite." The investigator pages down and says, "The remaining member of the crew, cargo master and steward Ernst Brandt, served with the Tsien Denvedah, becoming a seventh officer before he resigned to join the same mercenary unit for which Moss was fighting."

I am stunned. "A human in the Tsien Denvedah?"

Sanda looks at me as though I had recently emerged from beneath a rock. "Of course. Humans have been in the Denve for the past two decades. Dracs are in the USEF, as well."

"When in the Denve," interrupts Zammis, "did this Ernst Brandt have a specialty?"

Sanda taps a finger on its computer’s tiny screen, "Military intelligence. His nickname is Reaper."

"Reaper?"

"It’s an agricultural term the significance of which escapes me," answered the investigator.

"Among some humans," Zammis interrupted, "the Grim Reaper is a euphemism for Death."

I acknowledge the explanation with raised eyebrows and a sinking feeling.

Jeriba Zammis walks to a window and looks through it to the enclosed mall connected to the space port. A scattering of humans and Dracs walk slowly, pausing to look in the store windows while the moving walkways speed small crowds of pedestrians to their various destinations. "Tell me, Mirili Sanda," says Zammis. "If there were two ships available for this charter instead of just one, what are the odds of the second ship being similar to the Aeolus and its crew?"

"Charter work is something for which ships register when they can’t get anything else. I’ve seen worse ships and more disreputable crews, Jeriba Zammis, but not much better."

"What of this involvement with Timan Nisak?"

"A ship equipped to land on Timan gets that way because it travels to Timan. Nisak is the largest single interplanetary business concern there. Chances are good that if a human or Drac ship is used in business on Timan, it will at some time or other deal with Nisak or a subsidiary of Nisak."

Zammis turns from the window and looks at Sanda. "Then it is merely a coincidence?"

Sanda holds out its hands. "That is possible."

Facing the window once more, Zammis says, "Sanda, please post that information to the estate. Uncle might be back by now and Ty will show it to him. It’s Uncle’s decision, not mine."

"Back?" I inquire.

Zammis glances at me and returns its gaze to the mall. "Yes. Uncle went skiing this morning."

As I point out to myself that there is no point in asking why or with whom, Zammis asks Sanda, "Incidentally, what is the significance of the ship’s name, Aeolus?"

"Moss named the ship after it was refitted, and the name wasn’t English or Esper so I wondered and did some research." Sanda glanced at me and then told Zammis, "In ancient belief on Earth, among the tribe of Greeks, Aeolus was the god of the winds."

"The Greeks. Zeus, Athens, Aristotle and all that?"

"Yes."

I face Jeriba Zammis. "Humans often name their machines and other possessions. I have seen humans address weapons, helmets, luck charms, landtraks, flyers, cook stoves, and satellites with names of endearment. Usually the names are only a way to make an inanimate object something more: a friend or companion. There are no rules or customs, as such."

Zammis rubs its chin. "I have witnessed this same behavior on Earth. The chief executive officer of Baine Whitley refers to her computer as The Bitch. I can’t recall Uncle ever naming such things, however." Zammis looks at Sanda. "What are the names of Moss’s other ships?"

"The Max Stearn, named after a fellow USEF pilot of Moss’s whose ship and crew were completely destroyed in the Buldahk Insurrection shortly before Moss was dismissed from the USEF. The remaining ship is the Edmund Fitzgerald, named for a freshwater ore ship on Earth owned by the Columbia Line that sank with its entire crew during a storm in the Common Era year of 1975."

I look at Jeriba Zammis. "Jetah, I cannot pretend to know anything about business, but naming one of his ships after a pilot who died in a wreck and naming another ship after another wreck seems needlessly morose."

"It does tend to open one’s mind on the subject of travel insurance." Zammis nods and hold out his hands. "I’d prefer waiting the extra time and using one of the off-planet charters, but it’s up to Uncle."

TWENTY-ONE

When we return to the estate, Ty is directing a scarcely controlled chaos. Undev Orin, Mizy Untav, and the other retainers race from floor to floor and wing to wing, their arms piled with things. When I reach my rooms, all my things are packed.

I return to the main hall and track Jeriba Ty to its office, where Zammis is on the link issuing instructions and jumping from address to address. Ty is on the com finishing off some last minute instructions to someone. As it pauses to take a breath, I ask, "What is happening?"

For a moment Ty looks at me as though it is has no idea who I am or where I am located in the enigma of its current activities. When the eyebrows rise, signifying recognition, Ty says, "The Aeolus leaves tonight for Timan. There are approximately half a million things that need doing before boarding." Ty immediately begins punching a number into its corn.

"Why so soon?" Suddenly I am angry and touched by panic. "No one asked me when I wanted to go!"

"Quite correct," Ty responds as it finishes punching in the number.

"Well, what if I refuse to go?"

Ty studies me for a breath and says, "If you refuse to go, you do not go." Frowning, Ty leans forward and speaks quietly so that Zammis cannot overhear. "Yazi Ro, it is not my habit to give out unsolicited advice, but in your case I am making an exception. You really ought to get to know your Talman." With that, Jeriba Ty leans back and begins talking into the com.

For some reason I feel that I need to talk to the human. On the fly, Undev Orin tells me that Davidge is in the cave. The walk to the cave under the approaching night overcast confuses me. Friendship seemed like such a cold, forbidding place. Now that the prospect of Planet Timan looms before me, the melting ice, the blue strip between the blankets of gray in the sky above, the raging sea seem like indispensable luxuries.

Before, when Davidge and I discussed the possibility of following Zenak Abi’s talma to Planet Timan, I made up my mind to go. If peace is truly possible, that is where I have to be to make life with myself bearable. My outburst at Jeriba Ty had more to do with feeling caught in a current, powerless to influence the events before me. The fear, though, is real.

As I reach the entrance to the cave, I hear a seductive, haunting voice singing in a language I do not know very well. I think it is Japanese, the human tongue spoken by most of the prisoners we took after the Battle of Butaan Ji. The singing man and his dead daughter.

The song coming from the cave, though, is not sad. It reminds me of the song Pina would sing at times before we loved. I wonder if I might interrupt Kita Yamagata and Davidge in a human love-making, but then I hear Davidge bellow "Shit!" This well known human sentiment is followed by the sound of pottery being smashed. Yamagata is no longer singing her song.

I enter the cave and see the woman, seated on one of the chemical-glass-covered firewood logs. She is wearing a deep purple suit that covers everything except her head. Around her neck is a golden chain and suspended from it is an amulet similar to a Drac Talman. As she sees me, she nods a little bow and smiles.

The interior of the cave is black from the flames and condensed vapor, the odor of chemicals strong in the air. Balanced on the rocks of the fireplace, there is a battery-powered lamp casting everything in a harsh blue light. Before either she or I can say anything, Davidge’s voice comes from one of the back chambers. "Esha may be able to divest itself of material possessions, but we don’t live in a tropical paradise!" He emerges from the entrance on my right holding a small pair of boots, blackened and gummy-looking. "Look at these. Haesni worked so hard on them."

"And what is the lesson Haesni now has an opportunity to learn from this?" asks Yamagata, her face quite serious, but her eyes filled with mocking laughter.

Davidge aims a brief scowl at her, then softens his face and sits next to the investigator, holding the boots before him. "Fairness is an illusion. Neither effort nor intention holds title to the nature or form of either the present or the future." His lips crack in a tiny smile. "And if sincere effort has no title, what interest can the bellow or the lamentation hold?"

"The humans on Amadeen have a different way of saying it," I observe.

Davidge faces me and asks, "What’s that?"

"Tough shit."

Both of them laugh at that and Davidge gets to his feet, tossing the boots aside. "Well, after Yazi Ro’s abbreviated version of the Koda Ovsinda, about the only thing left to do is to find another cave." He waves a hand at the walls. "It’ll be decades before this will be a safe place to bring up a youngster."

I walk over to him and ask something that has bothered me since I first met Willis E. Davidge. "Why bring up a youth in a cave? Why do you do this?"

Davidge frowns at me as he puts on his hooded coat. "As to why I rear the children here, I find meaning in it. It’s the first meaning I ever found in my life. There is nothing more important." He grins. "As to why I do it in a cave, Ro, of all the persons I have ever met, you are the one I thought would understand without explaining." With that, he turns, picks up his coat, and heads for the opening.

In a flash I shout at his back, "I am not one of your students!"

Kita Yamagata stands, places a hand on my arm, and says, "If that is so, you may want to ask yourself why you are here."

"The talma. The path to peace on Amadeen. That is why I am here."

She nods, her eyes looking up at me. "What is the point of putting you together with Will if he learns nothing from you, if you learn nothing from him? We are all students, Yazi Ro; and we are all teachers." She pauses as though weighing something she might say.

"What is it?" I ask.

She weighs it once more, purses her lips, narrows her eyes, and says, "Learn your Talman, Ro. It’s not only the peace on Amadeen that may be at stake." She pats my arm. "At stake as well is the peace of your own being."

I want to shake her hand off my arm, but I do not, for I fear she is right. A burdensome thing to hear from a Drac; more burdensome still from a human. I look at the golden locket hanging from her neck. It is her Talman, carrying the strange sign of a dragon. At the battle of Butaan Ji, I saw a similar sign. It was a tattoo on the back of one of the dead defenders. I watched as a Mavedah soldier cut the skin from the dead man’s back, saving the tattoo for a trophy. I watched and felt nothing.

Kita Yamagata smiles at me and turns to put on her hooded coat.

"Yamagata," I say.

"Kita," she corrects. "With humans the line name comes last." She smiles widely. "Which is funny, because that is not always true. With my people the given name does come last, Of course, with my people my name is not Kita Yamagata; it is Yamagata Kita."

"Kita, then. Do you know The Talman?"

"My father and mother reared me within Earth’s Talman Kovah." She continues fastening her coat.

Old myths, cryptic lessons, they seem to make no difference on Amadeen. The only one on Amadeen I know who memorized its Talman was Zenak Abi, traitor, fugitive, and gunslinger. Too, Abi is the only person I met on Amadeen who appeared happy. Strangely enough, Abi also lives in a cave, if the Jetah still lives.

"Kita, what is it that Davidge thinks I ought to understand about his cave?"

"The answer is less important than what you learn finding the answer." She holds her hands up, indicating the cave. "The answers are in here." She reaches out a hand and touches the side of my head with her fingertips. "And in here."

After she leaves, I look around at the blackened walls, the fireplace, the remains of the chairs, the beds, the firewood glued together with melted explosive. There are crudely made pots and plates, baked to a light red color. I see eating utensils carved from wood. The covers and branches that made Davidge’s bed are nothing but ashes, but Haesni’s was not touched by the flames, The covers, though, are spread with the residue of the burning igniter’s smoke.

I take off my coat, hang it from a blackened peg, and turn back to the bed. I pull back the top cover and see its underside, untouched by the residue. The cover is made from long colorful strips of soft, pliable snakeskin, each strip carefully stitched into the cover. There is a small tear in the cover exposing the insulating medium that fills the layers. I pull some out and see that it is composed of seeds, each seed carrying a soft crown of delicate white fibers. The seeds tell me there is indeed a season on Friendship when the ice is gone and things grow. Seed pods are gathered, opened, and the fluff-covered seeds quilted into layers of snakeskin for a coming winter.

So much cold and ice, the winds strong and frightening. What the heart must feel when the spring comes. The ice melts, the first growing thing shows life, the first animal who hides from the cold is seen emerging from the dark. It must have taken endless hours collecting the seed pods, catching and skinning snakes, curing and softening the skins, stitching them together.

I look more closely. The thread is handmade from some kind of plant fiber. I do not doubt that in Davidge’s cave the needles that were used were made as well.

In the center of winter’s intolerable cold, what must it be like to sleep upon such a bed, warm beneath such a quilt? Everything worn, eaten, slept on and beneath, hunted with, and used is something that was fashioned with mind-driven hands. No child could do all of this without knowing that it matters, that the work it does has value, that personal responsibility is a survival tool.

Forty-one Drac children had been brought to adulthood in caves with Davidge. In the cave’s primitive surroundings these children learned self reliance, teamwork, trust, to look beyond appearances at an individual’s character, how to work, how to adapt, how to improvise, how to endure. By becoming one with this icy horror of a planet, they turned it into a home. The Jeriba Estate with its extravagant luxuries is only a stopping place for Davidge’s students, all of whom are as just as comfortable in cave or castle. There is no work beneath them, no challenge too exalted or too frightening to try.

Most of all, such children become grateful for the many gifts of existence that others take for granted. I understand a little of how Davidge’s students become complete beings, able to become successful at whatever they choose to do, even if that choice is to become a meditative monk living in isolation and deprivation on Earth.

What then for Yazi Ro, one who can find dark on a star’s burning surface? If I do not have it and cannot take it, I do without and use this to make my dark darker still. When I made or repaired something with which to prolong my existence on Amadeen, I was not grateful or congratulatory for the means of survival. Instead I cursed the circumstances that made such survival necessary.

I look at the boots Haesni made. The tops are made of the same snakeskin, double layered and filled with seed down. The soles are made from many layers of snakeskin adhering to each other, glued together with some substance harvested from the land or sea. The residue from the smoke begins to affect my fingers, the skin burning. The back of my throat burns, as well.

I leave the boots on Haesni’s bed and walk toward the entrance to listen to the sea. The night brings no new storms, but the winds are still strong. At the door, my arms wrapped about me against the cold, Davidge’s first words to me make me smile.

I close the door, turn to look at the sea, and, staying well back from the edge, let the winds wash my face. For a moment I am caught in my thoughts, envisioning myself part of this harmony of being and universe wrought by an accident of war. As I am about to go back in the cave to retrieve my coat, far out over the sea I notice a point of light. Except for the overcast, I would think it a star. It grows brighter and brighter until I am driven back to my senses and run. Four, five steps and I jump for the path to the top of the cliff for cover as a shrieking roar races behind me followed by an erupting inferno that flings me against the rocks.

Half conscious, my arm covering my face, I turn to see a column of flames explode from the cave’s entrance. First red and orange, it rapidly becomes blue-white, the roar of it deafening. Ice, rocks, and frozen clods of dirt fall about me and I see another column of fire shoot from the top of the cliff toward the sky. Almost as soon as it comes to life, it dies. The stream of flame from the entrance weakens and sputters out, leaving an orange glow from the super-heated rock.

There is a sound behind me and I see Davidge and Kita in the rocks above sliding down the path. When he reaches me, Davidge goes down on one knee and studies my face by the remaining glow of the rock. His left cheek is scratched and a cut above his left eye is bleeding freely. Kita slides to a stop beside him. She appears unharmed but frightened. Satisfied with my state of health, Davidge slumps back and sits beside me. "I guess someone finally figured out how to set off that Thermex."

I look out to the sea, amazed that I am still alive. I wonder how much longer a reasonable person could expect this condition to continue.

TWENTY-TWO

Instead of slowing us down, the rocket attack speeds things up. Placing Kita in charge of the Timan investigation, Sanda removes itself from the expedition to head up the search for the missile-launching aircraft on Friendship, while that night the rest of us make for the First Colony Port and the Aeolus, ahead of schedule.

As we are secured in our suspension pods, the first of The Talman stories begins. I see the others, clad in their skintight blue vapor suits entering their pods. I let my gaze linger a moment on Estone Falna, then tear it away to watch the crew check seals and read monitors. Captain Eli Moss looks upon everything with contempt and mistrust, which to my mind makes him someone hard to trust. As Davidge’s agent, Ty purchases what trust there is by paying Moss half in advance. Why this arrangement satisfies the others I cannot say. Loyalty that is purchased is not loyalty.

When I bring the subject up to Davidge, he tells me not to worry about it and to make certain I have my pod programmed with The Talman. As the steward, the one nicknamed Reaper, punches in the program, he makes comments about holy joes, salvation, and the illusion of illusion.

Once in the slot, as our pilot put it, the jump behind us, the pods are locked and the cooling fields engaged. The fluid entering my body through the needle in my leg is supposed to protect me from the cold, but I begin feeling the cold and, after one last look at Falna, I remember just in time to close my eyes.

The program is already running and the distraction of the suspension process causes me to lose track. I think for the start and it begins to play from the beginning.

"Sindie was the world.

"And the world was said to be made by Aakva, the God of the Day Light…"

Relaxed, focused, without resistance, I absorb the intellectual, philosophical, political, and spiritual saga of my species.

Rhada and the Laws of Aakva.

Daultha, Aakva’s lesson of no laws, and the division of the Sindie.

Uhe, its new law of war, and the unification of the Sindie.

Shizumaat and the discovery of universe and talma.

The three books of Mistaan who invented writing and recorded the life and words of Shizumaat and Vehya as well as its own.

Ioa and the founding of the first Talman Kovah.

Kulubansu, who destroyed the Talman Kovah, and Lurvanna, who hid The Talman in the memories of its students.

Aydan who fought in the War of Ages and made war a science to achieve peace.

Tochalla and the rebuilding of the Talman Kovah.

Cohneret who did for love what Aydan did for war.

Maltak Di who unified the problem-solving sciences into talma, the science of making rules to step outside of rules. Faldaam, Zineru and its truths, and there is the Koda Siayvida and Ro, the Ovjetah who took talma and applied it to crime and law. And now I understand what Davidge meant when he handed Zammis a rock and asked it if the rock was a shark.

"The tool of the one who acts becomes the one who acts. The one who murders is no more responsible for the murder than the one who ordered the killing or the one who provided the weapon or provided the compensation. If I throw a stone and it kills you, I am not exempt from responsibility because it was the stone that killed you, not I.

"Before the law, the stone and I are one. Before the law the assassin and its master are one…"

Avatu who left Sindie with the generation ships, Poma and the founding of Draco, Eam and the colonization of new worlds, Namvaac and the Thousand Year War, Ditaar, the end of the war and the Formation of the Dracon Chamber. It plays again and again, and each time I learn more. Each time, though, as I reach the story of Ditaar, I think of the missing book, the Koda Nusinda, The Eyes of Joanne Nicole.

A flash of warmth against my face, a wash of heat all over my body, sounds, words, garbled and dim. There is a yellow light and I reach to my eyes, the muscles of my arm, palm, and fingers tight and painful. There is a crusty substance along the edges of my eyelids that glues my eyelids shut.

"Slow down, Yazi Ro," says the voice of Reaper, the steward. "Let me do it." I feel something warm and wet on my eyelids, a little extra dribbling down the right side of my head. They are blotted dry as the steward says, "Okay, you can open your eyes now."

I can feel him move away as I reach my hand up once more and touch my eyelids. The gunk is gone. I pull my eyelids open and look to see a blur of shades and colors. They resolve into the brutal visage of Reaper. "Rise and shine, it’s maintenance time. Unass the box so I can change the filters."

I look over at Estone Falna, still motionless in its sealed pod. I have seen an abundance of death during my years, and Falna looks dead. I cough, clear my throat. "Why is Falna so still?" I whisper. I look and mine is the only pod open. I look at the human named after death. "All of them?"

Reaper grins and says, "It’s either a mass murder, one hell of an equipment failure, or we do the pod maintenance in rotation and this time it’s your turn." He makes a fist and gestures with his thumb. "C’mon, outta the box. Wash up, eat, get in some exercise, and take your suspension meds."

Every muscle protests as I pull myself into a sitting position. Reaper is checking the health monitors and he points me toward the shower booth where I wash myself down in the tepid water. Once I am dry, Reaper supplies me with a towel, a fresh vapor suit, and slippers. "It’s going to be a couple of hours before you go back in the box. Get some exercise and a bite to eat and do whatever you want."

"Reaper, would you mind if I ask a question?"

The big man shrugs. "You can always ask."

Taking that as assent, I look into his eyes, seeing there not the mind of a brute, but intelligence. I avert my glance and ask, "When you were in the Tsien Denvedah, what was your occupation?"

The man’s eyebrows jump up, then he grins. "Ilcheve. You know, a kind of cop―police officer." He shrugs again and screws his face up. "Not exactly. Look, the shadow jetahs in the squirrel palace would idee a black hat. Sometimes a sleeper, op, brass, a glad hander, or maybe an enemy ilcheve. Then they’d pull my trigger and shoot me after the mark. I’d have to sniff him out and pull his plug, most times in hot zones. Sometimes the shadow masters wouldn’t know the target and I’d have do a holiday and find out who the bad daddy is. After I fingered the perp, the regreta Jetah would give him the thumbs down and I’d do him with prejudice to the max."

I stare at Reaper for awhile and then say, "Your superiors would send you after someone they wanted killed and you would kill it."

"Yeah." The big man nods. "That’s what I said." He holds up a hand. "Gotta go back to work. Don’t forget your exercise and meds."

After the bland food and a run on the musclemill, I begin feeling Drac again. I watch Falna in its pod for a few minutes, letting my fantasies shadow my realities. Reaper tells me that everything is on automatic so I can go up to the cockpit and look at the stars if I want. Just don’t touch anything.

I sit in one of the acceleration couches watching the slightly distorted images of the stars pass by. As I lose myself in their hypnotic dance, the themes, lessons, and images from The Talman momentarily touch my awareness, presenting themselves like gems of unknown properties to he contemplated, observed, tested, and placed aside until more is learned.

My mind has been packed with words, phrases, chapters, ideas, and stories. I thought that once I had the words of The Talman in my mind, I would have its knowledge and wisdom there as well. All I have, though, are the words. Some of those words drift into my awareness: "Words are maps to existence. Once you travel a piece of reality it is possible to know the meaning of its words. If all you have before you are words, all you can consider are meaningless marks and sounds."

I smile as I acknowledge my first application of The Talman's words to my life. Knowing that I do not know is knowledge, says Faldaam in the Koda Siovida.

To see stars and the worlds that orbit them gives a strange perspective. How many hundreds or thousands of wars, crimes, atrocities, disasters, and horrors does the Aeolus pass by each moment? If Amadeen is among those worlds I can say no more than I can to those others passing around me now. It is so unimportant, so insignificant. Come, rise to where I am. See the stars and the worlds pass and know that you are occupied with trifles.

Yet we are to walk one of those worlds orbiting one of those stars and see if our trifle of a war on Amadeen can be influenced by another trifle on the Planet Timan. I remember all too clearly that in the mud and blood of Amadeen there are no trifles.

It is so hard to know what is important. Is there anything important in itself without regard to some thoughtful pair of eyes and a mind? At times there seems so much to learn that the task of learning it seems impossible.

I hear a click, a series of audio oscillations, and another click. I turn to my left and see Eli Moss in the pilot’s couch, his face illuminated by the white, orange and blue instrument lights. Seemingly satisfied as to whatever he was checking, he quickly scans the instruments then settles back to watch the stars, his face grim and bitter. I do not intrude, for I know his expression. I have worn a similar one. I get up to leave the cockpit and Moss says, "Do you have any questions I can answer?"

I pause and think for a moment. I only have one. "The ship you own, captain, the Edmund Fitzgerald. Why did you name your ship after an old wrecked ore freighter?"

Moss is silent, balancing his aversion at sharing himself with his desire for conversation. "It’s not named for the ship. It’s named for an old Gordon Lightfoot song, which was named for the ship. Do you know it?"

"No."

I see the reflection of the panel lights in his eyes as he recites: "'Does ,anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?" He leans back on his couch. "Have you learned anything from The Talman?"

For no reason I can think of, I feel that I am under attack―that my choice of suspension learning materials is under attack. "A few things," I answer. "I have yet to absorb what I have completed."

He holds a hand out toward the stars. "What is the point of it, Yazi Ro? What is the purpose of it all?"

"The universe?" Moss nods in response as he lowers his hand. I can remember nothing that was in The Talman, and have no answers of my own. In response I ask, "Does it have to have a purpose?"

The captain examines me with his liquid brown eyes. He breaks eye contact, faces the stars, and leans his head against the couch’s backrest. "I suppose not. It would make it easier, though."

"Easier?"

"Easier to tell if I am aiding that purpose or attempting to defeat it."

There is a strange supply of questions and answers within me. "Which would you prefer, Captain Moss?"

The dark man grunts out a laugh and swings his feet to the deck, his back toward me. "Answering that I would prefer to defeat it would sound bitter, wouldn’t it?"

"Yes," I answer. "Although one person’s bitterness is another’s realistic appraisal."

Moss ignores my tired joke. "There are worse things than sounding bitter," he says.

I sit on the edge of the acceleration couch and watch as our pilot rubs the back of his neck, rolls his head around to stretch the muscles, and twists his torso to look out of the front port at the stars. Perhaps some think of Eli Moss as a man with a bad attitude, I see a tower of pain that makes the human my sibling. It is easier to recognize such from my own heights. "As I understand The Talman, captain, each of us is free to choose its own purpose, yet there is a larger purpose, as well,"

Moss swings around until he is facing me. "And what if this larger purpose crushes my individual purpose out of existence?" Without waiting for an answer he turns his head until he is facing away from me. "I had a friend, Yazi Ro, who was sent to his death to accomplish nothing."

"Max Stearn," I guess. "The Buldahk Insurrection."

"Quite a security check you people do." The captain is silent for a long time. When he at last speaks there is a choking sound in his voice. "Do you understand the love of a man for a man?"

"No."

His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. "Who in the hell are you to judge, Drac?"

An enormous sadness fills me. "I make no judgments, captain. You ask me if I understand the love of a man for a man and I do not. Neither do I understand the love of a man for a woman, the love of a woman for a woman, nor the love of a Drac for a Drac. Love of any kind is something outside my comprehension. What I need to have in order to understand was burned out of me."

The man stares at me for a moment, his eyebrows raised. As he gets to his feet he says, "Hell, Drac, you’re riding a nightmare bigger than mine." He places a gentle hand on my shoulder, looks at me for a moment, and leaves the cockpit. I am left alone with the stars.

Later, as Reaper adjusts the controls to the suspension pod, I look to see if the captain is getting into his pod. No other pods are open. "When does the captain go into suspension?"

Reaper shakes his head. "He doesn’t. Not ever." The big man holds up a player button. "That Davidge was finished with this when Yora did the maint on his box. He said you might want to wrap your lobes around it."

"What is it?"

Reaper looks at a wrinkled scrap of paper. "I can’t make this out too good. Timan something. Surviving, I think. It’s by a Drac. You want me to switch it?"

"Yes." While Reaper is inserting the new button in the player, I ask, "When you were in that mercenary unit with Captain Moss, who were you fighting?"

Reaper looks up, pursed his lips, then looks back at the player. "Dracs in the two rebellions in the Lota System; Dracs, humans, and Vikaans when we went after the Nadok Rim Pirates; and humans in the Freeholder Invasion on Earn."

"Thank you. Although you seem to be unusually free with your answers―for an Ilcheve."

Reaper shrugs and says with a big smile. "I got nothing to hide, and neither do you. When you people get ready to go to Amadeen, let me know." His smile turns into a big grin. "I don’t do suspension, either, Ro. Gives me all the time I need to go through everybody’s things. Happy dreams."

I glance at Falna, close my eyes, and try to relax as the pod is again sealed and the new words and strange thought patterns begin playing in my mind. As they play, a detached part of my awareness wonders if Reaper was joking.

TWENTY-THREE

There is a joke the Timans tell. A human, a Drac, and a Timan are locked in a chamber. The human’s task is to stab the Drac. The Drac’s task is to stab the human. The Timan’s task is to befriend both the human and the Drac and supply the cutlery.

Their jokes are teachings that prompt the young to witness and understand certain truths. The principal truth is: to survive, the Timan must turn force against itself, the Timan never revealing its own role.

As a civilized species the Timans are younger even than the humans and much younger than the Dracs. Even so, each one of their "jokes" has undergone many transformations. Before the human and the Drac stabbing each other, the joke read: "There was a Rilgian, a Khirat, and a Timan locked in a chamber…" That was eleven hundred standard years ago. The Rilgians no longer exist. The few remaining Khirats are little more than curiosities on a number of Timan-administered planets.

The reaction of Timans to one of their own jokes, no matter how many times and in how many variations they have heard it, is the same. Massive gray heads nod in approval at the wisdom while a diminutive sucking of wide purplish lips perform the Timan equivalent of smirking. Timans do not laugh nor do they have an equivalent reaction. Neither do they cry, display anger, or show pain or disappointment. It is not that they are incapable of such displays. Such are repressed, however, as being too revealing. The Timans are divided into two castes: the teachers, who are addressed by name followed by "'do Timan," which means "for Timan," and everyone else. The 'do Timan is awarded by a teacher to an especially excellent student, making the student himself a teacher. The most respected academic institute on Timan is the Ri Mou Tavii, the school where Estone Falna earned its 'do Timan.

Timans live in nests of genetically related groups of thirty to forty containing one to three females whose only functions, and abilities it appears, are to eat and make little Timans. The organization of the home nest has been carried into all social institutions. Timan males are obsessed with puzzles, which is reflected in their games, their art, their music, and their behavior in business, government, and diplomacy.

The Drac who wrote the book Timan Survival is named Vigas Thorm. Thorm is an academic on Draco who has never been to Timan.

Once more the resurrection, this time administered by Yora Beneres. Something different this time. I am not the only one out of suspension. We are close to Timan and all of the pods are open. After the gunk is removed from my eyes, I see Falna sitting up in its suspension pod, working its neck muscles to loosen them. "Falna?"

It looks at me and answers, "Yes?"

"On Timan. What was the Ri Mou Tavii like?"

Falna stares at the deck for an instant, squints its eyes, and shakes its head. "Depressing. Very depressing." It struggles out of the pod, stands weaving on the deck, and stumbles toward the shower.

As the door on the airlock opens, allowing Timan’s poisonous atmosphere to enter, I look through my suit’s view plate at the three Timans standing there in clouds of choking gas. The smaller of the three is named Atruin 'do Timan and he represents Timan Nisak to Willis Davidge and his entourage. In excellent English he introduces his two companions, Pritith and Riniseh. Despite the purported Timan abhorrence of violence, at least the kind that involves them personally, it is apparent that Pritith and Riniseh are personal bodyguards. They appear capable of backing up their instinctive social manipulations with fists and whatever weapons are concealed within their brown and gray robes.

Davidge introduces his "entourage," Kita, Ty, Falna, and myself, the crew having already left the ship headed for Timan’s limited Indulgence Zone for oxynitro breathers. After that comes the Timan’s formal greeting: "I approach you in peace with no motive or weapon hidden. Welcome to Timan, to my hearth, and to my place of business."

Davidge steps forward and in English replies, "I stand here in doubt, the heat of a Timan weapon still burning my skin, a weapon meant to kill me and my charge, Yazi Ro."

Davidge nods toward me and I watch as the Timan’s tiny white eyes grow wide. Atruin 'do Timan waves aside his greetings with a fleshy arm and bows his head. "I am very distressed by this, sir. What can I do to clear the doubt between us?"

Davidge gestures at the bulkheads with a suited hand. "Words have no leashes."

The Timan holds the palms of its irregularly fingered hands out to indicate his understanding. "We should go where they cannot wander." Davidge bows in approval to the suggestion and Atruin 'do Timan leads us down a ramp into a dimly illuminated passage that arrives at a huge, sleek blue vehicle that opens itself, allowing us to enter and seat ourselves in the plush black couches inside. Atruin takes his seat with us and leaves his two protectors to ride outside the compartment, a gesture of great trust on the Timan’s part, according to Timan Survivor. Once the doors are closed and locked, Atruin says, "Nisak, dark and quiet." At that the windows opaque, the sounds from outside the compartment blank, and the vehicle begins accelerating toward the company nest.

"No one can hear us or observe. Now, Mr. Davidge, tell me the circumstances that gave birth to this distressing doubt."

"There are two things," begins Davidge. "First, there is the latest book of The Talman accepted by the Jetai Diea on Draco. It is the Koda Nusinda and titled The Eyes of Joanne Nicole. Are you familiar with it?"

The way the Timan’s skin blanches as his eyes go wide speaks worlds. The extreme emotional reserve claimed for Timans in Timan Survivor appears to have at least one exception.

"Although I have not read it, I am familiar with its substance. I was not aware that the existence of the work is known outside the Jetai Diea. You said there are two things."

Davidge glances at Kita and she leans forward, issues a tiny bow with her head, and holds an envelope toward the Timan. "Atruin 'do Timan, sir, these are the specifications and test results on a weapon used against Mr. Davidge and Yazi Ro on Friendship. It is an improperly detonated thermal drill and the source of the weapon appears to be Timan Nisak."

The Timan holds the envelope in both hands and stares at it as though it might grow fangs and bite him. After a moment he looks up and says, "There is something missing."

Davidge looks at me and I turn away, frowning. This Timan might be our enemy―probably is our enemy. But then The Talman speaks to me from the corridors of my memory. Aydan said that if there are no secrets, there is nothing to hide, nothing to remember.

I face the Timan and say, "There is a talma whose end may find the war on Amadeen at an end. Through the work of a Jetah Talman on Amadeen and the insights of the Koda Nusinda, the likely paths became visible. Davidge and I are parts to this puzzle. The Koda Nusinda is a third part. If the Koda Nusinda is discredited and the Jetai Diea rescinds its decision to add it to The Talman, the Timan role in the USE-Draco War will never become more than a rumor. If Davidge or I are killed it is not likely that we will be replaced. The talma will probably fail and the Nusinda may be discredited."

The Timan’s lower mandible rests on its bloated chest, his head jerking slightly in time with his breaths. "I see why you came to Timan. You perceive a motive in our desire to have the work disregarded." He looks up and adds: "And you would find out who is behind the attempt to sabotage this talma. Perhaps you would see, as well, if the species you believe gave birth to the war can somehow manipulate the warring factions on Amadeen into a peace."

No one contradicts the Timan and Atruin seems to close himself off from his surroundings. After an uncomfortable moment of this silence, Atruin emerges, his eyes almost glowing. "Please understand, every species has the choice, in response to a threat, to act or to react. Both humans and Dracs attack or run when they react. Timans, as you know from the new book of The Talman, react by manipulating the threat against itself. Most Timans do not respond this way, of course, any more than most humans or Dracs immediately attack and kill every time they perceive a possible threat. Reason and choice have subordinated primitive instinct." Atruin 'do Timan’s head sinks into his shoulders until he exhibits no neck. "Some of us do yield to instinct, however, at least to the extent of using the skills instinct has provided. Regrettably, Hissied 'do Timan was one such."

"Might there be others?" asks Kita.

"Are there murderers on Earth?" asks Atruin, not expecting an answer. He holds up the envelope. "I will turn this over to the Karnarak, our situation resolution force, with an urgent request from Nisak for information. If there are answers, the Karnarak will find them." He orders the windows cleared and I watch the hazy grays of Timan’s landscape as we streak toward Timan Nisak.

TWENTY-FOUR

Timan Nisak provides a business village for alien representatives, contractors, and visitors. Our part of the village is the Keu Vac Ount, which means Oxygen Garden. The air is rich, humid, and scented with something that resembles rather old cheese. We are given individual suites, and shortly after I remove my environmental suit and clean myself, Davidge enters my greeting room and fills a chair, his expression one of intense concentration. After dressing, I enter and sit opposite him. "You have come to say what?"

He lifts his gaze slowly and faces me. "I have a favor to ask."

"Ask."

He looks around at the room, sniffs the air, and shakes his head. "God, this place stinks. It smells like old feta cheese. You don’t suppose this is what the Timans think we want to smell."

"Perhaps their olfactory thresholds are higher than ours."

"Hell, you could use a dead skunk for an air freshener in here." He rubs his eyes then clasps his hands over his belly. "There are two things we need to accomplish here. First, we’ve got to track down whoever it is who is trying to kill us. Atruin has pledged his complete cooperation. I believe he’ll produce our killer; or die of embarrassment trying. He seems sincere."

"I wonder if he is working you," I add, "or someone higher up is working him."

"Or both," completes the human. Davidge scratches his ear and looks at an animated light display on one wall attempting to resemble a log fire in a fireplace. "Anyhow, Ty, Kita, Falna, and I will be working with Atruin on that."

"And the remaining thing," I prompt.

"Ro, we know the Timans can manipulate other species into destroying themselves. Can they manipulate other species into healing, or at least mutual survival?" Davidge leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees. "One of us needs to know what the Timans know. I want you to enter the Ri Mou Tavii."

I lean back in my chair. "Falna graduated from the Ri Mou Tavii years ago, with honor."

"Ro, sooner or later this talma is going to lead us to Amadeen. I expect you and me to be there. I don’t want to have to tell Estone Nev that its line is finished because I got Falna killed."

"I am not eager to get killed myself," I point out.

Davidge wave, the comment away with a gesture. "There are some other things, too, Ro. You got into this because you want peace on Amadeen. That’s what I want right in the front of your head when you’re in the Ri Mou Tavii. Falna never fought on Amadeen and has different priorities. I think you already suspect how good I am in guessing what goes on in Falna’s head. You I think I understand. How about it?"

I shrug. "Why don’t I go to school, attend a few classes, and speak with the masters? Does it cost much?"

Davidge grins. "Tuition isn’t our problem. The trick is getting you in. Not many Timans make it into one of these schools. An alien, hardly ever."

It was my turn to smile. "Timan Nisak has moved planets. Perhaps they can move this little hill."

"Yeah, maybe." He looks at me, a puzzled expression on his face. "When I asked Falna what kind of qualifications you’d need to be accepted, all it said was: 'Be interesting."

A strange qualification that. Be interesting. Of course, what would interest a Timan? I am not certain that I care. What I know about Timans I do not like.

TWENTY-FIVE

Lahvay ni 'do Timan, Dakiz of the Ri Mou Tavii, squats on its golden cushion before its crystal table and fills its white-eyed sight with my environmentally suited countenance. He speaks in Timan, the flattened translation coming through the link in my helmet. "I perceive a threat, Yazi Ro. Can you see it?"

"Perhaps," I answer as I look through my visor. Through the misty air I can see that the chamber is papered with penned writings in Timan. Letters from grateful students? A book the Dakiz is writing? Warning letters from creditors?

I see the Dakiz open and close his lips in a gesture of approval at my evasive answer. "You have had training in Ri Mou?" he asks, a slight tone of incredulity making it through the link.

"No," I answer truthfully. "I was born on a battlefield and reared within the bosom of a war, Dakiz. It develops certain skills."

"You have killed?"

"Yes."

Lahvay leans back from his table and looks at me, his white eyes hooded beneath dark gray lids. "Have you killed many?"

"How many would be many to a Timan, Dakiz?"

Again the Dakiz approves. I am a success. "Yazi Ro, we’ve never before had a killer as a student."

"As far as you know," I respond.

Lahvay leans to his left, adjusts his plain blue robe, and rests an arm on the table. "There have been no Timan wars for hundreds of years."

"I find that very strange, Dakiz."

"How so?"

"I am but seven, yet the war in which I was born and fought and that gave me the scars I carry was a Timan war."

The Dakiz taps the fingers of his right hand against his chin. Perhaps Davidge should have warned me not to be too interesting. "Yazi Ro, if no Timan fought in the war, no Timan died or suffered wounds, if no particle of Timan territory was lost or acquired, how then can this be a Timan war?"

I feel the anger coming on and I force it down. My mind goes blank as I try to remember the story of the sharks and the rock. Instead I use my own words. "Lahvay ni 'do Timan, who is responsible for an egg: the egg itself or the creature who laid it?"

The Dakiz narrows its white eyes and holds back its head. "Know that when Nisak applied its considerable influence to gain you admittance to the Ri Mou Tavii, my appreciation of the situation was as an impertinence, at best. At worst, a threat. Do you appreciate the threat?"

I take The Talman and add it to the wisdom of the battlefield. "If I know what I know, and I know what you know, I know more than you and therefore have the advantage."

"Then, make my decision for me, Yazi Ro."

I hold out my hands. "I am admitted."

The Timan’s face is slightly touched by a breath of disappointment. "That is not the product of the points discussed."

"Not all has been discussed," I answer. "What has been discussed misleads."

"How so?"

I point at the Dakiz. "Until I have walked your steps, breathed your breaths, and seen your seeing, I can never know what you know. I am admitted."

The Dakiz stands, smoothes its robe over its ample middle, and holds wide its arms. "Welcome to the Ri Mou Tavii, Yazi Ro. If you find here what you seek, that will be a treasure you will earn. Regardless of your success or failure, I trust I will be thoroughly entertained."

We are arranged in learning nests, circles of students linked by a form of mind fusion to the nest master, a more advanced student who passes down the lessons he has learned to us. Try as they might to appear indifferent, the other students in my nest seem uncomfortable with a suited alien in their midst.

As the fusion begins, the universe is made very small. In it, two creatures, multi-legged, black, and scaled, their powerful pinching claws slowly opening and closing, corner a third creature, smooth, soft, small, and slow.

The two clawed creatures are equal in strength and similar in form.

They do not, therefore, regard each other as threats.

The small creature looks to the creature on the right, points at it, and screams.

The clawed creature on the left faces the other to see the cause of the small creature’s reaction.

It sees only its companion and fellow hunter.

The clawed creature on the right, however, notices the other clawed creature facing it instead of the small soft one.

The creature on the right raises its claws, hisses, and moves its legs up and down in a menacing dance.

The creature on the left answers by arching its back, brandishing its own claws, hissing, and moving its legs in a menacing dance.

As the two clawed creatures attack and pull each other to pieces , the smooth, soft, small, and slow creature escapes.

In the village, we are seated in another circle. Kita, Davidge, Ty, Falna, I, and another. Our number has been increased by the addition of Captain Moss, who looks terrible. Beneres and Mrabet are still in the Zone. According to Moss, Reaper Brandt is in his quarters on the floor trying to get his heart started. As I half-listen, my head toying with the Ri Mou Tavii lessons, Kita holds out her hands in a gesture of frustration. "I don’t think Timan Nisak is giving us its complete cooperation."

"Why?" asks Davidge.

"The most recent theory from the Karnarak investigator is that the thermal drill used in the cave is a forgery. All of Nisak’s drills of that type are accounted for, he says."

"How do they explain the lack of markers in the chemical residue?" asks Jeriba Ty. "As I understand it, both JACHE and IMPEX explosives have chemical markers in their explosives."

Kita slowly shakes her head. "They have an answer for everything. Their scientists say that in the manufacture the chemical marker might have been purposefully left out. They also point out that the marker can be removed, given a lab with sufficient sophistication. As far as the Timans are concerned, it was an act performed by parties unknown with a fraudulent thermal drill designed to implicate Timan Nisak."

As I watch Davidge’s face redden in anger at the report, a memory of mine achieves a different perspective. My brief moments in the Ri Mou Tavii learning nests have already rearranged my view of everything. I am not yet certain whether I like or dislike my new view,

I remember the thirty or so Front prisoners that I was guarding shortly after the battle of Stokes Crossing in the Southern Shorda. Three human children, very young, were in the compound with the other prisoners. A woman was entertaining the children by making things appear and disappear.

Her hands were very quick. She took a pebble from the ground, put it in her pocket, then pulled the pebble out of one of the children’s ears. As the children laughed, she threw the pebble away then pulled it out of her own mouth.

I had never seen anything like it before. I moved closer to the wire to get a better view. She held the pebble between two fingers, placed it in the palm of her other hand, closed her fingers around it, then opened it. The pebble had vanished. She opened both hands and there was no pebble. She clapped her hands together, then slowly parted them to reveal three pebbles in the palm of the bottom hand.

I heard a shout from a Mavedah soldier on the other side of the compound. A sickening feeling in my middle, I looked up to see three humans running toward a group of rocks. They had escaped while I was distracted by the woman. I raised my knife and cut through the three of them, killing two and wounding the third. I lowered the knife and looked at the woman, wanting to cut her in half because she was as much a part of the escape attempt as the three who ran the wire. Everything pointed at the right hand while it was the left hand doing all the business.

I look at Davidge and the others seated around the table and think again about where the fingers are pointing. Kita is explaining to Davidge some obscure procedure in police recordkeeping. When she is finished, Davidge asks her to get together with Ernst Brandt to pick his brain. Once she agrees, he faces me. "Are you a part of this?"

I look up at him. "What do you want?"

"You’ve just been sitting there staring into space. Do you have any suggestions; a thought or two?"

I glance at Falna. Its eyes urge me on. I look at the floor and nod. "Davidge―Will, all of the fingers are pointing at humans and Timans. Earth IMPEX because of Michael Hill’s involvement, and Timan Nisak because of the weapon he used, in addition to the things revealed in the Koda Nusinda," I stand, look around at the faces, and say, "There are no fingers pointed at Dracs. Look for a Drac."

Kita frowns at me and says, "But Ro, we have absolutely no evidence of any Drac involvement at all."

"Exactly."

Back in my quarters I think about my answer, exactly. It means trust no one, nothing. The knife can come from any direction. There is a part of me that seems to find meaning in doing nothing more than being a witness and understanding that which passes before me. Living beings moving through their relationships of war and love are exercises of interest primarily to see how the relationships resolve. This is the manner of the Timan nest master. This is also the manner of the Drac Jetah Talman.

Detached, emotionally removed. A very safe place. All of the advantages of being dead with none of the rot. The existence of this place, my ability to occupy it, as well as its attraction, make me despair.

I look up and see Falna standing in the doorway. Two steps, three steps, and it is at my side. Falna’s hand brushes my cheek. "You are filled with such pain, Ro. Have you no one? No one at all?"

I look up at its face, its image blurred by the tears in my eyes. "I have the dead."

Falna encircles me with its arms and slowly pulls me toward its breast. I lose myself and my pain in Falna’s touch as the scent of it fills my awareness.

A history lesson on The Last War:

The few remaining Timan Ka were huddled in their mountain stronghold as the Rappani Ka, filling the Steppe of Irnuz before them, prepared to finish the extermination begun generations before. Bahtuo, nestmaster of the Timan Ka, looked down upon its people at their defense positions. There was hardly a one who was not wounded or scarred. In the center of the compound, protected by stone walls, were the females, their fat tails teeming with unborn who would never see life.

"We can withstand one or perhaps two more assaults," said Ashab the war leader to Bahtuo. "We will kill perhaps another hundred or hundred and fifty of their warriors, then the Rappani will overrun us. They will kill the females and we will be no more." Bahtuo looked at the war club in his hand and let it fall to the ground. "We surrender, then, Bahtuo?"

The nest master looked beyond his defenders and let his gaze fall upon the fires of the Rappani Ka. "We surrender, Ashab, but with a condition."

Later that night, Lord Nuba, eldest surviving son of King Jax, ruler of all the Rappani Ka, was entertaining his generals in the long hut. As they feasted the generals boasted about whose warriors would first storm the Timan birthing ring, crushing the females, cutting off their tails, splashing the Timan Ka larvae underfoot. In the midst of this revelry, a guard entered and whispered to Nuba that an emissary from the Timan Ka begs for an audience. Lord Nuba ordered the Timan brought before him and his generals.

The Timan emissary was Ashab the war leader and he groveled before Nuba and said, "Great lord, I have come at the behest of my master, Bahtuo, to beg you to take our surrender."

A great cheer erupted in the long hut. When it quieted, Lord Nuba said, "This is most excellent news and I shall pass on your request to my father, the king."

Ashab rose to his feet and held out his hands. "We surrender only to you, Lord Nuba. It has been your warriors we have fought and we know you to be fierce in battle, but merciful and just in peace. Your father is without mercy, killing even his own brother to take the throne of the Rappani Ka. We have seen your father’s work and we will not surrender to the king. Rather we would go to our deaths and bring as many of the Rappani Ka with us as we are able."

Now, it is true that the king was cruel, but no more so than his son, Lord Nuba. It is true that the king killed his own brother. However, Lord Nuba had killed both of his own brothers, and for spite rather than mere gain. It is true that the king was a leader without mercy, but it was no accident that, behind his back, Nuba’s own generals and warriors referred to him as Nuba the Terrible. Yet Bahtuo’s words brought many of King Jax’s crimes back to the minds of Nuba’s generals.

To Lord Nuba’s mind, Bahtuo’s offer brought something different. Nuba the Just, not King Jax, would take the surrender of the Timan Ka. It would be Nuba the Merciful, not King Jax, who saved the hundreds of warriors' lives that would have been lost storming the Timan stronghold. It would be Nuba the Magnificent, not King Jax, who cleverly eliminated the Timan Ka, for the lord intended to kill every last Timan upon entering the stronghold.

"Go in safety, Bahtuo," Nuba said to the emissary, "Tell your master that I will take the surrender of the Timan Ka and that those who surrender will be under Lord Nuba’s personal protection."

Now, there were a number of Nuba’s generals who were, at one time, generals of Nuba’s elder brother, Yiva. When Nuba murdered their Lord Yiva, they did nothing, for, by the time they learned of the affair, all was done and sanctioned by the king. Yet the words of their oaths to their former lord were still sharp. These generals got word to King Jax about his son’s actions.

Jax was incensed and sent a courier to Lord Nuba with orders to stay in place. If there is to be a surrender, Jax, King of the Rappani Ka, will take it. As the courier ran off, Jax called in his generals to prepare the warriors beneath his command to enforce his wishes. Still, when Lord Nuba learned that his father’s army was facing his own position, he ordered his own generals to respond appropriately. No one knows who loosed the first shaft. Perhaps one of Jax’s archers, perhaps one of Nuba’s. Perhaps it was a lone Timan warrior hidden in a cleft between the two armies―

As the two clawed creatures attack and pull each other to pieces , the smooth, soft, small, and slow creature escapes.

That night Falna is waiting for me and we make love. I do not conceive, but I make love. For a moment I withdraw, fearing that Falna only pities me. Then I no longer care. I let go, losing myself in the currents of passion and gentle affection.

TWENTY-SIX

In the morning Davidge comes to my quarters. I expect him to make some comment regarding Falna’s presence and demonstrations of affection for me, but the human says nothing. Falna gets tea for all of us as, from my couch, I tell Davidge the story of the two clawed creatures and the creature who was small and soft. I tell him the story about King Jax, Lord Nuba, and the nest master. I tell him the story of the United States of Earth, the Dracon Chamber, and a politician who perceived a threat to its people, Hissied 'do Timan. I tell him the Duoa Jreal, or Insanity Stories, of Mijii of Sindie who burned its own people, of the Zealots of Masada on Earth who slew themselves, of the Balkan, Irish, and Middle East tribal self-immolations. After telling the Timan stories to Davidge, he studies the inside of emptiness for a long time. "So," he says at last, "how do we get the scorpions to stop fighting?"

I do not know what scorpions are, but I assume Davidge is referring to the clawed creatures in the Timan parable. "I do not think we can," I answer.

"Can we get the two scorpions to go after the puffball again?" He glances at me, his forehead growing a frown. "Ro, I have never seen you look so strange."

I hide my face by looking at the image of the log fire. "I think I am coming to appreciate how easily war can be started, and, once begun, how hard it can be to stop." I look back at the human. "We can’t get the scorpions to go after the puffball, as you put it. The puffball, Hissied 'do Timan, is dead."

Falna places my tea in front of me, glances at Davidge, and says, "The original reasons for the fighting have little to do with what is going on now, Uncle. Hissied 'do Timan provided direction and a spark. The holocaust no longer needs the match for its existence."

Davidge frowns and looks from Falna to me. "Explain."

In my mind I pick at the reasons I had for fighting. "I think that with the very first act of violence all of the motives changed and the reasons for continuing the war multiplied. If l ever knew the original reason for the fighting on Amadeen, it is nothing compared to all of the new reasons which are added to daily. The original causes were less than memories before I was born."

"Hissied managed to get the USE and the Dracon Chamber to colonize Amadeen within a few months of each other," says Falna. "Then, after a few years, he arranged a land dispute and some―what do they call it on Earth―hemp justice. The other side retaliated, then the whole thing was fed by they killed my parent and they destroyed my village."

I nod and continue with, "And they tortured and killed my friends, my lovers…" I shake my head as old feelings splash into my heart. "I wasn’t fighting because of any mining rights or land disputes. I fought because―so many deaths, so many horrors." I look at Davidge and say, "I fought because it was the only way to fight back."

As I say it I know it is insane. The insanity, though, makes the reason no less real, no less powerful. I feel Falna’s comforting hand on my shoulder. As I place my own hand atop Falna’s, Davidge looks away and again explores emptiness with his gaze.

"What is it, Uncle?" asks Falna.

Davidge lifts his hands slightly and lets them drop to the armrests of his chair. "I don’t know. All along I’ve been looking for this magic linchpin that holds everything together. Yank it and we find out who’s trying to kill us and discredit the Koda Nusinda, the solution to the fighting on Amadeen pops up, and we can all go home. Everyone has a motive, though. The Timans want the Koda Nusinda thrown out to keep their secret about the war."

"And about how they survive," I add.

"What about Earth IMPEX?" asks Falna.

Davidge shakes his head. "IMPEX has no motive whatsoever, but there is a political party headquartered on Earth called Black October." He glances at Falna, "Did you ever hear of it?"

Without removing its hand from my shoulder, Falna says, "Certainly. It’s the fourth largest party in the USE-aligned planets." Falna looks down at me. "Black October’s principle objective is to throw out the USE-Dracon Treaty and reenter the fighting on Amadeen supporting the Amadeen Front."

"Kita got a subspace message from Sanda a little while ago," interrupted Davidge. "It looks like Michael Hill might have been a member of Black October. It’s possible, as well, the drill he was using is a forgery. Sanda’s been in touch with the Karnarak and it looks as though the circuit board from the unit in the cave doesn’t match any of the Nisak designs."

"What about the Dracs?" I ask.

I look at Davidge and he is looking at Falna. Removing its hand from my shoulder, Falna sits next to me on the couch and says, "Yes, there is opposition to the Koda Nusinda in the Jetai Diea. It’s small in numbers but vehement in its refusal to have a human-written book in The Talman. Some of their arguments are quite compelling. I was on Earth during most of the debate, however."

"Did you vote?"

"Of course. It was by absentee ballot because I couldn’t leave my studies. I voted to accept The Eyes of Joanne Nicole as the Koda Nusinda."

Davidge stands and thrusts his hands into his jacket pockets. "So everybody has a motive and none of the motives tie directly into the reasons why the fighting continues on Amadeen. The fighting fuels itself regardless of what goes on in the rest of the universe; regardless of what we find out about who is trying to kill us." He rakes an eyebrow at me. "Yazi Ro, I’m beginning to suspect that Shiggy and that Jetah on Amadeen, Zenak Abi, bit off more than we can chew."

The Dakiz’s image hovers over the nest as ghost images of planets and armies drift through our awareness. "A threat that can be divided against itself is rendered a threat no longer. A galaxy-wide coalition of tribes can be divided by the differences between its members: species, beliefs, origins, objectives, allegiances, interests, anything unimportant that can he made to appear important to them."

Step by carefully plotted step we see a unified force cracked then shattered by racism, religious bigotry, political intolerance, and class bias, all the forms of tribal loyalty. How easy it seems, yet there are forces that either cannot be divided ( very rare), or are more efficiently dealt with by drawing them into conflict with a third party.

A powerful species of adventurers, explorers, warriors, and profit-seekers, colonizers of two hundred worlds, are within a few days of racehome and are being considered for membership in the quadrant federation. Their numbers, their power, wealth, energy, and designs could eclipse racehome and drown out racehome’s voice in the quadrant assembly within a generation. The threat is, in this case, so huge and so powerful that dividing it risks producing multiple threats.

Far from racehome there is another species of powerful, wealthy adventurers and profit-seekers. Can their separate designs and interests be led into a conflict of such a nature that the wealth, power, and numbers of both species are reduced to insignificance?

To the Dakiz I send a thought: "The Timans deplore the actions of Hissied 'do Timan in creating the USE-Draco War, yet his crime is used as a lesson in the Ri Mou Tavii ?"

The Dakiz responds, "In your own Talman, Yazi Ro, it is written: 'Are we to ignore a truth revealed through crime because it is somehow tainted, somehow less than truth? Nonsense. Truth is truth. The crime is to ignore truth."

Joanne Nicole had the sight to detect the hand behind the war. She caught Hissied 'do Timan by surprise and foiled his plans to secure Timan influence in the quadrant by destroying both Dracs and humans. Had he allowed himself to see the blind woman’s role in the negotiations, he could have prepared better. He did attempt to manipulate another into killing her, but the one who took on the mission to kill Joanne Nicole didn’t expect her to fight back. After all, she was blind and helpless. The attempt at murder failed.

In the village I see Davidge and Kita walking around the reflection pool in the common chamber. Among the strange trees and shrubs are several unfamiliar beings. Three are Dracs, one is human, and four are Vikaans, am curious about their reasons for being here, but I have no desire to meet anyone new. There is a refreshment lounge off the common and I enter it to get some brewed tea and to look for Falna.

Eli Moss and Reaper are sitting in comfortable chairs holding large glasses containing a beverage that resembles carbonated human urine. When he notices me, the captain turns off the newsscreen in the cubicle and points toward a chair facing his. I sit in the chair, a human waiter takes my order, and I am left looking at Eli Moss and Reaper. I am not much of one for making conversation, but that responsibility is lifted from me.

"What in the hell are you people doing here?" asks Moss. Before I can attempt an answer, he waves a hand and continues. "Murder investigations, wheeling and dealing with Timan Nisak, whatever it is that Estone Falna is doing besides patting your fanny, and you? Going to school?"

"You are drunk."

Moss nods. "That explains what I’m doing here. Now, what’re you people doing here?"

Reaper, not quite as intoxicated as his captain, leans toward me. "I tried to tell him about Amadeen―"

The waiter brings my tea and places it on the small table to my right. I forget to thank him as I look at Eli Moss’s smirking face. "What we are doing here is trying to stop a war."

"A war?"

"That’s right." I sip at my tea, noticing from my increasing anger that I have not quite achieved the ideal of Timan reserve.

Moss frowns as he looks at Brandt. "That’s what you said, Reaper." His eyebrows go up and he wags a finger at me. "What war? There hasn’t been a war here for hundreds of years."

"Amadeen. We’re here to stop the war on Amadeen."

Moss laughs out loud. "Amadeen?" He lurches to his feet, looks at the timepiece strapped to his wrist, then turns around and points toward a potted imitation tree. "Amadeen’s that way."

Davidge and Kita come up to the cubicle, and before they can say anything, Moss points again at the fake tree and says. "Amadeen is thataway." With that Captain Moss finishes off his beverage, puts down the glass on a table, and brushes past Davidge on his way to the quarters wing.

Kita looks down at me and says, "The good captain appears well medicated."

"He needs something to do," says Brandt finishing off his own beverage. He puts down his glass, wipes his mouth on a napkin, and looks around at all of us. "What the captain was saying is that if this expedition of yours ever gets moving toward Amadeen, he would be pleased to assist you in whatever capacity he can."

Davidge points with his thumb toward the entrance. "What’s he know about why we’re here?"

"Everything," I answer.

Kira sits in the chair vacated by Eli Moss and Davidge takes the chair to my left. "What do you mean, everything?"

"It, all of it, the works, the whole enchilada." I look at Reaper.

"It’s true. In between manuscripts, notes, link records, receipts, and so on, I’ve pretty much put together that you’re working a talma to bring an end to the war on Amadeen. The captain and I think it to be a worthy goal."

"No kidding," says Davidge.

The big man nods. "How you are to go about it is something I couldn’t figure out. I’m guessing that’s because you folks haven’t figured it out either."

"Well, hell. Welcome to the club." Davidge rests his elbows on his chair’s armrests and clasps his hands across his belly as he looks at me. "Ro, are you tired of Timan?"

"You said it yourself, Will. The war feeds off itself. The rest of the universe could vanish and the fighting on Amadeen wouldn’t pause for an instant. Whatever answer we are looking for, it is not on Timan. It is on Amadeen."

The waiter heads in our direction but Davidge waves him off, glances at Kita and me, then faces Brandt. "Okay, we’ve reached a dead end with the investigation. Timan Nisak has put incredible pressure on every government, public, and private institution on the planet. If there is anything, it should have surfaced by now. Just in case something was overlooked, Ty has been running Timan Nisak’s records, seeing if there’s a money trail of some kind from Timan Nisak leading to IMPEX, Hill, or someone else. When I left Ty, it was on the link working with the line’s bank on Friendship doing a quadrant-wide search. Ty’s sure it can come up with something, although it may take months." He nods at Kita and she faces me.

"Sanda got in touch again. Aakva Lua managed to track down a hovercraft capable of firing the marker missile that almost took you out. The owner is a Drac, as is the pilot. Sanda found both of them dead. Suicide, Sanda thinks. The hovercraft is a charter out of First Colony. Ty is running the charter service’s financial records, as well."

I hold up my hands. "Michael Hill, after he made his attempt, he fell to his death." I lower my hands and face Davidge. "We assume he just made a wrong turn in the dark. What if he, too, committed suicide? What if all three were under the influence of some sort of mind control? Between that neural amplifier that they use in mind fusion, and the Timan variety the Ri Mou Tavii uses in instruction, all kinds of things could be planted in an individual’s mind. What if whoever is behind this used Hill and those two Dracs like self-destructing robots?"

Davidge snaps his fingers as he fixes his gaze on a point in space. "Maybe that’s it," he says quietly. He moves his eyes slowly until he is looking at me. "Ro, what was it that changed you?"

"Changed me?"

"From what you told me, one minute you’re cutting up Front soldiers with an energy knife and the next you’re letting some human female run off with a Drac baby. What changed you?"

I think back to that moment when I first saw the Drac baby in the woman’s arms, both of them hiding beneath a bed in the smoke and filth of that shattered bunker. "It’s not human," I said to her. She answered by saying, "No. It’s mine."

"For a moment I saw the pain, the loss, the desperate fear of another." I look up at Davidge. "For a moment I could not think of humans and Dracs. I caught a view through her eyes. We were the same: frightened beings in the center of a firestorm. After that I could no longer carry a weapon for the Mavedah."

"Maybe that’s it," repeats Davidge once more. "Maybe we’re supposed to mind fuse everybody on Amadeen, give everyone a peek into the other guy’s skull, turn everybody’s enemy into just another frightened being. Maybe that’s what we’re here to learn how to do. Where’s Falna?"

"I don’t know, and how are you going to mind fuse an entire planet?"

"Details." Davidge gets to his feet. "Falna can tell me if what we want to do is possible."

Kita reaches out a hand and touches Davidge’s arm. "What about the investigation?"

"Let’s see if the mind fusion can be done, first. If that’s the way to go, though, you’ll have to continue here on your own―unless you want to come with us."

"To Amadeen?" she asks.

As she reaches out a hand to take Davidge’s, the waiter comes up to us carrying a tiny black comm link in his hand. "Mr. Davidge, there is a call for you."

"Thanks." Placing the link to his ear, he says into the speaker plate, "This is Davidge." His mouth splits into a wide grin. "Hey, Falna, we were just talking about you. Where―" He frowns, then his face becomes like stone. Without looking at Kita, he releases her hand. "We’ll be right there."

He closes the cover on the link. Turning to us he says, "That was Falna. Jeriba Ty is dead. Nisak security found Ty in an airlock, no suit, the place filled with Timan air."

"Suicide?" I ask, my voice more cynical-sounding than I intend.

Davidge tosses the link on his chair, nods once, then turns to head for the quarters wing.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Jeriba Ty sits slumped against the bulkhead near the airlock’s interior control panel looking as though it were asleep. There are no signs of struggle. A human Timan Nisak security officer gives us a report on the playback from the airlock control panel. The open command was given from the oxygen side of the hatch, the hatch opened, the close hatch command was given from inside the lock, and the hatch closed. The open command was then given from inside the lock to the Timan side hatch. An automatic caution warning requiring special gear to enter the Timan section went on, the cancel warning command was given, and the oxynitrogen atmosphere pumped out and replaced by Planet Timan’s mix of ammonia, carbon dioxide, and several other disagreeable substances. By the time the Timan side of the lock opened, Jeriba Ty was certainly dead.

During the recital, Davidge kneels next to Ty. He whispers words to the corpse, sits on his heels and becomes like stone, then cries quietly. When the crying ends, he stands and continues looking at the body of one of his charges. While I am thinking that Will Davidge must be seeing Ty as a child in his cave, the learning, the playing, the hurts and tears, Kita and Reaper come through the hatch. When the security officer finishes, Kita says to Davidge, "The link records show only the calls Ty made. Any data it received have been removed from the system."

Davidge gathers his thoughts, comes back to reality, and frowns at Kita. "Removed?"

"The link automatically saves everything, Will. To clear the data from the system it had to be intentionally removed. Reaper and I went through Ty’s quarters and there are no data cards or notes."

Davidge looks down at Ty’s face. "I’ve gotten you killed." He looks at Kita, Reaper, and Falna in turn. "Go over everything, then go over it again. Ty’s quarters, the murder scene, call everyone Ty called and have them send whatever they sent to Ty. Answers. I need answers,"

He faces me and cocks his head toward the open hatchway. "Ro, I have to make a couple of calls. I can use some company."

As I turn to follow Davidge, I look to Falna, but it is next, to Kita, bending over the body of Jeriba Ty.

In the subspace link’s little chamber, I look into all of the dark corners, my mind flooded with truths and suspicions of truths. At one point I am so overwhelmed I lean against the wall. When I look at the screen, I see that Davidge has made a subspace link to Friendship and Aakva Lua. "Why are you calling Sanda first?"

"Cowardice," he answers flatly. "The easy call first."

There is not much to pass on, except the news of Ty’s death and my suspicions regarding mind fusion. Afterward Davidge calls Jeriba Zammis. I watch as Zammis’s forceful, dynamic manner evaporates upon learning of its child’s death. Zammis looks stunned for a moment, then comes under complete control. After the call is concluded I mention how strong Zammis seemed.

"Zammis can’t afford to feel its feelings just yet. Zammis still has to tell Haesni." He glances at me. "You know how that is."

"I know how that is."

The last call Davidge makes is to the Talman Kovah on Draco. Jeriba Shigan is awakened from its sleep to receive the call by servants who are none too pleased at the task. Once on the screen, Davidge bluntly tells the Ovjetah, "We are on Timan. Jeriba Ty is dead. Falna and two others are investigating, but right now it looks as though it’s murder staged to look like a suicide." I watch Shigan’s face as the news is disbelieved, fought, and eventually accepted. While the Ovjetah wages its battle, Davidge explains the circumstances. Listening to the bitter tone in his voice it seems as though, in some manner, Davidge blames the Ovjetah. At last Davidge explains our thoughts concerning mind fusion on Amadeen and he asks, "Have we paid enough of a price on Timan? Can you look in your computer and at least tell me if our wild goose chase here is over?"

I never saw Jeriba Shigan look so old, so tired. "Knowledge of the path might close the path, Uncle."

"Dammit―"

"Uncle, you are the one who first taught me about talma!" shouts the Ovjetah. After the interruption, Jeriba Shigan calms a bit and says, "Right now we can see several possible paths. If I tell you what they are, you will pick the one you like the best and pursue it, disregarding the rest. Or, to protect yourself from creating what you used to call a self-fulfilling prophesy, you might refuse all of the paths." The Ovjetah rubs its eyes and looks at Davidge. "You must be free of such self-imposed restraints and limitations. You must be free to move from path to path, for I am convinced that the talma that will succeed has yet to be discovered."

Davidge takes a deep breath, lets it escape his lungs, and says more gently, "I know. Forgive me, Shiggy. The years haven’t made me any smarter." He reaches to cut off the link and I place my hand on his shoulder. "I want to talk to the Ovjetah."

Davidge frowns at me. "Alone or do you want an audience?"

"Alone."

The human raises his eyebrows, shrugs, and leaves the small room. I take his place in the seat and look at the image of Jeriba Shigan on the screen. "I grieve your loss, Ovjetah."

Shigan nods its thanks and asks, "How are you faring on the Jetai Diea’s wild goose chase?"

I think for a moment, my mind still swamped with its new truths. "Ovjetah, I am in places I do not want to be learning things I do not want to know."

"What is your opinion regarding mind fusion as a tool to bring about an end to the fighting on Amadeen?"

I lean back in the seat and take a deep breath. There are many subjects to discuss to avoid the things I need to say. I can spare some time for one answer.

"I do not know how we can submit the population of an entire planet to mind fusion." I hold out my hands, then drop them in my lap. "Ovjetah, mind fusion allowed me to see things about myself I wouldn’t ordinarily see. The thing that changed me, though, had nothing to do with mind fusion. Besides, few on Amadeen want to give up their pain. Most feed off it. It defines them. It makes them belong to each other. For every one on Amadeen we can coax into mind fusion, there are ten thousand we cannot." I look at Jeriba Shigan and say, "There are some things I need to know, and to ask I need to know that my questions and your answers remain confidential,"

The Ovjetah raises an eyebrow as it considers my request. "I and my assistants will respect your confidence." Shigan leans toward the screen and adjusts something. As it leans back in its seat, a channel encode message appears across the screen. "Now everyone else will respect your confidence, as well,"

I ask for the information I need and watch as the Ovjetah frowns back. When I am finished, Jeriba Shigan’s voice is very cold. "As soon as I have the information you want I will communicate with you."

"My thanks, Ovjetah. If you would, please tell Matope we are making progress toward peace on Amadeen."

"Matope?"

"The human in the wheelchair with the sign."

"I will tell him. As you walk your path, Yazi Ro, take care," and then the screen returns to the cloud and sun symbol for Timan Nisak. Once I stop shaking, I place a call to Friendship. When the link is completed, Undev Orin comes on screen to answer. After its greetings and good wishes, I give Orin my request. As it hurries away from the link I hear myself asking Uhe’s ancient question: "Aakva, why do you play with your creatures so?"

That night I bury myself in Falna’s arms. It whispers in my ear, "Why are you so frightened, Ro?"

I say nothing out loud. What does one who feels like a leaf blown about by the universe’s wind say to one who feels like a rock? Falna grew within the love, safety, and wisdom of Davidge’s cave. I grew within the hate, danger, and stupidity of the battlefield. All I say is, "Love me. No questions. Please, for tonight, love me."

TWENTY-EIGHT

Graduation from the Ri Mou Tavii. All of the nests, from low to high, gather through mind fusion to witness and participate in the competition. The Dakiz posits a threat and hears the candidates for graduation as each one applies the lessons to eliminate or divert the threat. The Dakiz chooses the first application he finds satisfactory and that student then must posit a threat of its own. The title of 'do Timan goes to ones who posit threats that have no satisfactory answer. The top honor of ni 'do Timan goes to the ones who posit threats no one besides them can resolve satisfactorily.

The problems are stated, the solutions are offered, and it pleases me not at all that I guess the correct solutions before the Dakiz. The threat I have to posit is the one to which I have no answer.

The latest successful student, Pria, posits a single individual as the threat. The setting is a closed environment containing only two beings: the threat and the one who is threatened. The environment is such that no third being or force can be either brought in or can intrude. I signal my willingness to participate and the Dakiz selects me.

"Know the threat," I begin. "With this knowledge divide the mind of the threat. Cast its interests against its loyalties, its loyalties against its loves, its morality against its reality."

"Example," calls the Dakiz.

I look at my fellow students and point at the one who posited the problem: "Pria. You shall be the threat."

Pria throws wide its fleshy arms, takes a step toward me, and says, "I am going to crush you to death!" He growls rather effectively.

In response I say, "If you take another step toward me, Pria, I will break every bone in your body."

"Ehh?" Pria looks to the Dakiz and the Dakiz looks at me.

"Violence?" asks the Dakiz.

"No. The threat of violence."

"This is not a solution."

I point a finger at Pria’s lower extremities. "Notice the threat’s feet, Dakiz. They do not move. I have placed Pria’s loyalty to his problem against his interest not to have broken bones. I have placed Pria’s morality, that no Timan should ever respond with violence, against its reality: I am not a Timan and if he takes another step I will break every bone in his body. Pria believes me. The threat is thereby neutralized and I have not resorted to violence."

The Dakiz asks the students for competing responses, and the scant two who apply fail in their applications. One favors begging and the other tries buying off the threat with promises it intends not to keep. The Dakiz calls neither for examples. No longer looking entertained, the Dakiz nods toward me. "State your problem, Yazi Ro."

In our communal mind I face all of the classes. "The threat is an ongoing war in a closed system between two species, neither of which has the ability to forget or forgive an injury. Each side’s goal is the elimination of the other side. The end of the threat requires peace."

"Who are the ones who are threatened?" asks a student.

"All of those on the planet."

"What is the original cause of the conflict?" asks another student.

"Irrelevant," I answer. "The original cause is outweighed by the continuing cause."

"What is the continuing cause of the war?" asks the same student,

"The war," I answer.

The student named Ojuahn asks, "Are both species warlike to the degree that everyone on both sides are warriors!"

"No. In fact, at any one time I would guess that only a fifth to a quarter of each species on the planet belongs to one of the combatant groups. Perhaps a majority of those of each species would like to have peace."

"A peace less drastic than the elimination of the opposing species?" presses Ojuahn.

"Any kind of peace," I answer.

"A truce, then. Resolve what can be resolved, and have peace."

"Every time there is a truce," I begin, "uncontrollable factions and individuals from each side attack and perform atrocities that ignite again the larger war. Truces that once lasted weeks and months are now reduced to hours or a day. Neither side can police its uncontrollable factions for neither political leadership can survive the prosecution of its own kind for the crime of killing those of the other side."

There are more questions, some explanations, no answers that manage to survive testing. I did not think there would be. Since I posit the lone problem without sufficient answer, I graduate at the top of my class. The Dakiz says, "Take your place with honor, Yazi Ro 'do Timan."

Perhaps if the Timans had been able to consider such problems for centuries their answers would have been more useful. However, on Timan solutions involve starting wars, arranging it so others start wars, or shunning a war and dumping it in someone else’s lap. Not since the time of Bahtuo, King Jax, and Lord Nuba had the Timans actually carried arms and fought in a war, and never had the end of a war itself been considered the removal of a threat.

I stay in bed the next day. That evening I shun all company, walk the gardens until my legs ache, then go back to my quarters. Falna is waiting for me there, a special repast illuminated by candles is prepared. "All my best wishes and sincerest congratulations, Yazi Ro 'do Timan." It holds a hand out toward the table. "For your celebration."

"What kind of mind does it take to celebrate a failure?"

Falna holds its head back as though I had slapped it. "A failure? You received a very high honor from the Dakiz, Ro. If you want, you can continue at the Ri Mon Tavii with a high nest."

"Falna, I have one problem that I need to solve. The fact that neither I nor anyone else can solve it was what earned me my so-called honor." I allow myself a bitter laugh. "Besides, it was not original work."

"Come, Ro," Falna begs, its hand held out toward the table. I notice that it is wearing a special, filmy black gown. Its body moves seductively beneath the fabric.

"No. I realize you have gone to some special trouble for tonight, Falna, but no. Tonight I want to be by myself."

"Please―"

"Leave me!" I shout. I turn my back, go into the bed chamber, and close the door. There I sit in the dark and remind myself why the children of the battlefield do without love and hope. To have love one must have hope, and to have hope one must be a fool. Quietly I hear Falna close the door as it leaves my quarters.

How many ways are there to be a fool? I am not certain, but I think I must have explored all of them by now. Of course, every time I think that, I am usually on the brink of discovering new worlds of foolishness.

A regular alarm corresponding with a flashing blue light comes from the com link next to the bed. I stand it as long as possible, then cross the room and pick up the link. "What?"

"Many sorrows for disturbing you," says the Timan operator, "but there is an urgent communication for you coming in on the Keu Vac Ount subspace link from Draco."

I stand there, the last brick in the burial vault in my hand. "I will be there in a moment."

TWENTY-NINE

Aakva Muta, assistant to the Ovjetah, comes on screen. "Jeriba Shigan apologizes for not conveying this information to you itself, but at present the Ovjetah is on board its ship heading for Friendship to be with Estone Nev."

"I understand," I answer, a sinking feeling in my middle. If I am wrong I will have troubled a great many persons for nothing. But if I am wrong, Jeriba Shigan would not be going to Friendship to support its nameparent’s sibling.

"In answer to your queries, on the seven votes concerning the acceptance of the Koda Nusinda by the Jetai Diea, Estone Falna voted against the acceptance motion the first six times and voted for acceptance on the final ballot. The initial motion was voted on by absentee ballot from Earth, where Falna was in residence at the University of Nations Hospital. The subsequent six motions, including the final vote, were voted on by absentee ballot from Timan, where Estone Falna was attending the Ja Nuos Tavii. That is Timan’s most advanced and prestigious school of medicine. Falna’s course of study there was exclusively on Timan mind fusion techniques, research, and applications."

Muta leans toward the screen, makes an adjustment, and says, "The Ovjetah conducted the investigation you suggested. These are the recordings of the interviews. As the hard copies are being transmitted, I can give you a summary, if you wish."

"Go ahead, Muta. Give me the summary."

As the Ovjetah’s trusted assistant looks at its notes, Muta appears as though someone offscreen is surgically removing its heart. "In the interview with Jetah Tumach Jortiz, leader against the acceptance of the Koda Nusinda, Jortiz revealed that Estone Falna was one of the opposition’s chief strategists in the fight to vote down the human-written book. It was through Falna’s efforts that the process dragged out to seven votes."

Muta looks up from its notes. "Falna’s favorable vote on the final motion that passed should not be mistaken for support. Under the rules of the Jetai Diea, only those who vote in favor of a motion are eligible to make a new motion to rescind it. Because Estone Falna voted in favor of acceptance, it is now eligible to move to throw out the Koda Nusinda."

"I see."

Muta returns its gaze to its notes. "Tumach Jortiz eventually admitted that Falna had alluded to taking some action outside the Jetai Diea to erode support for the Nusinda, but Jortiz claims to believe Falna was referring to things such as further investigation and publicity―"

I hear an involuntary laugh come from the shadows, and I say to the Ovjetah’s assistant, "I think I have enough, Muta. Thank you."

"May you find the peace you seek, Yazi Ro."

"I am far away from that, Muta," I say to the Timan Nisak symbol. I look to the corner of the chamber. "It seems you have made some rather startling advances in mind fusion techniques, Falna. Turning good humans and Dracs into murder-suicides, getting a very happy, self-confident Jeriba Ty to end its own life. Are you planning on publishing a paper on your research?"

"I think not," says Falna as it emerges from the shadows, a smile on its lips, a glittering knife of some sort in its hand. "That fool Jortiz. Did you see how it attempted to distance itself from me? Publicity, indeed." There is a long silence, then Falna speaks, its voice dead calm. "When did you begin to suspect, Yazi Ro?"

"It is not that simple," I answer. "A part of me that I usually do not acknowledge noticed from the beginning a difference―a strange coolness―between you and Davidge. Still you must have some affection for him. Michael Hill’s bungled attempt with the thermal drill shows that. Perhaps it is only affection for Estone Nev and the Jeribas who would be distressed at Davidge’s death. You were trying to scare him off the talma, am I right?"

"Keep going, but deenergize the equipment first. We wouldn’t want some tech wandering in here to see why it’s on and not in use."

I lean forward, cut off the link, and slump back in my chair. "Your affection did not extend to me, though. The attempt on my life was quite genuine."

"Yes. I am very impressed with your reaction time. I didn’t think anyone could run faster than one of those marker missiles could turn."

I nod. "That explains it. It confused me why the killer would go to such trouble to keep Davidge alive yet recklessly fire a missile at the cave in hopes of hitting someone. We all had markers. When I was in the cave by myself, Davidge and Kita well away, your mind-fused killers in the hovercraft fired the missile."

"I still can’t see how you outran it."

I smile and face the last of the Estone line. "I did not outrun it. It was still warm in the cave. I took off my coat―"

"―and left it in the cave," completed Falna, nodding as one of its own mysteries resolves. "The marker was in the coat."

"What happens now, Falna? Another suicide?"

With its free hand, Estone Falna reaches to its Talman. Falna works the catch, but instead of its line’s book of The Talman, a silver cube set with four tiny blue lights drops out. "This is a remarkable piece of engineering," says Falna. "Mind fusion was invented by the Timans. Did you know that?"

"No."

"You still haven’t told me when you knew it was me. Was it before last night? Before we loved?"

"It was when I heard that Jeriba Ty was dead."

"Before we made love?" Falna frowns as it cocks its head to one side. "I don’t understand this. On Earth they would say that you are from the sticks. Straight off the farm. A rube. You’re not that devious. You love me."

I look into Falna’s beautiful brownish-yellow eyes and say, "I am, after all, Yazi Ro 'do Timan, graduate of the Ri Mou Tavii."

"I’ll take that, Falna," says Davidge from the doorway. Stunned, Falna allows Davidge to take the strange knife and the mind-fusion instrument from its hands. Kita and the human Nisak security officer are behind Davidge and they move in. The Nisak security man takes Falna’s arms and shackles them. Kita has a pistol in her hand and it is trained on Falna.

Davidge faces Falna and shakes his head. "I don’t know what to say to you. The loss. My god, Falna, the loss. To Estone Nev, to your line, to the entire Jeriba line, to yourself, medicine, the Jetai Diea, the Dracon Chamber."

"Uncle, it is impossible for you to understand what drives those who would make sacrifices to keep The Talman pure, free from human corruption."

His face sad, I see Davidge’s shoulders slump as the human leans against the link console to steady himself. "I think I do understand, Falna. Remember, thirty years ago Jeriba Shigan’s nameparent and I were on Fyrine IV to kill each other. I understand very well. What I don’t understand," he holds up his hands showing the knife and the miniature mind-fusion instrument, "is this! You and this. That’s what I don’t understand." He lowers his hands and steps closer to Falna. "Out of all the children I’ve loved and taught, I gave you more than any of the others, yet you resisted at every turn. Why?"

Falna turns its back on Davidge and spreads its three-fingered hands, "Count the fingers, Uncle. Remember my parent and count the fingers." With that Falna leaves the chamber followed by the Nisak security guard. Kita places a hand on Davidge’s arm.

"I better keep an eye on Falna."

Davidge nods and, as Kita hurries after the Nisak security officer and his prisoner, he turns, leans his back against the wall, and slides down until he is squatting. He stares for a long time at the floor until at last he says, "For the first time in my life, I feel old."

"Feeling like a failure?" I ask him.

He snorts out a laugh and looks over his right shoulder into the shadows. "You wouldn’t?"

"No, Will, I would not. I have met some of your successes."

Davidge stares into the shadows for a long time. When he at last faces me, his eyes are glistening. "Thank you, Ro." He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall. "Will you answer me a question?"

"If I can. And," I add, "if you will answer a question for me."

Davidge nods and asks, "Is Falna right? Do you love it?"

"Falna is correct about that." I feel the breath catch in my throat, that ache in my middle. To put my focus elsewhere, I say to Davidge, "Now it is your turn."

"Okay."

"On Friendship, when we were preparing for the voyage to this planet, you took a day off to go skiing. Why?"

"Kita makes great company." He looks at me, a touch of guilt in his eyes. "Okay, no flip comments." He looks down at his hands and thinks for a moment. "There’s a trail out at Hidden Valley that I’ve never been able to do without falling down. I keep trying, though, because it’s a way of measuring myself." He shrugs and begins rubbing his eyes.

"There was a moment after reading the Koda Nusinda when I got this feeling." He lowers his hand from his eyes and straightens his legs until he is standing. "It’s like somehow I knew that I was never going to see Friendship again. I can’t put my finger on why. It was a feeling. I had to give that trail one last try. Does that seem crazy?"

"Did you beat it?"

He grins and shakes his head. "No. I went down it a good bit of the way on my butt, a little bit of the way on my face. But the failure is in not trying, right?"

"Shizumaat seems to think so," I answer.

He stands next to me and places a friendly hand on my shoulder. "Are you about ready to go?"

"Go?" I frown at the human. "Go where?"

"Amadeen," he answers as he points with his thumb toward the door. "We’re done here, and as Captain Moss pointed out, the war is thataway."

We walk together to the quarters. In my bed chamber, alone, I cry for yet another love lost. Davidge, I fear, cries for much more.

THIRTY

Amadeen.

Yazi Ro is going back to Amadeen.

There are a hundred good solid reasons and at least a thousand plausible excuses for not going back. Here I am, nonetheless, riding my rocket back to hell.

Two days were taken up by the Karnarak. There will be a trial and our depositions were needed. The Karnarak District Master says that he is convinced Falna will be found guilty of Ty’s murder, which draws the heaviest penalty: endless sleep. It is much like a permanent state of alert suspension with the trial charges, records, evidence, and testimony interspersed with Timan lectures on morality, responsibility, consequences, and remorse, all repeated again and again. I think about this as little as possible.

Another day was spent preparing and packing the ship. On the day we leave a call comes to me and I have a visitor. The call is from Estone Nev over the subspace link. Nev says that it is grateful I caught the child of its namechild before Falna killed anyone else. Nev also makes it clear that I am welcome at the estate at any time.

The visitor is Lahvay ni 'do Timan, Dakiz of the Ri Mou Tavii. He comes to my quarters in the Keu Vac Ount wearing an environmental suit, an unprecedented honor to me, as the Nisak representative Atruin 'do Timan is quick to point out. In the bubble top of the suit, Lahvay’s face appears distressed. When we are alone, I offer the Dakiz one of the comfortable chairs in my greeting room.

"My great thanks, Yazi Ro 'do Timan, but forgive me." His suited hands pat his rather wide girth. "In one of these suits I find it much less painful to stand. It has been years since I wore one. I had to borrow this ensemble from one of my students, whom from now on I will refer to as Slim."

I hold out my hands. "I would have been happy to meet you on the other side of the lock, Dakiz. In fact, if you prefer we can go there now."

"Again my great thanks, Ro, but what I have to say is brief. I am here to ask you a favor."

"I will grant it, if I can, Dakiz."

Lahvay ni 'do Timan raises a hand and holds up a cautionary finger. "Do not be in such haste. It is a considerable favor I would ask." He glances at the chair I offered him, decides against it, and aims his white-eyed gaze at me. "With Amadeen, as I understand it, you are going into a solution test without the benefit of a solution to test."

I feel my eyebrows climb as I nod. "You have put it quite well, Dakiz."

His suited hands flip up and down in a gesture of either helplessness or frustration. "Are you and your companions going to dance among the energy bursts and disrupter beams hoping that something will simply turn up?"

I think about the Dakiz’s question for a moment, then nod. "In essence," I answer. "Perhaps it might sound less insane if I say that we do not have all the information we need. The information is on Amadeen, and that is why we must go there."

"And then," says the Dakiz, "you hope something will turn up."

"We hope something will turn up."

The Dakiz snorts in disapproval, half sits on the chair, then changes his mind. Upright once again, he looks into my eyes and says, "I approach you in peace with no motive or weapon hidden."

"I meet you in the same manner, Dakiz."

"I have thought long and hard about the problem you brought before the nests, Yazi Ro 'do Timan. I do not have a solution, but I very much want to see such a solution. Our small corner of the universe is changing and it is time that the Ri Mou Tavii added ending armed conflicts to its discipline. I ask you to record your efforts upon Amadeen and the results. Whether you and your comrades are successful or not, please send the results to the Ri Mou Tavii so that we may begin building this new field of study. Should you survive this experiment on Amadeen, I and the Ri Mou Tavii would be honored if you would come to Timan and become a nest master at the school long enough to share your knowledge with us."

"The honor would be mine, Dakiz. If I survive and can get off Amadeen, I will come to the Ri Mou Tavii."

At that, Lahvay ni 'do Timan opens his hands, faces the palms toward me, and says, "I wish you and your comrades insight, wisdom, good luck, and a safe and profitable journey." He then bows and waddles from my greeting room.

THIRTY-ONE

In the Koda Ayvida of The Talman, it is written that the seeker Mistaan undertook a six-year meditation to join with that part of itself and the universe that had the answer it sought. The seeker’s problem was how to keep alive the words of its master Vehya through which the wisdom of its teacher Shizumaat had been carried. Mistaan found a place on a cliff high above the forest floor, stated its problem, then opened itself to the universe. Six years later the meditation ended and Mistan picked up a stick and a lump of flattened clay and invented writing. The first documents written were the Myth of Aakva, the Story of Uhe, and the Story of Shizumaat, the first three Kodas of The Talman. The voyage to Amadeen will take four months, which is all the meditation I am to be allowed. I join Captain Moss and Reaper Brandt in refusing suspension.

The captain does not undergo suspension because he trusts no one and no thing. Reaper says he enjoys the opportunity to study, reflect, and otherwise add to his knowledge. He also has a trust problem and a denial problem. In my case, I need the time to think. Between The Talman and the lessons of the Ri Mou Tavii, I have much to absorb about my place in the universe, my purpose, and my degree of commitment. There is also the problem of Amadeen.

With Davidge and Kita in suspension next to Yora Beneres and Ghazi Mrabet, I often go into the suspension bay, look at the four of them, and wonder where they have traveled to reach this place. Mrabet, for all his erudition and calm manner, is in a race with his own memories, losing himself by using sex as a drug, when he can get it, and music when he cannot. The songs and instrumentals he favors are the skull-shattering tempos of Vikaan. My font of information, the eternal seeker, Reaper Brandt, says that Mrabet was an engineer for the Nadok Rim Pirates before he teamed up with Moss. Reaper has not a clue as to the nature of Ghazi’s nightmare nor of its origins. He is a mechanical genius, a bloodthirsty and fearless fighter.

Yora Beneres, according to Reaper, is a hero waiting for a cause worthy of her ideals. After years of looking for some sort of meaning, she had given up her quest and was filling in the time left before death, until we came along seeking an end to war on Amadeen. She is a good pilot and an even better small arms expert. Reaper reports seeing her take out with three rapidly fired shots three guards who were surrounding her with weapons drawn. "Very frugal," Reaper added. "She hates to waste ammunition." Before joining the USEF to fight in the Buldahk Insurrection, she was a video actress with a fairly impressive list of credits. It was not enough.

When I study Kita Yamagata’s face, I am puzzled about her reasons for being on this ship. With the arrest of Estone Falna, her job with us is over. She has no stake, mental or otherwise, in what happens on Amadeen. Reaper says he and Kita have had long talks about police work, intelligence, and police procedures, and he is seriously impressed with her mind. Reaper is not certain why Kita is riding on this bullet to Amadeen, but the reason, he suspects, is in the next pod: Willis E. Davidge.

I look through the clear plastic canopy at his face, tiny crystals of ice on his eyebrows and upper lip. Kita Yamagata loves this man and I wonder if he even has a clue. I think I love him, as well, but as a strange sort of surrogate parent. Not a parent. An uncle, in fact.

His war was over three decades ago with the signing of the USE-Dracon Chamber Treaty. I know that he would not trade those thirty years on that hellishly cold planet for any other being’s time or place in the universe. He said once that my comrades and I had helped buy him that thirty years and it was time for him to put something down on account.

Remembering the old human joke, I said, "On account of what?"

Without acknowledging the joke, Davidge said cryptically, "I shave my face these days. That still requires a mirror."

Captain Moss is up in the cockpit, thrashing himself with his losses, Reaper is in his quarters reading, and it is time for me to begin my meditation. In my quarters, I take the kneeling position most Dracs take when meditating, but the unfamiliar position is too distracting. Before the Aeolus left Timan space, Kita had shown me a pose she uses called the lotus position, and I simply stared in horror at that tangle of legs, feet, and ankles.

After the manner of Mistaan on its ledge above the forest, I lie down on my bunk, my hands at my sides, close my eyes and breathe, opening myself to all of myself, the universe.

—Falna enters my awareness first, its sleek thighs, that miracle of a face, its gentle embrace, its passionate touch as it spread the lips of my womb and entered me.

A great well of loss.

Other lovers, other touches, other losses.

A lonely child, its dead parent’s hand cold and limp. When it was warm, that hand had little time to stroke the child. There were enemies to avoid, shelter to acquire, clothes to mend, food to steal, the endless demands of the Mavedah. The child still craves that touch, though, seeking always to fill the void that touch’s absence left.

—The Dakiz’s face, eyes white, purplish lips pulsing in and out. "Welcome to the Ri Mou Tavii, Yazi Ro. If you find here what you seek, that will be a treasure you will earn."

—The Amadeen Front prisoner held outside Fort Lewis, his hands upraised, "Love! We have to love one another!" Two guards were laughing at him. The third was listening. "There can he no peace until we kill hate. Let us be of one family."

All three guards died as the prisoner suddenly leaped at the one who was listening, wrested the energy knife from its hands, and killed them before another guard could bring the human down with a single pistol shot.

Love one another.

A few days later, guarding a new batch of Front prisoners, one of them rises to one knee and is hit at the same time by two guards with disrupters. I stand there watching as a female sitting on the ground next to the dead man cries and asks, "Why? My god, why?"

"Love one another," I tell her.

— two creatures, multi-legged, black, and scaled, their powerful pinching claws slowly opening and closing, corner a third creature, smooth, soft, small, and slow―

—Graduation day.

"The threat is an ongoing war in a closed system between two species neither of which has the ability to forget or forgive an injury. Each side’s goal is the elimination of the other side. The end of the threat requires peace."

―My very first graduation day.

My time at the Nokbuk Kovah is near its end. Soon I and my fellow fighters will join the ranks of the Mavedah. There is a test, though, its nature a closely guarded secret. One says it is a torture we must suffer without complaint. Another says it is a demonstration of arms. Another says it is a shameful hideous task we must perform to show how much we want to be Mavedah.

All of them are correct.

In my hand is a knife. When the door to the pit in front of me opens, I see a live human male tied with his arms behind him to a pole set into the hard-packed ground of the tiny combat arena. In the seats above the pit are Jetah Dekaban Lo and the Selector, Choi Leh.

There are no instructions. I am supposed to know what to do, and I am supposed to do it.

The human looks at me, its voice low and pleading. "No. Please. No. Please."

I raise my knife and walk toward the man, my mind racing. In our communications training we were shown a holographic receiver. Perhaps this is not a real human.

—In combat training we were shown some of the mechanical men some of whom were used by the USEF early in the war. They say there are still a few in the ranks of the Front. Perhaps this is not a real human.

—Its eyes are gray, the perspiration beaded on its forehead, its throat dry from fear. "Please, God, no. Please, God, no."

It is just a test. Lo and the Selector just want to see if I am hard enough to kill. No one would really use prisoners this way. I think I see a crack in the flesh of the man’s neck, just above the collar of his sweat-stained shirt. It is a mechanical and I have hesitated too long already. As I reach up with my blade and draw it across the throat of the man, I see that the crack is only a loose thread. Then I am sprayed with human blood as Dekiban Lo and Choi Leh grunt their approval.

As I walk toward the door, wiping the blood from my face, I hear them dragging another human into the pit. "No!" the human cries. "Please, no!"

I am led to a different place. I see my blood-spattered comrades sitting and standing by a tracked vehicle. They avoid looking into my eyes and I avoid looking into theirs. By late afternoon the last of us has graduated and is led to the tracked transport. We all climb in, the doors are closed behind us, and the transport’s motor whines as the walls and floor lurch on our way to the Okori Sikov in the Southern Shorda. "We are the twelve," says a bitter voice in the dark.

"The front twelve," we whisper in response. "Mavedah. "

"A truce, then," offers the Timan student. "Resolve what can be resolved, and have peace,"

"Every time there is a truce," I begin, "uncontrollable factions and individuals from each side attack and perform atrocities that ignite again the larger war. Truces that once lasted weeks and months are now reduced to hours or a day. Neither side can police its uncontrollable factions for neither political leadership can survive the prosecution of its own kind for the crime of killing those of the other side."

—Pria presents its problem to the nest.

—The Dakiz calls for a test of my solution.

―Pria throws wide its fleshy arms, takes a step toward me, and says, "I am going to crush you to death!"

I say, "If you take another step toward me, Pria, I will break every bone in your body."

The beginning of a new Timan parable.

As if from an incredible distance I hear someone calling my name: "Ro! Ro! Ro!"

That human children’s song works its way into my mind and I hear my voice croak, "Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream―" Before I can get to my first merrily, I gag, then cough, then double up with a coughing fit.

The fit passes, I lie there like a wet rag. No strength, my middle hurts, a horrible odor assaults my nostrils. With effort I open my eyes and see Kita’s face looking down at me. "How long has Yazi Ro been lying here?" she asks.

"A little shy of twenty-one standard days," answers Reaper.

"Why didn’t you bring me up sooner? A little longer and it would’ve died from dehydration. My god, couldn’t you smell it in here?"

"Dracs don’t need that much water. Besides, Ro said that Mistaan did a meditation for six years," he explains lamely.

"Reaper, that was a parable. Even so, it was on a cliff, in the open, its disciples bringing it food every day!"

I see Reaper’s face next to Kita’s. His nose wrinkles. "Um. I suppose the occasional rainstorm hosed off the ledge, too." He grins at me and says, "Hey, Ro! You alive?"

I nod and croak out, "I am."

"Next time you want to do a marathon meditation, maybe you should get together first with someone who knows what he’s doing."

"You may be right."

Kita holds up my head and places the end of a squeeze bottle between my lips. "This is just some juice."

The sugary liquid splashes into my dry mouth and it is the most delicious thing I have ever tasted. Three squirts and I nod my thanks. Kita removes the bottle and lowers me back down, "Reaper, get Ro into the shower and get it cleaned up. I’ll find a clean robe."

"One thing, first." Reaper bends over until his face fills my vision. "Did you get the answer you were looking for?"

I shake my head. "Not the one I was looking for. Instead I saw one that will work."

Reaper turns to Kita. "Aroma is high but the sight is keen."

THIRTY-TWO

In the galley, a small bit of solid food in me, I sit wrapped in a blanket looking at the others seated around the table. Kita sits at my right, Reaper to my left. Mrabet, Davidge, Moss, and Beneres sit across the table from us. "There will be another attempt at a truce between the Mavedah and the Amadeen Front," I begin. "There always is." I look at Davidge.

He cocks his head to one side. "Then one of the splinter factions, either human or Drac, will do something to torpedo the peace process."

"And then the whole thing blows up," says Yora Beneres.

I shake my head. "No. One of the splinter factions will do something to try to disrupt the peace process. We find out who it is and either stop them or punish them if they violate the truce conditions."

Captain Moss frowns in confusion, looks around the table, and asks, "We? Who’s we?"

"For a beginning, the seven of us." Six pairs of raised eyebrows face me. Undaunted, I continue. "I think we can build our numbers by first presenting our talma to Zenak Abi, and then to its people, as well as to anyone else who has defected from the fighting. Once the word gets out that a neutral force will police the truce, I think more will join. We will need fighters and investigators in our ranks," I look at Reaper, "and those secret members who collect information in the Drac territories and in the human territories and those who lie in wait to take Aydan’s Blade to the violators. Every time there is a violation, those who order the violation and those who take part, die. We leave our mark to let others know that to violate the peace is to die, and it is us, not their opposition, doing the killing."

Ghazi Mrabet taps a finger on the table. "Then you see Dracs killing Dracs."

"And humans killing humans," adds Kita.

"Yes."

"A war to end war?" asks Davidge. "Is this just taking a two-sided conflict and making it three-sided?"

Reaper leans his elbows on the table and clasps his hands together. "I see what Ro’s getting at. We’re not talking war, Will. Yazi Ro here is talking cops." He looks at me and raises his eyebrows. "Police?"

I think for a moment and nod. "Police. Very special police, out to prevent only one crime."

Eli Moss shrugs and holds up a hand. "This isn’t going to change the goals of any of these nutball factions."

A moment of light-headedness brushes me and floats away. I take a sip of juice, swallow, and look at the captain. "We will not attempt to change goals, educate, mediate, or have the peoples of Amadeen love one another. Until at least one generation can grow up in peace, all of those are out of reach. Our only goal will be peace. Making violating the peace pointless is how we will do it."

I look at Davidge. "Our goal is different from the Front and the Mavedah and from all of their factions. Our goal is peace. Any two groups that come together to make peace, we are there in both the light and the shadows to keep the peace from being violated."

"Why would anyone take us seriously?"

Reaper shakes his head and wags a hand back and forth. "At first, they won’t." He lowers his hand and raises an eyebrow. "After the first hit, though, we will have credibility."

Davidge leans back in his seat and ponders while Reaper and Kita talk about how to set up a network of clandestine local information and investigation centers from which can come accurate information to identify, target, and hit particular violators. In Davidge’s face I see objections present themselves and get resolved one by one, his face saddening with each resolution.

It is argued, pulled apart, and argued again from different positions. Davidge, Captain Moss, Yora Beneres, and Ghazi Mrabet hang back and frown as they listen. Reaper and Kita almost appoint themselves my sales agents. Kita talks about the information system used by the Asian Regional Police on Earth where she was an interrogator and later circuit troubleshooter for the East Asian Administrative District. An organizational outline is drawn, amended, changed again, the outline redrawn time and time again. Where to do this, how to do that, who to do this, what to do it to. Nearing the end of the discussion, Davidge is the only one still hanging back. With the others, I can see that what we are going to do has been resolved. How to do it is detail.

I am exhausted by the time Davidge is finished with his pondering. "Two things," he says. "First, I think we can get two years' head start on building the information files if we can get access to the quarantine force’s data banks. They’ve been out there going around in circles for thirty years and I’ll bet for all that time the sociologists and government paper wizards have been observing Amadeen, taking notes, and writing papers and reports no one is ever going to read. I’ll use the subspace link and see if the Ovjetah can get the information and send it on to us." He smiles and shakes his head.

"And your second thing?"

"I guess there is no second thing. I was going to have Shigan run this through the Talman Kovah’s projection computers, but it would only say the same thing that it’s been saying for months: 'Knowledge of the path might close the path, Uncle." He looks at me, the sadness in his eyes heartbreaking. "If we do this with even a slight degree of success, we will be in a war: killing theirs and burying our own." He clasps his hands and looks off into the distance. "In the only war I ever saw, I jockeyed a long-range fighter. When I killed someone it was a blip on a screen. When a friend died, his blip just disappeared and there was another vacancy in the base ship. All very neat and clean. There wasn’t time to think, only to react. If you took time to think, you died." He brings his gaze back to my eyes. "The kind of war you’re talking about, Ro, is a lot dirtier. I don’t want it." He pauses for moment and says again, "I don’t want it, but no one has a better alternative. You did good work."

It is one thing to suggest a theory. There is a special terror in having those you know take it seriously and act upon it. I nod my thanks, and give in to my weariness.

"Get some rest, some food, and some exercise. We’re only at the beginning of this." Davidge looks around at the others. "I don’t see going back into suspension. If we can get that data from the quarantine force, we’re all going to be up to our ears making plans, training, sorting information, and studying." He looks around the room one last time. "Anyone else?"

The Reaper makes a fist and knocks on the table top. "Computers. We need lots of small hand-portables for on the surface. We can get started with the ship’s computers, but once we’re planetside, we’re going to have to check and cross-reference all of our information, with each station adding and updating info for each area. I can’t believe they have anything left on Amadeen that’s working and we can get our hands on."

"How many?"

Reaper glances at Kita and she frowns as she does a little calculating in her head. "Two or three hundred with extra power packs to begin. We’ll need comm portables so they can transmit and receive updates."

"Something else," interrupts Mrabet. "Components and tools for repairs and for manufacture. If we can develop the capability to make our own we’ll be able to keep up supplies and adapt the newer ones more closely to our needs without having to depend on off-planet supply."

Davidge nods. "I’ll see what the Ovjetah can do for us. Anything else?"

"Yes," answers Yora. "It seems like the Front is going to be mortally bent if we hit a human and the Mavedah is going to be equally hacked if we whack a Drac." She nods at Moss. "The captain and I used to belong to an outfit that everybody on a particular planet hated. It got pretty hairy and we weren’t even on the planet’s surface." There is a long silence then she smiles broadly and says, "Just an observation."

In four days I feel fit. At our regular meeting, Davidge asks, "How do we get down on Amadeen’s surface?"

Captain Moss dismisses the matter as no problem at all. "We’ve already recorded the orbiting stations' positions and movements relative to the planet’s surface. We have the fighter patrol schedules, and we’re getting records of the movements of the quarantine force’s own band of smugglers. What it amounts to," says Moss, "is we go in where no one is looking and quickly get down to an altitude below what they consider trying to leave Amadeen. The only thing we have to worry about then is getting pranged by a Front or a Mavedah ground-to-air missile."

There is some discussion regarding the accuracy of the quarantine force’s information on the location of such missile units when Ghazi Mrabet taps a finger on the table. "What about getting off Amadeen?"

"Off?" I ask.

He nods. "Yes. Say we make it down, get everything organized, whack the bad guys, the truce we hope for holds, and all of us aren’t dead. In other words, what if there is peace? Does anybody get off or is Amadeen quarantined until its sun goes red giant?"

I look at Davidge and the human is nibbling at the skin on the insides of his lips'. "If the truce holds, if there is peace for a year between the warring sides, the quarantine will be reviewed and becomes eligible to be relaxed to the extent of allowing trade, communications, and passenger traffic. Once a formal peace is signed, the quarantine force loses its charter. That’s when we can all leave, go to the Talman Kovah, and present our talma to the Jetai Diea. Then we can watch them reaffirm their vote and publish the Koda Nusinda, Maybe."

Yora leans back in her chair. "Maybe?"

The left side of Davidge’s mouth pulls back in a wry smile as he looks at me. "Ro, what was it that Michael Hill said to you on the ship from Draco?"

"If you want to hear God laugh, make a plan," I answer.

Davidge nods, stands, and walks toward the cockpit.

THIRTY-THREE

Three months from Amadeen. The Ovjetah reports the computers, parts, tools, and equipment we requested are waiting for us at the A’ja Cou Station in orbit around Vikaan, thirty days from Amadeen. In the intervening two months, we can work on the USE-DC Quarantine Force data. All of the information we want from the quarantine force is already at the Talman Kovah, as it is at the USE Archives on Earth, complete with weekly updates. It may only be released to parties engaged in serious research on the subject of Amadeen, which puts us at the top of the list.

We get it all: historical overviews, government, political history, economics, currency and finance, production, trade, demography, transportation, agriculture, forestry, fishing, industry and mining, culture and education, environment, natural resources, geography, geology, and so on. There is even a vast part of the data bank devoted to sports and recreation.

My mind numbs at the wealth of information for which we have little or no use. The military and terrorism sections, however, have names of individuals and organizations, dates and places, methods of operation, individual relations and even some locations and addresses. On the Drac side, there is the Mavedah and three main splinter groups: the Tean Sindie or Children of Racehome; the Sitarmeda or Sixteenth, named for the Koda Sitarmeda in The Talman, which covers the Thousand Year War; and Thuyo Koradar or Eye of the Killer. Within and around these ungovernable organizations are numbers of much smaller uncontrollable factions and individuals with records of acting on their own without regard to any authority or organization whatsoever.

On the human side, there is the Amadeen front and four main splinter groups: Black October, for whom the political party on Earth is named; Green Fire, named that for reasons of its own, possibly an early founder; the Fives, named for the number of fingers on a human hand; and the Rose, named for slain Front Chairman Gordon Rose. They, too, have their minor factions and rugged individualists. Of the most recent seven truce attempts over the past two years, four were undermined by Black October and the remaining three by Tean Sindie.

Non-combatant groups aligned with neither side, I am surprised to see, form the majority of the population on Amadeen. Zenak Abi’s friends are just one of hundreds of such groups numbering from fifty to one island enclave numbering over a million men, women, and Dracs.

Our planned structure is thrown out and done again based on the existing organizations, factions, and individuals it will be necessary to monitor and outguess. As the information is processed, Kita and Reaper make charts showing the location and extent of influence of each organization, the location of individuals, supply dumps, weapons caches, food, clothing, and weapon production facilities, hospitals, power plants, disposition of military units, and so on. At one point, Davidge hands me a sheet of paper. "A little something I squeezed out of the name bank."

I look at it and I now have all of the names and all of the histories of my line, including the address in Gitoh where the Yazi line archives are supposed to be. Perhaps when we get to Amadeen, if we live long enough, and if we can maintain a truce, and if we can get to Gitoh, and if there is any of Gitoh left when we get there, perhaps Davidge will stand with me when I recite line and book and take on the robes of adulthood. It is still my fantasy.

One of the charts shows where fighting is actually taking place. On the holographic reader in the cockpit it is a huge blue and white globe perforated and scratched with a few glowing red dots and lines. While I am studying it, noticing that in the Southern Shorda nothing much has changed during the past year, Yora Beneres leans back in her couch, stretches, and says in a loud voice, "I think we have a path down to the surface."

She leans forward and suddenly my holographic display is replaced with another: a smaller scale representation of Amadeen with the six orbiting stations of the quarantine force surrounding it. Yora gets up from her couch and stands next to me. "Look at this, Ro. Thirty years of sitting on their butts and not doing anything has made them very sloppy."

She reaches over and punches something into the keyboard. The surface of the planet turns bright orange at the equator, the color growing dimmer as it reaches the poles. At the poles themselves the surface is blue. She punches in another code and the orbiters begin leaving bright pink tracks as they circle the planet. With less than one orbit, the eccentric orbits of two of the orbiters become obvious. When they are below the equator, the patch of blue at the north pole increases on one side. "See that?"

"Yes," I answer, looking up at her. "What about the fighter patrols?"

She taps in another code and tiny bright dots in motion begin leaving bright green tracks. A group takes a position thirty degrees above the equator and its sibling group takes a similar position thirty degrees below the equator. The entire surface of the planet is orange, including the poles. "Now watch this."

At that point in time when the two eccentrically orbiting quarantine stations and the northern fighter patrol are on opposite sides of the pole, a beautiful blue slot opens in the quarantine force’s coverage of the planet. "How long will it be open?"

"Long enough." She stands straight and glances toward the hatch. "I better let Eli know."

"Before you go, could you bring up the display I was observing?"

Her eyebrows go up. "I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had something in the works." She taps in a code and my own display replaces the one showing the orbiters. With a long finger she points at one of the glowing red lines on the surface of Amadeen. "The battle charts! So that’s what it looks like on the reader." She studies the display and nods her head. "Well, that’s encouraging. Most of the planet is at peace. All that’s left is to tidy up a bit."

I am certain she is joking.

A day from the A’ja Cou Station, after much sifting, sorting, and eliminating, we arrive at a list of names and locations of likely truce violators and likely candidates for our infant organization. Now all we have to do is verify the information, find them, watch them, add the new names, catch the guilty, prove them guilty, and call upon them with prejudice to the max.

Kita, Yora, and I are in the galley discussing the name of the organization. In my mind it has always been Aydan’s Blade. They have, though, other ideas. Yora leans on the table and says, "Aydan’s Blade is a great name, Ro, if you’re a Drac. It’s a story out of The Talman, the name of a Drac Jetah."

"The Front won’t think of us as neutral and independent with a name like that," adds Kita.

After some more argument I let go of the name in favor of the organization’s absolute neutrality in appearance as well as in fact. Reaper joins us and the four of us offer many names, reaching agreement on none of them as Captain Moss enters the galley.

"Where’s Davidge?"

"His quarters," I answer. "What is it?"

"Two messages from Atruin 'do Timan. First, he’s seen a general report issued by the USE-DC Quarantine Force that the Front and the Mavedah are both putting out feelers for another truce. The other message is that Estone Falna was found guilty. It got the long sleep." Moss holds my gaze for a moment, then turns and heads toward the passenger quarters. With joints made of water, I stumble to my quarters to be alone in the dark.

THIRTY-FOUR

The A’ja Cou Station. The Planet Vikaan fills the blackness above us with its greenish-blue surface broken by bands and whorls of delicate white clouds as the station, looking like thick spokes of a wheel with no rim, comes into view. Illuminated by the sun, each spoke looks like a stack of thin white wafers, the bottom of each stack joined together at the hub. There are eight stacks, three of which are only partly completed. They seem to have a strange radiance. As we move closer the sheen I thought I saw resolves into thousands of illuminated window ports revealing that each one of those wafers is at least fourteen stories thick.

While Ghazi Mrabet is busy with Reaper, Kita, and Davidge, I sit in the engineer’s couch in the cockpit watching while the Aeolus prepares to dock. Eli and Yora flip switches and mutter unintelligible chatter at each other and into their headsets which prompts additional gibberish from the station port traffic controller into the headset I am wearing. Their instrument panel screens fill with numbers, diagrams, and attitude views of the ship as countless colored lights flash between blue and green. Despite this chaos of information, the Aeolus moves smoothly toward the most outside wafer on one of the eight spokes. The white edge of the wafer is broken with innumerable slots, each slot being a docking bay capable of handling one or more freighters or large passenger ships. As the ship follows a trail of five other ships around the spoke, bays illuminate. Each bay preparing to accept a ship has docking codes displayed. One by one the ships turn from the pattern into their respective bays in a silent, dreamy dance. At last the Aeolus turns and moves smoothly toward one of the bays. In moments the ship is swallowed by the cavernous interior and is brought to a halt so quietly I fail to notice when we actually stop. Eli and Yora shut down their panels and get up from their couches. Yora stops next to me. "Well, what did you think?"

I am so stunned by the scale and beauty of it all I cannot think of anything to say. Eli pushes past her and looks out of the cockpit’s ports at the interior of the landing bay. "It was kind of monotonous, wasn’t it?" He looks back at me. "Dockings and landings are lot more entertaining when the reception committee is shooting at you."

After disembarking, Yora and the captain go to the port director’s office while Davidge, Kita, Reaper, and I move through crowds of Vikaans, humans, Dracs, and some others to take a tram to Ekst 98, the cargo holding level, one wafer toward the hub from the docking level, Ekst 99. As the brightly illuminated car drops down and slows at the almost deserted level 98 boarding platform, Davidge and I see a familiar personage waiting for us. It is Estone Nev. The old Drac is clad in dark maroon trousers and boots and a black robe. I look at Davidge and his skin is pale.

As the doors open, Reaper heads straight for the cargo transfer office while Kita and I stand and watch Davidge approach Estone Nev. Neither of them say a word. Nev looks sadly at the human while the human cannot look into the old Drac’s eyes at all. Nev reaches out a hand, places it on Davidge’s cheek, and pulls the human toward itself. Nev embraces him and Davidge’s shoulders begin heaving. "It was not your responsibility, Will. You did not fail the child. Falna made its own choices."

Kita takes my hand and holds it. I look down at her and her eyes are filled with tears. I look away from them all before I too burn my eyes with tears. There is too much killing and dying in our futures to begin crying now, especially to cry for such as Falna. I feel another hand touching my shoulder, I turn to look and it is Estone Nev. The words tumble from my lips, "Forgive me, Nev."

It pulls me close and embraces me, its words gentle on my ear. "There is nothing to forgive, child."

"But Falna! If I―"

"I do not judge you, Yazi Ro. If I do not, who are you to judge yourself?"

Much later, alone in my quarters in the station, I am again sitting in the dark entertaining my demons. Why does the permanent suspension of a murderer―a murderer who once aimed death at me―act upon me harder than the death of any of those who loved me? I think on it and the only reason that makes sense is, with the exception of my parent, all of the others I expected to die. I never believed any of the others truly loved me because we all held something back. All of us expected ourselves and the others to die. Falna, though, had the most wonderful past and future I had ever seen—could even imagine. Blessed by the universe, it had to live for it was destined for a life of peace, love, prosperity, and fulfillment. That is why I believed Falna loved me. That is why I loved Falna. That is why some perverse part of me still loves Falna.

What can permanent conscious suspension be like? Unlike the pods on board ship, where time, even conscious time, is compressed, months seeming like hours, suspension in Timan’s Karnarak cells is in real time, every instant filled with endless repetition: the trial, the trial notes and materials, lectures and object lessons on morality, the trial, over and over until the only hiding place is madness. Falna is strong-minded, though. Perhaps it will not quickly give into insanity. It might take years, decades. It might only take a few months, though. A mind as brilliant as Falna’s needs stimulation. The monotony coupled with the prospect of forever being imprisoned in a cell the exact size of its own body―Falna might be screaming in silence this very moment. Falna is so young. If it lives as long as its parent’s nameparent, Estone Nev, it will be suffering for another five decades.

I look at the darkness around me and suddenly it no longer provides a hiding place. Instead a thousand invisible threats lurk in the shadows. I rise from the meditation dais, go to the door, and step into the main salon of the suites Estone Nev arranged for us. The aged Drac has done much for us. After hearing the talma from Jeriba Shigan, Nev added something to the cargo for us it accompanied to the A’ja Cou Station. In addition to the computers and the supplies, tools, and equipment for repairing and manufacturing computers, are eight power platforms packaged together in a stack. Separated and assembled, each platform can carry up to sixty soldiers in full battle gear. More important than that, however, it can carry an equal weight of tools and equipment. Nev had said, "Remember the words of our old deceased enemy, Hissied do Timan: 'The enemy who believes it has an investment in a particular site will fortify that location, and in so doing fashion its own trap." Our entire operation, including Ghazi Mrabet’s small computer factory, is air mobile.

Davidge and Nev are seated in plush couches facing each other. Kita is in third couch looking at one of the hand-portable comm-linked computers the crew of the Aeolus was having loaded into the ship’s cargo bays. Kita sees me and smiles. "You must see the computers, Ro. They are exactly what we need."

"Good." I sit next to her, and as Davidge and Nev discuss the Amadeen talma, I look at the instrument and am surprised how small and light it is. While Kita points out the features, Davidge asks the old Drac, "Why are you here, Nev? Anyone could have supervised delivery of the cargo."

"Well, there were the power platforms, and some special equipment."

"Orin or any cargo agent could have handled that."

Nev’s eyes search Davidge’s for a moment, then they look elsewhere. "This thing you plan to attempt on Amadeen, it is very dangerous."

"Granted."

"Will, would you begrudge me a last meeting and embrace with you?"

Davidge sighs and looks down guiltily. "Of course not. I am very glad to see you." His gaze slowly rises until he is once more looking into Nev’s eyes. "That isn’t all, though. You…you’re going from here to Timan, aren’t you?"

Nev wrestles with a thought, then discards it. "Yes, I am."

"Why?"

Estone Nev shows its palms and says, "It is not sufficient that my namechild’s child is being held there?"

Davidge leans forward, his expression one of fear and concern. "Don’t do this, Nev. An army couldn’t break Falna out of the Karnarak security center."

"I have no such plans," answers Nev. "To attempt to do that I would have to disagree with the Timan verdict, and I do not. Falna is a murderer and among its murders is dear Ty, the child of Jeriba Zammis." The old Drac seems stunned for a moment by its own words.

"Why go to Timan, then?"

"I know about conscious suspension, the way they are keeping Falna." Nev nods toward Kita. "Her partner at Aakva Lua, Mirili Sanda, told me that according to the Timan law, there is an alternative to permanent suspension. I had the estate’s attorney investigate the matter, and it is true. There is an alternative."

Estone Nev looks up and its eyes are haunted by its chosen mission. "Falna may be put to death. As its sole living ascendant, according to the law, only I have the right to take Falna’s life." It raises its hands and looks down at them. "With these," it whispers. "I am allowed no medications, weapons, or surrogates. I must use these." Nev looks up and its gaze meets mine. "I am traveling to Timan to strangle the life from my namechild’s child."

There is another embrace between Nev and Davidge, Kita standing next to them, her arms around them both. I hurry from the salon, horrified by the torture Estone Nev has chosen for itself and enraged at Falna for placing Estone Nev in the position of having to make such a choice.

"Where is happy paste when you need it?" Min had said as it lay dying in that shell hole near Douglasville. The words come to me as I walk the endless colored corridors and ways of the transient quarters' level, looking for someplace to put my head, some event in which to bury my feelings. There are some shopping pavilions selling things I neither want nor need. I find myself in an entertainment kiosk lined with books, buttons, disks, decks, vids and viewers. I soon realize that I do not have the calmness necessary to read a book, listen to a disk, or watch a vid.

As I try to make up my mind where to go to explode, a vid viewer behind me ends its sample program and fades to a news program. Leading the news from Vikaan, the eleven-day truce between the Amadeen Front and the Mavedah ended six hours ago, reports the USE-DC Quarantine Force, when a Black October assassination team attacked the relatively untouched Drac community of Namdas in the Silver Mountains of the Southern Shorda, slaying all the inhabitants, including the children.

A face fills my view and it belongs to Reaper. "Great! I found you."

"Yes." At this moment a human face is not what I want to see. I seem paralyzed, stretched between the desire to kill every human within reach and the knowledge that Reaper is on my side.

"I did a name search and out popped a couple of old friends of mine from the Tsien Denvedah. If we can get them to come along, they’d be important additions to the team. I posted a message and they’re hanging out at the end of one of the incomplete spokes. Want to come along and do the selling?"

"I do not feel much like selling anything right now, Reaper."

The former assassin studies me for a moment, then smiles. "You heard about the truce falling through. I know what you need, Ro." He cocks his head toward the tram landing. "C’mon. These guys hang out with a rough crowd and I need someone to watch my back."

My good sense calls to me to go back to my quarters and go to bed, but it is such a small voice. I join Reaper on his quest to renew old friendships and perhaps to pick a fight.

THIRTY-FIVE

Up and down are twisted at the station. The wafers at the ends of the spokes seem to be up because that is the way the artificial gravity points our heads. The hub seems like down, because our feet are pointed in that direction. Beyond down, however, are seven more ups. After consulting a directory at the hub, Reaper and I take the uncompleted Niym spoke out to the farthest completed wafer. Niym 44. On the tram car our fellow passengers seem divided equally between Vikaan Police Security and miscreants bound for excitement, chaos, and destruction. I number myself, of course, among the latter.

Beginning with the Niym 44 platform, the eight main corridors are jammed with establishments selling drugs, sex, games, and exotic items of every kind and combination. Flashing colored lights share the strange-smelling corridors with darker stretches illuminated with illusion lights that haze and randomly delay photons making a dreamy multi-dimensional oasis before the next set of blinding lights and ear-shattering sounds.

Halfway out the radius along Corridor Six, we turn left off the radius and walk along a mid-circle corridor through deep purple illusion lights until Reaper turns into an establishment called Jadai Diea, which is a word play on Jetai Diea, which means Chamber of Masters. Jadai Diea means Chamber Pot.

Inside it is dark, the music jumpy, the air thick with the smoke of several different kinds of burning herbs. I see seven or eight Dracs, the rest are humans and Vikaans. Reaper stretches up on his toes to see over the heads of the crowd, then he turns, pokes my arm, and moves his way through the press of bodies. As I follow, I see in the center of the dance floor, suspended above it, three naked beings together in the white light, a man, a woman, and a Drac, moving in unison as they undulate in an unbelievably erotic dance. Someone puts a drink of some kind into my hand, and with my awareness melted down by the three dancers, I drink it not knowing, or caring, what it is.

Reaper’s hand jerking my shoulder brings me back to the unreality of the Chamber Pot. I finish off the drink and follow him to the back of the establishment, the tips of my fingers and toes apparently going numb. From bits of overheard conversation, bits of uniforms, weapons, and the artwork adorning the walls and ceiling―and floor―I realize that a substantial majority of the guests in the club are former or current mercenaries in the employ of the Dracon Chamber, Vikaan, and perhaps one or two other quadrant powers.

At the edge of the crowd, the tables begin, and they rise in tiers, Vikaan waiters and waitresses moving between them, casting drinks and drugs into the crowded tables, harvesting credit slips, promises to pay, and an occasional wad of money. At the second tier from the top, there is a table with four persons sitting at it: three humans and a Drac. Two of the humans are female. The woman with blond hair is sleeping with her head on the table. The other, with very black hair, is singing a strange song to herself. The man is leaning back in his chair, his mouth open, either dead or passed out. The Drac is half-crushed on happy paste, its eyes having difficulty moving in unison. As Reaper stops at their table the somewhat less comatose woman looks startled, ends her song, sways as she reaches beneath her right arm with her left hand, looks down in confusion, and laughs. "I’m wearing a dress!" Looking up, she says, "Reaper, you creepin' son of a bitch, what’re you doin' here?"

An evil glint in his eye, he grins. "I’m here to say hi, and maybe put you and your Drac onto a good thing."

At that she reaches beneath the table, but before she can straighten up, Reaper has a pistol, the muzzle of which is a hair’s breadth from the end of her nose. She becomes quite still and smiles broadly. "I s’pose it wouldn’t hurt to listen." Very slowly she sits upright, places her hands on the table, and looks at the Drac. "Cudak, honey, look who’s come to visit."

The drugged-out Drac jerks its head about in a random search of the club’s interior, its gaze eventually settling on Reaper’s face. As it does, Cudak’s lower jaw falls open, sobriety returns in a flash, and it reaches inside its jacket. The pistol is now aimed between Cudak’s eyes. "Whatever you pull out of there, Cudak, better be a suppository," says Reaper, "because whatever you have in your hand is going to be shoved right up your ass,"

The Drac raises an eyebrow in disdain and answers, "Reaper, you never did understand that, unlike humans, Dracs don’t have assholes."

"That doesn’t alter my plan, Cudak. Just let me know where you want yours."

Cudak hesitates for a moment, then removes its hand from inside the jacket holding nothing but fingers. I look around the club and several unpleasant looking persons are looking in our direction and muttering among themselves. I poke Reaper’s arm. "We seem to be drawing attention."

"Half of 'em are probably owed money by these two. Let me know if anyone looks like they want to play," he answers without looking away from either Cudak or the woman. "Ro, I’d like to introduce you to the former Mrs. Ernst Brandt, Sally Redfeather, and her cuddle-bumps, Gay Cudak. Sally, Cudak, this is my comrade, Yazi Ro."

"Spook?" asks Sally.

"Not easily," I answer, causing the others to laugh.

Reaper lowers his weapon and half-turns to me, his gaze still fixed on his former mate and correspondent. "Sally wants to know if you’re in intelligence work. You are."

"Yes," I answer. A waiter comes, places a round of drinks in front of all who are still conscious, and looks to Reaper, who reaches into his pocket and drops a few credits on the Vikaan’s tray. As I pick up my drink, I nod toward Gay Cudak and its human. "Are you two working at all, or simply doing career research for employment in the exciting world of drug rehabilitation?"

As Reaper bursts out laughing, Sally’s large dark eyes study me as though measuring me for a shroud. The cruder elements behind me increase their muttering level, one of them calling out, "You got trouble, Sal?"

"Either that or a job," she answers. "I’ll let you know."

Reaper surveys the immediate area, pulls out two chairs, and nods his head toward the chair on the right. "Have a seat."

As both of us sit down, Reaper puts his weapon away inside his jacket and leans back in his chair. "I’ve joined up with Ro and his buddies. They have a gig that might suit the pair of you right down to the ground."

"Where, when, how?" asks Cudak.

"How much?" adds Sally.

"Amadeen is where," answers Reaper, drawing a low whistle from his ex-wife. "When is pretty much right now. We’ll be leaving in a day or two. How is a little more complicated." He looks at me and says, "The short version, spunky."

How to stop a war in twenty-five words or less. "We form a neutral force that polices truces and finds and eliminates violators. Object: peace."

Sally keeps me fixed with her eyes as she seems to nod approvingly. "How much?" she asks again.

Reaper frowns, glances at me, and looks into the distance as he drums his fingertips on the table. "I guess we really haven’t gone into that much."

Both Cudak’s and Sally’s mouths drop open in astonishment. "You don’t know?" demands Cudak. The Drac faces its lover and says, "Reaper doesn’t know. The human cash register is signed up to do spooks in the hottest pit in the quadrant, and he doesn’t know."

Sally looks at me and says, "Sign us up, Yazi Ro. I just got to see what it is that got the Reaper working for something besides money."

I finish my drink and nod toward their two companions. "What about them?"

Sally looks at the man and jabs his arm. Getting no response, she jabs him more forcefully, toppling him from his chair into the woman sleeping with her head on the table, causing both of them to fall to the floor. Sally shrugs and looks back at me. "They don’t want to come."

Their quarters are in a room in the rear of the club next to the kitchen. It is nothing more than a cot in the corner of a storage area. Next to the cot, sitting on a case of toilet cleaner, is an elderly Drac. When we enter, the Drac gets to its feet and points to two backracks completely packed and standing together like two soldiers on parade. In Drac it says, "I have them packed, Sally. You will not find a spot of dirt or a strap out of place. No one stole anything. I stood guard."

Sally pats its face with her hand. "You did well, Toack. I’m proud of you,"

The old Drac blinks its eyes at Reaper for a moment then turns to the cot. "I made this up. No wrinkles. See, no wrinkles at all."

Sally takes off her dress, folds it into a flimsy white box, and begins putting on tan trousers, soft brown boots, and a brown jacket. "Toack, the cot is yours again, and I’m leaving you the dress. You ought to be able to sell it for a good price. Cudak and I are leaving on a mission."

Toack frowns and says, "A mission; can you tell me about it?"

"I know very little; only that it is on Amadeen and the object is peace."

Cudak puts on its backrack as Toack slowly shakes its head. "Lost. Ask the masters. They know. Amadeen is lost." The old Drac looks up at Reaper and seems to study him closely. "You are one of my human children, aren’t you?"

I look at Reaper and I see tears in the big man’s eyes. "Yes, Jetah. Ernst Brandt, Seventh Officer, Ilcheve."

"Ernst," says Toack, the name apparently unfamiliar to it. "I apologize, but I should know you. I know all my children. I can’t remember their faces, though. So many things gone." Toack sits on the cot and keeps repeating, "All my children. All my children."

Reaper stands with his feet apart, his left hand hooked into his belt, and his right hand open and placed over the center of his chest; the salute of the Tsien Denvedah. After a moment the old Drac notices, struggles to its feet, and returns the salute.

As the four of us work our way through the crowd to the entrance, Reaper is deadly silent, his attention on his own shadows. Cudak and Sally are ahead of us and keep going as a hairy five-fingered hand reaches out of the crowd, plants itself in my chest, and stops me. The hand is soon followed by a human face with a jaw that looks capable of gnawing the stones out of the Talman Kovah. "Excuse me, squid," he says, "but the last time you streaked through here, you picked up a drink that was meant for me and didn’t pay for it."

I remember a drink, but the details are fuzzy. Since I want no trouble, I reach for my moneyfold as I say, "I apologize if I have taken something that is not―"

Reaper interrupts by pushing me aside, a curiously calm expression on his face. "Do you have a problem, comrade?" he asks almost politely.

The fellow with the prominent jaw eyes Reaper and says, "This is between me and the Drac, kizlode. Piss off."

Sally reaches out a hand between me and the jaw and pokes Reaper. "You don’t have to do this, you know."

"Nag, nag, nag," says Reaper. "It’s always nag, nag, nag."

"Do you think―" Cudak attempts to interject, but the jaw reaches out a hand and shoves it in the face, sending Sally’s lover into a rather large Drac, knocking it to the floor. Before I can see the resolution of that little drama, Reaper hauls back and punches the jaw’s nose, and suddenly personages, Drac, human, and Vikaan, that I have never before seen, met, or harmed, are throwing punches in my direction. I swing back, land a number of significant blows, when a shadow appears above me. As it smashes into my face I realize it is the top of a table. As my consciousness evaporates, I see Reaper, smiling through a prolific nosebleed, smashing someone’s head against a deck support as Sally and Cudak remove their backracks to join in.

THIRTY-SIX

Days and stitches later, Amadeen is a tiny white disk visible among the stars. Still we work as though preparing for a test upon which the fate of the world depends, which it does. The swelling from my fractured cheekbone down, Cudak and Sally continue their studies as we hurtle toward the destiny fashioned by our talma.

Sally Redfeather is an assassin and investigator, having once been partners with Reaper. Cudak is an interrogator. It will be Cudak’s task to screen applicants and see if they are capable of being trained, becoming either spy, assassin investigator, additional interrogator, or sleeper. The sleepers will be members who will go back to their own villages, homes, or units and function normally until the call comes either to obtain information, make an identification, or hit an identified target near them, either neighbor, associate, friend, comrade, or family member.

While we train on the computers and rework our plans, Gay Cudak remains reading and apparently memorizing everything he can about everything and everybody. All of the worthless information the USE-DC Quarantine Force academics collected about Amadeen, Cudak devours. Long after the rest of us quit to get some rest, Cudak is before its computer studying.

Davidge and I work on plans, backup plans, contingency plans, necessary supplies, weapons, training, logistics, and so on until I am hardly able to keep my eyes open. Leaning back in my seat, I see Davidge once again staring off into the distance. "Is there something else?" I ask.

The human glances at me and smiles. "Momentary enlightenment, Ro. It suddenly occurs to me that, of our current numbers, the one who is the least qualified to be running this crew is me."

"It is your talma," I protest.

"It’s our talma, Ro." He shrugs and shakes his head. "Which still leaves me mystified. I’ve never led anyone, organized anything, or did any of the kind of work this talma seems to call for. You have experience in combat on Amadeen; Moss and Beneres have more recent combat flight experience, as well as smuggling skills. Ghazi knows computers; Reaper and Sally have actual experience as investigators, and Cudak as an interrogator. On top of that, all of you have youth while my skills concern living isolated in a cave trying to keep little Dracs from cutting off their own fingers before they reach adulthood. I can’t understand why any part of this talma depends on me."

I throw up a weary hand and say with a smile, "If you knew the path, Uncle Willy, it would no longer be the path."

Davidge laughs, stretches, and cocks his head toward the passenger quarters. Through a yawn, he says, "Maybe my real job is to find the person who is supposed to run this outfit. Anyway, we’re beat. In another twenty hours we should either be on Amadeen or a trillion ionized particles floating around in space. Let’s knock it off for awhile."

I head for my quarters marveling at the things that separate persons and the things that bring them together in love, friendship, business, and war. As I reach my quarters, I look opposite my door and see that Cudak’s door is open. Cudak is sitting at its small desk, one of the tiny hand-portable computers before him. "Cudak, why don’t you get some rest?"

It glances at me, grins, and stretches its arms. "You may be right, Ro." It lifts and shakes an insulated flask. "I have some hot tea left. Would you care to share a cup?"

"That would be good." I enter the room and sit in the chair next to the desk. Cudak stretches again, pours the tea into two cups, and offers me one. I sip at it, my mouth filling with the taste of warm rains and Khama flowers, "This is delicious tea, Cudak. Thank you."

"It’s nothing. Here. Have a candy." It holds out a small box containing a few wrapped gum fruits. I look at them and cannot imagine from where they must have come.

"You only have a few."

"Go ahead," Cudak urges. "I eat too many of these things as it is."

I eat one of the Drac candies and am transported to worlds of taste to which it would be easy to become addicted. "Thank you, Cudak. It is delicious."

"The least I can do for a fellow Gitohri."

"You are from Gitoh?"

Cudak shrugs. "Actually from Hune, just west."

"I know Hune. My friend moved to Hune four years ago when the fighting on the east of Gitoh became too much for its parent."

Cudak frowned as it thought. "Your friend; was that Dielo Ino?"

"Why, yes. Do you know Ino?"

A sadness fills its face. "I did before my parent was killed and I found myself with Ravin Nis waiting for the Selector. I haven’t been back since Choi Leh chose me and I left to become another student soldier for the Okori Sikov."

Cudak had fought for the Mavedah, as I had, and had managed to have itself smuggled off planet through a thoroughly corrupt Mavedah gunnery officer it knew. We talked for a long time about children we had both known, Mavedah commanders we had both served under, and three of the battles we had both been in, especially Douglasville.

Cudak talked about the wounds it had taken at Douglasville, its beloved commander who had been slain. I vaguely remember hearing of Bas Sharah’s death after my Min had been butchered. I had been in such pain, Bas Sharah’s death had hardly registered on my awareness. I could see, though, that the pain of it was still with Gay Cudak. When it was finished, and we had shared a few tears, I talked about Min and the human with the flute. After that a flood of pain burst through and I talked about it all, Avo, the Front Twelve, Pina―all of them. In time I talk of Jeriba Shigan, Matope, Koboc and my fears and doubts about the talma and my role in it. With each word I feel myself healing from the inside out. When I am done, I see in Cudak that most valuable of individuals: a friend.

As I rise to go to bed, I place an affectionate hand on its shoulder, and wish my new friend peaceful dreams. Cudak puts the top back on its candy box and looks up at me. "There is something you should know about me, Ro."

"We have all done things that do not make us proud, Cudak. That is Amadeen."

It smiles and says, "This I think you might regard with particular distaste. You see, I’m from Draco. I’ve never been to Amadeen."

I stand there like a fool, my mouth open, my hand still on Cudak’s shoulder. "I don’t believe you. All of the things you said, the things you know―"

"The quarantine force surveys."

I can feel my eyes growing wide as I try to talk my new friend out of this absurd belief. "What about the things I know; things the QF could not possibly know. Gitoh, Hune, Dielo Ino? The way Viknim’s grain patties tasted?"

"Some you told me; others I guessed. Most, however, comes from the surveys. They are the most boring writers in the universe, but the data is there."

I pull my hand from its shoulder and it is all I can do to keep from using it upside Cudak’s head. "Why? Why all these lies? Why this game?"

Cudak picks up the box of candy and puts it away in its drawer. I see possibly ten more boxes there. "Ro, you asked me why I don’t get some rest. Using what I have learned from my studying, I set up a context within which you felt comfortable enough to tell me your entire life story complete with feelings, names, dates, and places. There is not a significant thing about you, from your initiation into the Mavedah to your sexual adventure with Falna that I do not know. There are many more individuals to interrogate, there is still much to learn, and that is why I do not rest."

It returns to its computer and I move to the door and look back. "Gay Cudak, how have you managed to live as long as you have?"

"I’m not as honest with everyone, Ro, as I have been with you. Also, I run very fast."

THIRTY-SEVEN

Amadeen. Risking my freedom, and more likely my life, to return to the only place in the universe I hate. "You’ll come back, Yazi Ro. There is nothing more certain." I think of Zenak Abi’s curse as we finish stowing away everything and strap into our acceleration couches to wait for the flight program to begin guiding us through the quarantine force’s array of obstacles. How did that look inside my head show Abi that I would return? How could it see what I could not see in myself? Through the open hatch to the cockpit, I see a corner of Amadeen fill the front viewport and the impossibility of what we are attempting fills me with panic.

"Okay," says the captain’s voice through our headsets, "here we go." The artificial gravity disengages and in the background I hear Yora counting, "Four, three, two, one, slam it!" An enormous unseen hand crushes my chest as the ship yaws sharply to the right and the acceleration of the engines begins shaking the deck and bulkheads. The deafening roar distorts the voices of Eli and Yora as my fingers dig into the couch’s armrests. Another yaw to the left, then I feel my internal organs pushing against my throat as the Aeolus rolls over into a power dive that seems to last forever. I fight my eyes open, glance into the cockpit, and gasp as I see flames through the front viewport!

"Atmospheric friction," yells Davidge. "It’s okay. We’re past the quarantine. You’re home."

Home. This burning heart of hell. Soon, though, the flames clear and we are flying above ice-covered mountains.

Home. I have not had a home since the Battle of Gitoh. On Friendship I had allowed my fantasies to see myself in Davidge’s cave as a child, learning book and line, and all of the skills Haesni was learning: to hunt the snake, cure skins, sew, prepare food, make beds, clothes, and boots.

Home.

Falna had a fire set then a missile sent into the cave where it had been reared and the fantasy was over. It will still be three months before Estone Nev reaches Falna’s side at the Karnarak. Will the old Drac have the strength to strangle the life out of its namechild’s child, the end of its line? Does Falna deserve such love?

"We’ll cross the terminator in a minute," says the captain’s voice through the headset. I release my straps, climb off the couch, and go to the cockpit in time to see us skimming across the surface of the Shordan Sea approaching the coast, the distant Silver Mountains bathed in reds and oranges from the setting sun. According to the data from the QF surveys, Zenak Abi and its band should still be somewhere in the Silver Mountains. As we make landfall I notice smoke and thin green threads of energy knives firing toward the southeast. A short distance in from the shore is a lake next to the fighting. I recognize it: Sharing. They are fighting in Riehm Vo one more time, liberating the previously liberated town liberated previously from the other side’s liberators.

"Better strap in, Ro," says Yora. "We’ll put down soon."

I nod and go back to my couch, my heart filled with the seeming hopelessness of our task. I notice Davidge, Sally, Cudak, and Reaper also thinking to themselves in this moment before commitment. After strapping myself in and putting on my headset, I lean back, close my eyes, and try to focus on the breaths entering and leaving my body.

"Crossing the terminator," says Eli.

I look over at Davidge. "Will, was the Ovjetah’s nameparent a military leader of great promise, as the Ovjetah leads at the Kovah and the Jetai Diea and Zammis leads in business?"

The human is silent for a moment. "No. Jerry was a fighter jock, same as me. Neither of us had a list of kills to brag about. Jerry was my third."

"How many did Shigan have!"

Davidge smiles. "Jerry never did say how many kills it had. I always suspected I was number one. Disappointed?"

"I am not disappointed. Simply confused. You insist that you are just a man and that your enemy and friend was just a Drac, yet the two of you inspired the colonization of an entire planet."

He rubs his chin, glances at Kita, and shrugs as he again faces me. "Ro, Jerry was a very ordinary being with only one extraordinary power: it loved. It loved life, Draco, its line, The Talman, and the child it never got to see." His voice grows rough. "Jeriba Shigan taught me to love by loving me. Its monument is Planet Friendship and the continuation of the Jeriba line." He turns his head and faces me. "If this talma isn’t a disaster, if we do bring about peace on Amadeen, it will be because of that love working through me, and all of us."

My headset crackles with Eli’s voice. "We’re over the mountains, quite a ways in from Mt. Atahd. The sensor shows a population in one of the narrow valleys down there. They don’t seem to be military units. Going in. Yora, hit the shields, just in case."

I feel us going down and down, each moment expecting the landing shock, each moment going down farther until I feel that we must be beneath the crust of the planet. At last comes the gentle nudge of Amadeen against the landing skids. As the engines whine down, I release my straps and go to the cockpit. I stand between Eli’s and Yora’s couches and look into the darkness through the viewport. There are several small handheld lights visible and one of the persons holding those lights turns it on its own face. I turn to the pilot. "Drop the shields and shut it down, Eli. That’s Zenak Abi."

The captain flips a few switches and looks up at me as he releases his straps. "Perhaps now we find out why one must be careful about what one asks for."

I am the first down the ramp, the familiar smell of the cold mountain air sharp in my nostrils. Zenak Abi meets me at the bottom of the ramp, still wearing its human trousers. There is a new scar upon its chin, but that same expression of poorly concealed amusement. "Welcome home, Yazi Ro. Have you finished your shopping?"

I hand Abi a copy of the Koda Nusinda. As it takes the manuscript in its hands, I say, "My shopping is done, Jetah. I will be interested to see if any of my presents fit."

Zenak Abi purses its lips and looks at my comrades, its gaze stopping on Davidge. "I don’t suppose these gifts can be returned."

Davidge slowly shakes his head. "All sales are final, Zenak Abi."

The Jetah’s amused expression dissolves into something more desperate as it glances at its friends standing in the dark, and looks down at the manuscript. Its hands are trembling. "Well. I suppose we should go home and try them on."

THIRTY-EIGHT

In its new cave, an abandoned copper mine deep in the mountains a half hour hike from where we landed, Zenak Abi and the leaders of its nomadic community assemble. In a large chamber, a number of Abi’s people stand and lean against the walls while the rest sit on crates, rocks, and the floor and listen as I recount the story of Abi’s talma, where it led me, and the plans for its implementation on Amadeen. As I talk, I see Abi’s people―both humans and Dracs―eyeing me and my comrades. By their expressions, some of them look interested. Others seem skeptical, a few look disapproving, and the rest look terrified.

"We will be an independent force of humans and Dracs who have but one function: to render the attempted sabotage of a truce an act of absolute futility. A terrorist of Black October, Tean Sindie, or some other faction who opposes a truce will be noticed as it plans and prepares its outrage. As it moves to commit its atrocity, it will be targeted. Before it strikes, if possible, we will stop the terrorist by killing it and leaving behind signs and notices identifying us as the executioners and why we did what we did. If the act is committed before we can stop it, we will find the ones responsible and kill them, leaving behind the appropriate notices."

"This is how we end killing?" demands a bearded human leaning against the wall to my right.

"No," I answer. "This is how we end war." I look at the faces and I feel myself smiling as I turn, face my comrades, and look back at Abi’s people."What you all must think of us I can only imagine. Some of you were born into this community, but most of you deserted from the fighting. When I left Amadeen, I too felt myself liberated from the killing and the dying. There is a magnificent universe out there, a universe of peoples, riches, knowledge, and endless wonders, the most precious of these being peace. I have had only a taste and the last thing I wanted to do is return here to everything I hate." I look at the Jetah sitting in its chair next to Davidge.

"Zenak Abi put in a seed it hopes will grow into peace. Until we can establish this plant so that it can survive on its own, we are going to have to feed it blood, both yellow and red. I want this peace more than anything else in the universe. That is why I am here. You must decide for yourselves why you are here."

In some faces I see that I have not said enough. In others I see that I have said too much. We do not need everyone; only a few. I was so certain, though, that those who were born on Amadeen and whose parent was war would see what I see. Too many, though, are tired. They put down gun and knife, ran to the mountains, and are too weary to pick them up again.

Zenak Abi places its hands upon the armrests of its crude chair and pushes itself up until it is standing. Without looking at its people or addressing them, Abi speaks directly to me. "I am so very proud of you, Yazi Ro. I begged the universe to grant me an answer to Amadeen’s pain, and it sent me you. Please understand our disappointment that the answer is not magic."

There is one dark human with black hair and a huge black mustache flecked with gray. He is carrying two young children in his arms: a Drac and a little girl. He steps away from the wall where he is standing, hands the children to Davidge and turns to me. "I am Ali Enayat. Where do I sign up?"

Slightly dazed, I turn slowly and point toward Gay Cudak. "It has some questions, first."

Cudak steps out, shakes hands with Ali Enayat, and says, "Let’s go somewhere we can talk, Ali. Would you like a chocolate?" As Ali nods, Cudak continues without missing a beat. "I picked up some chocolates at the A’ja Cou Station and they just plain don’t agree with me. I can slip you a couple for the kids, too. Now, where are you from, Ali? You look like a West Dorado man."

"I am from Sakinah in the Western Dorado."

"Sakinah? I know it well…" and off they go into a side passage in which, before he knows it, Ali Enayat will spill everything he knows about everything, including that most valuable piece of information: can he be trusted. All of his answers will be entered and compared with all of the information we have on the same topics and cross-indexed according to source, location, organization, and so on. Perhaps Ali will make a good interrogator. Perhaps he might be a former member of the Front who might be able to return to the Dorado and work his way into Black October or one of the other factions. With the two children to love and care for, perhaps all Ali can do is supply information about his former neighbors, associates, and comrades, describe organization, order of battle, who holds what office, how every single soldier, officer, advisor, and copyist does its job, looks, thinks, acts, lives, its relations, and thoughts, aspirations, ambitions, fears―everything. After a few screenings the information we obtained from the QF surveys will show how reliable it is. After a few hundred, we will know enough to send agents out and begin targeting.

Another stands, a Drac wearing black clothes and a dreary look. It walks over to me and says, "I am Mila Nin. I once ran with the Thuyo Koradar out of Navune in the Northern Shorda."

"Yes?"

"I would contribute what I can. I, too, would see an end to war." I look around and Kita is coming forward. In moments she will be offering fruit candies and a friendly ear to the former gun for the Eye of the Killer. Before she can drag off the Drac, however, Mila Nin stops, faces me, and asks, "What will you call this police force? What is its name?"

I look at Davidge and he shrugs and faces Zenak Abi. "We couldn’t decide, so we agreed to let it be whatever we are called."

There are suggestions, and I am secretly thrilled that the name I love, Aydan’s Blade, comes immediately to the minds of so many of the Dracs, but that is also why it is inappropriate. The name must not say Drac or human. It must be something in between. Several of the humans make suggestions based on the beginnings being in a copper mine, copper being one of many English names for a police officer. Those names too are inappropriate, although we do choose the number twenty-nine, the atomic number of copper, to be our sign.

Before the night is done, eleven of those in the mine volunteer to help, as do more than three hundred of those in the surrounding mountains. Within six days Kita and Cudak have selected and trained eight more interrogators, Reaper is training a school of forty-seven agents, and more of those in the mountains come to supply information and a few more to volunteer. Ghazi Mrabet’s computer factory is in operation, already turning out a modified hand-held that includes a button camera which can send digital pictures back to the net. All I do is to train the agents in weapons, but most of my students know as much about that subject as I do. They are all from Amadeen.

To a great degree, we are all having difficulty in finding out what I should do. I have neither the memory nor the audacity required to be an interrogator. Kita and Cudak joke that I would simply eat all the candy and tell the one I am screening everything. I have a suspicion as to what I should be doing. I have killed and there was a time when it was easy. But the easy killing takes place in a rage, and that is not how our agents do their work. As Reaper remarks, "They are not angels of vengeance destroying evil. They are surgeons removing a lump." It is something I think I can learn, but I avoid saying it in the hopes that no one else will mention it.

In another eight days we send out our first agents: two to Black October in the Western Dorado, one to Green Fire in the Drac-occupied tip of the Southern Dorado, three to Tean Sindie in three different locations in the Shorda, and fourteen others to work themselves back into their old communities as simple villagers. Ali Enayat and Mila Nin are both agents in this first group. In another eight days we send out an additional thirty-one agents. Once they are established, all of the splinters and several of the most infamous individuals with reputations for reckless behavior have at least some coverage. In another month we expect to have regional nets recruiting and training, ever expanding our information base and our ability to respond to threats.

Soon we develop our own language. Investigators are called "eyes," sleepers are "zees," and interrogators are "sweets." Code names become nicknames and nicknames become code names. Reaper stays Reaper, Davidge is Uncle Willy, Captain Moss is the Fly, Sally Redfeather is Tommy, as in Tommy Hawk, a joke that evades me, and so on. I name Kita Itchyboo from the thing she said in front of the cave back on Friendship: ichi-bu hachi ken, the phrase that means small errors can result in big mistakes. They refer to me as The Answer, but not to my face. They know I hate the name. The organization is known among ourselves simply as Navi Di, in Dracon. In English: The Peace.

THIRTY-NINE

Morning on the edge of the camouflaged site on the top of Mt. Rieka. I look away from the peaks at the reflection of an orbiting QF station, wondering if The Peace is now in the survey files, complete with names. We have done nothing for a hundred days except build the network, plant agents, and add to our data files. Nothing about us has been on the broadcasting stations, either Mavedah or Front. While the fighting continues around us, we learn, add information, and wait for the next attempt at a truce.

"Peaceful here, isn’t it?" I turn and see Davidge coming from the power platform concealed beneath some trees.

I nod and return my gaze to the mountains, their foothills obscured by the early morning mist. A large avian glides effortlessly above the mist on its way up the valley toward a tiny lake. "Reaper says there are places like this on Earth. He called them the Rockies. Have you ever been there?"

"Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth." He sees my puzzled look and smiles. "A very long time ago. My initial flight training was at a base in the Colorado admindis―administration district. That’s right in the Rockies. The Silver Mountains are as big. Here we’re closer to sea level, though. That’s why we have more vegetation. I got to see the Himalayan Mountains once on earth when I flew over them. They make the Rockies look like a row of bumps. Then there are the mountains on Mars that make the Himalayas look like grains of sand. None of them, though, are as beautiful as these." He is silent for a moment and stands next to me.

"Ro, it just came over the Mijii broadcast. The Mavedah has announced a new round of truce talks with the Amadeen Front. Mavedah invitations have gone out to the Tean Sindie, the Eye Killers, and the Sixteen to take part in the talks. No comment yet from the Front, but the Mavedah wouldn’t have announced it without some kind of understanding with the Front already in the works. We haven’t heard from any of the splinter groups either, but all of the investigators and sleepers have been put on notice."

I feel it coming and there is no longer a way to avoid it and be able to bear my own presence. "Will, there is nothing for me to do here. I train the few who are not familiar with all the available weapons, but that is something anyone can do. I cannot sit here on this mountain in safety while others take all the risks. I am going to become an agent, work my way back to Gitoh, and perhaps join Tean Sindie. It has a cell there. From there I can be much more useful."

I look at the human and Davidge’s gaze is fixed on the snow-covered peaks of the tallest mountains. "I respect your feelings, Ro, but I’ve got a much crappier job for you. I’m going to need help with it and I want you there."

"What is the job?"

"We’ve put together the means to investigate, identify, target, and execute truce violators and potential truce violators. To fulfill our part of the peace talma, the Navi Di must be able to act swiftly, decisively, and with certainty. We must be able to prove the ones we hit were involved in violating a truce or attempting to do so. We must act fast and we cannot afford to make a mistake. On the one hand, we can’t drag our feet so that, the execution comes so late that no one remembers why it’s done. On the other hand, we can’t have our hitters knocking off suspects as the mood strikes them. The hits have to be authorized, and that means there must be someone or some group to authorize them. I have that job right now. Zenak Abi is joining me. I want you there to share it with us and to break tie votes."

To order the deaths of others would be enough to fuel my nightmares for the rest of my life. To know, though, that one bad judgment would probably destroy the Navi Di and render the peace talma useless, that is responsibility sufficient to render risking my life as a happy assassin mere child’s play. Ichi-bu hachi ken.

"Hey, Will!" It is Kita’s voice calling from the ship’s entry ramp. "The Front just made the truce talks announcement. They’ve invited Black October, Green Fire, The Fives, and The Rose to the table, as well. No responses from any of the splinters yet, but two of the zees we have in the Tean Sindie report that the pure ones are beginning to foam at the orifices."

Davidge looks at me, his eyes steady but more sunken than I remember. "It’s starting, Ro."

I do not want it. I can think of nothing I want less than deciding who lives and who dies, risking everything on the judgment of Yazi Ro. I close my eyes and nod. The human claps a hand on my shoulder, squeezes it, and follows Kita into the ship. I look back at the mountains and the huge avian is skimming the tops of the mists, gliding back the way it had come.

FORTY

In the Aeolus, far over the Shordan Sea, we are between the Shorda and Dorado continents. Kita, Reaper, three monitors, and I are in the information center, processing data and messages from the agents and monitoring the broadcasting stations, assessing the reaction to the upcoming talks. There is activity in all the splinters―angry voices, nutballs making speeches, endless meetings, two spontaneous demonstrations but nothing actionable. A few minutes later, Eli Moss reports over the headsets that we are being scanned. "I’m not sure, but I think it’s the quarantine force orbiters."

"Trying to figure out who we are," adds Reaper. "We’ll let them know, soon enough."

"I’m putting up the shields."

Janice Butler, one of the monitors, turns from her console and holds up her hand. "Station October coming through." She flips a switch and the screens around the overhead illuminate with a jagged signal that settles to an image of Raymond Sica, head of Black October. Raymond likes to call himself The Vindicator. All we can see is Raymond in front of a blank wall hung with a black flag with a blood-red X in the center, for the numeral ten. We do not see others, but we can hear crowd noises.

"―can they have in mind to invite the Front to a truce? What can the Dracs put on the table? Are they going to give us back our lands?"

"No!" shouts the crowd.

"Our murdered loved ones?"

"No!"

"Is it to restore the Dorado, and the Shorda to us?"

"No!"

As Raymond rants, half the screens change to another view of Black October’s boss. The images are much clearer than the original, but jumpy. It is one of Ghazi’s modified computer cameras. The new images sweep to the left until we see a row of humans dressed in black. The images expand to fill the screen and linger a moment on each of the faces.

"Who’s feeding us this?" calls Reaper to the monitor.

"Alley Cat."

Ali Enayat. I try to imagine the courage of the man with the big black mustache and the two children, taking the opportunity of the demonstration to get up in front of the entire rabid membership to give us up-to-date pictures of Black October’s leaders.

"He’s not holding that in his hand, is he?"

I turn around and see Davidge behind me looking up at the screens. Reaper shakes his head. "Ghazi made it so those button cameras will transmit to the computer. Alley Cat probably has it in his burnoose."

"What about signal emissions?"

Reaper leans back in his chair and scratches the back of his neck. "We’re using frequencies that are way out of the park for the thirty-year-old stuff anyone on Amadeen has."

As Zenak Abi comes into the information center, I glance at Davidge, and say to Reaper, "That presupposes in the past three decades no other smugglers have brought in modern communication or signal detection equipment." I look back at the screen showing Alley Cat’s feed.

There is Paul Ruche, Sica’s second in command, a tall blond man without facial hair, his eyes a stormy blue. Next to him, her long black hair waving as she shouts and moves her arms, is Akilah Hareef, head of the ideological department. Akilah is very beautiful for a human, with a small nose, absolutely black eyes, and lips painted to look like a wound. Her weapons include an automatic pistol, a brace of throwing knives, a fighting knife, and whatever she has concealed beneath her clothing. The image moves to Vatusia, Brooks, Pemba, and the rest. After the leaders, Alley Cat sweeps the crowd of about five hundred. Every one of them brandishes a weapon of some kind.

"That’s the old Catholic church in Obsidian, South Central Dorado," says one of the monitors. "That means October has a repeater station. The broadcast signal we’re getting is coming from Mt. Jazirah, East Central Dorado."

"Look at that weapon," says Abi, pointing at one of the screens. Reaper freezes one of the crowd images.

"Which weapon, Jetah?"

"The man wearing the talit about his shoulders."

"Talit?"

Zenak points up at the screen. "The white and blue prayer shawl."

The image fills the screen, centered on the shoulder weapon. It looks like a beam disrupter, but I do not recognize it. "That’s a Valmet M6600," says Reaper.

Abi shakes its head as it says, "I’m not familiar with it."

"Latest thing from Earth." Reaper nods toward the screen. "Fully charged and at close range, that thing can cut right through the hull of this ship by turning the metal and ceramics into powder. They’ve only been out for a couple of years."

Zenak looks away and faces me. "The smugglers have been getting through to Black October, then."

More pieces of the puzzle are added to the data banks.

"Priority!" shouts Janice. The images continue as the sound is cut, the center screen shows the view through the front window of a moving vehicle, the lower part showing the top of a steering wheel and the hands of the narrator. Each hand has three fingers. In the distance, beyond some dunes, we can see the ocean. "Go ahead," says Janice into her headset.

"This is Runner with the Sitarmeda just north of Mandit, East Shorda. I just finished a meeting with my cell and we have been advised to prepare to assist the central command by providing volunteers for a special raid. No details yet, but I made my best guess and volunteered―I am driving." For some reason the fact that it is driving seems to strike Runner as funny, and it laughs. Kita mouths the word "stress" at me. When it calms, Runner continues. "I and nine others are on our way south to report to the cell commander at Port Refuge."

Runner signs off and the sound returns for Black October out of Obsidian. "Raymond hasn’t threatened anything yet," Janice fills in, "except to boycott the talks."

"Alley Cat," says Reaper, "we’ve got enough pictures. It’s time to fade into the landscape. They’ve been getting smuggled supplies from off planet, so they might have some sophisticated detectors. Got that?"

The images from Alley Cat nod up and down, then go blank while we continue to receive from the Mt. Jazirah station. Raymond’s tirade against the Amadeen Front’s betrayal of the struggle against the yellow menace continues. The volume drops and Reaper faces Davidge. "You know, if Runner is onto something, if Sitarmeda is planning a unit-sized outrage someplace, we’re not ready for that. Right now we’re geared up to handle one or two, maybe five, hits at a time, but that’s really stretching it. We can’t take on a platoon or company attack until our regional rapid strike forces are operational."

Davidge bites at his lower lip. "If it looks like it’s corning from Sitarmeda, we’ll send what we have at region in Cohilak. Until then, Runner will have to do the best it can. Do we know the proposed site for the talks yet?"

"We just got it in," answers Reaper. "Silver City. It’s a town of about eighteen thousand just north of Douglasville on the Dorado. Up until the truce there was fighting in the area, so both the Front and the Mavedah have lines there. The talks themselves are supposed to begin any time now."

A computer map comes up on one of the screens and we can see Silver City. Blue lines indicating the Front and green lines indicating the Mavedah snake through the town. South of Silver City is Douglasville, completely under Front control. Sitarmeda has nothing near there, nor does Thuyo Koradar. There is, however, a large cell of Tean Sindie in a community a few minutes northwest of Silver City. Cells of Black October and The Rose are in Silver City itself, while The Rose has a cell in Douglasville. The Fives have nothing in the area.

I look at Reaper. "Do we have anything in Silver City yet?"

"Two sleepers."

"Nothing more?"

"That’s it. I’ll put 'em on standby."

"Priority!" calls one of the other monitors, a human named Roger Temple. One of the Black October screens changes to a scene of a small white masonry house next to a bombed-out apartment complex. The metal roof looks to be in good shape, but the windows are covered with boards.

This is the Red Crawler," came the voice of a human named Anita Northstar. "What you’re looking at is what’s left of the southwest corner of Galena and Eighth in Douglasville. I might have a live one: Jacob Drews."

The file on Drews comes up. The graphic shows a balding human male, forty-one years old, hard-rock miner, the sole family member surviving the Battle of Douglasville four years ago. After losing his family he joined Black October as a bomb maker, although October dropped him only a few months later because of fears concerning his lack of stability. Since then he has been a recluse who is known to have gone behind Mavedah lines at least three times on his own to plant bombs. All three bombings were successful, totaling over two hundred Drac lives.

As I see Jacob Drews’s file, I remember Min in that pit, the human with the flute, and Yazi Ro as I took my knife the next night with the Okori Sikov as we slashed our way through the city. Did I turn Jacob Drews into the hate-driven monster he is today? Did the man with the flute turn me into the same kind of monster? Are we all hate monsters: the bloodthirsty offspring of Hissied 'do Timan?

"I’ve been following him all day." A recording runs on one of the screens showing the man walking into a bombed-out industrial complex. "He went down to the old IMPEX mines east of the city, spent about three hours, then came back to his house carrying a shoulder bag full of something heavy. He just got back to his own place a couple hours ago, then ate lunch at a sort of soup line the Front runs a block from here. He heard the Amadeen Front’s announcement, left his soup on the table, and rushed back to here. Call me Crazy Horse, but I figure the man is getting ready to blow up something."

"Stay on it," says Reaper. The Red Crawler’s signal goes blank and I see that I am standing. Taking a chair, I sit in it and think. What if it is the Sitarmeda mounting an air assault against the Silver City talks? What if Jacob Drews takes his pain to the talks and blows himself and everyone else to pieces? What if both of them do it at the same time? What if they are joined by other nutballs, both Drac and human? What can we do about it! I look at Davidge. He is leaning against the bulkhead studying the screen of his hand-portable.

I get up from my chair, stand next to him, and look down. The screen shows a single frame from Alley Cat’s feed from the Black October rally. It shows the man in the prayer shawl holding the new beam disrupter above his head. "What do you see?" I ask.

Davidge points with his finger. "See this guy? Look at those strings hanging from his middle."

"Arba kanfot," says Zenak Abi. "The four fringes."

Davidge touches the portable’s pointer and the point of view moves to another figure standing next to the first. He is a large, muscular man with a black beard. He is wearing an ornate knitted skullcap and is also brandishing one of the new weapons. Davidge points at the image. "I recognize this guy from the files: he’s a Moslem. These two are old enough to have fought each other on Earth. That church is full of former enemies―Jews and Moslems, Irish and English, Catholic and Protestant, black, white, red, yellow, and here they all are together, united against the Dracs."

Abi nods and smiles. "Were you thinking that if they got what they want, if all of the Dracs Amadeen vanished, in a few days they would be once more at each other’s throats?"

"Perhaps." Davidge looks up at the Jetah. "What I was wondering is if we could get the Dracs and the humans together by uniting them against something else."

Abi nods and looks up at the screens. "That’s what we are going to do: unite them against futility." It points up toward the screens. "Something else coming in."

For the next two hours we hear the reports come in from eyes and zees, on the line and from regional nets. The patterns emerge after awhile. It appears that the truce caught all of the splinter groups by surprise. Among the other reports, Alley Cat lets us know that the rally isn’t going anywhere, but a Black October central committee meeting is scheduled for three hours from now.

Runner reports that it looks as though the Sitarmeda strike is something that had been planned before the announcement of the truce and once they got to Port Refuge they were told to turn around and go back to their home cell to await further developments. In Douglasville, the Red Crawler is still watching the house of bomber Jacob Drews.

From all reports, the cease fire is holding. I know from the cease fires I have seen that on the lines no one is thinking of peace, a treaty, or even a lasting truce. Their highest hope is for a few days without fighting. They know it will start again, some horror will bring the smoldering fire flashing back to life, but for the moment all sides are cherishing the quiet.

Reports from The Rose, The Fives, Thuyo Koradar, and Tean Sindie show all of the groups have called special meetings to decide what to do. Nightwing, whom we know as agent Rudy Klass, reports that Green Fire, working out of the Front-held territories in the Northern Shorda, seem to be preparing something. They have a number of operational missiles and may be preparing to send a little something into the main Mavedah headquarters in the Southern Shorda.

Davidge frowns and glances first at Abi and then at me. "While the talks are on, there is no place to fire one of those missiles that won’t be a violation. Can Nightwing take out the missiles?"

"It would be better if he was four guns instead of one," answers Reaper. "He’s got a beam disrupter, so he can bring them down. The first trick is going to be getting close enough through Green Fire’s security. The next trick is going to be taking the missiles down between the fire command and when they take off." He glances at Kita.

"We have one more zee in the area. Let’s call him up. If the site fires one or more missiles, have them take out the missiles, the site, and the personnel."

She looks up at Abi, Davidge, and me. Abi nods at Davidge and so do I, although it seems that we have given Nightwing and his hypothetical partner an impossible, probably suicidal, task.

Davidge nods at Reaper and Reaper passes on the orders, finishing with, "Keep on it."

Keep on it. Keep on it. After awhile I find it curious that I confuse the human with the Drac and the Drac with the human. Our agents seem to be of a family and the forces and factions upon which they report seem to be of another family. Perhaps the Navi Di is just another tribe.

"Priority!" shouts Janice. "It’s the Red Crawler!"

A screen shows the dark interior of a small room, the point of view jumping and swinging about wildly. "He’s gone. Drews. He’s gone."

Her hand reaches out and pulls some paper boxes away from a wall. Behind the boxes is a hole. The point of view goes into the hole, meets a solid concrete wall, and looks down. A ladder leads down into a sewer. "Damn. I’ll chase him from this end, Peace. You better wake up a couple of zees in Silver City to head him off. His graphic’s on file. Crawler out."

Reaper immediately issues instructions to the Central Dorado regional net and the two Silver City zees report in less than a minute. The first to report in is a woman, code-named Lilly. The other zee is a man, code-named Peaches. They already have the graphic of Jacob Drews and know where the talks are taking place. They sign off and get moving.

"Keep on it," says Reaper.

Keep on it.

I am too tired to stand and too nervous to sit. If the sides had put off their truce for another six months we would have more coverage in greater depth, and our fully trained strike forces in place and ready to go. But as a man once said to me, if you want to hear God laugh, make a plan.

The matter of Jacob Drews preys on my mind. We do not know that he is carrying a bomb. We do not even know for certain that he is still making bombs. I call up the complete record of Red Crawler’s last transmission on my hand-portable. Crawler did not linger, but there are some frames I can freeze. Drews’s workshop has tools, wires, and bits of this and that. Some boxes and other containers. "Reaper, I have the inside of Drews’s house on channel twenty-one. Show me something that proves Jacob Drews has a bomb."

Davidge frowns at me then looks at his own screen. I look at mine and watch as Reaper runs a pointer around the contents of the workshop showing how this or that could be used in making a bomb, or repairing a radio; this or that container might have held explosives, or food, or just about anything.

"We know he could have made a bomb," adds Kita. "We know he has made bombs in the past."

Reaper nods. "And he’s got plenty of reasons not to want a truce. If he isn’t up to something, why’d he go to the mines? Why’s he traveling through the sewers?"

Motive, opportunity, past history, suspicious behavior. When the time comes to judge whether I am to live or die, I hope that my potential executioner will have more evidence than that upon which to decide my demise.

"Priority Red," calls Janice. "Peaches has Drews in sight."

The screens change to show a relatively steady image of a large plaza seen from the top of a building. There are only a few persons standing on the multicolored blocks of concrete, all of them human. There is a Front security line around the entrance to a large building on the far side of the plaza.

"The battle lines go right through that building," says Peaches. "The Mavedah controls the approaches to the opposite side of the building. Lilly is watching that side just in case, but here he is. I have a clear shot."

The image grows until we see a shot of Jacob Drews walking across the square, his hands empty except for a walking stick. His steps are steady and slow, the expression on his face sad. Half the screens fill with another view seen from the level of the square. "It’s Lilly," says Kita.

"I have a clear shot," says the second agent.

"I wonder if that includes getting away," mutters Davidge.

The new view of Drews reveals nothing. "If he’s got a bomb on him," says Lilly, "it’s wrapped around his body."

"Damn!" mutters Janice. "Priority Red, Nightwing!"

Three screens fill with flame and smoke. There is a roaring sound. "Green Fire shot the damned missiles," comes Nightwing’s voice through a mess of static. "Two of 'em. We exploded one on the ground and that one took out the rest, including the site and its personnel. The other missile is on its way. We couldn’t stop it. Sorry."

"We have to warn the talks!" I shout into my headset.

"Don’t worry about it, Ro," says Eli Moss through my headset. "I got it on radar and it’s not headed for Silver City. That bird is coming straight at us!"

"Peace," calls Lilly. "If this guy is a bomb, we’re going to have to do him soon. If he gets much closer he’s going to take out the guard and a good hunk of that building."

An alarm goes off and I instinctively grab one of the bulkhead braces as the Aeolus veers sharply to the right, then drops suddenly as a deafening crash drives the ship down even further. As I struggle up from the deck, I see Reaper pulling himself back into his chair. Kita says, "Peaches and Lilly need a decision right now. Is it a hit or a miss?"

I look to my right and see Zenak Abi and Davidge crumpled up together on the deck. Davidge is bleeding from his forehead and both of them are unconscious. I look back at the screen and Jacob Drews continues to plod toward the entrance of the building in which the talks are taking place, his walking stick clicking on the concrete.

It is my worst nightmare come true. Yora Beneres rushes toward Abi and Davidge, but they are both still out. I am alone. "Hit him," I order. A split second later a shot is fired, Drews comes to a halt, and the guards in the security lines ready their weapons as they look for the cause of the noise.

Jacob Drews weaves for a moment, then drops to his knees. As he begins to pitch forward onto his face, the walking stick falls from his hand followed immediately by an explosion that momentarily leaves the sound system dead. When it recovers I hear the message we prepared, in the name of The Peace, explaining who we are, what we have done, and why we are doing it. In moments all of Amadeen will know that the game now has new rules.

I squat down next to Davidge, and Kita is treating him, the tears streaking her cheeks. I turn to look at Abi but Kita shakes her head. I feel for a pulse, but there is none. Zenak Abi is dead.

Abi dead. The anger in me says that Abi cannot start me on this path and then leave. I almost say that it is unfair. Old fool, you spent your life for a peace you will never see. You will get your Aydan’s blade, Abi. Time will tell if your peace comes to be.

I stand, look up at the screen, and see that there is nothing left of Jacob Drews save a small crater in the plaza. The guards near the building are picking themselves up, stunned expressions on their faces. The image goes to black as Peaches and Lilly leave their positions to fade into the background, the number twenty-nine left prominently at the location from where the fatal shot was fired.

Reaper stands next to me, his hand on my shoulder. "That was a gutsy call, Ro. Was it a lucky call, too?"

I feel the tears welling up inside me. There are some for Zenak Abi, perhaps a few for me. Mostly, though, the tears are for a mountain of pain named Jacob Drews who enters the next life as a breath of vapor.

"Well, was it?"

I face Reaper. "What do you mean?"

"How did you decide? How did you know for certain Drews had a bomb?"

"Certainty had nothing to do with it. I guessed. Because of the walking stick. He didn’t have it in the recording showing him going to the old IMPEX mines. After his trip through the sewer, though, he had a walking stick. I guessed it was rigged with a dead man’s switch."

Reaper nods and goes back to his post as Yora comes out and lets us know that the ship is all right. More reports from agents covering The Fives, The Rose, Thuyo Koradar, and Green Fire. All plans on hold until everyone can assess the new player. As our agent Kamikaze puts it, "There’s a cop in the neighborhood and the gangs don’t know what to make of it."

That evening, as we head back to our mountain, the truce still holding, I sit by Abi’s body in the cargo bay and think about when Abi said that it would probably get me killed. "Now I have gotten you killed."

"There will be more." I look up and Will Davidge is leaning against the hatchway. His head is bandaged and Kita is by his side.

"Are we wrong?" I ask.

Davidge lifts a hand and lets it fall to his side. "If I knew the answer to that, Ro, the universe would be a much different place." He nods toward the comm center. "It’s not over yet." Kita and he turn and return to the center. I say good-bye to Abi and follow them.

FORTY-ONE

The body count. Zenak Abi, Jacob Drews, and eleven members of a Green Fire missile battery. Nightwing and the other agent at the missile site were cut up a bit from flying debris, but nothing serious. The truce still holds.

We are gathered in the large chamber of the copper mine. Davidge is on his back on the dirt floor. Kita sits on the ground next to Davidge. "Neither the Front nor the Mavedah have issued statements and all of the splinters are waiting to find out what the main groups will say so they can oppose it, I imagine."

"We have heard from Green Fire," I add. "According to them The Peace is a Mavedah diversion allowing the Dracs to talk peace and keep killing."

"Anybody buying it?"

Kita nods. "Some are."

Davidge closes his eyes and leans his head back on the folded coat Kita has stuffed behind his head. "What about it, Ro?"

"Everyone we killed today was human."

He looks off into the shadows, takes a deep breath, and lets it escape slowly. "All the ones doing the killing were human, too."

"Were they!" I ask, already knowing the answer. I sit on the edge of one of Abi’s homemade chairs, lean forward, and clasp my hands together. "We need someone to replace Abi. You, too, if you are not on your feet soon. I cannot do it alone."

He looks at me for a long time. When he speaks he almost seems to be another person. "I want you to know that I am very proud of you, Yazi Ro, When you first showed up on Friendship, I thought you were going to be a real pain in the ass. Now that I’ve gotten to know you, if I could have my greatest wish it would be to have had a chance to watch you grow to adulthood. I don’t know if growing up with me would have been an improvement. You did an excellent job all by yourself. It would have been happier for you, though, I think."

He does not wait for a response, as if I was capable of one. Instead he looks at Kita. He places his hand on top of hers and squeezes it. "For reasons I’m not sure I understand, here you are."

She smiles and looks into his eyes as she brushes his face with her other hand. "I never could turn down a ski date."

"Kita, how would you like a really crappy job?"

Her smile fades as she cocks her head to one side. "Are you sure?"

"I’m, sure."

"If I disagree with you on a hit, I’ll follow my conscience."

Davidge pats her hand and nods, stopping the nod short as his face registers pain. "I expect nothing less." He looks at me. "What do you think about Kita taking Abi’s place?"

"She is an excellent choice. Her training, her judgment―" The image of Jacob Drews hangs in front of my every waking moment. I feel unshed tears choking me. "Drews was a human and I can hardly bear knowing the pain that drove him."

Davidge faces me. "I would be very concerned if his death didn’t trouble you."

"What if the next one is a Drac? What if I see myself taking my pain out on some Amadeen Front monsters? What will I do?"

Kita turns and looks at me. "You will do the right thing, Yazi Ro. So much depends on it."

"If it destroys me?" I look at Davidge. "What then?"

His voice is quiet, but firm. "If you do not reach for the strength you need, then you will be destroyed. Remember Aydan’s warmasters in the Koda Itheda. When a warmaster took up Aydan’s blade, it didn’t join itself to a lonely cause. With the blade came its sibling warmasters and the soldiers of its denve; a family united by the goal of peace. Together they became invincible. In other words, Ro, you don’t have to fight the monster all by yourself."

Outside, the envelope of night hiding me from everything but my thoughts, I look down from the mountain into the shadows where the night mist again fills the valley with ghosts. I hear Eli, Yora, Ghazi, and a few of Abi’s people working on the Aeolus, attempting to repair the screen and hull damage sustained by the ship when the Green Fire missile detonated. Elsewhere, a newly graduated group of agents bids good-bye to their friends and families as they use the cover of dark to hide their departures to their respective posts. The power platforms that will deliver them are being checked by their pilots. Reaper, Janice, and the others are in the ship standing watch on the information center, taking reports, plotting movements, updating the data banks. I hear some of our people as they huddle in the chill of the dark, putting off sleep by retelling the story of Drews and the Green Fire attack. Before they get to my part in the saga, I move away, seeking a quieter place in the darkness.

I hear crying; a person alone, letting its feelings out. For a moment I hesitate, not knowing whether I will be more comfort or annoyance. I move closer and see that it is Kita. "May I help?" I ask.

Before I can take a breath she throws her arms around my waist, buries her face in my chest, and cries. As I put my arms around her and hold her I see the wisdom of Aydan’s admonishment to its warmasters against warring with grief by oneself. "You are but one," said the ancient warrior Jetah who raised an army to end The War of Ages. "Pain, grief, sorrow, hate, and revenge are armies without number."

"Ro," she cries. "I love him so and I am so frightened."

As my own tears begin, I place my head alongside hers and whisper in her ear. "Remember the student in the Sitarmeda? The one who was frightened and who was going to lay open its own throat rather than face its fear? Namvaac found the student and asked what was troubling it?"

I feel her head nod as she sniffs back her tears and quotes from the Koda Sitarmeda, "Jetah, the darkness covers all the universe. It is such an all-powerful evil, I feel so small and helpless within it. Next to this darkness, the black of death seems so bright."

I answer her back, "Where you are now, child, Tochalla has been before you. It too was in darkness. It, too, had a knife. But Tochalla also had a friend."

She laughs and looks up at me. "I remember the passage a little differently, Ro. It was ‘Tochalla also had talma,’ wasn’t it?"

"I like how I remember it better, Kita. Besides, wasn’t having a friend part of Tochalla’s talma?"

"Thank you, Ro." She pulls herself up, kisses my cheek, and says again, "Thank you."

As I watch her walk to the ship, I think of the Drac with the two children on Mt. Atahd who said I have the eyes of a killer. "I am all of that," I whisper to its memory as I turn and look down at the ghosts in the fog. "I am all of that, but I am more. I am more."

FORTY-TWO

In the morning, the Aeolus in position over the Shorda Sea between the Shorda and Dorado continents, Davidge with us at the table in the comm room. We listen to the broadcasts from the Mavedah and the Front stations. Both stations give a reasonably accurate account of what happened and why, which means they have yet to decide what to do about us. All of the stations use the graphics supplied by the Navi Di. After the shocking image of Jacob Drews exploding, there are shots of the crater in the plaza, the number twenty-nine found chalked next to the hole, as well as on the rooftop where Peaches had squeezed off the fatal shot. The stations also show the graphics we supplied of the Green Fire missile incident, the number twenty-nine prominently displayed on the side of a burned-out van.

Commentators from the Front and Mavedah stations speculate upon The Peace, from where we came, what our numbers are, and what our hidden agenda might be. Remarkably, both stations end their commentaries on a note hopeful that The Peace, or Navi Di, is here to do what it says, police the truce. Both commentators recall Aydan and the War of Ages and the ancient warrior’s test: "Return when your goal is peace alone and you hold a willing knife at your own throat to achieve it. That is the price of a warmaster’s blade." The Amadeen Front commentator is skeptical, remarking that such a degree of dedication is more than can be expected these days.

In the information center, Davidge stares at the twenty-nine chalked next to the crater that closes out the newscast. "Ro, how many days are there in a year on Amadeen?"

I burst, out laughing. After all of the studying all of us have done, it seems like a number everyone should know. "Three hundred and fifty-eight."

He nods and faces me. "Three hundred and fifty-seven days to go." He points with his thumb toward the screen. "The reviews sound pretty good." He looks at me. "What’s eating you?"

"I was just thinking that, if I was in Tean Sindie or Black October and looking at those newscasts, I would be wondering if this new police force is in league with the Mavedah and the Front." I glance at Kita.

She shrugs and says, "Well, we are. We all have the same goal right now: a truce that holds. Things will clarify, though, once one of these splinter terrorist attempts gets through and the other side wants to retaliate."

"Do you think someone will get through?" I ask.

"We can’t be everywhere all of the time. Sooner or later one of the splinter groups will look upon us as a challenge. Can we get a bomb past the Navi Di? Can we slip a suicide team into the West Dorado without alerting The Peace? We must expect it."

I look at Davidge and he is slumped in his chair, his elbow on the chair’s arm rest, his head leaning against his hand. He is about to say something when Janice calls out. "This is no priority, but I have to pass it along. It came in from the Central Shorda regional net at Ruota. There’s a Mavedah bomber we’ve been tracking named Jolduh Rihn―"

"Eye of the Killer," corrects Davidge. "It delivered the bomb that ended the truce four years ago."

"That’s the one. Popcorn, our agent watching Rihn, observed the bomber cooking up something in its workshop. Popcorn called it in late last night and was told to―"

"Keep on it!" says everyone in the information center in unison. Reaper frowns and looks around at the faces. He mutters something in German and goes back to his hand-portable.

"So what happened?" Davidge asks Janice.

"When Rihn went to bed last night, Popcorn took some chalk and wrote twenty-nines all over the outside of the bomber’s house. This morning when Rihn stepped out and saw the marks, he ran away from his house and hasn’t been back since!"

I am thinking that if only they could all be that easy, when Roger calls out, "Priority Red! Nightwing says that Green Fire has a move in progress: four greenies, three men and a woman, armed with shoulder missiles and small arms, heading toward the Southern Shorda. Nightwing’s best guess is Gitoh."

Reaper arranges for more agents to help Nightwing along the way and Davidge glances at me. "Humans again," he says. Davidge turns to Reaper. "Tell Nightwing we have to be able to prove what the greenies are up to."

"He knows," Reaper answers without looking up from his hand-portable.

"We also need to know where the orders originated."

"He knows," repeats Reaper. He raises an eyebrow and glares at Davidge. "I trained this bird, Willy. Relax."

"Signal from the quarantine force," calls out Janice. "It’s a General Mary Alice Lord with the USER She’s the new co-commander of the QF."

Davidge frowns and cocks his head to one side. "I thought there isn’t supposed to be any communication from the orbiters to the ground."

"That’s the rule," answers Reaper. "But the QF isn’t supposed to be doing any smuggling down here, either."

Davidge adjusts his headset and nods at Janice, who puts up the image of the general on one of the screens. Mary Alice Lord, her steel gray hair cut short and brushed straight back, looks out of the screen. Her eyes are greenish gray and narrowed by the most stern expression I have ever seen on a human, including those who were trying to kill me.

"Davidge here. What can I do for you, general?"

Her view from the camera includes both Kita and myself, and the three of us together appear to violate one of her primary assumptions. "Mr. Davidge," she begins, pausing as if she expected to be corrected. "We have been listening to the planetside broadcasts here. What you can do for me is to explain who you are and what in the hell you are doing down there."

"What we are doing here, general, was, I believe, adequately covered in those broadcasts. We are, in short, truce police. If the future smiles on us, perhaps one day we will be treaty police. As for who I am, I was in the USEF a few years ago. I should be in your earthside computer―"

"Davidge, Willis E., USEF 997309974, Second Lieutenant, flight officer, attached to Squadron B, 98th Fighter Command, Pursuit Carrier USEFS Warspite. It says you were shot down over Fyrine IV and rescued some years later, All of this took place while I was still at the Academy thirty years ago. What we have on you since is that you did a translation of The Talman and now live on Fyrine IV, since named Friendship."

"That pretty well covers it, general. All that’s missing is that someone wanted, very badly, for the war on Amadeen to end. That person went on a search for a talma that would achieve peace, and it appears that I am a part of that talma. What we are doing is following that talma. is there anything else?"

General Lord’s face is immobile as her eyes stare at Davidge. Glancing off screen for a moment, her gaze returns full force. "The ship you are in right now, the Aeolus, is registered on Rhana, and although it is an old ship, it is not thirty years old. As such, it’s existence in Amadeen airspace is a violation of the quarantine. You must either surrender your vessel to the quarantine force, along with all persons not authorized to be on Amadeen, or I will he forced to blow you out of the sky."

Davidge reaches out his left arm and places his hand on my shoulder. "General, this is my dear friend, Yazi Ro."

I nod at the image on the screen. The general remains motionless,

"Yazi Ro was born on Amadeen. It was smuggled off Amadeen in a quarantine force ship. Yesterday Black October held a televised rally. We had our own person there who took pictures of some of the weapons the Octoberists are carrying." Davidge nods toward Janice and she begins calling up Alley Cat’s shots of the rally. "You will see that some of them are carrying the Valmet M660D beam disrupter. The 660D is less than two years old, and the weapons held by those Octoberists were smuggled onto Amadeen by one or more quarantine force ships."

"I deny any knowledge of such practices, but given that what you say is true, Mr. Davidge, what is your point?"

"There are two points. First, until you people up there clean up your own act, we’re going to find any accusations of quarantine violations directed at us downright funny. The second point, general, has to do with threats." Davidge’s smile fades and he matches the general’s cold look stare for stare. "This ship, as you know, is a USEF attack transport. Right now its defense shields are operational and the ship is fully armed with its original complement of disrupters, defense missiles, ground support missiles, long range missiles, and automatic cannons. If you should be foolish enough to attack us, we will respond by taking out the four orbiting quarantine stations."

"Our fighters will destroy you."

"Possibly. The stations will be atomized, nevertheless. You might want to consider the possible alternatives, general."

"Such as?"

"All of the factions on Amadeen have access to weapons capable of attacking this ship. One of them may succeed. Another alternative is that we are successful and peace comes to Amadeen. Either way the QF saves a lot of lives, and isn’t that the purpose of the quarantine?"

He nods at Janice. As the general’s image vanishes from the screen, Janice says, "It looks like Popcorn’s bomber is changing its mind," The screens come to life and several minor officers of the Thuyo Koradar are dragging, almost carrying, the struggling bomber back to its home workshop.

As the bomber screams for help and a few of us chuckle, I lean over and speak to Davidge, "Was it wise to threaten the QF, especially since the Aeolus has no weapons at all?"

"We have the weapons," he answers. "A present from Estone Nev. That’s why we spent that extra day at the A’ja Cou Station."

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

Davidge shrugs and holds out his hands. "Sorry. You were out with Reaper’s press gang fleshing out the crew, then you were unconscious, then you were healing, then other things came up."

Before I can say anything else, Nightwing is back. The Green Fire suicide team is still on its way, Gitoh is confirmed as the goal, and the source of the orders has been identified. Everything is supported by recorded conversations of all the accomplices.

In the hills overlooking Gitoh, the suicide team will set up its missiles, target the hospital, two schools, and the kovah for lineless children, totaling over eight thousand children and adults. Green Fire’s leaders hope to kill enough children and wounded to provoke the Mavedah into a retaliatory strike, thus killing the talks.

Green Fire’s leadership is a council of seven members. This council voted unanimously to make the strike against Gitoh. The orders passed from them to their minister of revolution, who ordered a field commander, who in turn asked for volunteers. Taking out everyone responsible will mean killing at least thirteen more humans.

"Do they have enough agents?" Davidge asks Reaper,

"They have one on the missile team, two on the council, and one each on the war minister and the field commander. It’ll be close, especially with the security on that council, but they should make it. They should make it."

As I watch Reaper, I suddenly realize that he is not giving his considered opinion; he is praying. I turn to Davidge. "I want to send this information to the Mavedah. If Green Fire should get through, we must stop the retaliation before it begins."

Davidge thinks a moment, glances at Kita, then faces Janice. "See if you can raise the Mavedah."

While Janice turns to the communication board, inside of me there is a voice saying it is all too one-sided. Yesterday we foil two human plots to disrupt the truce. Yesterday we kill twelve humans. Today we target and kill another thirteen humans. While the one voice cries that this is too lopsided, another voice is cheering. I feel guilty about both voices and listen to neither.

"Got 'em," says Janice. "Taaka Liok, it says it’s fourth warmaster, responsible for the Southern Shorda."

I watch as the legend of Taaka Liok fills the screen facing me. I have followed the orders of this warmaster for so long that I feel like a child before a disapproving parent it has struggled to please. "I am here," says Liok. "Are you the one who wants to speak?"

I lean forward, rest my arms on the table, and at last get my mouth working. "Jetah, I am Yazi Ro of the Navi Di."

The old warmaster raises its eyebrows. "Ah, the truce police. What would you have of me?"

"We have learned that the Green Fire has planned a missile attack for tonight from the hills surrounding the city of Gitoh. They plan to target the hospital, two schools, and the kovah for lineless children. The object of the attack is to provoke retaliation."

"If they succeed in their plans," says the warmaster, "they will get their retaliation."

"We intend to stop them, Jetah. In case we fail, though, I wanted to warn you to allow the Gitoh Sikov time to prepare."

Taaka Liok studies me for a moment. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes, Jetah. If we cannot stop Green Fire in time, we would have it that you do not retaliate. We will find out who is guilty, we will execute them, and the truce will hold."

The warmaster leans away from its camera and clasps its hands together. "Why would you do such a thing, Yazi Ro?"

"That is our duty, Jetah."

"Duty?" Taaka Liok leans forward and points. "Who made this your duty?"

Who? I think of the Front, all of the dead, the millions who live each day in fear, my old comrades, the weariness that haunted me between my terrors. Zenak Abi, Davidge, Jeriba Shigan, Falna in its perverse way. I look at Taaka Liok and do not avert my glance. "It is talma. A talma to peace."

A sneer touches its lips. "Long before either of us were born, Yazi Ro, the Jetai Diea on Draco decided that Amadeen is forever rulebound into its war. No talma is possible save the elimination of one side or the other."

"Things continually change, Taaka Liok, including the Jetai Diea’s understanding of talma."

"Where are you from, Yazi Ro?"

"My parent died in Gitoh, my only home, save the kovah for line less children there."

It frowns as it studies my image on its own screen. "At the kovah, were you selected?"

"Yes, Jetah. I am a deserter from the Okori Sikov."

Taaka Liok glances down, then it reaches out a hand to a point beside the screen. "I promise nothing. Let’s see how successful you are against Green Fire’s attack." It pauses for a moment. "I will tell you my decision about retaliation once it is made."

The screen goes blank. All of us continue looking at the dead screen until Kita says, "I don’t think the warmaster bought it."

"Would you?" asks Davidge. "You spend your whole life in hell trying to stay a step ahead of the monster, then all of a sudden Goody-Goody comes along and says, 'Sit this one out, mate. I’ll take care of it." He looks at me and I hold out my hands.

"Will, what if we let Green Fire know we are onto their plans? Perhaps they will wait for another time or simply call it off."

Davidge taps a fingertip on the table. "We let the Front know, too. They might have some clout with Green Fire. Hell, let everybody know."

Kita and Davidge exchange glances, then Kita faces Janice. "Raise Nightwing and his regional net. Tell him about Popcorn’s bomber and see if some well-placed twenty-nines around the council chamber and on the road to Gitoh can’t put the brakes on Green Fire, then raise the Amadeen Front―"

"Priority Red!" calls out Roger. On the screens, we see an explosion followed by the trail of a descending missile followed by another explosion. The sound is garbled for a moment, then a shadow blocks the view. The screen goes blank and the sound goes dead. Sound comes back along with a black screen, and Sally Redfeather’s voice saying, "This is Tommy. Alley Cat is dead. Obsidian is under a missile attack right now." We see a glimpse of Ali Enayat’s face, eyes staring in death at a burning building. The picture jumps down to a view of Sally’s boot crushing Alley Cat’s hand-portable. She moves into a shadow cast by some flames and we see another missile coming down into the town, far enough away so that all we see is the reflection of the explosion off the night air.

"I don’t know who’s sending the mail, but the missiles sound like ZZK’s, which means it’s Tean Sindie. They’re coming in from the east and being launched from over the horizon."

Reaper adjusts his headset, covers the mouthpiece, and says, "Eli, lay in a course for east of Obsidian, and put the coal to it! Start scanning for that missile battery." The ship lurches as it turns and roars toward the Dorado. Taking his hand from the mouthpiece, Reaper’s voice becomes very quiet. "Tommy, did you get hit?"

"Reap, you old bastard. No, I’m not hit, but in about a minute I’m going to be in an excellent position to get burgered. As soon as the shrapnel stops flying, old Raymond Sica is going to pull his face out of the mud and order a payback strike against the Mavedah. As soon as he does, I’m going to twenty-nine him, right?"

"Anybody covering your back, Tommy?"

"Same guy as always."

Reaper covers his mouthpiece and looks at the three of us. "If Sica orders the strike, does she whack him?" Without consultation, all three of us nod. Reaper says into his mouthpiece, "If he orders the payback, give him the twenty-nine."

"Landfall," says Eli over the headset. "We’ll be over Obsidian in a couple of minutes. I have two missile tracks and reverse trajectories in the computer. Everything is armed, aimed, and ticking."

Davidge glances at Kita. She nods. Facing me, he says, "What about it?"

They will be my first Drac executions. Perhaps this will even out things. "Take out the launchers."

Davidge relays the order to Eli, and immediately we feel two missiles launch from the Aeolus. Reaper says into his mouthpiece. "The cavalry is on its way, Tommy."

"Not them?" she protests. "The last time the cavalry came through my neighborhood, my great-grandmother’s great-grandmother wound up in a tarpaper teepee in New Jersey selling polyester blankets from Taiwan. Hey Reap?"

"Still here."

"If it comes to that, let the Drac down easy. Tommy Hawk out."

Davidge leans on the edge of the table and faces Reaper. "When you asked Sally who was watching her back, who did she mean?"

"Same guy as always. That’s her Great Spirit, a giant of a mighty warrior who rides a horse made of stars and carries a lance of fire."

There is silence for a moment, the only sound the dull roar of the ship’s engines. Reaper turns to Janice and she nods. "It’s the Tean Sindie. Flower and the Blade are on it. No warning at all, very high security. I told them to target the two who handed out the orders, the missile site is about to take care of itself."

As we authorize the hits on the battery commander and the Tean Sindie area Jetah, an image appears on the screen. We see six tracked vehicles mounted with launchers. Each launcher has tubes for sixteen missiles, but none of them has the full sixteen. As the launchers fire, soldiers of the Tean Sindie cheer the missiles on their way to Obsidian and Black October. I look at Davidge. He is doing the same as I am: counting the dead before they fall.

We do not see the missiles from the Aeolus come in. One moment there are a hundred or more cheering Drac soldiers of the Tean Sindie, the next the screens go white, the white fades, and there is nothing. No tracked vehicles, no missiles, no soldiers, no cheers. Smoke, a few small fires, a terrible silence. When we had killed nothing but humans, I felt terribly guilty, evil. Now that we have thrown a hundred Drac corpses onto the scales, I feel no better.

I know why they were cheering. They were beaten, life, friends, and lovers taken from them, and at last, in the form of a gleaming blue winged tube full of explosives, they could strike back against all of those who had tortured and oppressed them throughout their lives. I know why they cheered. They cheered from their pain. They cheered because all of them cheered. They cheered because they did not know that the ones they killed were human copies of themselves. There are insignificant differences of color, the genetic orders concerning the number of fingers and toes, accent, language, belief. Trivialities.

But there is the tribe. That is something.

Amadeen is cut up into tribes as primitive as anything on ancient Sindie, as obsessed as any on Timan, as vicious as anything on Earth. The tribe has only one commandment: the tribe comes first. Before right, before justice, before honor, before sanity, before survival, before self-interest, before love. Hissied 'do Timan did not create the war on Amadeen that became a war of three hundred worlds. The old Timan simply pulled the trigger on a gun that was loaded on the plains of the Madah, the mountains of the Irrvedan, the Irnuz Steppe, the streets of Belfast and Sarajevo, and the deserts of the Middle East before either Timans, humans, or Dracs even knew there were stars to touch.

"Does Black October have this yet?" asks Kita.

Reaper nods. "So does the Front, the Mavedah, and all the little sons of bitches." He glances at Davidge. "Raymond Sica ordered the retaliation. Before it could be carried out, Sally Redfeather took him on the dance. Sica’s guards took her down."

Janice reaches out a hand to place it on Reaper’s shoulder, but he shakes his head and continues. "Message from October: Paul Ruche is running October now. He wants to meet with us face to face."

"A setup?" asks Kita.

Reaper rubs his eyes and shrugs. When his hand comes down, his face looks very old. "Hell, I don’t know. The feeling I get is that he wants to know if we’re for real."

"For real?" I ask. "What does that mean: for real?"

"Sincere," answers Davidge. "Perhaps the new leader of Black October wants to know if we’re sincere." He lowers his gaze to the center of the table. "Perhaps not." He looks at Janice. "What about the Green Fire attack on Gitoh?"

"They’ve been looking at the numbers written on the wall and I think they’ve reconsidered."

He nods, puts his hands on the table, and pushes himself up. Once he is standing he says, "Well, that’s something. That’s something." He frowns for a moment and looks up at the screen. Several of the fires have gone out. "Whose hand-portable is that?"

"Fireball. It just got there from training."

"Fireball," Davidge repeats. "Tell Fireball we’ve had enough pictures. Tell it to put down its twenty-nine and get out of there." He removes his headset and places it on the table as he looks back at Reaper. "Arrange a meeting with Ruche. Maybe we can show him we’re for real. See what we can do about getting Ali Enayat’s and Sally’s bodies returned to us."

"Got it."

"For the meeting, I want us all wired for pictures and sound with feeds to all the broadcasting stations who will take them."

Reaper nods. "I’ll take care of it."

Davidge looks down at the center of the table and speaks, it seems, to himself. "Bodies. There is doubt out there; doubt about us. After what we’ve done, after what they’ve paid, after what we’ve paid, there is still doubt." He glances at me and asks, "How many bodies more will it take before we are considered for real?"

It is not a question with an answer. He puts his hands on the edge of the table and pushes himself to his feet. For the first time he looks terribly old to me. He reaches out a hand and places it on my shoulder. "I’m very proud of you, Ro." One by one his gaze picks out all those in the comm center, "I’m proud of all of you, everyone in The Peace."

He turns and walks from the comm center to his quarters, his steps slow and almost feeble, his back bent beneath the weight of his cares. Kita places her hand on mine. "If we’re needed I’ll have my headset with me." She rises and follows Davidge out of the center.

Reaper, Janice, and Roger work with the screens, spreading the word, making arrangements, passing on graphics to the broadcasting stations. A meeting place and time is arranged with Black October and I feel the Aeolus swinging about.

I think of Ali Enayat’s two children, one human and one Drac, neither of them biologically related to him. They must be told. I think of Sally Redfeather in her dress at that terrible bar. Reaper will tell Cudak.

I especially think of that old Drac, Toack, the one who guarded her things, the one who never left its history behind and brought the war with it into the future, the one who kept repeating its mantra: "All my children. All my children." I see Will Davidge doing the same.

It is quiet on the Dorado for the rest of the night. I go to sleep and dream that I am a child in Willis Davidge’s cave. There I learn to love, to be loved, to become love. I am a part of this wonder that is the universe, only to find that it is a trap set for me by Falna. I reach for Uncle Willy’s hand and find death. I awaken screaming and cry myself back to sleep.

FORTY-THREE

Soon after sunrise, in the hills north of Obsidian, Davidge, Kita, and I go to meet with the new leader of Black October, Paul Ruche. From the right front corner, Reaper pilots the power platform because he refuses to let us go without him. He has enough weapons concealed about his person to make it possible to sink him to the bottom of a lake of quicksilver. The Aeolus is in its usual position over the Shorda Sea, our backup authorization team―Yora, Janice, and Cudak―in place. Reaper, Kita, and I carry hand-portables and our cameras are sending, the ship relaying the feeds to the Front, the Mavedah, and to all of the splinter groups.

Hanging onto the cargo braces, we stand silently watching Ruche and his two bodyguards standing in the clearing. At their feet are two litters, a shroud-wrapped body upon each. The ship’s sensors show that Ruche has at least a company of Octoberists hidden in the woods. A trap for us? Perhaps it is only Ruche’s precaution in case the trap is ours.

As we land I look away from the Octoberists and watch Davidge. His expression is strangely calm. Last night I heard he and Kita arguing. He insisted that she remain behind. She insisted that he remain behind. The meeting though is with all of us, the ones who "run things," as Paul Ruche had put it. They at last accepted that they both would go and I hear them making love as though for the last time.

I no longer question this love between this young woman and this old man. I am learning to see beyond surfaces; a skill Will and Kita knew back on Friendship. As I listened to them, I ached for Falna’s touch. At that moment I could have forgiven it anything, just to have its arms around me.

The platform lands and I force myself into the present moment. Reaper shuts down the controls, releases his straps, and steps down onto the grassy surface of the clearing. The three of us follow, instinctively placing distance between each of us so that we cannot all be taken out with one shot.

We stop five paces from the three Octoberists. Now that we are closer, I see that one of his bodyguards is the head of Black October’s thought police, the woman Akilah Hareef. The third one I do not recognize. Ruche fixes Davidge with a stare and says, "The agreement was that we are to be unarmed. The three of us are unarmed, and the three of you are unarmed." The Octoberist I do not recognize holds up a hand scanner. "That one," Ruche says nodding toward Reaper, "is armed."

Kita smiles and says, "He balances out those hundred and forty-two armed soldiers you have watching us from the edge of the woods." As I listen, I remember the knife in my boot. I guess Ruche doesn’t consider my blade a weapon next to the pistols and disrupters Reaper has tucked here and there.

Ruche’s expression does not change. He nods at the bodies of Ali Enayat and Sally Redfeather. "As we agreed, here are your assassins."

Without looking away from Ruche, Davidge says, "Reaper."

Reaper moves until he is between the litters. He kneels down next to one and uncovers the face of the Alley Cat, the first to volunteer. It is stained with dried blood, the hair matted with it. The eyes are open and Reaper closes them. Turning to face the other litter he pulls the wrapping from the face of the corpse. It is Sally Redfeather, eyes closed, her face waxy yellow, her mouth hanging open. Reaper covers her face, stands, and looks at Paul Ruche, "She was no assassin, squid. She saved all of your lives."

"She killed Raymond," says Akilah Hareef.

"Raymond Sica was an asshole who gave an order that, had it been followed, would have done for Black October what firing those missiles did for the Tean Sindie."

"They were killing us; killing our people!"

"And now they are dead." Reaper squats down, picks Sally’s body up in his arms, and takes her back to the platform.

"What is this meeting about?" asks Davidge.

The head of Black October frowns as he seems to have difficulty arriving at a decision. The decision postponed, he continues to watch as Reaper stands from placing Sally’s body on the platform and returns for Ali Enayat. As he picks up the remains of our first volunteer, Ruche looks into Davidge’s eyes. "I needed to see you face to face. I don’t trust these broadcast images."

"You’re being televised right now," says Kita.

Akilah holds up Sally’s hand-portable, her own image on the tiny screen. "We know."

"There are no screens between you and me right now," Ruche says to Davidge. "I want to see you—your face, your eyes―when you tell me what you are doing here, on Amadeen, in this fight that has nothing to do with you."

I nod as I realize that Black October gets prohibited communications from the quarantine force orbiters. How many other groups do the same, I wonder.

"Tell me now," Roche orders. "Why are you here? What do you get out of this?"

"We are here to police the truce," Davidge repeats. "What we get out of it is the chance for the truce to work. Possibly we get peace."

I can see all of Paul Ruche’s thinking displayed on his face: Do you think I am a fool? I have seen a hundred thousand instances where Dracs have lied, betrayed, set up good men and women, and tortured and killed them. You are standing there with a Drac as your equal, your so-called police force even has a Drac name, and you had Raymond Sica murdered because he was only trying to defend us against the Tean Sindie’s bloody attack.

Reaper places his burden down on the platform next to Sally. Ruche studies him for a moment, then faces Davidge. "So, little Niagat," says Ruche, "you’re after Aydan’s blade, are you?"

In surprise I blurt out, "You know The Talman?"

"To defeat an enemy, one must know its thoughts," he answers without looking away from Davidge. "I know the story of Aydan and its search for peace." He drops his gaze for a moment, and thinks. Once he finds his Mind, he looks first at Kita, then me, then Davidge. "Aydan put together an army to end the war between the nations on Sindie; an army whose only purpose was peace."

He holds out an arm toward the woods. "I’ll tell you what those men and women want. They want every last Drac in the universe dead. I’ll tell you what those Dracs in the Mavedah, Tean Sindie, Sitarmeda, and Thuyo Koradar want. They want every last human in the universe dead. And you want a truce. Tell me, Aydan, what can be gained from truce talks?"

Davidge smiles and shakes his head. "Perhaps what the Dracs say is true: to get a human’s attention takes a mirror, a loud voice, and a sharp stick." He takes a deep breath and nods. "I guess it’s not as obvious as I thought. The point of the truce, Paul Ruche, is the truce itself."

"What does that mean?"

"If the Front and the Mavedah, and all of the human and Drac splinter groups do make it to the table, they will talk, and swear, and bellow, and curse, and threaten, and will reach no agreement, but the truce will hold. Then, in time, children will grow and your replacements will come to the table. Perhaps they too will talk, swear, bellow, curse, and threaten and reach no agreement, but the noise level will be lower and the truce will hold. All this time humans and Dracs will be venturing farther and farther from their weapons. They will be rebuilding their lives, their towns and cities, their schools, farms, and businesses. The young, not burdened with memories, will see where money might be made by selling to the other side. Money might be saved by employing them, putting them through the same schools that ours attend, and the truce will hold. Eventually, the ones who show up at the talks will be men, women, and Dracs who really don’t understand why so many old ones are so insanely attached to the past. The talks will be populated by those who no longer want to waste time on talks that don’t do anything or go anywhere. They will sign the peace."

"For me, then," says Ruche, "it is a pointless gesture. I get nothing I want. Black October gets nothing it has fought and sacrificed for all these years."

"You asked me what would be gained from truce talks. I answered."

"And this is all you want: the truce to hold so that at some point in the future there will be a signed peace?"

Paul Ruche turns away, looks at Akilah Hareef, and she nods in return. "Willis Davidge," she says, "the only Drac I ever heard about who wanted only peace was Aydan, who, if the story is to be believed, killed millions of its enemies before it adopted its noble goal."

"Say what you will," remarks Ruche’s bodyguard with the scanner, "we and the Dracs have at least accomplished that."

After dosing him with a withering glance, Akilah Hareef looks back at Davidge. "In the story of Aydan, Niagat is told how to pass the test for a warmaster’s blade."

Davidge quotes, Return when your goal is peace alone and you hold a willing knife at your own throat to achieve it. That is the price of a warmaster’s blade.

As I hear Akilah Hareef make her offer, the talma is clear to me from beginning to end. I am stunned by it: its simplicity, its beauty, its horror. "We will put down our weapons and come to the talks if we see the Navi Di earn its Aydan’s blade."

The world turns so slowly, the figures about me moving like insects through resin. Davidge does not ask what the woman means, or if she is serious, or argue that the goal of Aydan’s test was peace not the dubious agreement of a fraction of one side, or point out that it is probably nothing more than a meaningless bluff.

Davidge does none of these.

In one liquid movement the old human bends down, pulls the knife from my boot, and stands holding the knife above his head. I reach to stop him, but Kita throws her arms around me, immobilizing my arms with a strength I did not know she possessed. When I break free and can see, Davidge’s hand is at his side, the blood is flowing down the front of his jacket, and he is sinking to his knees, his eyes open, his gaze fixed on Akilah Hareef. His words, other words, parade before me.

"How many bodies more will it take before we are considered for real?"

"All my children. All my children."

I rush to his side, and am there only in time to lower him gently to the ground. Peace? Can any peace be worth this?

Yes. Of course. Only one life.

Only one.

I look at Akilah Hareef. Her mouth is open in a parody of astonishment. Paul Ruche is studying Davidge, waiting still for a trick. The Octoberist with the scanner takes a hesitant step forward. As he squats down next to Davidge, he looks at me and I see the confusion, the tears in his eyes. Reaper rushes up, pushes Ruche out of the way, and drops to his knees next to me.

"What in the hell happened?" He glares at me, then Ruche, then Hareef. "Who―"

I point at Davidge’s hand, my knife still clutched in his fingers. I pry the knife from his hand and hold it. Kita stands there next to Davidge, her eyes closed, the tears on her cheeks. I want to rip the blade across Hareef’s guts, cut off Ruche’s suspicious face, gouge out all the crying eyes around me.

I do none of it. Instead I thrust the blade into the ground, leave it, and pick Davidge up in my arms. As I stand I face Kita. "You knew."

Her lips form the word "yes," but there is no sound.

The Ovjetah, Zenak Abi, Kita Yamagata, Davidge. Aside from myself, who did not know this talma? There is so much anger I need to throw at someone, but the only one who deserves it is dead in my arms. It was his hand. I swing Davidge’s body around and look at Paul Ruche, the head of Black October, All I do is look and keep looking until he turns and begins walking toward the tree line, followed a moment later by Akilah Hareef. The remaining Octoberist looks from my face to Davidge’s body. He shakes his head, turns slowly and follows the others to the tree line.

"Let’s go, Ro." Reaper is standing there, his arms out, offering to help carry Davidge. I turn away from him and, holding Davidge close to me, I walk toward the platform. "You were to be my parent," I whisper to the still shape in my arms. "I am alone once more." I lower him and place his body next to his dead comrades.

When all of us are aboard, the platform lifts off, I face into the wind, and try to believe that I am in a dream in which I know I am in a dream, which means I can change it at will. But I can will no changes, for I am not in a dream, and the pain will never end.

FORTY-FOUR

The truce still holds.

As I stand in the shadows looking down at the night mists, the truce still holds.

Thuyo Koradar and The Fives make some noise and some plans. The noise is just noise and the plans―well, if you want to hear God laugh, make a plan. Bombers, suicide attackers, nutball war chiefs, and everyone else begin seeing twenty-nines wherever they go. There are more twenty-nines than The Peace has either time or personnel to inscribe. The Mavedah’s own people, the Front’s own people, are marking the sign of The Peace everywhere.

Many saw on their monitors what happened when Hareef made her offer and Davidge earned his Aydan’s blade. The story spreads. Through Black October, through the Front, The Fives, The Rose, and Greenfire. Through the Mavedah, the Tean Sindie, Sitarmeda, and Thuyo Koradar. Through all of the peoples of Amadeen.

The truce holds. Black October comes to the table to talk. Tean Sindie comes the next day. By the end of the dry season, the last of the splinter groups, The Rose, sits at the table. They talk, and swear, and bellow, and curse, and threaten, and they reach no agreements, but the truce holds.

In twenty days another faction forms among discontented humans, but a galaxy of twenty-nines appears on land, forest, streets, and buildings before they can perform their first atrocity. They are frightened off. Eight days later, a lone Drac suicide bomber lets its pain drive it north of Douglasville where The Peace stops it dead. The executioner found it unnecessary to leave a twenty-nine. Those who live on the street marked it with the numbers.

More come forward to join The Peace, the Mavedah donates two additional ships to the Navi Di, and the Front retaliates by setting up Navi Di offices and observers in all their units. Four months after Davidge earned his blade, Green Fire officially disbands.

Cudak, Kita, and I are the authorization team, and I hardly look at her. Of all of those I blame for Will Davidge’s death, second only to myself, I blame Kita. It makes no sense, but in my entire life, where had sense ever been a part? I do not accept his death, although the entire planet of Amadeen seems to have accepted it, taking it on as an icon.

There are things I wanted to do.

There are things I wanted Davidge to be there to see.

That foolish child inside me, the one who cries "unfair!" is still there.

From the shadows I watch the mists and find so much of my purpose for peace gone; so much of my purpose for life gone. As I watch the night avians race through the haze below, I feel a hand on my arm. Without looking I know it is Kita. "What is it?"

"There is someplace we have to go."

I look at her and notice for the first time how puffy her face seems. "Where?"

"Gitoh."

"Why?"

"The Mavedah has opened it up."

I look back at the fog. "What is in Gitoh?"

"Something Will wanted you to see. It was his last wish."

The thin scab across the wound of my grief is scraped clear with a few words. Numbly I follow her across the clearing and into the Aeolus.

In less than an hour the ship puts down in Gitoh. At first the inhabitants look upon us with suspicion, until they see the twenty-nines marked on our armbands. There are waves, a cheer. There is a Drac who meets us and it leads the way between the bombed-out buildings of the city. The streets are cleared of rubble and the bomb craters filled in. There is a small business repairing appliances in a burned-out building. Another business sells seeds and food plants. A third business sells old clothes. At the end of one street is a pile of rubble that once must have been a huge building. When we reach it, there are twenty or so local Dracs there, all wearing their shabby best. Part of the bottom of the building has been painfully excavated and there is a concrete stairway going down. There is no electricity and the stairs are illuminated with candles. I look at Kita. "What is this place?"

She nods. "These are the archives of about sixty lines here in Gitoh. It has been over twelve years since they’ve been used. The Yazi archives are here."

We enter one of the sub-basements. The candles fill the huge room with a warm yellow light. The room is filled with Dracs and a few humans. Some I recognize, most I do not. There is an open armored shelf containing ornate books of various thicknesses. A blue-robed Jetah takes a very thin book from this shelf and places it on a podium.

I stop dead and face Kita. "I cannot do this! I am not prepared." I lower my gaze to the floor mosaic and speak to her in a whisper. "He is not here. I wanted him to be here for me the way he was there for so many others."

Kita looks up at me and smiles. "He is here, Ro."

I shake my head. "No, the only ghosts I believe in are evil."

"Ro, he is here," she insists. I look at her and she is holding her palms pressed flat against her middle.

I am so stupid. She is carrying Will’s child. I take her in my arms and hold her. Her arms steal about my waist and we stand there until all pain turns to love. At last she looks up at me. "I have a letter from Will. He wrote it the night before he died. It’s for you."

"What―what does it say?"

"I haven’t read it."

I release her and she reaches into a pocket and hands me an envelope. I break the seal, take out the sheet, and open it.

Dear Ro ,

On this day you begin the rites to become an adult. Know that I am very proud of you and that I believe you will continue to grow and improve upon the especially valuable being you already are. I once told you that I wish I could have been there to watch you grow. From when I first met you on Friendship through all of our time together, until here on Amadeen, I have watched you grow and celebrated your accomplishments. I have gotten my wish.

My love is with you always,

Uncle Willy.

As I look at that Uncle Willy signature, I can almost see him with that mischievous smile on his face. I look at Kita, hand her the letter, and face the Gitoh Archivist.

It reveals itself to me, as The Talman said the steps of the universe’s plan of my life would. In time there will be a relaxation of the quarantine and I will travel to Sindie on Draco to tell Matope, the veteran in the wheelchair, that we have remembered and the war is done. From there I will go to Timan to honor my promise to Lahvay ni 'do Timan, Dakiz of the Ri Mou Tavii, to teach his students the problem and the peace of Amadeen. Afterward, I will go to Friendship, find a cave, and help Kita and the Jeriba line teach her child how to gather the wood, smoke the snake, and withstand the winter. From there I will see where talma leads.

Before you here I stand, Ro of the line of Yazi,

Born of Avo, the teacher of English,

Student of Willis Davidge, the giver of peace…

ESSAYS

ON ALIEN LANGUAGES

(Or, Some of the Dangers of Starting Too Soon)

Okay, it’s 1978, well into the first year of my writing career, I have a few Momus and Circus World stories under my belt, and I am currently possessed by the writing of a story called "Enemy Mine," the telling of which has become something of a need. My $20.00 rebuilt IBM Selectric is humming, the paper is in place, and the title is on the paper. My fingers hit the keys and the human in my story flexes his fingers and thinks murder, while the alien does the same. The alien opens its mouth and says…

Well, what in the hell does it say?

"Irkmaan!"

You know, "Earthman" with a bad accent.

Do these as-yet unnamed and almost undescribed aliens pronounce "th" as "k"? Do they pronounce "man" with a broad double "a" because of their strong Jamaican roots?

Issues for another time. The story wants to be told and there will be no rest until it is done. In those stirring days of yesteryear, I wrote short stories by starting and not stopping until the thing was finished. Try that with a twenty-thousand-word novella sometime.

The human eggs the alien on with a few, "C’mon, put up your dukes!" phrases, and the alien retorts, "Irkmaan vaa, koruum su!"

My human character wasn’t going to take that kind of crap without comment. He responds with a phrase taught to him in military training: "Kiz da yuomeen, Shizumaat!", which means Shizumaat, the father—er—parent of Drac philosophy, eats kiz. And what is a kiz?

The kiz turns out to be a repulsive little critter whose name is also the name of its droppings. Did this have something to do with taking care of a friend’s cat for two weeks? The truth of this is lost to the ages.

In any event, that one sentence, "Kiz da yuomeen, Shizumaat!" saw the birth of both the philosopher Shizumaat and the beginning of the fauna on the alien planet. The first led to the necessity of coming up with a philosophy for the philosopher to philosophize about, and the second had children from three or four continents calling their teachers "kiz," leaving said teachers knowing they had been called something nasty, but not knowing exactly what.

And what did the Drac say in response? "Irkmaan, yaa stupid Mickey Mouse is!"

Was this the result of a misspent youth watching old WWII war movies on the Late Late Show? Jarheads and sons of Nippon hurling insults through an endless series of hostile Hollywood nights? Could be.

A huge wave wipes out my human, and when he regains consciousness, he is tied up and the alien is hovering over him saying, "Kiz da yuomeen, Irkmaan, ne?"

In other words, "Who eats it now, pal?"

Soon we find out that "ess" means "what," "lode" means "head," and "ne" means "no." Then the Drac asks the human, "Kos son va?"

The human doesn’t know how to respond, so the alien tries again. It points at itself and says, "Kos va son Jeriba Shigan." The Drac points to the human and repeats, "Kos son va?"

Kos va son—kos son va. I am called—you are called. Hell, now we’re talking not only vocabulary, but grammar! Grammar, That was that stuff that kept getting me into trouble back in high school, I began telling myself that I really ought to start keeping some notes on this alien language that was lurching into being before my eyes, but I had no time for notes. The story is all.

The human understands the alien and says, "Davidge. My name is Willis E. Davidge."

First, where did the character names come from? There seemed to be no time to plan out anything. When possessed by the story bug, you just do it! and let the syllables fall where they may. I had to come up with the alien’s name first. I reached into the air and found Jeriba Shigan. And so where did the name Jeriba Shigan come from?

There is an actor whom I very much admire named James Shigeta. Need I say more? Okay, I also think James Shigeta is very much underrated and would have done a great job playing the alien in my story. I very much admire the job Lou Gossett, Jr. did playing Jeriba Shigan in the motion picture Enemy Mine, but James Shigeta was the one I had playing the alien in my head when I wrote the story. That’s how I do it, and I don’t apologize for it.

Then it came time to name the human.

I knew before I put down a word on paper that I would be playing the part of the human, Although the character was me, it wasn’t really me, so I couldn’t cook up a sloppy anagram of my own name. The name Davidge popped into my head for some reason, and I liked the sound of it. The only Davidge I knew was a fellow student at Staunton Military Academy back in 1960. He was a good kid, and I liked the name. Actually, the character in the story liked the name, and my story characters tend to get pushy with me about what they want. If I want to go one way and the story characters want to go another way, and if I point out to my children that I am god because I own the word processor, the characters will invariably sit down, go on strike, and turn into pine. So if the character wants to be called Davidge, he gets what he wants.

The first name, Willis, came from a late half-brother of mine. His name was Willis, and for quite a number of years his siblings addressed him as Wibby, which he hated to the point of eventually threatening bodily mayhem and dismemberment if we did not drop the name Wibby and start calling him Bill. I liked Bill, I needed a name that the character would just as soon not insist on using (because the alien keeps referring to him by his last name), so I used it.

The Drac orders the human, "Dasu!"

After some pushing and shoving, Davidge figures out that word’s meaning, and some others. In a matter of mere paragraphs, the human and the alien are both speaking pidgin versions of the other’s language, in addition to trying to survive.

What is going on here?

A couple of things, actually. First, it always bothers me when, in an sf film or story, beings who evolved on worlds thousands of light years away from Earth all speak English like Lawrence Olivier. I need to at least see a video of the 1944 version of Hamlet in the alien’s hip pocket before I’ll buy it

It all began, though, as it did for many of us, with that moment in the motion picture The Day the Earth Stood Still when the alien knows the crap is piling up and he’ll need some help. Klatu tells Patricia Neal that if anything happens to him to go to the supercop robot Gort and tell it "Klatu barada nicto. "See, if Gort isn’t told that, the robot will trash the planet. My entire generation memorized that line, "Klatu barada nicto," just in case.

Curiously enough, in the movie we are never told what this phrase means. Is it Klatu needs help? Klatu says cool it? Klatu is in deep caca? It seems a little short to be Klatu is in the Washington DC city slams and wants you to bust out his corpse and reanimate it. Nevertheless, we memorized the phrase, and at special moments we would recite it.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"I’m going out, Dad."

"Out where?"

"Klatu barada nicto."

"Well, make sure you’re back by eleven."

A hint of another meaning to that enigmatic phrase came to me while writing two Alien Nation tie-in novels for Pocket. The Newcomers, of course, have a language of their own, and authors who contract to write in this universe are issued a "bible" which outlines the major characters in the series, contains synopses of the various TV episodes, and a "Tenctonese for Travelers" type of vocabulary.

A word now about credibility and the suspension of disbelief. I can’t speak for every author and reader, but for myself there is this unwritten contract between the reader and the writer. On the writer’s part, the author agrees to approach the tale by believing in it himself. This involves a pact I make with my imagination: whatever setting and characters I dream up actually exist somewhere in the universe. My job? To be faithful to that setting and those characters and to report to the reader as accurately as possible.

Now, to the Tenctonese language. When I first looked over the Alien Nation bible, I felt that the authors just might not be taking their task seriously. The Tenctonese word for booze, you see, is tanka. The word for brutality is poppy Cattle is moocow, ceremony is oscar, deep is peed, doctor is mare, filth is slum, good-bye is toucus, gun is shoota, investigate is snoop, level is strata, and network, believe it or not, is teeceefox. I have no first-hand knowledge of this, but in my mind I have a picture of a couple of scriptwriters full of themselves, pot, coke, and tanka brainstorming the Tenctonese language.

"Hey! Hey! Whaddabout this (hic). Moocow for cattle! Ahhh, hah, hah, hah!"

"Wait a minute! Hee, hee. For investigate how 'bout snoop! Ahhh, hah, hah, hah!"

"Hey, let’s throw the Fox network a goddamn bone! What about making the word for network teeceefox! Ahhh, hah, hah, hah, hah, hah!"

Getting back to Klatu’s enigmatic message to Gort, one of the results of this Alien Nation language jocularity is the Tenctonese name for the Newcomer male lead in the series, Detective George Francisco. According to the bible, his Tenctonese name is Nicto. This opens whole new meanings to the phrase Klatu barada nicto. It seems to be a declaration of teenage love. I have no doubt that future space explorers will find that declaration enclosed in a heart and carved into the bark of a butnut tree:

Klatu

barada

Nicto

There is a town in Maine named Biddeford. In seeking the origins of this town’s name, I ran across two possibilities: it’s either Algonquian for old woman crossing river (biddy + ford), or ancient Norse for I’m on my way to rehab (Betty + Ford).

I have also been a student of misunderstandings. The double and multiple meanings of words in most languages can lead to a host of interesting translation situation that I find very amusing. This bit of amusement led to the following piece, titled "Then Darkness Again." This work’s sole publication, before this appearance, was in my Science-Fiction Writer’s Workshop-I, in the chapter on "Fatal Flaws," as an example of what not to do. It’s a vignette written before I even knew what a vignette was.

Read quickly and keep forgiveness in your heart.

THEN DARKNESS AGAIN

By

Accident

"This is the Big Dip on two-two-one point three. Anybody got their audios on out there?" Al Bragg released his mike key while the twenty seconds ticked off. More than a twenty-second lag between transmissions was a drag. Al checked his instruments and the screen depicting his place in relation to the galactic arm… eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

Al adjusted the frequency and thumbed his mike. "This is the Big Dip on two-two-one point four. Looking for chat-chat; anybody there?" Al looked at his screen and tried to pick out the Sol system by eye. The computer could have given him an automatic fix, but then that would give Al less to do; and Al was bored, not to mention homesick… eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

"This is the Big Dip on two-two-one point five craving some communication." Al sighed, wishing he hadn’t cut across the void from the center to the arm. Nobody ever went this way. Three standard weeks from the candy bar quadrants and he hadn’t raised a peep… eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

"Bet the translator’s on the poopers again."

"Biggy Dippy on two-two-one point six looking for some tricks; let’s hear it out there."

Well, it was either go this way or go the long way around empty. Nuts. I could have found a load. Guess I just wanted to get home… eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

"This is the Dipper on two-two-one point seven searching heaven for some talk-talk."

LADLE, THIS BEAR.

Al jumped, then smiled. Someone was out there, and the literal translations were half the fun of chatter and the game. "Bear, this is the Dipper. I haven’t raised a soul for a sun’s age. Where are you headed?"

ON TOP, LADLE. ONLY ONE. AND YOU?

"Negative, Big Bear. What is your destination?"

SORRY. THE CENTER. QUADRANT TWENTY AND FIVE. WANT THE GAME TO PLAY?

"You bet."

THAT AFFIRMATIVE? NO IS WAGER?

"Affirmative. Shall you start, or shall I?"

START.

"Hey, Big Bear, the translator’s not up to combined or absent personal pronouns. You or me?"

YOU.

"Okay." Al rubbed his chin. The trick was to be truthful without giving away the location. "My planet is beautiful."

MY PLANET IS UGLY.

Al frowned. He had gabbed with aliens from hunks of black ice that thought their own planets were beautiful while Earth was ugly. "Okay, Big Bear. The atmosphere is blue with white clouds of water vapor. It rains, making the surface rich with vegetation."

SKY BLUE A LITTLE. YELLOW FROM DUST. FEW CLOUDS. THE GROUND HARD AND DRY. RAINS LITTLE; GROWS LESS.

Al pursed his lips, then shook his head. "I can’t get it, Big Bear. You?"

NO.

"Want to try government?" Al smiled, hoping the Bear would fall for it. Populated desert planets—maybe twenty of them—and Al knew them all. A few hints on governmental structure would be all that was needed.

IS GOOD. ME FIRST?

"Go."

PEOPLE MINE… OPPRESSED. ALWAYS. OUR GOVERNMENT OR OTHERS, NO DIFFERENCE IT MAKES. REVOLUTIONS. MANY, BUT NO DIFFERENCE IT MAKES.

Al scratched his head, trying to think of a dustball in political turmoil. Might be Garnetsid, but, no; the Bear said he has only one head. He keyed his mike. "Long ago, we had a revolution. But we are free. The wars are all behind us. We can pretty much choose what we want to be, and we’re well off. Wealthy. I own my own ship."

AH! IS GOOD. I GUESS NOW. MINTAKA TWELVE?

"Negative, Big Bear. I’ll go first with economy. I said we were wealthy. I bet we’re the financial center of our quadrant."

NOT IS MINTAKA TWELVE?

"Negative on Mintaka Twelve." Al chuckled. He’d caught several drivers on Mintaka Twelve.

NO UNDERSTAND. THIS GOOD. MY BEINGS POOR ON PLANET MINE. FOR REASON, GO TO QUADRANT TWENTY AND FIVE BUY WEAPONS NOW. YOU GUESS LADLE NOW?

Al slapped his knee. "It has to be Sadr Five, Big Bear. Right?"

NEGATIVE, LADLE. GUESS ANOTHER TIME?

Al frowned at the static in the transmission. "I’m out of guesses, Big Bear. Say, how do you read?"

EYES. TWO.

Al sighed. "Your reception. Is it getting weak?"

FOUR AND SOME, LADLE.

"I guess this is it. You give up?"

YOU?

"Affirmative, Big Bear, I don’t get stumped very often. What’s your planet?"

EARTH. THIRD IN SYSTEM OF SOL.

"That can’t… Big Bear, go off translator and retransmit." Al frowned at his speaker.

TIERRA.

Are you… Spanish?"

MEJICANO… HABLA INGLES? POR QUE?

"I’m from Earth. North America."

GRINGO?

"Yeah, wetback. I guess it’s how you look at it."

SI.

"Small galaxy, isn’t it ?"

ES VERDAD… ADIOS.

"Yeah… good-bye, Big Bear." Al shrugged and adjusted the frequency. "This is the Big Dip on two-two-one point eight…"

THE MERCIFUL END

Predictable, pointless, perfidious, poop—there is absolutely nothing you can say about "Darkness" that I have not already said to myself (which was only somewhat more brutal than what the rejection slips said).

My amusement with misunderstandings in translation had been exercised earlier in my story, "The Slick Gentlemen," one of the tales of the original star circus that eventually crashed on the planet Momus (the circus, not the story). This story had its language fun from several angles. First was circus lingo, the jargon spoken by the employees of O’Hara’s Greater Shows. This was complicated somewhat by aliens being part of the company, and was complicated further by the even more alien aliens for which the show performed. We enter the story where Warts, the keeper of the show’s route book, has a crisis of conscience and decides to turn in John J. O’Hara and the show to the police because the show is crawling with pickpockets, grifters, and scam artists who paid O’Hara a very large sum for the privilege of fleecing the inhabitants of Planet Chyteew, all of whom had never before seen a circus. The more Warts sees of the "slick gentlemen," the less he likes them.

Boston Beau Dancer decided to join us on our trip planetside "to size up the local sucker stock" as he put it. No one on the Baraboo, except the advance and the route man, had ever been to Chyteew before, and Boston Beau wanted to get the lay of the land. Fish Face and I were friendly because we didn’t want to give ourselves away. It was not easy. At the lot near Marthaan, we bid Tick Tock good-bye, then the three of us set out on foot toward the tall buildings. The Asthu, the natives ruling Chyteew, are built along the general proportions of an ostrich egg, although considerably taller, and with thick, blunt-toed legs and thin, four-fingered arms. Several times, walking down one of the many business malls in Marthaan, Boston Beau deliberately stepped in front of one of the egg-shaped creatures. The Asthu would bump into Boston Beau, utter a rapid, incomprehensible apology, then waddle on.

Boston Beau would grin and mutter "Ripe. So ripe."

I frowned at him after he had bumped into his fourth pedestrian. "Why are you doing that?"

He cocked his head at the push of the crowd working its way into a business exchange. "Look at their eyes, Warts. Small and practically at the sides of their round head-ends. They can’t see directly in front. Can you imagine what a man like Jack Jack [a card shark] can do to these people?" He cackled, then waved goodbye to us as he followed the push into the business exchange. "I think I’ll check out what they like to do with their credits."

We waved back, then I stopped Fish Face and turned toward him. "Can you imagine what Boston Beau’s gang will do here?"

Fish Face nodded without changing expression. Then he pointed toward one of the creatures dressed in white belts who appeared to be directing foot traffic at one of the mall intersections. I felt slightly sick when I realized that the Asthu needed traffic cops to keep pedestrians from running into each other. "There’s a copper. Let’s find out where his station is."

We walked up to the egg in white belts and I began. "Could you tell me where the police station is?"

I was standing directly in front of the officer, and he rotated until he brought one of his eyes around to face me. It went wide, then he staggered backward a step. "Mig ballooma!"

"Police station?" I tried again.

Slightly recovered, the officer took a step toward us, scanned with one eye, then the other. "Egger bley sirkis."

"What?"

The officer pointed at me, then at Fish Face. "Sirkis, sirkis, dether et?"

Fish Face poked me in the arm. "Listen, he’s saying circus." The tiny mouth on the egg rapidly became much larger, then the entire body dipped back and forth, "Sirkis! Sirkis!" As the bodies began piling up at the intersection, the officer reached beneath one of his white belts and pulled out a red and white card. "Sirkis!"

I looked at it, then turned to Fish Face. "It’s an advanced reserve ticket for the show." I turned back to the officer and nodded. "Yes, circus. Police station?"

He tucked the card back under his belt, then held up his hands.

"Nethy bleu et poleece stayshun duma?" A lane of traffic mistook the officer’s hand gesture for a signal and began piling into the cross-lane flow. "Gaavuuk!" The officer scanned around once, then waded into the bodies, shouting, pointing, and shoving. After a few minutes of this, traffic began flowing again, and the officer returned. He pointed at a door a few paces from the corner. "Agwug, tuwhap thubba."

I pointed in the direction of the door. "Police station?"

He held up his arms again in that gesture that was probably a shrug, thereby causing the halted lane to pile into the cross-lane again. "Ah, gaavuuk! Nee gaavuuk!" Back he went to untangle the bodies. Fish Face pulled at my arm and pointed at the door.

"I think we better go before the copper comes back. Think that’s the station?"

I shrugged. "Let’s try it anyway." We walked the few steps to the door. On the door was painted a variety of incomprehensible lines, dots, squiggles, and smears. Toward the bottom was spelled out, "English Spoke Hear." I nodded, then turned to Fish Face. "It’s an interpreter." I pushed open the door and we entered a cramped, windowless stall. In the back, behind a low counter, one of the egg-shaped creatures was leaning in a corner.

Fish Face tapped me on the shoulder. "Is he asleep?"

I walked over to the counter and tapped on it. "Excuse me?" No response. I knocked harder. "Excuse me, do you speak English?"

The egg opened the eye facing me, started a bit, blinked, then went big in the mouth. "Sirkis!" He stood and reached under the wide brown belt he wore and pulled out an advanced reserve ticket. "Sirkis!"

I nodded. "Yes, we’re with the circus." I turned to Fish Face. "Stretch Dirak and the advance have done quite a job." I turned hack. "Do you speak English?"

The mouth went big again as the eyes squinted. "English spoke hear."

"What’s your name!"

"Name are Doccor-thut, well, sirs." Doccor-thut dipped forward in the good egg’s version of a bow.

I smiled. "We need an interpreter."

"English spoke hear."

"Yes, can you come with us? We want to go to the police station."

Doccor-thut rotated a bit, went down behind the counter and came up again carrying a book. He held it up to one eye and began paging through it. "Police… police… hmmmm. Regulation of community affairs… community… community, ah… hmmmm… station… hmmm." Doccor-thut put the hook down and faced an eye toward me. "You want to operate a radio?"

Fish Face placed a hand on my shoulder. "Let me give it a try." He wiggled a finger at Doccor-thut. "Come with me."

Doccor-thut pressed a button, part of the countertop slid open, and he walked through the opening. He followed Fish Face to the door, and I brought up the rear. Out in the mall, Fish Face pointed at the traffic cop. "Police."

Doccor-thut aimed an eye at Fish Face. "You want police radio?"

Fish Face shook his head. "Take us to the police’s boss."

Doccor-thut went back to the book. "Boss… circular protuberance or knoblike swelling—"

Fish Face took the book. "Allow me!" He found the definition he wanted, faced the book at Doccor-thut, then pointed with his finger. "Boss. Supervisor, employer."

And so on.

These kinds of translation misunderstandings provided the foundation for such exchanges in "Enemy Mine" as the following:

…Any minute we could be washed off that sandbar. "Jerry, you’re being silly about that rod. You know that."

"Surda." The Drac sounded contrite if not altogether miserable.

"Ess?"

"Ess eh surda?"

Jerry remained silent for a moment. "Davidge, gavey not certain not is?"

I sorted out the negatives. "You mean possible, maybe, perhaps ?"

"Ae, possiblemaybeperhaps. Dracon fleet Irkmaan ships have. Before war buy; after war capture. Rod possiblemaybeperhaps Dracon is."

"So, if there’s a secret base on the big island, surda it’s a Dracon base?"

"Possiblemaybeperhaps, Davidge."

What follows are some notes I made on another story idea flop that contributed to the form "Enemy Mine" took. At this point, though. I feel obligated to point out that I never condemn any idea, no matter how badly it smells. This is how I keep in check this overly developed critical faculty of mine that tends to dry up everything that comes within its range. The advantage is that parts and pieces are saved, allowing such things as "Enemy Mine" to come into being. The disadvantage is that my files are crammed with a whole lot of crap that is going to be very embarrassing if someone should wade through them after my mortal exit for the purpose of writing the definitive Barry B. Longyear biography. Chances are, the work will be titled: I Can’t Believe He Wrote All This Crap!

Again, I digress.

Here are my notes on the other story language idea:

UNTITLED

Begin a story in English, dropping in alien language words and phrases along the way, until the reader is sufficiently familiar with the alien language that the last paragraph of the story can be written entirely in the alien tongue.

The first step is to invent the alien language. It has to be alien, but still easily learned if the reader is going to be able to make it through the last paragraph without a fight. [I worked up the grammar, spelling, pronunciation, and a vocabulary of about three hundred words. The end result was a cross between Spanish, Japanese, Hebrew, and pig Latin.]

Invent a situation that would justify the language exercise. One character must learn the language from another, or at least the reader has to learn it.

General semantics teaches that certain terms (called semantic blanks) are regarded as representing some aspect of reality (have meaning) but, instead, are meaningless (have no corresponding referent in reality); "justice," "fair," "socialism," "reasonable," and "rights" being among the many. The theory is that if two persons, each speaking a different language and understanding none of the other’s language, and each one refusing to learn the other’s language, invented a third language for purposes of communication, they would not be able to talk about "justice," or "socialism."

One can point at a rock and call it a "blug." The second person agrees, and from then on when the word "blug" is used, each party will know what is being referred to. But what do you point at to arrive at an agreement on a term for "justice"?

What if negotiators representing different political powers (human and alien) were cut off from any means of translating their words and had to invent a language of their own? Why invent a language of their own? They could sit out the technical difficulty and continue as before unless the difficulty were one that, first, caused an immediate danger, and second, could not be cured in time. Put them in space. The negotiators must be separated from the translators (either mechanical or human) for some credible reason.

Let’s say that all sides to this negotiation are highly suspicious of each other, and that the ground rules limit just the chiefs of each negotiating team into a self-contained vessel such as a shuttle. The translators (human and alien) do their work by remote means from the parent ship. Slam! Sabotage. The parent ship explodes, blowing the shuttle clear. The tiny craft with its limited range and supplies is stranded in space. The only ones aboard are the negotiation team chiefs: three different kinds of aliens and an English-speaking human. They must work together to have a chance at surviving, but before that they must be able to communicate. They begin trying.

Now, to back up some and stick in some characters. First, the human negotiator. The experience is going to have to teach him something, so make him a hidebound, ding-word happy diplomatic type. What is he going to learn? The brotherhood of creatures, we’re all in this together, stuff is too old [which is interesting, since that’s the main theme of "Enemy Mine."]. What about the theory itself? Ninety-nine percent of all religions, codes of ethics, ideologies, moralities, concepts of right and wrong are founded on ding-words; semantic blanks; if it doesn’t, have an existing-in-reality, mutually agreed-upon referent, the term is meaningless. That would be something to learn.

How is our diplomat going to get the lesson along with the reader? The premise of semantic blanks must be explained. Another character: the human negotiator’s translator. A cynical fellow who has spent his life studying languages, and seeing them used and abused through negotiations of various kinds. The diplomat and the translator are having a talk prior to the negotiators boarding the shuttle. The diplomat makes campaign noises about "serving the good of humanity," and the translator tells him he’s full of bull, then why. Diplomat disagrees, then boards shuttle.

What are these characters negotiating about? The first round opens making clear to the reader what the issue is. A territorial thing: war, economics, something like that, replete with fine, high-sounding phrases signifying nothing. It has to be done in English, and the human diplomat is the only one getting the conversation in English. Diplomat is viewpoint character.

Blam! The parent ship goes up, the shuttle is blown clear, and our cast is stranded without a common word between them. Now what? They are diplomats, not pulp SF geniuses who can take bobby pins and wads of bubble gum and rig a faster-than-light drive or universal translator. They are all word mechanics, ding-word mechanics at that. They hate each other’s guts. The long-arm-of-coincidence rule prevents the Seventh Cavalry from riding in and saving them; they have to work their own way out. First, a little trust. Then they begin pointing at various things and naming them.

Problem: just to develop a get-along-in-this-situation working language will take endless pages, particularly if the reader must learn the language as well. Working up to a "Hey-I’m-a-former-physicist-and-we-can-try-this" language level will take volumes. Ending of story? They talk each other to death.

OVER AND OUT

The idea above went into my story dump, but many of the attempts at learning the other’s language wound up in "Enemy Mine."

Speaking of translations, "Enemy Mine" has been translated into a number of languages, and it always makes me wonder about the sense the reader gets when he or she reads my stuff in another language. The title of my collection Manifest Destiny in German, for example, is Erbfeinde. To me it sounds like a city planning board addicted to rules, regulations, permits, and payoffs stalking the urban landscape in search of human angst. According to my Cassell’s German Dictionary it means either "hereditary enemy" or "old foe." In that volume, "Enemy Mine" becomes "Mein lieber Feind," which means, as near as I can tell, "My beloved Enemy." The little barracks ditty Davidge sings in the story:

"Highty tighty Christ almighty,

Who the Hell are we?

Zim zam, Gawd Damn,

We're in Squadron B."

came out like this in German:

"Groß und prächtig, Christ allmächtig,

Wer zur Hölle sind denn wir?

Zicke, Zacke, verfluchte Kacke,

Das Geschwader B sind wir."

I would show you the Japanese version of this song, but I can’t find it in the text.

I did manage to drive the learning-the-other-language thing to the point where many could read the Drac when Davidge begins teaching the baby Zammis its line: "Naatha nu enta va. Zammis zea dos Jeriba estay va Shigan, asaam naa denvadar."

The story completed. I moved on to other things. A year later, however. I found myself writing the book-length sequel to "Enemy Mine," The Tomorrow Testament. Again I was faced with humans and Dracs rubbing elbows, and other things. This meant, of course, keeping consistent with the language used in "Enemy," as well as the tidbits of Drac customs and whatnot mentioned in the original story. The only problem was that I had none of this information. It was necessary to go though the original story, pull out the Drac language, and make up a vocabulary. Since the main structure of The Tomorrow Testament depends on the Drac bible, The Talman, a philosophical work by Dracs, about Dracs, and for Dracs, would be necessary to expand the vocabulary considerably, not to mention writing the bloody Drac bible.

The Tomorrow Testament done, I again got on with other things. Among them were several other alien languages, and I made a point of doing some planning and taking careful notes. Two real screw-ups, however, involved a tribe in my fantasy novel The God Box, whose only use of the verb "to be" is the word "be," as in "I be hungry," and "we be a family." If Aristotle had been born into this tribe, his famous statement of identity would be "A be A," although there would be no change in Shakespeare’s "To be or not to be."

This tribe also cannot pronounce L’s. Instead of substituting another sound, they simply leave it blank, showing this absence by the use of an apostrophe, as in 'o"ypop. In other words, Aristot’e be a phi’osopher. It was after writing a few pages of dialog using this tribe and its language quirks that I began losing my hair.

Time passed, dust gathered on my Nebula and Hugo for "Enemy Mine," and about seventeen years after writing the original story, I signed a contract to do another Drac book, The Last Enemy a work told from the point of view of a Drac. Out came the notes, and I had to face a very uncomfortable truth: my memory of being a meticulous note-keeper is somewhat at variance with reality. Back again through everything, picking out names and language. Perhaps now that I’ve got the vocabulary in a book (at the back of this volume) I won’t have to write it up again.

What I have learned from the above experiences, beside planning ahead and keeping accurate notes, is that alien languages, as well as alien names, need to be understood and used by humans, at least the alien languages that appear in print science fiction. Movies can get away with a bunch of squeaks, glottal stops, clicks, grunts, and whistles. The characters are usually so one-dimensional anyway, whatever they say isn’t important. In print, however, names need to be remembered, and the alien words that appear at least need to be gotten through, if not understood and remembered.

All too often, though, writers find themselves in need of an "alien-sounding" name for a character. The result often looks like a convention of consonants assaulted by a shotgun full of apostrophes, hyphens, and asterisks. I have seen grown men and women turn blue from asphyxiation as their tongues became knotted from trying to pronounce some of these efforts. For myself, if I can read my alien words and names out loud without stumbling, I figure the reader won’t have any trouble. For those of you who do have trouble, the character Uhe’s name is pronounced YOO-ee. The rest sound just like they’re spelled in Spanish, Japanese, and Urdu.

Let’s face it. None of this would have happened except for Mr. Meekle. He was a teacher of mine at the Harrisburg Academy in Harrisburg. Pennsylvania, when I was in the eighth grade. He taught a unique course designed to make one’s choice of a foreign language in high school easier. It went like this: for the first quarter we studied Latin. Second quarter we studied French. Third quarter we studied German. Fourth quarter we studied Spanish. After all of the grammars, verb forms, vocabularies, and irregularities, by the time I entered high school I was confused to the point where I was hardly able to speak English.

I’ve always wanted to learn another language, though, but did miserably in school in this regard. I took Latin in high school, and as I dropped the course and walked out, I told the teacher, "I’m not going to be a Latin teacher, and I can’t think of another reason to take this course." Years later, as I was doing mountains of research on ancient Rome and trying to make out various inscriptions, I wept as I begged God to let me take back what I had said.

I didn’t do well at Spanish, either. I reached my peak in Spanish at Wayne State University in Detroit in 1966. I was sitting outside wondering what to do with the rest of my life when a distinguished gentleman in a very natty three-piece set of pin-stripes came walking by. He asked a student something, the student shrugged, made like, man, a peace sign, you know, and wandered off. However, the man’s question had been in Spanish! This was my chance to do a good deed and put to use some of this stuff I’d been studying for years. I stood up, went to him, and in a perfect Castillian accent asked, "Habla español?"

What then erupted was a "Si!" followed by a highly relieved verbal machine gun that ran on at top speed for about a minute. When he finished, I smiled lamely and said, "That’s tough, because I don’t." Then I got the hell out of there.

My most recent attempt at learning a language involves a dream of mine. When I was in the Army I was stationed in Okinawa, and did not take the opportunity to learn the language. I did learn this demented patois that evolved between semi-literate soldiers and the resentful inhabitants of an occupied country. It is not, however, the kind of language to use among Japanese with whom you want to become friends. Besides, way too many persons on this planet hold black belts in karate.

My dream, especially after getting into science fiction and getting to meet a few men and women in Japanese fandom, is to go to Japan, tour the country, do a science-fiction convention or two, and be able to converse adequately in Japanese. For health reasons, I find myself walking on a treadmill half an hour every day. That is a brain-dead half-hour, so I purchased a Walkman and some Japanese language tapes. I must confess that I am learning something of the language, but, because of the learning environment, it appears that I am developing a rather strange accent.

"Konnichiwa puff puff! Watakushi wa gasp! Barry Longyear desu. wheeze!"

RUN DRAC RUN

It was February, 1978, deep in a Maine winter so harsh bears were taking time-outs from hibernation to move into the motels. This was before I discovered either cross-country or downhill skiing, hence I was deep in cabin fever and in one criminal mood.

I was trying to think up something I wanted to write when I turned away from my word processor and looked at the snow falling outside my home office window. There was already a great deal of snow on the ground, and it looked like lots more was on its way. The temperature was in single digits and a wind was picking up.

I can get hypnotically captured by falling snow, fog, and starry nights. I was mentally lost in watching the snow when I started thinking about building a little shelter out in the woods to see if I could survive in the snowstorm. When I was young I used to sneak out of my parents' house late at night and go deep into the woods and build little lean-tos, and even more elaborate shelters. I’d build a warm little fire and spend the night safe from the insanity back at the house.

Still looking at the snow, I wondered what would happen if I were thrown naked out into the snow with only a knife. Would I be able to survive? Shelter, clothing, warmth, food. I figured I wouldn’t be able to last for ten minutes. But what if I started earlier in the season, before the snows, and built a shelter that would protect me? I’d have to have food to last the winter, and wood for a fire, warm coverings, a bed, and there was the whole toilet-paper problem.

I seemed to be exploring the outlines of some sort of survival story, but I began picking at my reasons—what the attraction was to hiding out in the woods. What if I had such a place? No telephones, no computers, no radio, CDs or TV. What would I be doing?

Waiting.

Waiting for what?

The answer brought me back to my earliest memories. What would I be waiting for? I would be waiting for the same thing that I had been waiting for as a child in my clandestine lean-tos in the woods. I’d be waiting for someone who had some answers to come talk with me and fill my head with solutions to the mountain of problems that seemed to follow me wherever I went.

I scribbled out a few notes, tossed them into my story dump, and got on with other things. Later in the year, as Maine sizzled beneath a July sun, the title "Enemy Mine" popped into my head. Thinking about the survival notes I had written the previous January, and with the ghosts of my nights as a child sitting in lean-tos observing, I began writing. In a matter of hours I had before me an alien whose heritage and upbringing are such that it knows who it is, what it is, and what it has to do. This alien, Jeriba Shigan, is also very happy being Jeriba Shigan. It has no internal conflicts. I desperately wanted to know how to do that.

The alien, by example, teaches the human how to love and how to allow himself to be loved. By example, the alien teaches the human how to be a human, something neither the character in the story nor I knew how to do very well. The pages seemed to fly from my typewriter, and my wife Jean was reading them page-by-page as they were finished. At the point where Jeriba Shigan dies, I cried. I had literally lost my best friend in the universe, and now it was time for the human to test all that he had learned by overcoming his grief and keeping his promise to bring the Drac child before the line’s archives. I was on the next page when Jean came into my office, wound up, and punched me in the arm.

"Ow!"

"That’s for killing Jeriba Shigan!" she snarled as she grabbed the next page and stormed out of my office.

I reached the point in the story where Davidge buries Jerry’s body with the rocks he has beaten loose from the ice, when I realized that I was in the middle of the story, not at the end. I had told George Scithers, then editor of Isaac Asimov’s Science-Fiction Magazine, that I had a five-thousand-word short story in the works. I was already at ten or eleven thousand words, and there was no end or ending in sight. I whipped up another ten pages for an ending and sent it off to George, asking what I should do. A curious thing: after I mailed it off, Jean told me that she didn’t think it would be accepted. She said that it was too good.

A few days later. George telephoned me about "Enemy Mine." As I recall it, he said there were some problems with the piece and he was sending it to Isaac Asimov for an opinion. I Immediately dropped everything that I was doing and went into one monumental panic. I whacked out everything that I could, finished the story, and then read over "Enemy Mine" and went over it again and again and again. Eventually, I sent it off with the following cover letter to George Scithers.

24 July 1978

Dear George,

I’ve gone over "Enemy Mine" so many times I’m beginning to get word-happy. My main conclusion is that I’m too close to the story and just don’t know what’s best for it.

My original idea for the piece called for one scene following the birth of Zammis. It would have taken place on Draco, with Davidge standing with Zammis for the recitation in front of the Jeriba archives. Following that, Davidge and Zammis go back to Fyrine IV to found the colony. However, when I got to that point, I was out of control and the story was writing itself. Right now it still seems better this way.

A possible alternative would be to lengthen the piece from the birth of Zammis, which could be done by developing the existing conflicts. One thing this would allow is making a bigger deal out of Zammis’s recitation, with more detail on Drac society, Gothig, etc. Still, right now it seems better the way it is.

None of this casts anything in plastisteel, and I shall join you in waiting upon the good doctor’s suggestions.

I got on with something, I can’t remember what, and then a couple of weeks later George sent me a copy of the letter he had gotten from Isaac Asimov regarding my story.

13 August 1978

Dear George,

As I just told you on the phone, I read ENEMY MINE and was very moved. If I weren’t so old and such a fixture in the s.f. field, I would be so jealous of Longyear. As it is, I love him.

My feeling is he tried to squeeze two stories into one.

I wish he would end ENEMY MINE in the middle of page 51—knitting the wording to make it a more proper ending.

Then I wish he would make the last fourteen pages about three times as long, adding the conflict he mentioned in his covering letter to produce SON MINE as a sequel that can stand on its own.

Isaac

Present the story in two installments, basically, as two separate stories. "Son Mine" was not an option because Dracs have this little biological quirk: they’re hermaphrodites. They don’t have sons or daughters. Nevertheless, I wrote the rest of the piece, and the lost feeling experienced by many Vietnam vets formed the emotional core of the second half as Davidge found himself on Earth and belonging nowhere. The quadrant was at peace, but Davidge was still at war with himself. I sent it off and got on with the next story.

A few days later George telephoned me to tell me that Asimov’s was going to do 'Enemy Mine" as a single novella rather than two novelettes. When he had gotten the second installment, beginning with the burial of Jeriba Shigan, George had given it to one of his readers and asked him to read the beginning and tell him what he thought was going on. The answer was humbling: "Well, the protagonist has just killed this alien and is feeling pretty bad about it." After that he decided to run it as one piece. I made the repairs and "Enemy Mine" appeared in the September 1979 issue of Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine.

The mail I got on "Enemy Mine" stunned me. The story struck a chord out there that vibrated on levels from motherhood and alienation to racism and anti-war. One reader wrote in to say that she was reading it on the bus going to work and she was crying so much, it was all she could do to fight off the help from numbers of her well-intentioned fellow passengers so she could finish the damned story.

Afterward, a fellow out there on the West Coast, Steve Perry, was the first to recommend "Enemy" for a Nebula Award. He no doubt thought this was amusing since, in a moment of sheer bratism some weeks earlier, I had written a letter to the SFWA Forum denouncing the award.

Just before the Nebula Awards banquet in Los Angeles that year, I got a telephone call. Since it’s a long way to L.A. from Maine and money was short, Jean and I didn’t go. George Scithers was going, so I asked him to pick up the award in the unlikely event "Enemy" should win.

A day or two before the Nebula Awards, there was a telephone call from someone in SFWA asking me if I was going to be in L.A. for the awards. I said no. I couldn’t afford it.

"Are you sure I can’t talk you into coming?"

"Yeah. I’m sure. I’m broke."

"Are you really, really sure I can’t talk you into coming?"

"Why?" I asked. I mean, it wasn’t like I was the science-fiction community sweetheart or anything.

"Well. I can’t really tell you. But you really ought to come."

"Did Enemy Mine win?" I asked.

"Uh, well, uh, yeah."

It’s not like a Nebula comes with a cash award, so we still couldn’t go, but we did call up Steve Perry and tell him, since he was the one who started it. He never did say much of anything, He just kept laughing and laughing.

Right after the Nebulas there was Noreascon Two, and the Hugo Awards. "Enemy Mine" and another story of mine were both up for awards, and I was up for the John W. Campbell Award for best new writer, as well. If I won them both, I would be the only writer to have won a Nebula, a Hugo, and the John W. Campbell new-writer award all in the same year.

I won the Hugo and the Campbell. If you go to worldcons these days, they prohibit using flash cameras during ceremonies. The reason for this has to do with insurance fears concerning blinding those on stage who are attempting to negotiate the stairs. There was no such prohibition when I received my awards. As I faced the audience both times, I had my retinas burned out by thousands of flash bulbs going off. I had never before seen anything so magnificently beautiful in my life. It was a terrific night. Hell, even my picks for best editor and best dramatic presentation won.

There were two more very special moments waiting for me. The first was late that night in George’s suite at the hotel. There were a number of fans in there, and I was sitting cross-legged on top of a table. George had won the Hugo for best editor, and Isaac was looking at us both saying, "What a night this is."

The next morning came my second moment. I was entering the hotel restaurant for breakfast, and with me was Jean and my mathematician sister Judith, whom I had always wanted to impress. As we entered, everyone in the restaurant stopped what they were doing and applauded. It just goes to show what building a little lean-to in the woods can do.

A few weeks after the convention, I signed a contract with Berkley for a book-length sequel to "Enemy" to be titled The Tomorrow Testament. The foundation for The Tomorrow Testament, and the key for the resolution of the story, is the Drac bible, The Talman. It was necessary to invent the philosophy, the alien history, and to outline The Talman, as well as write portions of it. Writing that and working out the language only got me started on this particular mountain.

At a writer’s workshop I conducted some months before, a woman with a political ax to grind demanded to know, "Why don’t you use more female protagonists in your stories?" So, when it came time to begin on The Tomorrow Testament, I asked myself if it made any difference if the lead character was male or female. In a supreme fit of either ignorance or arrogance. I said "no."

I had a character with a name: Joanne Nicole. In a spasm of enthusiasm I cranked out ten thousand words, then took them to bed and gave them a read. In a matter of minutes I began crawling beneath my covers. Naw, a female protagonist wouldn’t make any difference. Not much. What I had captured magnificently was ten thousand words of myself stumbling around on the pages in drag.

The sensible thing would have been to dump Joanne Nicole on the spot and start over again with a male character. That probably would have been the professional thing to do. Despite her ill-defined character and proportions, however, Joanne Nicole was very much alive. Story characters of mine, once animated, refuse to die except under their own terms. Raising stubbornness to the nth power, therefore, I stuck with Joanne Nicole by writing yet another book. I began with her birth on another planet, grew up with her as a child, experienced her school years, her hopes and dreams, her courtship and marriage, the birth of her daughter, the death of her husband, her entrance as an intelligence officer in the USE Force, until the Battle of Catvishnu when she enters the story. Then started The Tomorrow Testament again, from the beginning, this time with my character as Joanne Nicole, rather than as a "female protagonist."

There was an additional complication. She is the point-of-view character throughout the entire book, and soon after the beginning of the story, she is blinded. Writing from the POV of a sightless person presented some incredible challenges. I spent months stalking my house at night with my eyes shut, gouging pieces of meat out of my shins, burning myself trying to make coffee, and falling down stairs. I kept that up until I could read the interior of my house by touch, by sound, and by smell.

While I was in the process of writing that, at the Worldcon in Denver that year, the story editor from Kings Road Productions said that his bunch would like to make a movie out of "Enemy Mine." He said that one thing that appealed to him was that "Enemy" was a story of character and could be done without a great deal of budget-breaking special effects. When I told Jean that a producer wanted to make a movie out of "Enemy Mine," she didn’t believe me.

After getting and signing the contract, she began believing. It was not long afterward, however, when I stopped believing. I was not happy about how the movie turned out, although the performances by Dennis Quaid and Lou Gossett, Jr. were incredible. There are moments watching the film, when I would see the characters I invented saying the words that I wrote, that gave me a hint about what the movie might have been; but there is neither profit nor serenity in dwelling on might-have-beens. Nevertheless, there are an astonishing number of fans who have told me that Enemy Mine is either their favorite or near-favorite motion picture. Perhaps the problem I have with the film is mine, not the movie’s.

As an aside, at a science-fiction convention I was attending, shortly after the collapse of the Soviet Union, there was a Russian guest who was currently teaching at the University of Chicago who told me that Enemy Mine was his favorite movie. He then related the expensive, harrowing, and dangerous experience he had undergone obtaining a copy and smuggling it into Russia—where it was released a few weeks later.

It was at a Windycon, the annual convention put on by the Chicago science-fiction bunch, where I got the idea for what eventually became the third work in the Enemy series, The Last Enemy.

A friend of mind had written a book and I had been sent a copy for blurb purposes. I finished it while I was at Windycon. What interested me the most about the story was a sort of thesis statement at the end that was conveyed by two of the characters conversing. It is this: the tribe comes first. Before rationality, before honor, before good sense, before self-interest, before mercy, love, or justice, the tribe comes first. That’s what you have to do, to be, in order to remain a member of the tribe.

I thought then that he had put his finger on the whole Middle East/ Northern Ireland/Bosnia/Rwanda mess. It’s the whole world of us-and-them thinking that has kept this planet blood-soaked for endless thousands of years.

There was a military sf panel I was on at Windycon, and we thoroughly discussed the premise and my friend’s new book. At the panel I made a point of remembering to suggest to my friend that he take this premise, stick it at the beginning of another book, and use it as a take-off point to solve the Middle East problem and the dilemma of self-perpetuating war and terrorism.

I met my friend at another convention, and he was interested not at all in my suggestion. As far as he was concerned, anyone who stood up in Israel and tried to make peace between Jews and Arabs would be killed within a minute after doing so. With all of the tools and magic of science fiction and fantasy at his command, he regarded peace as a lost cause before it began. I was stunned. It became clear to me for the first time that there are those who have no use for peace. Some find their meaning in having a perpetual enemy. Others want nothing to do with a peace that includes anyone being left alive on the other side. Us-and-them. The tribe comes first, and nothing comes in second. There is us, and then there is death.

Maybe it was too scary a challenge. As for myself, I couldn’t see any answers. Why should anyone else? In the Middle East, other than a sufficient number of Israelis and Palestinians to keep things at a boil, there are no real issues to resolve such as land, or rights, or money, or reparations. All those things could be solved to everyone’s satisfaction, and the fighting would continue to erupt. The wounds suffered by both sides are so numerous, so old, so cruel, senseless, and deep, there seems to be no healing to be had short of the complete and total annihilation of the other side. I could see no answers, but I couldn’t stop playing with the problem in my head.

What grafted the problem to me for life was remembering that the planet Amadeen in The Tomorrow Testament is very much an analogue of Middle East/Northern Ireland/Bosnia kinds of conflicts. That was why peace on the planet was impossible, and to achieve peace in the rest of the quadrant, the principals had to resort to radically unconventional means. Still, at the end of The Tomorrow Testament, although the rest of the quadrant is at peace, the problem of the war on Amadeen still exists. Taking the premise and Amadeen together, what about a third book? What about taking my own challenge and end the war on Amadeen? The title was obvious: The Last Enemy What was not so obvious was what to do with it.

Then word came to me that Stewart Wieck at White Wolf Publishing was expanding into science-fiction books, and maybe I ought to drop him a line. I suggested The Last Enemy and he wanted it.

The Last Enemy was not an easy book to write, First I had to make the war impossible to resolve, which was the easy part. All I had to do was look at the world around me. Then I had to come up with a believable way to achieve peace, and I think I did. No one has tried it yet, although it requires nothing in the way of technology that we don’t already have. The only thing this world might be lacking to implement it are the integrity, conviction, and singularity of purpose to go and do it. In any event, the manuscript was completed and I was very happy with it.

Will there be a fourth book in the series? Well, when I reached the end of The Last Enemy I looked at the situation and characters, where the characters were, and all of the possibilities about where they could go and what they could become, and a very familiar itch began working on me. I’m thinking on it.

DRAC FOR TRAVELERS

DRAC — ENGLISH

A

Aakva — The god; fire; light; the star around which orbits Sindie.

Aakva Lua — Blue Light (PI firm on Planet Friendship).

Ae — Yes.

Adze — Do you know; can you speak?

Akava — To burn.

Asaam — Pilot.

Ashra — Criminal.

Ashzhab — Criminally insane.

Ay — Three.

Ayvida — Third; third person.

B

Benga — Hurry.

Bresha — Crash.

C

Cha — To be.

Chova — Move.

Chirn — Health (biological).

Chirn Kovah — Health college of the Talman (principal research institution).

Cudall — Cave.

Cueh — Horizon.

Custa — Halite; table salt.

D

Da — It.

Dasu — Get up; rise.

Daultha — Doubter.

Denvadar — Of the denve; warrior; soldier; fighter. Tsien Denvadah = Front Fighters; elite unit, shock troops of the Drac military; a tribe at war.

Denve — War; division-sized unit,

Dev — With.

Diea — Council; chamber; organization; political administrative unit.

Dos — Of the (emphatic: se ve).

Dracon Diea — Dracon Chamber; ruling body of the Dracon planets.

Dut — Low, short, small, insignificant

Dutshaat — Low-sexed (very disrespectful, referring not to the moral quality of the act hut to the physical height of the recipient. See: kiz).

E

Echey — Here.

Ehdevva — Be with me.

Ehdevva sahn — Be with me always.

Enta va — Stand (verb).

Ess? — What?

Ess va… — What is…

Ess eh… — What about…

Estay (va) — Born of (formal).

Eh, ne — Oh, no.

F

Faanda — Tall, great, large, significant.

Fangen — Goal (social); future; friend; nefangen = enemy.

Fangan Kovah — College of goals (social sciences).

G

Gafu — Brat.

Gavey — (I, you) Understand.

Gefh — Die; death.

Gis — Where.

Gis nu cha? — Where are you?

H

Hada! — Hey!

Hasu — Get in.

Hame — Inside.

Hi — Six.

Hivida — Sixth.

I

Irkmaan — Earthman (including females and children).

Irkmaan vul — Human lover (disrespectful).

Istah — Door; opening; route of escape or hope.

Ith — Five.

Itheda — Fifth.

J

Je — To teach.

Jetah — Master (of any kind); teacher; instructor, professor; Ovjeta = First + Master.

Jetah Talman — Talman master.

Jetai — Masters.

Jetai Diea — Masters' Chamber (administrative body at any kovah); the administrative body of the Talman Kovah.

K

Ka — Force (party).

Kazzmidth — Wealthy (disrespectful, as in rich bitch).

Kiz — Loathsome critter of Draco; excrement from same.

Kiz do yuomeen — (So-and so) eats kiz, as in Kiz du yuomeen, Shizumaat = Shizumaat eats it. Kiz du yuomeen, Irkmaan, ne? (Literally: Earthman eats kiz, no?) turns the tables, meaning, in effect, "So, who eats it now, pudsucker?"

Kizlode — Excrement head. Kizlode va nu dutshaat (Literally: Excrement head, your line) = You come from a line of low-sexed excrement heads.

Koadaer — Killer.

Koda — Truth; hook; formal designation of a book of The Talman.

Korum su — I kill you.

Kos va nu? — Give your need? What do you want?

Kos son va? — Give your name? What is your name?

Kos va son— — (I) Give my name (as)—; My name is—.

Kovah — School; college; business; institution; a place of paths.

L

Loamaak — To awaken.

Loamaak nu! — You, wake up!

Lode — Head.

Lua — Blue.

M

Magasienna — The undream (not real); English equivalent, as an expletive = I don’t believe this!

Masu — Bring up.

Mata — Order; command.

Matak — To order.

N

Na — Number.

Naa — For the.

Naatha — Before.

Nasesay — Capsule; fighter ship escape-and-survival pod.

Navi — Peace.

Navi Ka — The Peace (truce police in The Last Enemy).

Ne — No.

Nefangen — Enemy.

Nessa — Pregnancy.

Ne surda — Maybe not.

Ni — I.

Nu — Two; you. Nu gefh = you die.

Nue — You (plural); You all.

Nusha — Eight.

Nushada — Eighth.

Nuvida — Second; second person.

O

Ov — One.

Ovida — First.

Ovjetah — First master.

Ovsi — Nine.

Ovsinda — Ninth.

P

Poorzhab — Crazy; insane; touched.

Q

Queda — To push.

R

Rhada — First chief of Aakva’s servants; slang term for a priest.

Riehm — Forest.

Rohune — Servant (of Aakva); priest.

Rouga — Shack; hutch.

S

Sa — State; government.

Saat — Sex (possession and/or use of reproductive organs).

Sahn — Always.

Schada — Fourth.

Sedai — Pot.

Sha — Four.

Shaad — Less than whole.

Shaadsaat — Part-sexed (possessing only male or female sex organs). Derogatory.

Siay — Twelve.

Siayvida — Twelfth.

Si — Zero, naught; nothing.

Sihi — Fifteen.

Sinda — Naught; forward; introduction.

Sindie — Birth planet of the Drac race; name of the unified tribe upon the death of Uhe; being (human English equivalent = man).

Sinu — Eleven.

Sinush — Seventeen.

Sinushada — Seventeenth.

Sinuvida — Eleventh.

Siov — Ten.

Siovida — Tenth.

Sisha — Thirteen.

Sishada — Thirteenth.

Sitat — Sixteen.

Sitarmeda — Sixteenth.

Sith — Fourteen.

Sitheda — Fourteenth.

Son — Name; call.

Su — You (emphatic).

Summat — Chief of servants who committed suicide because of Daultha the Doubter; slang for suicide.

Surda — Maybe.

T

Talma — Path, way, route, life, answer. A discipline of perception and investigation in problem-solving; a way of finding ways.

Talman — The physical amulet, resembling a golden cube, worn around the neck on a golden chain which contains The Talman.

The Talman — Title of the Drac bible.

Talmat — Rule; regulation; procedure.

Tar — Seven.

Tarmeda — Seventh.

Tean — Child or fetus.

Tean Sindie — Children of Sindie; Fanatical terrorist faction of the Amadeen Mavedah in The Last Enemy.

Tidna — Drac harp made of glass.

Thuyo — Eye.

Tsien — Front; Tsien Denvedah = Front Fighters.

Tuka — Stop (command).

U

Uta — Laws (of faith).

Utaakva — Laws and truths of Aakva.

V

V'… — New, as in V’Butaan = New Butaan; v’tean = new child.

Va — Your.

Vaa — Yaaa or argh! (expression of anger, exasperation, or disgust).

Va nu — Your own.

Ve — Of; Ve + Madah = Mavedah = of the Madah, the Madah tribe.

Vi — My; mine. "Enemy Mine" in Drac is Nefangen Vi. My pregnancy = Vi nessa.

Vidyapac — A Drac edible made of dried fish and cheese.

Viga — Observe; look.

Vo — Town, village.

Vu — City.

Vul — One who loves perversely.

X

Xsa — Molecule; xsai = molecules.

Y

Yaa! — Yaa!

Yula — Lover; one who flirts or loves.

Yuomeen — Eat.

Z

Zea — Family line.

Zim zim — Edible nuts from the zim zim trees.

Zu — To learn. Zu + formal number gives academic grade numbers. Zu + ovida = zuovida = first grade.

Zurath — Finger.

Zusinda — Preschooler; know-nothing (slang).

ENGLISH — DRAC

A

Aakva — Aakva, name of the star around which Sindie orbits.

Always — Sahn,

Amulet — Talman.

Answer — Talma.

Awaken — Loamaak.

B

(to) Be — Cha.

Before — Naatha.

Be with me — Ehdevva.

Blue — Lua.

Book — Koda.

Born of — Estay

Brat — Gafu.

Bring up — Masu.

Burn — Akava.

Business — Kovah

C

Call — Son.

Capsule — Nasesay.

Cave — Cudall.

Chamber — Diea.

Child — Tean. Children of Sindie = Tean Sindie.

City — Vu.

College — Kovah.

Command — Mata.

Council — Diea.

Crash — Bresha.

Crazy — Poorzhah.

Criminal — Ashra. Criminally insane = Ashzhab.

D

Death — Gefh. Nu gefh = You die.

Division — Denve (division-sized military unit).

Door — Istah,

Doubter — Daultha.

E

Earthman — Irkmaan.

Eat — Yuomeen.

Eight — Nusha.

Eighth — Nushada.

Eleven — Sinu.

Eleventh — Sinuvida,

Enemy — Nefangen.

Eye — Thuyo.

F

Fighter — Denvadar.

Fifteen — Sihi.

Fifth — Itheda.

Finger — Zurath.

Fire — Aakva.

First — Ovida.

Five — Ith.

Flirt — Yula.

For — Naa.

Force — Ka.

Forest — Riehm.

Four — Sha,

Fourteen — Sith.

Fourteenth — Sitheda.

Fourth — Schada.

Friend — Fangen.

Front — Tsien.

Future — Fangen.

G

Get in — Hasu.

Get up — Dasu,

Great — Faanda.

Goal — Fangen. College of goals = Fangen Kovah,

God — Aakva.

Government — Sa.

H

Harp — Tidna,

Halite — Custa.

Head — Lode,

Health — Chirn. Health college = Chirn Kovah,

Here — Echey.

Hey! — Hada!

Horizon — Cueh.

Human — Irkmaan. Human lover = Irkmaan vul.

Hurry — Benga.

I

I — Ni.

Insane — Poorzhah.

Inside — Hame.

It — Da.

K

Killer — Koadaer

Kiz — Kiz.

Kill — Korum. I kill you = Korum su.

Know — Adze.

Know-nothing — Zusinda.

L

Large — Faanda.

Laws — Uta.

Learn — Zu.

Less — Shaad

Light — Aakva.

Line — Zea.

Look — Viga.

Love (sick) — Vul.

Lover — Yula.

Low — Dut.

Low-sexed — Dutshaat.

M

Master — Jetah, pl. Jetai. First Master = Ovjetah; Talman Master = Jetah Talman.

Maybe — Surda. Maybe not = Ne surda.

Mine — Vi.

Molecule — Xsa.

Move — Chova.

N

Name — Son.

Naught — Sinda.

New — V' (as in V’Butaan = New Butaan.)

No — Ne.

Nothing — Si.

Nine — Ovsi,

Ninth — Ovsinda.

Number — Na.

O

Oh, no. — Eh, ne.

Of — Dos; ve. Of the Madah = Ve + Madah = vemadah; outcast (modern).

One — Ov.

Opening — Istah.

Order — Matak,

Organization — Diea.

P

Part-sexed — Shaadsaat,

Path — Talma.

Peace — Navi. The Peace (truce police) = Navi Ka.

People — Sindie.

Pilot — Asaam.

Pot — Sedai.

Pregnancy — Nessa,

Push — Queda.

Priest. — Rhada (slang).

R

Rise — Dasu.

Rule — Talmat.

S

Salt — Custa.

School — Kovah.

Second — Nuvida.

Servant — Ruhune.

Seven — Tar.

Seventh — Tarmeda

Seventeen — Sinush.

Seventeenth — Sinushada,

Sex — Sam.

Shack — Rouga.

Short — Dut.

Six — Hi.

Sixteen — Sitat.

Sixteenth — Sitarmeda.

Sixth — Hivida.

Small — Dut.

Soldier — Denvadar

Speak — Adze. Can you speak Drac? = Adze Dracon?

Stand — Enta va.

State — Sa.

Stop — Tuka.

Suicide — Summat.

T

Teach — Je.

Teacher — Jetah.

Ten — Siov.

Tenth — Siovida.

Third — Ayvida.

Thirteen — Sisha.

Thirteenth — Sishada.

Three — Ay.

Town — Vo,

Truth — Koda.

Twelve — Siay.

Twelfth — Siayvida.

Two — Nu.

U

Understand — Gavey.

V

Village — Vo.

W

War — Derive.

Warrior — Denvadar.

Wealthy — Kazzmidth (derogatory),

What? — Ess? What is = Ess va; What about = Ess eh.

Where — Gis. Where are you? = Gis nu cha?

With — Dev.

World — Sindie.

Y

Yes — Ae

You — Nu; pl. nue.

You (emphatic) — Su.

Your — Va.

Z

Zero — Si.

Content

Longyear Barry B. Enemy Papers

INTRODUCTION

TALAMAN

KODA SINDA The Myth of Aakva

KODA OVIDA The Story of Uhe

KODA NUVIDA

The Story of Shizumaat

The Story of Shizumaat (Continued)

KODA AYVIDA The Story of Mistaan

KODA SCHADA The Story of Ioa and Lurrvanna

KODA ITHEDA Aydan and The War of Ages

KODA HIVEDA The Story of Tochalla

KODA TAKMEDA The Story of Cohneret

KODA NUSCHADA The Story of Maltak Di

KODA OVSINDA The Story of Lita

KODA SIOVIDA The Story of Faldaam

KODA SINUVIDA The Story of Zineru

KODA SIAYVIDA The Story of Ro

KODA SISHADA The Story of Atavu

KODA SHITEDA The Story of Poma

KODA SIHIVEDA The Story of Eam

KODA SITAKMEDA The Story of Namvaac

KODA SINUSHADA The Story of Ditaar

KODA NUSINDA The Eyes of Joanne Nicole

ENEMY MINE

THE LAST TESTAMENT

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

THE LAST ENEMY

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

ESSAYS

ON ALIEN LANGUAGES

RUN DRAC RUN

DRAC FOR TRAVELERS

DRAC — ENGLISH

ENGLISH — DRAC